Page 42 of Out of the Blue
The audience buzzes. Some people look on with genuine hope and excitement, but most with ironic interest or even outright cynicism – half the crowd is clearly here out of curiosity alone. Lars flips the switch again, and the propellers start to whirl. The noise is deafening; even with more than a hundred people shouting, I can barely hear the numbers over the roar of the engine.
‘Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .’
The voices grow louder. Somehow, I find myself joining in. All these people, together, all focused on the same purpose, chanting the same words: there’s power in that, even if the numbers themselves are meaningless.
‘Seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . .’
Just a few metres from me, Rani is standing beside Dad. Her eye catches mine. There’s an expression there I can’t quite read. After a moment, she looks away.
‘Three . . . two . . . one!’
We wait for a speck of light. We wait for the streak of gold or silver or copper, the things that we’ve seen in the YouTube videos. We wait for an answer.
It doesn’t come. Some of the Wingdings throw up their arms in mock defeat; others start to laugh. The crowd look around, confused by this countdown that has led to nothing. Dad grins and waves his hands.
‘Don’t worry – it’ll still be coming! Our calculations were never that precise.’ He grins at Rani, who gives him a weak smile in return. ‘Would have been a nice dramatic touch though, wouldn’t it?’
It would have been more than that. It would have been a miracle. But we’ve already had eighty-nine of those. This time, another one really would be too much to ask.
People talk about the stages of grief as if it’s something you complete, a training programme with a print-out certificate at the end. I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be, eight months since Mum died.
It changes every day. There are moments when I think I’m starting to accept it, but then there are times when I’ll see someone on the bus with an expression like hers or read something that would have made her laugh and I can’t believe – like, physicallycannotbelieve – that I’ll never see her again. It all feels like a sad, slow dance, and I’m being passed back and forth between different partners: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, over and over and over again.
That morning, I see Dad go through all five stages. Only this time, it’s not Mum he’s mourning. It’s money. It’s fame and fortune and everything that a Being could have brought him. It’s the purpose that the hunt has given him, all gone.
The shock doesn’t last long. Just a few minutes of blinking at the bright blue sky, a quiver in his smile as his ten-minute margin slips past – then he claps his hands and slides smoothly into denial.
‘Must have been a wee bit off with the timings,’ he says, laughing weakly. ‘Let me go over them again . . . Don’t worry, it can’t have been off by more than an hour or so.’
But an hour turns into two, then three, and there’s still no sign of a Fall. The audience has long since wandered off; Shona remembers a drum-circle practice and scurries back up the Mile. Dad’s denial starts to turn to anger. He yells at the engineers about the noise the fan is making, as if that could be keeping the Being away. He snaps at another Wingding for suggesting they come back tomorrow. A journalist asks him for a comment on his ‘failure’. Dad turns so red I’m worried he’s going to punch the guy in the face, but he just spits a string of swear words at him instead.
Rani trails after him, tugging on his sleeve. I follow close behind, terrified she’ll crack and tell him about Teacake if I’m not there to stop her. She keeps repeating the same few platitudes: it could still happen; don’t give up yet. Eventually, Dad jerks his arm away and glares down at her.
‘Just shut up for five minutes, Rani! I’m trying to think!’
For a second, she looks as if she’s about to cry. Instead, she tugs on Perry’s leash, storms down the hill and sits on a rock, her arms crossed tight. The area is quiet now, just a few walkers and latecomers looking on. I realize that we haven’t had lunch and go to the ice-cream truck to buy us both a Fanta and some crisps. By the time I come back up, even the Wingdings are starting to leave.
That’s when Dad reaches the bargaining stage.
‘Guys, come on – it could still happen! Amir . . . Amir, just wait another hour, will you? I’ll cut you a higher percentage of the reward.’
Amir squeezes Dad’s shoulder and shakes his head; Maya hugs Rani and me; Lars gives us a sad smile and climbs into the driver’s seat of a red Toyota. No one bothers to take the fan with them, or the tower of inflatable mattresses. Whatever spell had convinced them that this ridiculously, laughably improbable feat might actually happen has worn off. Now they just look dejected, and a little sheepish.
Maybe Dad was the spell. Maybe his blind faith is what kept them going all these months. It’s not enough now. And so he starts bargaining with something else.
‘Please,’ he keeps muttering. ‘Please. Just give me this. I’ve worked so hard for this. This is all I’m asking for.’
We try to talk to him, but he barely seems to hear us. The afternoon drags on: Rani is getting weepy, Perry keeps whining to be fed, I’m starving and grumpy and anxious to get back to McEwan Hall – my shift started hours ago. Eventually, it’s my turn to snap.
‘It’s not coming, Dad! It’s not going to happen!’
He keeps scanning the sky, as if looking for a detail that he might have missed before. But his shoulders start to sag, and soon he’s staring at his feet instead.
‘Fine,’ he says, his voice quiet and flat. ‘Fine. Let’s go.’
We drive home in silence, an atmosphere like a summer storm brewing in the small car. Back in the flat, Dad goes straight to the kitchen and pours himself a large whisky. He downs it in one, fills the glass again, and walks into the living room. The maps and notes and pinboards already seem like a museum exhibition: proof of some bygone folly, maps of a flat earth.
He slams his glass on the table; Laphroaig slops over the side.
