A Twist of Fate (6 page)

I had awoken. The card on the bicycle was still thudding away, louder than ever. And it was windy. Why was it so windy?

I opened my eyes and saw it immediately.

The noise wasn't the card against my bicycle wheel; it was helicopter rotor blades.

‘Callie! Callie! Wake up. They're here. They're here for us!' Paul leapt up, running out stark naked to wave frantically at the Sea Hawk hovering over our beach.

I'd like to say that relief was the first thing I felt. And it was. In that first moment of realisation relief swept over me with such force that I couldn't stand. But it barely lasted. Almost immediately, the euphoria at our discovery was replaced with something I daren't acknowledge. I stared at Paul, who was scrabbling to put his clothes on as the crew prepared to lower a winch. It was over. Our little world had been destroyed before we could fully construct it.

But then I thought of home. I thought of my mother and father. I thought of my bedroom and our dog. And I cried. I was going back and it was the right thing to do.

Paul came over to me and took me by the arms. ‘Are you all right? You're going home. We're safe.'

With him, I was safe anywhere. I gave a watery smile. He pulled me into his arms and rocked me. I let him for a while but then drew back, lowering my head. ‘I'd better put some clothes on.'

I managed to step into my jeans and pull my now ragged top over my head just as the winch man landed on the beach. He strode over, pulling off his helmet and smiling broadly at us.

‘You lucky, lucky bastards,' he grinned.

Paul held out his hand firmly, beaming just as broadly. ‘Cheers, mate.' It was said with typical bluff understatement. ‘We owe you.'

‘Are there any more survivors?'

Paul shook his head ruefully. ‘Not that I can tell. I haven't searched the island properly but it's not large and there's been no sign or sound of anything. I put the bodies that washed up over there.' He nodded to his hasty burial spot over in the trees.

‘All right, mate. Good job. We'll take care of it.' The man clapped him on the arm. ‘Let's get you out of here.'

‘Callie!' Paul called across. I'd been standing, arms folded, hanging back. ‘Up you go. You'll be back in time for
Downton
at this rate,' he smiled.

I paced over to the winch man who smiled warmly at me. ‘Are you injured, ma'am?'

‘Bruised ribs and a gash on her right arm.' He said it with such care that I couldn't resent Paul for answering for me. I just nodded.

‘I should use the stretcher then.' He reached for his radio to ask for it.

‘No, it's better now. I'll be fine.' If I could survive last night's gymnastics, I could cope with a winch up to a helicopter.

The man stepped in and attached a bulky harness around me, securing it tightly. I felt nausea brimming. Perhaps I just couldn't cope with the turmoil of the last few days. I wanted to crawl into a little hole. I wanted Paul to crawl in with me.

‘I don't recommend looking down, OK?' said the man. ‘You're securely attached to me, but if you want to put your arms around my neck for added security, I won't object.'

I tried to smile but couldn't. ‘It'll take about half a minute to get up there. Are you ready?'

I nodded. He signalled to the helicopter and I felt my feet lifting from the ground. I did look down. I looked down at Paul as I was pulled further and further from him. He was growing smaller and more distant; a sob brewed inside me but was luckily stifled by the overwhelming noise of the helicopter.

I was hauled inside by more burly hands. A gentle Welsh voice said, ‘Got you. Welcome on board, ma'am. You're a bloody miracle, you are.'

Despite the weather and the heat of the helicopter, I started to shiver relentlessly. A foil blanket was placed around me. ‘Here you go. We'll get you to the ship in no time.'

I glanced out of the open side. The winch man was descending again. I couldn't wait for him to bring Paul back to me.

I stared out, watching as Paul was strapped against the man. He started to ascend and I grew desperate for the mechanism to speed up. But something was hurting. It was over. It was time to go back. I was Callie Frobisher again, and I had to conform to expectation.

Paul was swung in and bellowed, ‘Cheers, mate,' over the roar of the blades and engine. Ear protectors were put on us both and we ended up sitting apart. Our time had ended. I hurt more than through the entire ordeal so far.

What ordeal? Apart from the crash itself – of which I recalled very little – and the discovery of the body, had I actually been through an ordeal? I'd been in a plane crash, I'd been stranded on a desert island. Of course it was an ordeal. But it was the thought of returning to normality which pressed itself on me now. I looked over at Paul. He smiled and gave me a thumbs up. It was strange seeing him with other people. I resented sharing him, but at the same time it made me acutely aware of what different people we were, how little we were designed to fit together in ordinary circumstances.

The helicopter took us to a British warship which had been on manoeuvres in the Indian Ocean. We were hurried from the helicopter deck, through hard steel and dull greys and metal and clanking surfaces. There was constant noise, incessant whirring and grindings which inflicted themselves on me. Hands pushed me forward, through doors, along corridors. Faces turned and stared, pointing, smiling, gawping. It confused me. I turned to look for Paul but he was hidden amongst his own little convoy.

At first, I was taken for a medical assessment. At last my arm was cleaned and bandaged properly after a few stitches. My ribs were only bruised but they bandaged those too and advised me to be still. Bit late for that.

Then I was questioned – all gentle, coaxing questions, but penetrating nonetheless. What could I remember about the circumstances of the flight? I was asked to recall the exact sounds, timings, angle of descent, orientation of the crash. I did my best. It was the most difficult moment so far. But I got through it and imagined Paul going through the same. He had, presumably. I guessed this was one reason we had been kept apart – they wanted two entirely independent accounts with no chance of influence or guidance.

At length, I was taken into a room, sparse, with a few bench-like chairs around the outside. I was asked to sit at a solitary table, its veneer peeling off. A female officer came in and pulled the chair opposite around so that it was closer to mine. She was surprisingly young and clearly making an effort to be calm and gentle. She had a round face with deep-set eyes and a larger nose than she probably wanted. She reminded me of my classroom assistant, all good intentions but falling short in ability. But she was non-threatening and soft-spoken, presumably why she'd been allocated to me.

She leant forward as if I was a five-year-old at school who'd fallen over in the playground. When she spoke, she clearly thought I was.

‘Hello, Callie. I'm Lieutenant Bradshaw. You can call me Alison. How are you feeling?' She said it with up-speak at the end, a bit like in Tesco when they say, ‘Do you have a Clubcard at all?' It annoyed me intensely.

I nodded, not sure how I was feeling and wanting her to go away. She took it as meaning I was distraught and took my hand in hers. I tensed against it.

‘We're heading for Diego Garcia. From there you'll be put on a military flight back to the UK.' She smiled benignly. I started to shake. I looked down at my hand, focusing on getting it to stop shuddering. I couldn't. I knew why.

‘I don't want to get back on a plane.'

‘I know,' she said, her voice seeping exaggerated sympathy like a leaking tap. ‘But it's the best way. You'll be monitored and informed of the flight's progress on the way to reassure you. If you wish, you can be sedated.'

That seemed even more terrifying. I thought I was supposed to be looked after. I shook my head.

‘My parents. Can I call them? They need to know I'm safe.'

‘They've been informed. You'll be able to speak to them once we're in Diego. There's a lot of media interest in the story in the UK and all around the world. But you need to play it safe. When you're back in the UK, you'll be given immediate CISD.'

‘CISD?'

‘A Critical Incident Stress Debriefing.'

Paul and I had dealt with our stress. I closed my eyes and tried to feel him inside me. ‘Where's Paul?'

‘Paul? Oh, you mean the other survivor?'

‘Yes.'

‘He's being taken care of. We understand that you'll want to see him, being the two sole survivors, but facilities on the ship are such that until we reach Diego Garcia, it's better for you to have your own rooms. Try to be as calm as possible.'

‘I am calm. So's he.'

She just smiled. ‘It's best if you rest now. Can I get you anything? Water? Some food?'

‘A glass of white wine. Pinot Grigio.'

I meant it. It always settled my nerves. But the woman just exhaled a dismissive, pale laugh. ‘I'll fetch some water and snacks. Now try to rest. I know it's hard, but you'll feel better.'

It was true, I was tired. After all, I'd spent most of the previous night merrily shagging someone's brains out.

I lay down on the bunk, staring at the matt grey of the ceiling, lined with pipes and vents. Lt. Bradshaw returned quickly and placed the water beside me. ‘Would you like me to stay with you?' she asked in that nursery teacher voice.

‘No, thanks, I'll be fine.' The thought of being shut in a room with this paragon of condescension made my skin crawl. Fortunately, she accepted my refusal and, with another of her sickly smiles, turned for the door and left, shutting it behind her.

I sighed loudly, surprising myself with the intensity of it. I was going home. I was safe. It was all good. I was about to see my mother and father again. I was about to step back onto the path.

So why did I feel so crap?

It took a day to reach Diego. I didn't see Paul at all. I kept being told to rest. If I stepped out of the cabin, I was urged back in. At the few times I did emerge, I noticed everyone turn to look at me. They'd whisper and murmur and pretend not to stare, but fail. After a while, I thought it better to stay put. I was going to have to get on without Paul at some point. I may as well start now.

When we arrived in Diego Garcia and disembarked, Lt. Bradshaw was back at my side again. She kept touching my elbow gently and I moved away each time. I glanced behind; Paul was there. My belly flipped as if he was a crush at school I'd come upon unexpectedly in the corridor. He looked at me and smiled. They'd offered us new clothes but we'd both chosen to stay in our original outfits.

‘You may find it traumatic being back on a tropical island, I'm sorry,' simpered Bradshaw.

I didn't. Anything was better than that bloody awful ship. The warm breeze and scent of palm trees immediately reminded me of the best times on the island.

‘When does the flight leave?' I asked. Bradshaw's eyes flickered. I must have sounded forceful.

‘In two hours. It's been specially commissioned for you. You'll be taken back to RAF Brize Norton.'

‘Thank you,' I said instinctively. Wasn't that where hostages returned to? It was like arriving on a sort of military red carpet. I quaked a little and turned to look for Paul again. He was surrounded by cooing people, mainly women, and smiling broadly. He seemed to be coping well, moving on. I should be doing the same.

Seven

I was driven a short distance to a military air strip. A large, grey aircraft sat on the runway, presumably ours. Someone offered me some new clothes – leggings and a soft jersey dress. Bradshaw nodded towards a shower. ‘You've got about an hour if you'd like to freshen up.'

Freshen up? It was as if I'd been stuck on the Reading-Paddington line after a signal failure.

But I was grateful for the shower. I let the water pour over my naked body, enjoying the hot little rivers coursing down, soothing my fretful skin. One hand searched instinctively between my legs while the other found a nipple. Without questioning or hesitation, I masturbated to a strong climax. It was Paul's hands I imagined on me.

But it was happening. I needed to get back now. I wanted to be back to a place where I wasn't reminded of him, where I could focus on the important things; family, work, sorting out the Rupert issue.

It seemed an age before they summoned me for the plane. I sat on the edge of my chair, my leg jigging, my lip bitten to near rawness. Paul wouldn't be like this. He'd probably be lying back reading another Andy McNab book. His choice of reading material made sense now – from one SAS soldier to another. I remembered his casual lack of concern moments before the plane had plunged to earth and smiled at the madness of it.

And now I was getting into another plane. I thought I was coping well, but that particular thing was worrying me like nothing else. A crawling heat captured my skin yet I shivered; a thick lump seemed to settle in my stomach and I heard again the screams of my fellow passengers. Oh shit, oh shit. I couldn't do it.

‘Callie?' It was a gentle voice, not as patronising as Lt Bradshaw. Standing in the doorway was a woman of about fifty, with fading blonde hair streaked with grey, a face which reminded me of my favourite aunt, and wearing loose, pretty, White Stuff clothes. ‘May I come in?'

I was startled but nodded. She came and sat on a chair across from me. ‘My name's Emma Brookes. I'm the staff welfare officer here on base, but I've been charged with escorting you on the trip back to the UK.'

I managed to smile.

‘How are things?' She sounded almost reluctant to ask.

‘Umm …' I ran a hand through my hair. ‘I was doing all right until now, but I … I'm not very keen on the whole plane thing.'

‘I know. I'm sorry. Unfortunately, it's really the only way to get you back to the UK expediently. Has anyone spoken to you about sedation?'