David Fletcher - Darkness

Copyright 2019 David Fletcher

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Matador

9 Priory Business Park,

Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

Tel: 0116 279 2299

Email: books@troubador.co.uk

Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 978 1838599 980

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Fran and Jim

Monique was all too aware of the waistband of her skirt. It was not what she needed: yet another reminder that her latest diet, just like all those before it, was proving completely ineffectual. She would just have to accept that it was odds-on that she had only a fatter future to look forward to whatever she ate. This unavoidable realisation, on top of having to deal with this flight to Brazzaville, made her feel suddenly very despondent and very tired.

Shed been an air stewardess with Air France for nearly fifteen years now, and there were some of its routes she enjoyed and other routes she did not. This Paris to Brazzaville haul was one she simply detested. The plane was always jam-packed with passengers, and all too often these passengers came equipped with too many possessions and too many unreasonable demands, demands that were all the more difficult to deal with when one was despondent and tired. And there was more. Many of the passengers also had some distinct attitude problems; they showed barely any respect for the cabin crew. Indeed, as shed gradually sloughed her youth, these attitude problems had seemed to get worse, and to be a noticeably aging stewardess didnt appear to entitle you to any respect whatsoever especially if you were working in the business-class cabin. Here the predominantly male occupants tended to celebrate their government sinecures either with outbursts of arrogance or with displays of simple, old-style misogyny, and if you were a lowly stewardess you just had to take it. It was part of the job. Just like the God-awful safety briefing, that slightly embarrassing prelude to every flight that gave all the punters a chance to parade their insouciance by studiously ignoring it, or, for those so inclined, an opportunity to ogle the briefer. As Monique had often observed during this ritual performance, a close-fitting blouse, particularly when put under strain, appeared to be able to cast a spell over many men and to hold their unblinking gaze for the entire length of the performance.

Well, it was now show-time. The announcement had been made, and Monique, more conscious than ever of her waistband, positioned herself in the aisle of the business-class enclave and waited to engage autopilot. She had done this stuff so many times before that she now reckoned she could do it in her sleep. It was certainly so automatic that she could now use it as an opportunity to conduct an initial assessment of her charges and work out which of them was likely to be the most trying.

It would be the really fat guy, the one with his stomach trying to push past the buttons of his shirt. He had bastard written all over his face, and he had already decorated the aisle with a discarded magazine. But at least he wasnt staring at her blouse. Not like the guy just behind him, undoubtedly another state employee, who was not just staring but also grinning obscenely and chewing vigorously. Him, she would have to watch, particularly when she was within his reach.

The other passengers were more difficult to read with one exception. This was an oldish guy who was attempting to show some interest in her demonstration but failing and instead was just radiating weariness and an unmistakable sense of sadness. He, she knew, would be quiet, undemanding and polite. What she did not know, of course, was why he looked so inwardly distressed. And she was very unlikely to find out.

o

Dan looked towards the stewardess. He knew it was rude to ignore these demonstrations, but at the same time he had now witnessed them so many times before that he could no longer absorb them. So it was just a case of lending his support to the charade and, as far as possible, putting the poor woman at ease. After all, it must, he thought, be a terrible trial, and particularly if your audience wont even recognise your presence. Furthermore, this stewardess must have put on this performance thousands of times before. And whilst she was still attractive, her youthful figure had abandoned her, and having to stand there in a uniform designed for a twenty-year-old well, it would have to make matters even worse.

Thankfully, the demonstration was soon at an end, and Dans mind turned to the task of enduring an eight-hour day-time flight. He didnt do in-flight movies or games and preferred instead to read a book. Accordingly, he had equipped himself with a copy of Graham Greenes A Burnt-Out Case. It was a book that had been sitting in his house in England, unread for more than twenty years as was evidenced by the vaguely nicotine hue of its pages and he knew nothing of its plot. He was therefore amazed when he read its back-cover synopsis to discover that its story took place in the Congo, and it was therefore one of the very few English novels to be set in that Francophone country, and of course the country where, within just a few hours, he would be landing. He could only think that his random choice of such a tome was simply an extraordinary coincidence or an example of remarkable serendipity. However, six hours later, when he had read the story, he thought it was something more. What it was he could not define, but it did make him smile. And it also made him want to be there so he too, like the principal protagonist of the book, could taste the air of that country and begin his own expedition into its empty interior.

Nevertheless, he would have to be patient. There were two more hours of flying to endure, and that meant two more hours in the company of strangers, a couple of whom had been rather inconsiderate in their behaviour to the cabin staff, and a couple of whom had been downright offensive. At one point, he had even considered intervening. It was when the stewardess who had conducted the safety briefing had been abused by a fat guy. He had been complaining vociferously about his brandy as far as Dan could tell, just so he could be vociferous and he had been treating the stewardess appallingly. However, heroics were not required. Another stewardess hurried to provide support to her companion, and within seconds she had been joined by a fairly beefy steward from the economy cabin, and the ogre piped down. Then, for the rest of the trip, he just slept, snoring loudly and with his belly exposed. He was, Dan decided, the archetypal business-class slob, albeit he would never be aware of this himself.