The Network - Jason Elliot [7]
I try my best, but the ropes won’t budge. The forward motion of the aircraft is putting tension on them and making the task even harder. I am contemplating shutting down the engine when through the perspex of the cockpit doors I see the vehicles hurtling through the gate beyond the hangar. Two Range Rovers with lots of bodies inside. I will not give up. One skids to a halt in front, and the other behind the aircraft. Reason suggests that at this point I concede defeat because I cannot possibly take off, but I’m reluctant to part from my closeness to success and climb back into the cockpit. H has said I must never give up. I pull the throttle to its maximum extent and let the handbrake off. The plane is creeping forward and vibrating like a spin drier and men in jackets and fleeces are tumbling out of the vehicles. A mustachioed face appears at the door to my left and tries the handle. I kick it open towards him and the face disappears but the other door is open now and hands are tearing at my arm. A fist reaches my head. Two bodies now occupy the left door frame and are grabbing at my flailing legs. They do not shout, which impresses me. Now I am being prised from the cockpit like a worm from its hole and someone is pounding on my arms to make me let go of the seat. As I fall to the ground a knee connects with my left eye, and little flashes of light tumble across my vision against a dark background. This is not supposed to happen.
The engine revs subside and I realise someone has found the throttle and pushed it in. I hear the air go out of my lungs with another blow, and a cracking sound spreads from my ribs. I wonder how much force it really takes to break a rib. I feel no pain. Someone is jamming my face into the ground, and I smell the grass and the mud. There are two sets of knees on my back and another two on my legs. A plastic tie tightens over my wrists.
As I am dragged to one of the cars I notice that at the far end of the runway the sun has broken through the clouds, and a vast and slanting beam of golden sunshine is spreading downwards in a mockery of benediction.
2
I am not sure how much time passes, whether I’ve lost consciousness, or whether I’ve been drugged. My right eye, because my left has swollen shut by now, opens as if into a tunnel running beneath a long row of lights with metal shades, some of which are unlit. The floor on which I’m lying on my side is concrete and the walls are wooden. I have the impression it’s dark outside but I can’t say why. Remembering the long structures I passed earlier, I eliminate tunnel and barn and decide on chicken farm, disused. A rank smell supports my guess. Turning my head slowly, because it hurts too much when I try to move my eyes, I now see the man whose face appeared at the door of the aircraft during my ill-fated attempt at flight, which has imprinted itself on my memory with extra clarity. He’s squatting beside me in scuffed Timberlands, black denim jeans and a brown leather jacket with a belt which he’s had the presence of mind to keep off the floor.
‘Wakey wakey,’ says the Face in a tone of perverse intimacy. South London accent, I’m guessing. He’s watching me closely for any reaction, which is perhaps his training and suggests the shrewd observational skills of the streetwise. ‘Looks like our stunt pilot here is in need of a bit of refreshment,’ he says. Then, more loudly, and without taking his eyes from mine, ‘Billy, get the man some refreshment.’ There is a scraping noise behind me from a second face which I’ve not yet seen. ‘Do you fancy that, Mr Stunt Pilot? A nice bit of tucker to warm you up after all your recreational activities?’
Food would be good, but I say nothing. This is a dance in which I and my captors will make our chosen moves. The sing-song in the Face’s voice is calculated to provoke.
‘Cat’s got his tongue,’ says the Face. ‘Shame about your flight plan being denied.