Douglas stayed in his Lexus for a while. How was he going to make it through the day in one piece? Did he want to stay in one piece?
He got out of the car and almost ran to the portacabin. Dirk and the rest of the ground were going to tear him apart; they were all rather fond of Martin and Arthur. Arthur was a bright beacon of optimism and hope; Martin helped Arthur show a side of himself that had gone undiscovered for so long – the wisdom, the maturity. Everyone at the airfield had named them Fitton's best couple at the Christmas party not so long ago.
And now, he had given Martin a heart attack. The ground crew were all spectators as Martin's pale, lifeless body was carried out of GERTI and Arthur following closely behind, tears running down his face. Douglas had seen it out of the window.
He walked – fuck it – he ran through the door to the portacabin and closed it firmly… very firmly. He pressed his back against it while he tried to catch his breath; sprinting, panic and adrenaline were heartless bitches.
After a few seconds, there was a firm pressure – about as firm as he had closed the door – at his neck. It was an arm. "Listen to me, Douglas," the owner of the arm – Hercules – growled. Ah. This was going to hurt. "Arthur is like a son to me! And Martin's a very decent chap! I've never seen either of them that happy – truly happy – before, especially Martin! And you kill him!"
"He's alive! And I didn't mean to!"
"He's only alive because of modern medicine and it doesn't matter if you meant to or not! Because you did! And in the air, too! What if Martin needed to open that door to get something while he was in control?!"
"This is Martin we're talking about…"
"No jokes, Douglas! I'm serious! You could have killed an entire twenty people because Martin called you unprofessional! Which you are! You walk all over regulations and do things like that! It wasn't Martin's fault! He was doing his damn job Douglas, not that you'd know what that means!"
"I only meant to scare him…"
That was when Herc – Hercules Shipwright, the docile lover of Carolyn Knapp-Shappey – gave him a black eye and split lip.
"You should consider yourself lucky that it's a long cargo flight today and, however loath I am to admit it, I need you in one piece," Herc began, calm-ish persona back in place (the punching must have done him some good), but his voice wasn't quite warm syrup quality. Not like it usually was. "Let's just fly some bloody plane…"
Douglas didn't know if Herc knew Martin said that – without the "just" and the "bloody" – if he did, he used it like a knife to twist even more guilt into Douglas' gut.
…
The silence of the flight was deafening. Luckily, Jennie had been recruited to bring them their meals and coffee so Arthur and Carolyn didn't have to leave Martin's bedside. She pressed the soup hard into Douglas' hands so it spilled over the sides of the bowl and burned Douglas' hand. "Oh, sorry, Douglas," she mocked, "Did that hurt, was it unprofessional?" Douglas mumbled something as she tensely stormed off.
They landed hours later, in the evening. This time, Douglas couldn't escape the ground crew. They had dragged him to a discrete place and kept beating him and kicking him and every now and again they would set off party poppers, which scared him and they had hatred on their faces.
When they were gone, Douglas noticed his head was bleeding and his thoughts were fuzzy. Probably a concussion. He didn't care. He'd drive home. He just didn't care.
He stumbled to his Lexus on shaking legs and drove away.
…
Douglas staggered through his front door. The pain he could deal with; but the guilt, the bone crushing, agonising, torturing, nauseating guilt.
The Talisker whispered to him as a siren would when he took its cold, slim body in his hand; caressing it, cherishing it.
Cold. Slim. Like Martin's dead body.
He shook his head of the thought and concentrated on the feel of it. It was almost like winding down the soft silk stocking of a beautiful lady with golden hair and dark, demonic eyes that just read seduce me as she sprawled on silk bedclothes.
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win!
Shakespeare's Sonnet CXIX still echoed in his mind as he unscrewed the cap of his golden temptress; it felt almost as if undressing that beautiful siren.
He pressed it to his lips, bestowing kisses on the sirens shins and thighs as she smiled smugly, reclining against the bed's headboard as he worshiped her. Golden liquid flowed into his mouth, coating his tongue and burning his throat, like a deep, hungry kiss. She whispered take me and he wanted more.
His head was dulling; the pain, the guilt and the thoughts were dulling. The siren had him, seduced him. Then, taking the bottle from his lips, he saw her; draped over the sofa. Hair that should be golden was dark as a raven's feathers at midnight with curls falling around her cheeks like satin sheets spilling off the corner of the bed decadently, messily betraying tales of the night before. Her face was slim and beautiful. Her eyes dark and empty despite the lust therein, but it was empty lust.
"Come to me…" She beckoned, standing slowly, gracefully, her lingerie hugged her hips as she moved, silken black stockings and lace garters showing her off. He stepped towards her.
She looked up at him with empty eyes as she pressed her body against his softly, despite her clothing choice, it was still innocent. Tender, loving. Surely.
She brushed his tie with her long, delicate fingers before winding them around it and guiding him to her lips. That blissful burning in the back of his throat.
She led him to the sofa and sat him down. She draped into his lap, like silk. That's when Douglas saw it. Her clothes had changed. She was wearing light blue pyjama bottoms decorated with polar bears and a man's aeroplane t-shirt. Douglas froze; stiff as a board. What she said next would chill him to the bone permanently and stay with him forever. Her voice was child-like and jovial but worried at the same time; "what's wrong, Skipper?"
Douglas' eyes widened as he stared into hers. They had changed too. They were filled with curiosity and they were brown – Arthur's eyes.
He stood up quickly, terrified. The siren didn't fall; she just vanished into the air like vapour.
He felt a heavy weight on his head, reached up and touched what felt like the brim of his pilot's hat but… gold braid.
He turned to the mirror. He was thin – obscenely so – with ginger hair and freckles and bloody cheekbones! Martin! He was Martin! Hunger stabbed at his gut and sorrow – no, more than sorrow – stabbed at his heart. It brought tears to his eyes. No. Martin had Arthur! He was happy!
The siren draped her arms around him and the sorrow disappeared but the hunger was still a dull ache. "You make me happy, Bumblebee." The words that tumbled from his mouth weren't his. His voice was higher; it was almost identical to Martin's.
Douglas felt the weight disappear as he saw a hunched figure at his desk, technically facing him but the head was down. It was a man, a man with ginger hair. A sick feeling of dread settled like a stone in his chest.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
The figure jerked its head up jerkily and stared with dead eyes at Douglas. It was Martin. No shirt to show the damage.
The apparition's chest had dark, rotting burns seared into the pasty white flesh. There was blood, a lot of blood, from an opening in his side. The opening showed the charred gore inside, the broken ribs. Internal Cardiac Massage. A very last resort.
Martin, despite being dead and rotting, stared accusingly at him. "Beautiful service," Douglas heard from the side, "he'd have been honoured…" Carolyn. Carolyn, Arthur, Herc, Simon, Caitlin and Wendy were all standing in his living room.
Arthur stared sadly at the gravestone of ominous black marble with the engraving 'Martin Crieff. May now, at last, his soul fly where pain and sorrow cannot follow'. Arthur placed a stone at its foot. "At least you can still have the ring, Martin; even if I couldn't propose. I hope the Otters take care of you…"
Douglas stood by their side. Martin sat on top of the gravestone; jerky, uncoordinated movements, like he was a marionette on strings, Martin pointed an accusing finger at Douglas.
Douglas found himself only able to answer with; "Which of you have done this?!"
"What, Douglas?" Carolyn frowned. They all looked at him with such distaste.
"Thou canst not say I did it: never shake thy gory locks at me!" Douglas yelled, staggering backwards.
"Gentlemen, rise: his highness is not well," Herc spat.
Arthur sighed. "Sit, worthy friends: my lord is often thus, and hath been from his youth. Pray you, keep seat; the fit is momentary; upon a thought he will again be well. If much you note him, you shall offend him and extend his passion: regard him not." Arthur instructed before he grabbed Douglas by the arm and muttered darkly, "Are you a man?"
"Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that which might appal the devil!" Douglas answered in a fit.
"Why do you make such faces? When all's done, you look but on a grave," Arthur growled.
Douglas could see him! He could see it! He turned sharply to Arthur in a fever, "Prithee, see there! Behold! Look! Lo!" Douglas turned back to the grave to see no sign of Martin. "If I stand here, I saw him."
"Fie, for shame!" Arthur exclaimed, pushing him back.
Douglas looked at the boy for a long while before turning back to the grave, and Martin sitting on it yet again. "Avaunt! And quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes which thou dost glare with!"
"You have displaced the mourning, with most admired disorder," Arthur growled at him.
"Can such things be, and overcome us like a summer's cloud, without our special wonder? You make me strange even to the disposition that I owe, when now I think you can behold such sights, and keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, when mine is blanched with fear," Douglas questioned frantically.
"What sights, Douglas?" Herc huffed.
Douglas couldn't answer, the words dried on his tongue along with the whiskey. He looked up and they were gone. He was in a padded cell. Martin, dead and uncoordinated and still bloody jerking smirked at him and mocked, "Good night; and better health attend his majesty," Before dissipating.
Douglas felt something warm and sticky on his hands. He stared. They were red with blood. Martin's blood. He began to scrub them. "Out, damned spot! Out, I say! One: two: why, then, 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky! Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?!"
He kept rubbing until his hands stung and peeled.
The siren, still in polar bear pyjamas smiled an unnerving smile at him from the corner of the room. "Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill shall come against him," She drawled sarcastically.
She burst into unkind laughter as Douglas slipped into the black enigma of unconsciousness.
My words fly up,
My thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts
Never to heaven go.
...
So sorry. Please review!
