Mark Burnell - The Rhythm Section

On the cherry table were the reports that Proctor had been going through the night before. Stephanie sat down and began to leaf through the photo-copies. On the front cover of one plastic folder, a date had been scrawled in fluorescent green ink. It was only three months old.

There was some analysis on the causes of death for those bodies that had been recovered. Twenty-eight passengers remained unaccounted for. Given the crash site, Stephanie felt that number was remarkably low. The divers had made almost four and a half thousand dives to retrieve the debris and the dead. Their task had been made harder by the vast area over which material had been scattered and by the violent storms which settled over the region twenty-four hours after the crash. Approximately two dozen of the recovered bodies were more or less intact. The condition of the rest of the corpses ranged from ‘partially’ to ‘totally disintegrated’. Of all the photographs of the dead that were taken, only eight were deemed suitable for circulation for the purposes of identification, according to a psychologist assigned to handle the liaison between the authorities and the relatives of those on board. In the end, none of the eight was used.

There was another section from one of the FAA’s reports that described the impact of explosive deceleration on the passengers. Many of them had been killed instantly. The force with which their bodies had been thrown forwards was so powerful that some of them had been decapitated, while others perished due to the violent separation of the brain stem. Those who survived this were then subjected to numerous alternative forces. The pressurized air leaked from the puncture points in the fuselage with a power ferocious enough to strip a body of its clothes, to rip contact lenses from eyes. During the free-fall, some passengers were burned to death while others were cut apart by structural debris.

In another file, Stephanie came across a passenger manifest. Proctor had made several copies of it and scrawled notes over most of them. His comments were mostly concerned with structural damage from the first explosion. Stephanie looked down the list until she saw their names.

Seat 49A: Patrick, Sarah

Seat 49B: Patrick, David

Seat 49C: Douglas, Martin

aisle

Seat 49D: Patrick, Monica

Seat 49E: Patrick, Andrew

In that part of the 747, towards the rear of the economy section, the seats had been in a three-four-three configuration, split by two aisles. Seeing their names in print, seeing where they had been positioned within the aircraft, Stephanie felt numb. She could deal with the emotions that she saw in others; the instant despair, the long-term despair, the bewilderment and the rage. What she found harder to cope with was the brutal, clinical truth. Printed statistics, cause of death on a signed certificate, names on a passenger manifest.

She knew Proctor was looking at her before she saw him. He was in the doorway.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘I couldn’t sleep. Did I wake you?’

‘I heard you in the kitchen.’

‘The man in seat 49C, Martin Douglas,’ she said, staring at the name between her brother and her mother. ‘Do you know who he was?’

‘He was an architect from a place called Uniondale. He lived and worked in Manhattan.’

‘An American?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded to herself slowly. ‘So, an American architect condemned by an act of petulance from an English teenager he never knew existed.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘I should have been in that seat. It was booked in my name.’

‘How come you weren’t?’

‘It was a family holiday but I didn’t go. I said I couldn’t be back late for the start of my university term. Not even forty-eight hours, which is all it was. But that wasn’t the reason and they knew it.’

‘What was?’

Stephanie smiled sadly. ‘I don’t even remember. Something petty and hurtful, I expect.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that’s how I was back then. Spiteful and rebellious.’ She looked up at Proctor. ‘Now, I’m just spiteful.’

‘Martin Douglas would have got another seat, Stephanie.’

‘Maybe …’

‘The flight was almost full but not every place was taken. If you’d been on board, he’d have sat somewhere else and the death toll would have been greater by one.’

‘How old was he?’

‘If my memory serves me correctly, he was thirty-three.’

‘Married?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

Stephanie wondered whether those in row 49 had survived the first blast. Or even the second blast. And then she hoped that they hadn’t when she thought about the speed at which the flaming remains of flight NE027 had fallen towards the sea. At an impact speed of around five hundred miles an hour, the gentle waves below might as well have been made of granite.

This is my last cigarette. I draw the flame to the tip and inhale deeply. Proctor looks cross, as he always does when I smoke, but then he doesn’t know that I’m giving up. It’s a secret that will gradually betray itself, hour by hour and day by day .

It is almost exactly a month since Proctor collected me from Warren Street Underground station. I have lived with him since that night and I have started to change. Giving up cigarettes is a part of that process. A symptom .

I can’t pretend that I am any easier than I ever was but Proctor has earned some trust from me. He has allowed me to stay with him. He has not asked me to contribute to my keep. He has not made a move on me. He has not got angry at my continued reluctance to trace the bomber of flight NE027; he cannot understand my unwillingness, but he accepts that it is a fact. In truth, I cannot fully understand it myself .

I have not seen much of Proctor in the last month and his investigation into the crash has not advanced at all. Being a freelance journalist, he has no organization behind him to help finance his research. Instead, he writes travel articles for newspapers and magazines. At the moment, this is his only source of income. He tends to cram several trips together, if he can, thereby allowing himself uncluttered months in-between. Since I came to stay here, he has been to Israel for a week and to Indonesia for a fortnight. And today, he returns from a long weekend in Miami. He hates the work but he needs the money .

Within this flat – and the immediate area surrounding it – I have learned to feel safe. That is something new. When I stray beyond the confines of the Edgware Road or Lisson Grove, however, I begin to feel anxious. I think of Dean West, of Barry Green. I think of how I was when Proctor walked into my room on Brewer Street and how I regarded him as just another punter prepared to rent me for sex .

Then I think about how I regard him now and I am confused. He has resurrected my family but he has resolved nothing. Perhaps the reasons for my reluctance to seek answers are not so unusual. Perhaps I feel safer with the uncertainty than with the truth. What if the truth is worse than ignorance ? I can cope without answers. It is more important to me not to be undermined. I do not want to relapse .

I have taken no drugs since I have been here. I am drinking less, too. I finished Proctor’s spirits within three days and he did not replace them. I could have bought replacements myself but felt too ashamed to . Ashamed. Given all that I have done in the last two years it seems strange to me that I should feel like that. But I did and, consequently, I adapted. Proctor himself rarely drinks and my habits have fallen into line with his. If he has a glass of wine and offers me one, I’ll accept. If he chooses not to, I won’t drink either .