Dying for Millions Read online

  ‘You forgot to ask, dear,’ he said.

  ‘I knew I wouldn’t need to, Ahmed,’ I said.

  He winked, and went off to seat some new customers.

  Andy doodled on the tablecloth with his index finger. ‘I’m giving it up, Sophie. Music. Well, the music business.’

  ‘Permanently? I thought you said something about a sabbatical—’

  ‘Don’t want to make too much of a big deal over this gig. Too bloody emotional as it is, the last gig in a tour. Hope Ruth’ll be well enough to come up.’ He broke some nan, scooped a mouthful of dhal. ‘You know, for the party afterwards – you’ll be there?’

  ‘Try and keep me away. Shall I bring someone?’ Chris, the policeman with whom I had an on-off relationship, might be up from Bramshill for the weekend.

  ‘Thought you might like to see who you could pull. There’s always Duck.’

  Duck might be one of the best lighting engineers in Europe but he had a walk like Lady Thatcher’s and halitosised for England.

  ‘Gee, thanks.’ Time to change the subject: he’d give me a fistful of passes anyway. Perhaps I could give Karen one – and her mother. I topped up my lager. ‘Mwandara’s got to you, has it?’

  ‘Not just the hospital – the whole of the country. Well, the Third World in general, to be honest. Jesus, Sophie – the waste, the poverty, the corruption, the sheer indifference … I have to do something.’ All the laughlines had solidified into frustrated anger.

  I nodded; I’d seen it coming. ‘Aren’t you more use to Mwandara as a pop star attracting attention and funds than as just another pair of hands – unskilled hands at that?’

  ‘I shan’t be spending any more time there. Not as a field worker, anyway. UNICEF have asked me to become a goodwill ambassador. Yes, despite my past! Don’t forget – I’ve been squeaky-clean for years now.’ He smiled ironically, but he had reason to be proud of himself. He’d probably succumbed to all the temptations going, and invented a few more along the way, but he’d come through it all and if he looked back he never showed it, even to me. He’d gone further, been prominent in campaigns against drugs ever since he’d dried out. Some people said he was like a younger Cliff Richard in zealousness – though without the religious bit, I was relieved to say. His crusading image didn’t fit his music: once a violent, primitive rock – though always, as Karen’s mother had rightly observed, with an accessible melody – and nowadays a much more sophisticated affair, with lots of African rhythms. Nelson Mandela was known to be a fan, and had attended the opening of the township cricket club which had asked Andy to be its Patron.

  ‘Will you miss it? The music, I mean?’

  ‘Some of it. The roar of the grease-paint, the smell of the crowd … Same as you’d miss teaching, I suppose.’ Suddenly he yawned, showing all those expensively capped teeth. ‘No, no coffee for me, thanks. Sophie?’

  ‘Sophie doesn’t drink it at this time of night,’ said Ahmed paternally, giving me the bill.

  Chapter Two

  Andy was hurtling along imaginary roads on my exercise bike when I took a mug of tea into him the next morning. He was also singing along to the radio, sharing Robert Merrill’s baritone part in the famous duet from Bizet’s Pearlfishers; his voice was still pleasing, if huskier these days. He peered at the tea, as if suspicious, but grinned when he saw it was milkless.

  I was about to apologise – I never seem to remember to put the milk in the fridge.

  ‘No, I prefer it like that. Remember that diet I was telling you about? It’s best to avoid milk when you’re on it. Don’t know why – can’t be bothered with the philosophy. Just know it works.’

  He certainly looked well. He’d never been anything other than slender, apart from during his early twenties, when he was drinking as if he expected them to ration it. But now muscles showed finely under healthy skin. You certainly wouldn’t have guessed he was just concluding a gruelling world tour.

  I thought of my own body, dull-skinned and flabby after a jogging-less, knee-troubled couple of months, and made a note, when I wasn’t late for work, to ask him more about his diet. It wouldn’t be today, though. Before I got home, he’d be back to Devon and Ruth.

  ‘See you Friday, then? At the airport?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’ll be more like Saturday, and I’ll get a taxi. I’ll let myself in.’

  ‘Breakfast?’

  He shook his head extravagantly.

  ‘Lemon tea at eleven?’

  ‘Some bloke’s missing a good wife.’

  ‘Sexist bastard. Well, I’m off to earn my crust.’

  He stopped pedalling and slipped off the bike. A sweaty hug, and a tiny kiss on the lips. That was the routine.

  Taking the car into work always generated a mixture of guilt and frustration. I knew I was adding not just to city pollution levels but also to global warming, and I could see quite clearly the effect of extra cars – one-driver, no-passenger cars – on a grievously overloaded road system. Any day now the city would be gridlocked. But today I really needed the car to make another visit, this time to an airport – not Birmingham International, but West Midlands, a small-scale airport where I hoped to place some students. This meant heading out along the A38 via Spaghetti Junction. It was fortunate I had a class till ten: it would allow a little time for the roads to clear.

  The motorways into the city were still clogged, but the outward routes, including the A38 Lichfield Road, were clear. There was a slight delay on the Tyburn Road, where a milk-float had somehow spilt its entire load, but eventually I picked up the road to the airport just after the turning for Minworth sewage works. In cold, wet weather like this, there was no smell to betray it; I wouldn’t have taken bets on it after a long, hot summer, though.

  It was surprisingly easy to get in. I’d expected security guards – but then, it was a public airport. I found my way to a small visitors’ car park near the administration block. Mine was easily the smallest car, but I compensated by making it the most neatly parked. I brushed myself down, and headed for Reception.

  In addition to the car, the new job had also called for a few changes in my wardrobe: gone were the days when I had merely to decide which pair of jeans to wear. I had had to lose street cred in order to gain credibility with employers. And, perhaps, there was a faint but enduring hope that one of them might one day realise how efficient and professional I was and head-hunt me from the wilting grove of Academe that was William Murdock. I still enjoyed the teaching, and all the pastoral work with the students, but a brief sojourn at another, better-endowed college, had made me realise the advantages of working in a pleasant environment.

  Although the administrative block was a low and unimpressive building one grade up from a pre-fab, the doors opened – then shut – automatically, admitting me to a newly-decorated and clean foyer. I was greeted by a motherly middle-aged receptionist who appeared genuinely sorry when she told me that Mark Winfield, the Training Officer I’d come to see, was delayed in a meeting. She brought me current magazines and newly-made tea – with fresh milk – and settled me in a comfortable chair. I wallowed in the unexpected luxury of a break. I flicked through this month’s Cosmopolitan: my horoscope promised a change in my fortunes by the end of the month and warned me not to let my independence discourage my partner. Partner, indeed! The nearest thing I had to a partner was Chris, now on some course which seemed likely to whizz him from his current rank of DCI to something way beyond superintendent in less than no time. And the higher he flew, the less likely we were to agree.

  ‘Ms Rivers?’

  I jumped, but had the presence of mind to stand up and offer my hand. ‘Sophie, please.’

  ‘Mark Winfield,’ said the young man, taking it and shaking it warmly. He was in a suit considerably flasher than mine, but his hair was well styled and his complexion lightly tanned. He was about thirty. ‘Now, how may I help you? Work experience, I think you said in your letter—’

  ‘For my students,’ I sai
d. ‘I’m responsible for placing them in organisations like yours where they can get some idea of the world of work.’

  ‘For how long are we talking about?’

  I was slightly puzzled: I’d have expected this conversation to take place in his office. ‘Usually a week, occasionally two or three weeks. Some placements prefer to use them on a range of jobs: others prefer shadowing – following you around all day, about your daily round.’

  He gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘You mean, they follow you everywhere?’

  ‘Apart from the loo, yes. Not just set-piece meetings – all the behind-closed-door politicking as well.’

  He wrinkled a straight, rather elegant nose. ‘There’s a lot of confidential stuff in a place like this. After all the problems other airports have had with demonstrators, we wouldn’t want to take any chances.’ He turned slightly – we were about to move at last.

  ‘Are you involved in live animal transportation, then?’ I asked, gathering up my bag and preparing to follow wherever he led.

  ‘Not now. The management saw the way things were going and pulled out before the publicity started. There’s plenty of other lucrative contracts without actively looking for trouble.’ He led the way, limping slightly on his left leg. I hoped it wasn’t just the cut of his suit that gave him such broad shoulders.

  I followed him to a door. He tapped numbers into a keyboard, shielded so that only the most determinedly curious could have worked out the code, then held the door open for me.

  ‘You know, of course, that we don’t handle large numbers of passengers here. We’re almost exclusively freight with some short-haul private passenger flights. STOLs – short take off and landing. You see the Dash Sevens over there? That sort of thing. There are training flights, too. And over there is the helipad.’

  I nodded; I would have to check out all the details later so I could use the right lingo – and, more importantly, understand should he use it. ‘You mean, like the airport in Docklands?’ I said brightly.

  He stopped by another door, again secretively tapping in a code before ushering me through.

  ‘We’re less busy than they are. Like I said, it’s mostly freight. The container base is over there.’ He pointed through triple-glazed windows. ‘Customs and Excise. Engineering. Control tower.’

  ‘You’re quite a small concern.’ I hoped I didn’t sound disparaging.

  ‘But very efficient. We have to be, there are so few of us. Most of the clerical work is now computerised and as soon as a plane is logged through Air Traffic Control it triggers a print-out in the accounts office. Which is where your students could be most useful.’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Symbiosis – isn’t that what they call it? You want us to give them experience; we’d want to get some work out of them.’

  I hesitated: work experience placements weren’t intended to turn students into unpaid labourers. ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘Quite responsible. The sort that might lead to paid work later – temporary relief when staff are off sick or on training. We’re very forward-looking in our training policies. Investors in People.’

  I smiled. ‘It’s on your letter heading.’

  ‘Right! Some of it’s essential – propellers are lethal things. We don’t want people walking into them. And planes come expensive. Apart from that, we try to ensure everyone has their skills up-dated as often as possible. Not just those skills which would immediately benefit the company, either. Languages. Fitness. And we have regular team-building weekends at outdoor activity centres.’

  The tone of his voice suggested he was particularly proud of something which I’ve always considered anathema. Imagine it – a weekend being swung from the end of a wet rope by a boss you couldn’t swear at …

  ‘So how could our students help? In the short term, that is?’

  For answer he took me out of his office, back into the corridor: another code-controlled door, this time into an office. From the windows you could see an immense aircraft sitting on the runway, disgorging containers. There was, I suppose, some background noise from the trucks and the plane itself, but nothing outrageous enough to disturb two women who were tapping at computer keyboards like creatures possessed. Their area was sectioned off by sound-screens, forming a self-contained enclave.

  ‘This is where the usual secretarial stuff is done.’ He stopped by the section nearest the door. ‘Morning, Sal – how’s Kieran?’

  ‘Still teething. Especially at three in the morning.’

  ‘Ron doing his share?’

  ‘When he remembers.’

  ‘Make sure he does!’

  I wasn’t sure how to take that little exchange. It seemed genuine, but I’m always suspicious of public displays designed to show what a brilliant, caring employer you are. I smiled sympathetically at Sal, who smiled back without any hint of irony. Perhaps he was simply a good manager.

  ‘Tell me,’ Winfield began, ‘how flexible your students would be in their working hours.’

  ‘They’d normally do the same as everyone else – nine till five.’

  ‘Ah. That limits us slightly. You see, we’re at our busiest between the hours of nine and twelve.’ He paused for effect. ‘In the evening.’

  ‘Is that why it’s so quiet now? I’d expected to be yelling over the sound of incoming or outgoing aircraft.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He guided me to a window. ‘See, it’s mostly training flights during the day. I suppose you don’t fly yourself?’ His voice changed; I had an enthusiast on my hands.

  I watched a smallish aircraft bounce to an awkward halt. If it were me, I’d want to loop and dive; but then, I reminded myself sourly, I wouldn’t be able to. ‘I get vertigo,’ I said.

  ‘So do I, on the ground. But never up there. I’ve even done parachute jumps! You should learn. Think about it!’ When he smiled his face was transformed.

  I reflected briefly on the use flying would be to a woman from semi-detached Harborne with a job that consumed lunch-times and weekends like a gull gobbled fish. But I did feel a nasty yearning. And if Andy was learning to fly a helicopter, why shouldn’t I? No. For him flying made absolute sense. For me?

  ‘One day, maybe,’ I said, non-committally. Then I found myself smiling back and adding, ‘Actually, I should love to.’ What I had to do was direct the conversation back to education and the needs of my students – tactfully for preference. ‘When did you learn? Were you an air cadet or something?’

  ‘Fire Service, actually. That’s how I got involved in training.’

  ‘That sounds an unusual career path!’

  He laughed. ‘I was responsible for health and safety. And as I said, an airport is a dangerous place – you should see it at night when we’re busy with all the Parcel Force traffic. Planes and lorries. Someone had to take responsibility for all the casual staff we’ve got out there and when I hurt my hip – oh, I fell through a roof – the company offered to take me on. Good of them. New General Manager – very enlightened. Anyway, since I started, there have only been a couple of incidents, neither of them serious. Whereas before, we were beginning to have trouble getting insurance.’

  ‘You must be doing a good job.’

  ‘We all work hard here. Which brings me back to your students.’ He’d taken the hint. ‘They’d have to have a serious capacity for hard work. I don’t want anyone farting round thinking all they have to do is make tea and do their nails. Real work is what I’m talking.’ Take it or leave it, his voice said: then that smile.

  ‘And not nine till five? That would eliminate some of our Asian students – the girls, especially. Their fathers bring them in at five to nine, collect them at four-thirty.’

  ‘What about the others? You must have other students?’

  ‘Plenty.’ My tone conveyed more conviction than I felt. How many students would want to work those hours?

  ‘I think there might be a way round this,’ he said slowly. ‘What about – the same day a week, for several weeks? W
e could train them up to do something worthwhile, and it would free one of our staff to undertake a period of training. Then, as I said, there’d be the possibility of doing relief or holiday work, but that would almost certainly involve several evenings a week.’

  I back-tracked. ‘A lot of students do evening work at McDonald’s, or delivering pizzas. I’m sure we’ll find you someone good.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone who isn’t good!’ His smile again, eventually, softened his words. ‘Oh, and we need two written references – Department of Transport regulations.’ He shot a look at his watch. ‘Twelve already. You’ll join me for a bite in the canteen?’

  I looked at mine in turn. ‘I wish I could. But I’m teaching at one-fifteen.’

  ‘Come on. It’s only fifteen minutes back to the city centre. Well, twenty.’

  His smile became very engaging indeed. I shouldn’t offend a potential placement; it would have been churlish to refuse. ‘I promised I’d talk to a student – can I make a phone call to put her off?’

  ‘There’s a phone in my office.’

  It turned out Mark had played cricket before he hurt his hip, and was still a keen Warwickshire supporter. So we gossiped cricket for as long as it took us to eat salad and rolls, and drink rather weak decaffeinated coffee in what he referred to as the Mess. I was the only woman among short-haired men in smart shirts with impressive shoulder flashes; braided caps were much in evidence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said at last, ‘but I really must dash. I’ve got an A-level class.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘you really ought to see what it’s like at night. Come over next week. Let’s see – I think I’m rostered for Tuesday. Come over about nine. We’ll have a drink first, then I’ll show you round.’

  I must have been off my head: trailing round in the cold – and almost certainly the rain – of a February night wasn’t my usual idea of a good time. But I heard myself agreeing. And, come to think of it, I found myself looking forward to it.