The Unlimited Dream Company. John GrayЧитать онлайн книгу.
deeply impressed by the dramatic style of my arrival. Looking up at this confused young woman, I felt a powerful sense of gratitude to her. I wanted to stroke her skin, place my mouth against her breast. For a moment I almost believed that I was her suitor, and that I had chosen this extravagant method of arrival in order to propose marriage to her.
As if aware of this, she smiled and pressed my hand. ‘Are you all right? I don’t mind saying that you gave me a hell of a scare … Can you see me? And hear me? How many fingers? Good. Now, was there anyone else in the plane? A passenger?’
‘I …’ For no clear reason I decided not to speak. The image of the Cessna’s cockpit formed a blank zone in my mind. I could no longer remember myself at the controls. ‘No … I was alone.’
‘You don’t sound very sure. Who are you, anyway? You look as if you might forget at any moment.’
‘Blake – I’m a stunt pilot. The aircraft caught fire.’
‘It certainly did …’
Taking her arm, I sat up. The wet grass was stained with oil from my flying suit. My shoes were charred, but luckily neither of my feet had been burned. From the respectful faces of the people around me – a gardener, the chauffeur, and an elderly couple who appeared to be housekeepers – I knew they had all assumed that I had drowned and were stunned by my apparent return from the dead. Along the river people were standing by both banks. Tennis players carrying their rackets moved through the trees, and a group of small boys were throwing clods of earth into the water, imitating the aircraft’s splash.
The Cessna had vanished in the current, swept away by the dark water.
The archaeologist strode up from the beach, his beard and parson’s collar soaked with water. As he caught his breath, staring impatiently at the oil-stained lawn, he resembled a harassed marine prophet come ashore to search for a renegade member of his flock. He gazed at me in a curiously disappointed way. I guessed that he had waded into the river to pull me to safety, assumed like the others that I had died and was about to read the last rites over me.
‘Father Wingate – he’s come round.’ Dr Miriam steadied me against her shoulder. ‘That’s one miracle I concede to you.’
‘I can see that, Miriam.’ The priest made no attempt to come any nearer, as if wary of me, rebuffed by my return to the living. ‘Well, thank God … But let him rest.’
The light faded, and then grew suddenly brighter. The priest’s face swam, its firm and spartan features leaking across the air into an angry grimace. Exhausted, I leaned against Dr Miriam and laid my head across her warm lap.
I could feel the imprint of a strange mouth against my own. My lips were swollen and cut against my teeth. A pair of powerful hands had bruised themselves into my chest. Whoever had given artificial respiration to me had used unnecessary strength, forcing his fingers between my ribs, as if determined to kill me. Through the deep glare that illuminated the river, now an almost lunar domain without shadows, I could see the priest watching me with a peculiar intensity, as if he were challenging me in some way. Had he tried to revive me, or kill me?
At the same time, I knew that I had not lost consciousness. I remembered stepping from the roof of the aircraft and swimming strongly for the shore, and then being steered by someone through the shallows. I looked up at the sky, which hovered on the verge of that vivid glow I had seen from the cockpit of the Cessna. As Dr Miriam held my head in her lap, her fingers pressed anxiously to my temples, I was about to warn her of the disaster.
Abruptly, the sky cleared. Dr Miriam was looking at me in a reflect- ive way, as if we were lovers long familiar with each other’s bodies. I could smell her strong thighs, and see her surprisingly grimy feet within their sandals. Her untidy hair was tied back in a faded ribbon. Through a missing button of her blouse I stared at a child’s scratch-marks on her left breast. I wanted to embrace her, here on this open lawn in front of this aggressive priest. I was sure that the violence of my accident had aroused her, and I was disappointed that it was not her mouth that had cut my lips.
She checked herself, and began wiping the oil from my face with a scented handkerchief. At any moment the local police would arrive, drawn by the crowd watching along the bank. Hundreds of people were staring at me across the calm water.
I stood up and leaned against the swing, while the three children watched me from their perch. They laughed hysterically when I kicked the charred shoes from my feet. The flying suit hung in rags around my waist. The right shoulder and leg were missing, torn from me as I escaped from the Cessna.
Turning my back on the priest, I said: ‘I have to leave. I’m an instructor at a flying school – they’ll need to know the aircraft came down here.’
‘I thought you were a stunt pilot.’
‘I am, in a way. I am a stunt pilot.’ To avoid her interested gaze, I asked: ‘What’s the matter with your mother? She’s mad …’
‘You startled her, to put it mildly. Now, wait a minute.’ She stood in front of me and felt my bruised ribs and abdomen, like a teacher inspecting a child injured in a playground. The blood from my grazed knuckles spotted her hands. Once again I felt a strong sexual attraction to her, part of my nervous relief at being alive. There was a slight swelling under her upper lip, as if she had bruised it kissing her lover.
‘Before you leave I want to take an X-ray of that head. Five minutes ago we thought you’d …’
She left the sentence unfinished, less out of deference to me than to the clergyman. He had moved a few steps closer but had still not joined us. His level stare made me sure that he already suspected I was not a qualified pilot. Dr Miriam squeezed the water from my suit. ‘Father Wingate, who’s the patron saint of stunt pilots and flying instructors? There must be one.’
‘Clearly there must be. Miriam, leave the poor fellow alone.’ To me, he added: ‘It isn’t every day that young men fall from the sky.’
‘More’s the pity.’ She turned from me and silenced the three children, who were running around the swing. The boy with leg-irons was uttering a series of whooping cries that sounded like a parody of my voice. ‘Jamie – why are you being cruel?’
I thought of clouting the boy but the priest touched my shoulder. He had at last approached me, and was staring into my face as if reading the seams in one of his bone-beds. ‘Before you go. You’re all right, are you? You must have a powerful will – you literally came to life in our hands.’
For all his pious tone, I knew that he was not about to ask me to join him in a prayer of thanks. My apparent return from the dead had clearly shaken the orders and proprieties of his universe. Perhaps he had tried to revive me on the beach, and after all these years of wearing the cloth was embarrassed to find that he had apparently performed a miracle.
Seeing his strong physique at close quarters, the shoulders still trembling with some strange repressed emotion, I could easily imagine him deciding to crush the life out of me and send me back to the other side before everything got out of hand. He was deliberately exposing the suspicions that crossed his face, trying to provoke me. I was tempted to grapple with him, force my bruised body against his and hurl him on to the oil-stained grass.
I touched my lips, wondering if the priest had revived me by this act of oral rape. Someone with powerful arms had crushed the air from my lungs – a man of my own size, judging from the imprint of his mouth and hands. The priest was old enough to be my father, but despite his dog-collar he had the aggressive physique of a rugby player.
I looked at the circle of faces, at the people lining the opposite bank of the river. If not the priest, then which of the seven witnesses? Perhaps Dr Miriam, or her dotty mother. Mrs St Cloud had emerged from the mansion, the oil-stained pearls hanging in a greasy chain around her neck. She still hesitated to approach me, as if she expected me to ignite spontaneously and destroy her already disfigured lawn.
The last of the witnesses, the blond-haired man painting the Ferris wheel,