Ian Hocking - Déjà Vu

David snorted. ‘I’m sure I broke the speed limit once or twice.’

‘No, you did not.’

‘Maybe up near Sheffield. I was going pretty fast.’

‘I have global positioning and accelerometer data that proves you have not broken any speed limits.’

He turned onto the southerly road. In the sunshine, his visor darkened. ‘You’ve saved me,’ he said glumly.

‘I do not understand.’

‘Like a data file. Saved.’

‘It is a precaution designed to provide an objective source of information in the event of a trial. It will guard against tampering. Perhaps I may also act as a black box if you have an accident. The probability of my survival is far greater than yours.’

‘Ego, how much battery life do you have?’

‘Eight weeks.’

‘Switch off for now.’

‘I am still monitoring radio stations and Internet sites.’

David revved the engine and accelerated. It was time to break the speed limit. ‘Switch off. Now.’

Saskia reached into the pocket behind the driver’s seat and found a blister pack of travel sickness pills. Three seemed a good number; four a better one. She crunched them to a bitter dust. Her head still pounded. Jago was beside her, gripping the handle above the door, unconcerned as the back tyres locked briefly. The two police officers in the front of the car shared a smile. In the back, Jago gave Saskia a nudge and flourished his eyebrows.

The airport was ten kilometres from the station. In the early evening traffic, it would take half an hour. The co-driver activated the siren intermittently but they were soon slowed by congestion.

‘How are you armed, Saskia?’

‘This,’ she said, showing her gun.

‘I should have got you something more modern from the armoury. Like a bow and arrow.’

‘A revolver is preferred for…ideological reasons.’

‘You surprise me.’

Silence as Saskia counted the kilometres.

When they reached the airport, Jago said, ‘Straight through, they’re expecting us.’ The car drove into a huge, fenced enclosure where private planes were parked in rows, then stopped hard.

‘This is where you get off,’ said the driver. He reached back to shake Jago’s hand, but the DI had already left the car.

Saskia shook it on Jago’s behalf. Her smile was crooked.

Outside, the cold air was rank with fumes. Lights defined the terminal building, the roads, and the fences. As she watched, a jet landed with mesmeric slowness. Its exhaust blurred the air. She felt the vibration in her belly.

‘Saskia, get a shift on,’ Jago called, jogging backwards.

They climbed into a small four-seater aircraft. Jago settled in the back and Saskia sat next to the pilot. It was too dark to see his face. ‘Put these on,’ he said. He handed Saskia a pair of headphones. ‘Sam Langdon.’

‘Saskia Brandt.’

‘Did we make it?’ rasped Jago.

‘Your timing is impeccable,’ said the pilot. He gunned the engine. Through her headphones, Saskia heard him say, ‘Control, this is Golf Tango Foxtrot Two-One-Two requesting clearance for take-off, over.’ There was no audible reply. ‘Roger, Control, I’m taxiing to runway two, over.’

‘We appreciate this,’ Jago said.

‘No problem. I was flying back anyway.’

Saskia relaxed. The darkness was reassuring. ‘There’s a blanket under your legs,’ Sam said as they rolled forward. ‘Careful not to touch the control column.’

‘Foodibles?’ Jago asked.

‘Behind you.’ Langton turned to Saskia. ‘Latest weather report shows poor visibility over the southeast. There’s a low pressure front moving north. Expect a bump in the night.’ He switched on a red reading light and noted the time in a paper logbook. He held the column between his legs.

‘How long to Heathrow?’ she asked.

He laughed. ‘We’re not going to Heathrow, sweet heart.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’d need to sell the plane just to afford the landing. No, we’re going to Farnborough.’

Jago tapped her shoulder. ‘Sandwich?’

Saskia looked around. Obligingly, Jago peeled back the white bread to display the filling. Sliced sausages.

‘English sausages?’

‘The finest. Plenty of brown sauce.’

‘What is brown sauce?’

‘Good question.’ Jago took a bite. ‘Must be one of the fun things about foreign travel. New foods.’

Langton said drily, ‘How long have you two been married?’

‘Too long.’ She tapped his log book. ‘Please tell me where Forbrough is.’

‘Farnborough,’ the pilot corrected. ‘Three hundred miles to the south. In new money, five hundred kilometres. They expect us for 9:00 p.m. Sit back.’

She watched the runway lights stream by as they took off. The acceleration made her drowsy. She became aware of a crowd of English nonsense voices inside her head. All th s and ruh s. She fell asleep in their company.

Later, the pilot explained that the Grantham, being a light aircraft with no oxygen cylinders, could not climb above the weather. It flew low where the winds were thick and the rain constant. They touched down at 9:30 p.m. Saskia had not moved since climbing aboard, but when she stepped onto the wet concrete of the holding lot, she felt ready to collapse with tiredness.

‘Thanks, Sam,’ shouted Jago above the propeller noise.

‘I have to park. See you.’

Saskia gave him a salute and searched for a terminal. She could see none in the fierce rain. ‘Where now?’ she asked. She ducked to avoid the wing as Sam taxied away.

Jago pulled his suit jacket over his head. ‘Look, there.’

They watched as a traffic patrol car approached. It sharked through the aircraft and stopped before some heavy cabling. A female officer approached carrying an umbrella. She opened it over Jago. ‘Piss off,’ he said, climbing in the back.

It was a twenty-minute drive to Heathrow. Saskia had fallen asleep against the window before the car pulled away.

Sharp braking threw Saskia out of her dream. She swallowed her spit and looked ahead. The car had stopped. The traffic was a crimson mass of braking lights. Her watch read 10:30 p.m.

‘We’re late,’ she said

She looked at Jago. He was sweating and a vein throbbed on his forehead. ‘An accident,’ he said. ‘It happened just in front of us.’ He dabbed at the vein with a handkerchief.

‘Scotty?’ She put a hand to his forehead, expecting it to feel hot. It was cold.

He grimaced. ‘Heart burn. You know, acid indigestion. The bloody sandwiches.’

Saskia heard the co-driver talk urgently into her radio. The words were abbreviated and unintelligible. The car pulled onto the hard shoulder. Jago said, ‘They’re the closest unit. They have to secure the scene.’

The vehicle shook as their co-driver slammed the boot, shrugged a fluorescent jacket over her shoulders and jogged ahead to the driver. Saskia gripped the handle. She felt an urge to help, but, seeing Jago’s exhaustion, she stayed in the car.

‘We will wait for the next unit.’

‘…Alright.’

‘Alright.’

David thought of his daughter, Jennifer. He had taught her to ride in a cul-de-sac near the old house in Oxford. He had pushed her endlessly, a constant commentary to reassure her of his grip. Finally, he let go and she wobbled all the way to the turning space. He felt proud. He felt like a real father. At the end of the road, he heard her faint voice say, ‘I nearly did it that time, Daddy,’ and he cupped his hands and shouted, ‘You did! I’m back here!’ and she turned around and fell off with a scream. He ran down and picked her up, bike and all, and took her inside. He sat her on the washing machine and dabbed her grazes with antiseptic. Between her sobs, she smiled. ‘Did it.’ That became her catchphrase. When she passed her advanced maths at the age of nine; when she published her poems; when she got into the New York school, she always said, ‘Did it.’