The Irish Tales

Second Life 13 (Part two)
　
Our chartered plane had been grounded in Manilla with engine trouble and the local production company had hastily sent out another one.
It was not, however, approved by our oil company.
Like all global concerns, they had very strict H&S rules and their employees could only travel on boats, planes or trains certified and approved by them.
There were supposed to be five of us flying – myself, my art director Geoff, our client Pons and our agency producer and her P.A.
(Let’s call them Jill and Julie.They both know who they are, bless ‘em.))
Pons was unhappy; he walked slowly around the single engined plane and was even more unhappy. I had to admit, it wasn’t a re-assuring sight. Peeling paintwork, cracks in the cowling and elsewhere, cracks in the windows and a general air of shabbiness and old age. Still, it had flown here, hadn’t it, I reasoned ?
Pons shook his head decisively. "No. I will not fly in it. Nor should you," he said firmly.
"But if we don’t, we may not make our connections home," Geoff pointed out.
Pons simply looked at him."And if you do, you may not make it to Manilla," he replied dryly.
There was a muffled whimper from behind me. Jill never liked flying at the best of times and this was simply too much for her. It was almost too much for me as well.
More arguing ensued; between us, the client, the production company, the local assistants and even the pilots, who felt insulted at the implied criticism.
Now, I like flying. I especially like flying in small planes. But even I was beginning to have a twinge of doubt. Pons seemed so damned certain.
Eventually, we left it up to the girls to decide. Geoff and I were for flying, just.
Pons was against, Julie stayed neutral and Jill looked from one to the other of us fearfully.
"Ok," she whispered. "Let’s do it." Pons shook his head and walked away slowly. In silence, we gathered our bags and stowed them aboard.
On reflection, it was just as well Pons declined to fly. There was barely enough room for the four of us as it was. The pilot and co-pilot sat in front, so close to me that I could smell their aftershave. If it was aftershave.
Julie sat next to me and Geoff and Jill in the seats behind. The sun was just going down as we taxied around and then hit the main runway, a rutted strip barely wide enough and littered with rocks and stones. The wheels hit at least two big ruts, causing the plane to rock violently and bringing a whimper of fear from behind me.
It was a beautiful evening and I was beginning to relax a bit until I saw the end of the runway was fast approaching and we were still rooted to the ground. Just as I closed my eyes, there was a lurch and a bang and were airborne. Next to me, Julie sat rigidly upright, a trifle pale but otherwise composed.
Behind me, Jill was sobbing quietly whilst Geoff had his arm around her consolingly. He told me afterwards that they stayed that way throughout the 2 hour flight. His arm went numb after ten minutes.
I was about to relax and lean again the perspex window, when I spotted an ominous crack running the length of it. Thinking better of it, I leaned forward and inspected the instrument panel.
In particular, I noticed the two fuel tank indicators. They both read full, but just then the co-pilot reached out and tapped one of the dials, which suddenly sank to zero. He tapped it again and it flickered around the quarter full mark. I sighed.
You’ve experienced turbulence in an airliner before now, I expect ? Well let me tell you, you haven’t experienced real turbulence until you’ve been in a small, single engined aircraft, loaded to the hilt and 25,000ft above a hostile sea, filled with sharks and stingrays and possibly killer mermaids for all I knew.
For no reason, the plane would suddenly drop like stone for three seconds, then surge upwards again.
All against a background of varying engine volume, the creaking and groaning of old, tired metal and fabric and the occasional moan from Jill.
I attempted a smile and lit a cigarette. Nobody objected. What a relief.
I gazed at the beautifully alive night sky, occasionally looked straight down at the black sea and my mind wandered.
It saw the small paragraph buried in the international news section of the Telegraph, reading simply : "Light aircraft disappears in the South China Sea. All passengers (4 UK passport holders) and crew presumed dead.".
How could I live with that, I mused, before realising that as I’d be dead as well, I wouldn’t have to. I vaguely recall wondering what it might be like to be eaten by all forms of marine life, when I dozed off.
Only to be abruptly woken by the co-pilot shaking my arm violently and pointing downwards with his thumb.
"MANEEEYA!"he yelled, grinning broadly. For a moment I gazed at him uncomprehendingly. Then it dawned on me.
Manilla ! Land ! British Airways ! Orange juice and champagne ! What paper would you like, sir ! Windows with no cracks in them !
A shy smile began to creep over Julie’s face and Jill sat up, expectantly.
Then all the lights went out. Not just the cabin lights, but the whole instrument panel too. I thought I heard a shriek from someone and realised it was me.
Then the engine coughed, faltered, the nose dipped and we began to lose height rapidly. There was a babble of excited talk up front and the co-pilot fumbled around in a locker. The cabin lights flickered and returned, as did most of the instrument lighting. All except the altimeter. The co-pilot flicked a switch on the second fuel tank and after a pause we had power again.
Ahead I could now clearly see the buildings, some planes and runway lights. So near, so far.
The co-pilot produced a torch and shone it on the altimeter, revealing we were down to 12,000ft. With another sudden lurch, we shed a few more thousands and the runway was now visible before us.
Jill had buried her head in Geoff’s chest again and Julie had her eyes tightly shut.
A crack, then the grind of ancient hydraulics announced the undercarriage descending. Suddenly we were hurtling towards the runway, losing height all the time and going far, far too fast it seemed to me.
A bang as the wheels touched and rose, another bang and up we went again and then with a final crash, we were down, swerving slightly, but down.
As I stood on the tarmac, breathing in the heady aroma of hot oil, aviation spirit and bananas, a hand clapped me on the shoulder; it was the pilot.
"See ?! Slice of cake !"
"It’s piece of cake, you moron," I muttered, "piece", but he was strolling away with his mate, laughing uproariously. At us, no doubt.
We sat silently in the bus which whisked us away to the passenger terminal on the other side of the airport and I don’t believe a word was uttered by any of us until we slumped down in the curiously empty BA lounge.
Then Jill said, flatly, "Fuck me. We’re alive."
I’d recovered my spirits by now and glancing over to the bar, I spotted a way of recovering even more. We drank and drank and drank until it was time to board our flight to Heathrow.
Yet none of us got drunk.
Lucky knee-sliders - who needs ‘em ?

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The day after I got home, I read a small piece in the Telegraph about two kidnapped American oil company workers, whose headless bodies were found on a beach on a remote island to the south of Manilla.It was the island next to the one we were based on.