Mackenzie Ford - The Clouds Beneath the Sun

As she did so, she felt him stir. He was alive.

“Come on, Daniel, we’ve got to hurry.”

He didn’t hear. He remained slumped in his seat. There was a big bloody runnel carved in his skull.

She pulled him backward, so he was directly under the opening of the emergency door. She had decided that if she moved and rested, moved and rested, the pain was bearable, just. Tears still ran down her cheeks, into her mouth, down her neck, between her breasts. Her nose ran. She wrapped her belt under one of Daniel’s armpits, led it round his neck, and buckled it. It was too short to fit anywhere else. Then she climbed out of the door at the top of the aircraft, stopped for the pain to ease, and reached back in. Gripping her belt, she pulled and pulled.

The ring of pain again shot up her spine. She was forced to stop.

She was awash in sweat. The sun was sinking but the fire was still raging. How long would it take to burn all the fuel in an aircraft? A line of black smoke rose into the sky. That would surely help rescuers find the crash site—so long as daylight lasted.

Eventually, she got Daniel’s head above the level of the emergency door. Now she undid her belt and used it to tie Daniel’s head and neck to the hinge of the door. That meant he wouldn’t slide back down, when she let go. She dipped back down into the aircraft. The pain still forced tears down her face. Where did so many tears come from? She gripped Daniel’s legs. She shoved his torso upwards till his upper half was spilling over the ledge of the doorway.

The carpet lining at the front of the rear section of the plane had caught fire. The smell of fuel was stronger than ever.

She pushed Daniel’s legs through the emergency door so he was now hanging, outside the plane, from the hinge where she had tied him. She climbed out and sat on the top side of the plane, breathing heavily, croaking in pain, still crying. After the briefest of pauses to recover, she undid the buckle of her belt. Daniel’s feet fell onto the rocks but the rest of his body stayed slumped against the fuselage of the Comanche. Natalie slithered down to the ground herself and pulled him away. She pulled him further and laid him out on the rocks in the shadow of the wing of the plane, which was standing almost upright.

The back half of the Comanche was beginning to burn now but Natalie dropped inside again. She knew what she wanted. A bottle of water. It was anybody’s guess as to how long it would be before they were rescued—if the dogs didn’t get them first—and she didn’t want to risk dehydration the way Kees van Schelde had done.

She found the bottle, rested, and then escaped again through the emergency door.

The fire was still raging and the wild dogs had come no closer. She waited for the pain to subside, took a swig of water herself, then forced some between Daniel’s lips.

She was so intent on doing this that she didn’t notice that the upright wing of the plane had become loosened in its position by the fire melting the metal. Silently, it fell down on top of them both. No sooner had she noticed the shadow moving across the rock surface than she was hit on the head and, for the second time, passed out.

The flames were nibbling at Natalie’s feet. Acrid black smoke was choking her lungs. Her skin was bubbling and blistering from the heat. Her hair was on fire, her nostrils clogged with the fumes of burning Avgas. The wild dogs were getting closer, she could hear their yelps and whimpers, the urgent pace of their breathing.

She kicked out at the dogs and screamed, “No! Get away! No!”

A shadow loomed over her, two hands held her shoulders, and she woke up, damp with sweat.

“You’re safe, Natalie, quite safe.”

She could feel her hairline drenched with sweat. Her neck, under her arms, the backs of her knees … all wringing wet.

She opened her eyes. She looked around, at the white room, the white walls, the white-painted lights, the white plastic blinds.

The shadow standing over her materialized into a tall, thin man with gray hair.

Dominic!

No it wasn’t. “I am David Stone, Doctor David Stone, and you are in the Oburra Clinic in Nairobi. You are not to worry. You were in a plane crash but you survived. You have some bruising, one or two internal injuries—not life-threatening, not now anyway, and a few superficial burns. But, essentially, you are beginning to mend. You were very lucky and you are not to worry. Here is someone you know.”

He stood back.

Behind him was Jack.

For some reason Natalie started to cry. There was a ring of pain around her middle.

Jack looked at the doctor.

The doctor shook his head. “It’s a normal reaction to shock.” He stepped forward with a paper cup in his hand. “Here, drink this. It’s a sedative. It will help you sleep. You need to let your body recover from what it has been through. Sleep will help.”

He forced Natalie, in the midst of her tears, to drink from the cup.

Jack pulled a chair across nearer the bed, sat down, and leaned forward. He held Natalie’s hand and kissed it.

For a few moments the tears continued to fall down Natalie’s face into her hair, but then he realized from the regularity of her breathing that she was again sleeping.

It took another three days. She slept right through, now and then waking in a fit of horror at the nightmares she was enduring, and each time Jack fetched the doctor or, when these episodes occurred during the night, the staff sister on duty. Each time Jack held her hand, told her he was there, and kissed her forehead. Once or twice she wept. Always she woke in a sweat. Once or twice he left the room for an hour or more but he always came back.

Then, one morning, as he was busy reading some letters that he had with him, she said quietly, “Jack?”

“I’m here.” He put down the letters and reached for her hand.

“What day is it?” He told her.

“How long have I been here?”

“Almost a week.”

She took back her hand and passed both hands over her body, feeling her bruises, her burns—covered by bandages wrapped tightly to her skin—and her scratches. She felt her face. In places it hurt to touch and she winced.

“Do you have a mirror?”

He didn’t move.

“Jack!”

He brought her a round mirror with a handle.

She inspected her face—and gasped.

“They are bruises and burns, superficial. They will pass. You are still as beautiful, still as desirable, still on my list of everything I want.” He took the mirror from her. “We will find a way to make love again, between the bruises, around the burns, avoiding what needs avoiding. Don’t worry.”

She nodded but fought back the tears. After a delay, she went on, “What happened?”

“How much can you remember? You don’t have to look back so soon. The doctor said—”

“I can remember the engines stopping, I can remember falling, I can remember hitting some rocks and bouncing back up into the air.” The tears began again and she shook her head. “Your mother, my father.” Her wet cheeks glistened in the morning light. “Max—that should have been you.”

Jack waited, just holding her hand.

Minutes passed and the tears subsided.

“Tell me.”

“I think you should wait. Get stronger—”

“Tell me.” It was a whisper, an exhausted whisper but urgent. “I want to know.”

He kissed her hand. He took his time, kept his voice low.

“In some ways, and though it doesn’t feel like it now, you were lucky. Max—unlike me—likes to fly high. I told you that—remember? That means he was able to put the Comanche into a glide. Had it been just you and me, flying low, we’d have had no chance. We would have fallen like a stone.” He held her hand again. “Max tried to glide the plane down to a flat area of the plain but you lost height too quickly and hit some rocks by a dried riverbed. The aircraft split in two.”