It wasn't as I said it was. I lied to the Alpha Dog. It couldn't be helped; I had to. If she found out -

No. Don't think like that. She won't find out. Deceit - despite what Douglas thinks - is second nature to me. It goes hand in hand with this - with this... thing. This hateful, damaging, addictive thing.

They'd seen that my uniform had gotten looser. They already knew I didn't get paid, so that fact was enforced with lies of poverty and starvation. Not my kind of starvation, however. It was almost too easy.

Don't think I'm a con artist; I'm not. Really. I do live in the attic of a shared house, but it's a nice attic; and I could use the pay, the van jobs are getting harder and harder, my muscle has started to waste; I do only eat toast and pasta with the odd baked potato as a treat, but that's by choice. It's not like it stays down long enough to count as sustenance, though.

I loose the cheese tray on purpose. How could one say, to the mighty Sky-God Douglas Richardson, that I didn't want the cheese tray time after time without arousing suspicion. It's not like I could get rid of it either, not with my First Officer's deduction skills and the ever present steward. Then they would know.

So I'll keep up the deception. It was better than the pity, the dirty looks or the concern and being hospitalised again with IV fluids pumping calories and other such in my system while I'm basically strapped to the bed after trying to remove it.

I cook for the students sometimes. The measurements, the textures, everything just relaxes me. I take an interest in food - an unhealthy one. I'll smile as the students tell me it's good and I'll say I like to cook so thanks aren't necessary. I'll smile - relaxed and easy - and they'll smile back at me and ask if I want to join them. That's when my smile falters and becomes fake, the colour will drain from my face and I'll make my excuses and run up to my little attic... Or there are no excuses to make and I'll join them - but put two fingers down my throat and take it all back.

It's always 'a few more pounds', 'just one more size', 'one more day without food'. It's messed up, I admit that, but it helps. Or at least I think it does.

Lies protect you. Lies protect others.

The van business mustn't be getting a lot of clientele these days. I catch clues here and there, nothing gets past this old Sky God.

It all started with his uniform. He's dropped at least two sizes recently and has had to cut new holes in his already small belt and his jacket just falls off his sharp shoulders.

Then, it was his wrist. I could encompass it with my thumb and forefinger. I could see his bones move as he flicked switches; I think he saw me notice, he pulled his sleeve down again a second later.

After that, it was his collar bone. The hollow underneath was shadowed at the time, in low light which would have exaggerated it, but it still looked so... prominent - and not in a good way.

Finally, it was a little incident the other week in that hotel (if it could be called that) in Bombay. He was getting dressed in the bathroom and I accidentally walked in as he forgot to lock it. I'll never forget the way his ribs stood out from stretched skin and his spin jutting from his back with his shoulder blades and hipbones. It was like he was nothing but skin and bone. I don't think he even realised I was there. I turned on my heel and closed the door as quietly as possible. If he noticed, he didn't say anything.

Then my mind gave me little whispers.

He doesn't eat Arthur's cooking...

Because it's Arthur's cooking. It'd kill him faster than starvation.

What if that isn't the reason why?

What are you trying to convey?

He never eats anything from the cheese tray...

That's because I always win it. Now, stop this. Martin will be fine.

That's what he wants you to think.

I'll invite him to dinner, so you can stop being so paranoid. Martin is poor, not intentionally starving himself.

Go ahead. Ask him.

And I did, on the flight back.

"How's the van business?"

"Not great, but it'll pick up."

"Listen... If you need any help -"

"Douglas, what's gotten into you? I'm fine."

"How about a meal out when we get back - my treat."

"Sorry Douglas; I have a van job, one of the scarce few I get these days..."

"... Rhyming Journeys; for the entire cheese tray."

"Alright."

I try and make him win - I can't just give it to him. I still win - naming only one - he names none at all. Something is wrong with the picture...

Martin asked me for money in Qikiqtarjuaq. He said he doesn't eat much - but it doesn't take a genius to work that out.

I don't know what to say - he's like a son to me, but I can't pay him. MJN is in the red as it is, we can't even afford to pay the bare minimum of pilots.

He's just so skinny and he's just getting thinner all the time. Douglas told me what he looks like under the uniform; the way skin is stretched over bone and I'm guilty and horrified. And now I see it. I see it all; the sunken eyes and dark bruising, the sharp cheekbones, the bony wrists, the flashes of collarbone raised underneath pale flesh - well, tissue paper skin. We're watching him waist away. We're watching him die.

He's getting so weak, too. How he's managing van jobs, I have no idea. Douglas said he had to help him last time - got a call at eight in the morning, voice at the other end in hysterics, saying how he couldn't lift the wardrobe and needed help. It takes a lot for him to ask for help.

I can't explain it, but one thing just sticks in my mind...

"And why's your uniform so baggy?"

"I'm … I've lost a lot of weight recently."

He laughed as he said it, and that smile... I don't know. It wasn't just the alcohol. I don't know, though. But I can tell Douglas thinks something's wrong, we just don't know what.

He's sick. Isn't he? Well, why didn't you say so? I'm not that much of a clot. He's lost a lot weight recently. Even more than we used to see.

He doesn't eat anything in flight - but my cooking's really bad, so that might be why. He's poor, I know he is.

But... There are weird things I've seen. He doesn't eat with us in pubs and restaurants anymore, and when he does, he looks like he's going to be sick and his hands shake. He pushes his food around a lot and, if he does eat it (he doesn't eat it often, though, and if he eats it's not much), he goes to the bathroom as soon as he's done and he's even paler and shakier when he comes back. I've seen him take apart sandwiches if he eats them - when he does he's sweaty and shaky again and his face sort of... screws up before he eats any thing; he also has a way of eating the taken apart sandwiches - tomato, lettuce, cucumber, bread; always like that. I don't think the others know, which is weird.

Something else is wrong. I know it.

Douglas said that he looks like a skeleton under his uniform. I thought 'Skeleton crew' like in pirate stories, the curses and stuff. I thought I'd be brilliant... But it's not. It's... bad. Really, really bad.