The Return Home
Oliver fastened his seatbelt and absently adjusted the seatback. He flew oftentoo often, if he was honest. Once a month, sometimes more: conferences, meetings, brief business trips that left his head spinning as much as cheap whiskey. This time, it was especially routinetwo days of negotiations, signatures, dinner with partnersand then back to London.
The only difference was the destination. The plane wasnt heading to Germany or Edinburgh but to a small southern town where hed been born and from which hed fled twenty years ago. Hed only been back twice sincefor his fathers funeral, then his mothers. Both times, hed wanted nothing more than to return to the noise of Londons traffic, his projects, the life where there was no time to think.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Last night, hed sat in a bar with colleagues, arguing over some presentation. Someone had gotten drunk and sung The Water Is Wide off-key. Funny how that melody had stuck in his head, humming now beneath the drone of the engines. He almost smiled.
Would you like juice or water? the stewardess asked, bending slightly. Her smile was polished, rehearsed.
Water, please.
She handed him a plastic cup. He nodded. The water was lukewarm, as if left in the sun. But he was thirsty.
The man beside him muttered something, flipping through a magazine.
Prices are mad, arent they? he said, glancing up.
Always have been, Oliver replied. Theyre selling watches here for the price of a flat.
Both chuckled, and for a moment, it felt easy, almost homely.
The plane sailed smoothly, rocking gently. A baby cried ahead, but the mother hushed it quickly. Someone clicked the overhead light on and off, chasing the glow. A girl across the aisle giggled at her phonethe screens white light made her look younger than she was.
Oliver turned to the window. He expected to see at least a faint village light below, a highways ribbon, a stars flicker. But outside stretched only an even, muffled dark. So thick it looked like matte black film pressed against the glass.
Dark, isnt it? the man beside him said, peering over. Black as pitch.
Oliver shrugged. Well its night.
But something sticky and unpleasant stirred in his chest. This wasnt night. Night breathes. This was vacancy.
He checked his phone. The screen flashedno signal.
Right. The plane. What had he expected? He always forgot. Still, the habit remained: reaching for the screen, hoping for a message from his son. At least send a smiley, he thought, locking the phone with a wry grin.
No signal either? the man asked.
Nope, Oliver said. Shouldnt expect it.
Right. The man returned to his magazine, this time tracing an ad for expensive coats as if he could feel the fabric.
The plane dipped slightlyjust turbulence, Oliver told himself. But his cup trembled, ripples spreading too evenly, as if tapped by an invisible finger.
From the next row, a womans voice: Youre sure theyll meet us?
Of course, another replied. They said theyd wait right by the gate.
The word wait stuck in Olivers skull. He pressed his forehead to the window. Still nothing. No sparks, no light. Just black fabric wrapped around the plane.
He thought of his mother. The one buried in the old cemetery outside town for over a decade. He remembered standing at her grave in his black coat, how strange it was to stare at dirt while her laughter still echoed in his memory. Now, against the window, he almost heard her voiceOllieand flinched like hed been shocked.
You all right? the man asked.
Oliver blinked. Just remembered something.
Ah, the man said. Well, dont think about the turbulence.
Oliver tried to read, but the words wouldnt hold. The lines blurred, the letters smudged, and he found himself staring not at the page but at the dark glass beside him. Blackness. Normal, surely. What else should there be?
The man turned a page and snorted. Six grand for a watch. For that, you could buy a Mini.
Yeah, Oliver said, smiling politely though it wasnt funny.
From across the aisle: She said, Wait for us by lunch.
Then another voice, higher: Mine said the same. Wait for us by lunch.
A coincidence, surely. Two passengers repeating the same phrase. But the word wait sent a chill through him, like a door left open to a draft. He stared at the window again.
The black glass reflected his facepale, tired. No clouds, no lights below. Just flat dark, so thick he imagined reaching out and his fingers vanishing without a trace.
Dark, isnt it? the man said again. Black as pitch.
Night, Oliver replied. Same as always.
He said it aloud, but inside, the words twisted: night is alive. This was dead.
He set the book down, took another sip of warm water, and rolled his eyes. Funnythe plane was full, yet it felt like sitting in a basement.
The cart squeaked down the aisle. The stewardess leaned toward the next row.
Tea or coffee?
The woman across the aisle lifted her cup. Tea, please. And lemon, if you have it.
Her friend added, Same for me. Tea with lemon.
Both spoke identically, as if rehearsed. Oliver wondered if hed misheard, but the girl in headphones giggled and mimicked, high and strange: With lemon, with lemon
The man beside him frowned but said nothing.
The plane shuddered slightly. Water trembled in the cup, ripples forming a perfect grid, like drumskin. Oliver touched the surfaceit stiffened for a second, like glass. Strange, but he brushed it off. Just fatigue.
***
Captain Harris glanced from the instruments to the windshield. There was nothing. Not even on moonless nights was it this blankno horizon, no stars. Just a black screen, as if the cockpit had been towed into a hangar and left in the dark.
Maybe were in clouds, he said aloud. His voice wavered.
Clouds? The co-pilot looked up. At this altitude? With no turbulence? Radars clear.
Solar storms, Harris suggested. Plasmasphere it happens.
Then thered be static.
There is. He tapped the radio, where only silence hissed.
He knew he wasnt convincing. This wasnt like any malfunction hed seen in twenty years.
The co-pilot pressed his forehead to the side window.
Could it be snowfields? Maybe we just cant see them.
Snow glows, Harris said. This is just black.
They checked the instruments again. Course steady. Altitude stable. Fuel normal. Engines perfect. Everything workedexcept the world outside.
If it were a storm, Id understand, the co-pilot muttered. Or the ocean. But this isnt night. Night breathes.
Breathes, Harris agreed.
He told himself: weve lost bearings, well find a beacon, land as usual. But the words wouldnt line up. As if the void outside muffled thought too.
Finally, he reached for the mic. He couldnt say alls well.
Ladies and gentlemen, he said flatly, were continuing our flight. Navigation systems are temporarily unavailable, but the aircraft is operating normally. The crew has everything under control.
He released the button.
Silence hissed in his headset. Outside, the black wall held them, waiting for the fuel to die.
***
The PA clicked off. A second of thick quiet, like a cellar. Then something crackednot in the instruments, but in the people.
The man beside Oliver snapped his magazine shut, shoved it into the seat pocket. His face was taut, eyes glittering.
Normally? Did you hear that? Whats navigation unavailable mean? Are we lost?
No one answered. But heads turned.
Across the aisle, a girl in a rabbit-patterned sweater stuffed her phone into her bag and crieddry, shuddering sobs. A stranger handed her a tissue. She crumpled it in her fist.
A man in a tailored suit jabbed the call button. When the stewardess came, he barked too loud:
Explain no navigation. I demand contact with the ground! I have a connecting flightmy entire schedules ruined!
She bent to whisper. He waved her off. His voice shook, and Oliver thought: hes scared. Hiding behind anger.
The young mother whod hushed her child earlier now sat rigid, stroking his head too fast, as if her touch could keep him alive. Her eyes were dry, sharp.
From the back, someone laughedthin,
