Notes: This fic is a fusion of Cabin Pressure with the TV show In The Flesh - it uses the universe of ITF but not the characters. No prior knowledge of ITF is really needed to read this, though. In The Flesh looks at what happens after a zombie apocalypse when a cure is found. No longer dead, zombies rejoin society as Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferers.
All character deaths are temporary, so any unhappiness felt by readers will be short-lived.
Lest you worry that Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer equals zombie... It doesn't, not really. For one, there's a cure! I recommend 'In The Flesh' for their original twist on the genre.
Presented with thanks to alcyone, madnina and alltoseek for their beta work, and to feikoi for the seed of the idea which kicked the story off!
Stuck in Arrivals
(With a Contested Return Ticket)
December 20th, 2009
"No, no, just a little bit more, come on…" In spite of Martin's pleading, the engine coughed and died. He used the last of the van's impetus to guide it to the side of the road. Groaning, he thumped his head on the wheel. Typical.
Martin was grateful to have the van - it was his last legacy from his father. Martin's heart ached whenever he looked in the rear view mirror and saw the racks that formerly housed the equipment for his dad's electrician work. It had been six months since his father's death and some days he missed him so badly, it was all he could do to concentrate on everyday activities. Martin knew if his father could see him now, he'd only cluck his tongue in sympathy and lend him some money. But it was disheartening that Martin could scarcely afford the petrol to keep his dad's beloved old girl on the road. He grimaced and pulled out his phone.
No reception. He waved it about, sighed in relief when a bar showed and began to punch in his mom's number. The bar disappeared. He groaned and held it up again to no avail. It was a sorry, cheap excuse for a phone that dropped calls and required complete motionlessness to connect at all, but it was all he was able to afford after being 'laid off' from his job piloting. Martin mentally heaped invective on the phone and his former company equally. Being laid off these days meant, "Fare thee well and here's a form reference letter for your CV. Sorry about cutting your probationary period short. Downsizing. You know how it is."
God. He'd tried so hard at that company, but his social awkwardness had made it difficult to get on with his co-workers. And now here he was - jobless and freezing in a dead van with the few belongings that were worth keeping in boxes in the back. His old room back home was waiting for him, but moving back in with his mother at his age? Pathetic. He turned the ignition key, hoping for at least a whiff of petrol vapour to carry him. The engine only made a sad grinding noise, trying to turn over. "Fuck!" He wrenched the keys out, zipped his coat up to his chin and got out.
He stood with one hand tucked in a pocket and the other freezing around his phone as he held it aloft, trying to catch reception. The thing taunted him with flickering bars that disappeared when he brought it down to the level needed for conversation instead of shouting at it from an arm's length. "Bugger, bugger!" Automobile lights appeared. He waved an arm, trying to flag the vehicle down but it blew by, leaving him shivering in an icy blast of air. He gritted his teeth and looked at his mobile again, only to find it had powered off. "No, no, no!" It wouldn't power up, apparently having decided the December chill was too much for its puny battery. He contemplated flinging it into a field for the satisfaction it would bring, wavered, and thrust it into a pocket, curling and uncurling his stiff fingers.
A lovely walk on a frigid winter's eve it was, then. If he walked towards central Wokingham, he might flag a car. It'd be an hour's walk to a payphone if no one stopped, though. Should he just head to his mom's house? Still an hour or so of walking, either way.
Home, then. He set a brisk pace, hoping the exertion would warm him. He began to jog when he saw headlights in the distance but slowed when the distant vehicle turned off down another road. He exhaled, the mist of disappointment fading quickly. Knowing his luck, he'd be walking the entire way home. His mother would be concerned and he didn't want to worry her. It had been six months since his dad's death, and her grief sometimes welled up into over-protective motherly fretfulness. He sighed, hunching his shoulders into his jacket.
A rustling in a hedgerow caught his attention. A cat? Poor thing, stuck outside on a night like this. "Miaow? Kitty, kitty," he called, grinning to himself at his own foolishness. There was a loud crack, as of a large branch breaking. Martin's steps slowed, stopped. He turned towards the noise, squinting into the dimness. Couldn't be a cat, that was too loud. "Hello?" A low grunt was his sole reply.
Dry vegetation crackled again. Martin swallowed. "H-hello? Is someone there? Don't - don't mess about." He took a step back as the hedge crackled, dry branches snapping away.
A figure pushed through and stepped into the road. The head lifted and it looked at Martin, face expressionless.
But the eyes. The eyes, they were…
What was wrong with its eyes?
..
.
Two months earlier
Gordon looked at the doctor with barely-concealed loathing. Not this again, the damned vulture.
"No. Carolyn already said she didn't want this. Are you an actual moron? His records show he was on a list to receive a liver, not give his away!"
"Mr Shappey, having hepatitis C doesn't preclude donating to others who have the same virus," the doctor said. "There are other organs -"
"I said no." His voice was over-loud in the quiet corridor. A passing orderly gave him a wary glance and Gordon lowered his voice. "You're not getting my consent, verbal or otherwise. And don't bother Carolyn with this again. Try anything underhanded afterwards, you'll have my lawyers on your hospital in a flash. You won't like them, Doctor. Some of them are actual flesh-eaters. My boy will leave the hospital with everything - everything he came in with."
Everything except the most important thing, he thought. Gordon thrust away the stab of pain at the reminder and growled, "Now that's sorted, let's get on with this." He ignored the thickening in his throat and opened the door.
The steady beep of the heart monitor stitched into the silence and warm lighting of the room. Carolyn didn't spare him a glance, eyes trained on the still figure in the bed. Arthur's lax fingers lay in hers.
"What now?" she asked.
"Nothing important. Doctor Fielding was only asking about organ donation." His glare at the doctor warned him not to open his mouth.
"He can't donate anyway. Not since the chimpanzee."
Gordon emitted the ghost of chuckle. "Right. Bad luck there."
"Only Arthur."
The fond words were belied by a bleak tone. Lucky wasn't how Gordon would describe Arthur's life. As frustrating as Gordon had found Arthur's cheery lack of mental acuity, he'd always had a spot in his heart that was only Arthur's. His first boy. Though Gordon didn't regret divorcing Carolyn, as acrimonious as their marriage had become, he was sorry for the damage done to Arthur. Gordon had gone on to a fresh marriage, and the guilt and relief of leaving his slow-witted son with Carolyn had made him even more impatient with the boy. The wariness in Arthur's eyes when they crossed paths had never left, even though he was now twenty-nine years old. Old enough not to need his old dad, one would think. The memory of how Gordon had rolled his eyes at Arthur's gift of holiday-themed Toblerone the last time they met had shame curling in his chest.
Arthur never stopped trying to make people happy - it was his very nature. Gordon knew he didn't deserve Arthur's attempts to please his him. He'd left Arthur behind in the divorce, comforting himself with the thought that at least Arthur had his mother. Now neither he nor Carolyn would have Arthur. Gordon still had his other family. He tried to smother the flicker of relief at the thought.
"Budge up, Caro, there's a girl," he said, pulling over a chair. She shifted, not relinquishing her grip on Arthur's hand. He put a hand on Arthur's thigh, feeling the warmth of it through the blanket. Poor Arthur. Broken bones and surgery and ICU for the coma and more surgery, then - more bad luck - an embolism during the last bout under the knife. Undetected, leading to a major stroke. Brain death. And that... was it. The cheerful presence that was Arthur Shappey no longer existed.
The hospital was still getting a lawsuit, like it or not, Gordon decided. He patted his son's leg uselessly. It was thinner - almost two months not moving would do that to a body. The scars from the auto accident had healed to red lines. He didn't look too bad, really, Gordon thought. Arthur could've still pulled those ridiculous Pony Club girls he was so susceptible to. They would've thought he looked dashing or something ridiculous. He shouldn't be here in this damned bed, more quiet and still than Gordon had ever seen him in his life.
All the would haves and could haves. It was such a damned waste.
Gordon cleared his throat. "Carolyn."
"I'm not ready," was her immediate response.
Neither am I, he thought. "I know. But... it's time. You've been hanging on for a miracle for a month now. You'll end up in hospital yourself at this rate. He… He's not here any more."
"I keep telling myself that," Carolyn said. Her gaze never left her son's pale profile. "But I look at him and he looks alive. He's warm. His heart is beating. So forgive me the reluctance at being told that I - we have to make the choice to make that stop. To let him…"
"To let him go."
Her hand gripped Arthur's harder, rubbing it between her fingers as if to reassure herself that he was still with them.
"We have to, love, it's not right," Gordon said. "He won't wake up, he'll be in hospital forever and one day he'll catch pneumonia or similar... "
"I don't know," she said and Gordon couldn't stand this, being racked any more over this terrible choice.
"Carolyn, please." The tone of his voice caught her and she looked at him, the terrible grief in her eyes softening in acknowledgement of his own. "Please. It's time," was all he could manage.
She looked away, head dropping in an abbreviated nod, the smallest assent she could make. Gordon nodded to the doctor. Carolyn moved up to the head of the bed and pressed a kiss to Arthur's pale cheek. "Arthur. You are the best thing that ever came into my life, my brightest joy. I hope you know that. I love you." She cupped his face, eyes memorising well-loved features, the arcs of dark lashes covering the brown eyes Gordon hadn't seen in weeks. She smoothed a stray lock of hair back from his face.
Gordon took Arthur's hand in both of his. "Arthur." His voice cracked and ground. "Son. Good bye. Your dad will miss you."
The nurse removed the mask and turned off the ventilator. Arthur's chest fell as his last breath left him. Carolyn's fingers never stopped carding through the wavy brown hair over Arthur's forehead as the heart monitor's rate slowed, stopped.
Gordon looked to the doctor, who gave a single nod. Gordon placed a hand on Carolyn's shoulder, feeling the cracked porcelain tension of it ready to shatter. But she didn't. That was the wonder of Carolyn, that strength. He'd butted up against it often enough in their marriage. Gordon only hoped it was enough to sustain her through the lonely years ahead of her. But for now he only clasped her shoulder as they looked at the still form of their son. Her only child.
"Arthur," Carolyn breathed.
Gordon squeezed his eyes shut at the world of loss in that name.
..
.
December, 2009
Dark. Dark. DARK. He raises hands and feels pressure against his hands, something above, to both sides, he can't straighten his arms. Hungry. Hungry. He pushes and the surface above groans and cracks. Something falls on his face and he sniffs the heady scent of earth. Dark. Get out. Out. His fingers scrabble, squeeze into the crack and wrench. Splintering sounds, more dirt and it's a womb, he must get out. Free. Hunger. Tearing, digging, thrusting dull limbs into soft earth, squeezing and kicking, sharp things poking into his hands that are dragged away as he forces them through a dark passage.
Out. Out. Open air, free at last. Dark. Dark! He fumbles at his eyes, nails catching at the closed lids, peeling them up and away from the things on his eyes. He pulls one plastic cap free, then the other. A bright flash of light, a loud noise and he flinches. Thunder. He drags himself away from the ragged gash in the earth, rain sheeting down, washing clots of dirt from his face, hair into his eyes. Around him others stand swaying in the lash of rain or free themselves from similar holes. He ignores them, lifts his head to wetness and sniffs. His jaw flexes. Something stretches in his mouth, then pops. The lips pull apart and he drags the thread free from his gums. His tongue sweeps over the small wounds, touches his lips. Hungry. The emptiness within forces him to his feet, stumbling away. Hunting.
So hungry.
..
.
June, 2012, Norfolk
"...but the first thing I remember clearly is how dark it was that night, and how my favourite shirt was grubby with dirt. My mom buried me in my Muppets shirt, wasn't that nice? And I was all, I don't know, hungry, but like not the hungry I had from before, when you really want some fish and chips? Wish I could have fish and chips now. Anyway, I tried to look for something to eat, but I was in this graveyard with a high fence 'round it. Dad paid for the cemetery, which Mom said after I called her yesterday was too posh and a 'disgusting display of caring after the fact' but I guess she's glad about it now. The fence kept me from getting out and people were keeping an eye on it because of the Rising. Because the next thing I remember was these people throwing a net over me and then putting a leash-thing around me, which, hey, wasn't very brilliant of them… Was kinda not-brilliant for me too. I mean, I know they had to do it, but ugh! I'm not a dog! But I guess I was kind of rabid? Maybe? So I understand, I guess… And I was loaded into a truck and taken to the Treatment Centre. I hung around for a while with a bunch of you, just groaning and stuff, not doing much at all and it's a bit boring when I think about it now. But then they came up with the treatment and I, I mean the real me, got to come back!"
Arthur beamed around at the support group. His fellow Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers and the one human therapist stared at him in bemusement. The therapist cleared her throat. "Well. We were actually meant to be talking about how you think your condition will affect you in your new life. But thank you for sharing, Arthur."
Liza, an older woman with hair almost as pale as her skin and eyes was smiling at him, but Peter was scowling. Peter was a bit scary, Arthur thought, with the tattoos standing stark against his white skin and the holes where piercings used to be in his lip and brows.
"So, what?" Peter said belligerently. "That was it? You just toddle out of your grave, get picked up, and that's all?"
"Yup!" Arthur said. "Oh, except maybe I tried to nibble on one guy's arm once but he gave me a bit of a shock with his stick and I stopped right there."
"Unbelievable," Peter muttered. "You ain't hardly lived, mate. You never even got to eat brai -"
"Peter," the therapist said.
"Well, none of us are living now, right? So eating doesn't really come into it," Arthur reasoned.
Jenny shifted on her plastic seat, uncomfortable. Arthur liked Jenny, even though she never talked. She couldn't. She had no lungs for breath. Organ donor. Arthur was sad for her and a bit glad he still had lungs. He always told her how brilliant it was that she was learning sign language. He wished he was clever enough to do more than return-sign greetings to her, but he did talk to her loads.
"Oh, come on!" Peter said. "Arthur's full of shite. Like, Pollyanna here comes back and it's like some fucked-up fairy tale where he never did nothing bad? Never hurt anyone, never killed? 'Cuz that's messed up, that. That's not what we are, we're zom-"
"Peter!" Liza hissed. Peter rolled his eyes.
"'Scuse me, Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers, and I dunno about the rest of you but I know what I done, and that was rip a hole in some bleeder and eat his brains. That's what we are," Peter said. "You're living in the wrong kind of fairy-tale, Arth, if you think anyone out there is gonna treat you like you ain't a monster."
"That's enough, Peter," the therapist said. "You're upsetting Jennifer."
Arthur reached over and took Jenny's hand. She wouldn't look up, her free hand plucking and twisting at the hospital scrubs but there was a return pressure on his hand. "Don't worry, Jenny, I don't think you're a monster," Arthur said. "I'd never."
"You should just own it," Peter muttered, but he ducked his head. "S'all I'm saying." Jenny flashed him a middle finger. Arthur giggled. The therapist cleared her throat.
"Now, Liza and Arthur will be returning to their families tomorrow, so I'm sure the rest of us all wish them well, right?" The group murmured congratulations. Jenny squeezed Arthur's hand again and she darted a look at him, mouthing, good luck.
You too, he mouthed back and she gave a small smile before ducking her head again.
"Right, then. Affirmations, everyone?" the therapist prompted. Arthur straightened and looked at his friends, his fellow sufferers, all them speaking in a ragged chorus with greater or lesser tones of belief.
"I am a Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferer. And what I did in my untreated state was not my fault."
..
.
The halfway house was plain and undecorated but Arthur thought it was brilliant. He was going to see his mum again! It had been ages, well, years, though he couldn't quite remember time passing when he'd been buried or not himself. Technically he was still twenty-nine because that's when he died, but what birthday should he celebrate? His thirty-second? His death-day? No, maybe not, Mum had sounded all wobbly when he'd called her to say he could come home. She wouldn't like to remember he died, even if he couldn't remember that bit.
Arthur looked at his face in the mirror. Pale skin, bluish veins, the lines of scars from glass from the auto accident. The eyes still surprised him. His old brown eyes had been - well - him for as long as he could remember. But these eyes weren't so bad, he decided. Like a husky. A creepy husky. But he couldn't meet Mum like this, the Centre said. Normal people wouldn't like it. He held his eyelid apart, popped in the contact and giggled at the odd-eye effect of one grey and one brown eye. Brilliant! The other contact went in with the ease of practice. With rising spirits, he uncapped the cream mousse and began to smooth warm flesh tones over his skin. Long, even strokes, just like he'd been taught, and the scars began to disappear.
When Arthur opened the door, he saw Carolyn was standing with her head up and jaw tight. Her eyes snapped to him and widened. He stepped towards her but stopped, crushing his plastic bag of belongings in his hand in a spasm of nerves. Would she think he was a monster, like Peter said? "Mum?" he quavered. "It's me. Arthur. Um. Hi?"
"Arthur," she breathed. "Arthur."
He didn't remember the final stumbling step forward but his mum was in his arms, squeezing him until he gasped. He hugged her back, swaying with the force of his relief and love. "Mum, Mum, I missed you, missed you so much…"
Her hand brushed through the hair on the back of his head, stilled at the coolness of the flesh beneath her fingers, then continued stroking. She pulled his head down and kissed his cheek without flinching and turned her face back against his shoulder.
"Mum? Can I celebrate three birthdays in one?" Arthur asked without thinking. Carolyn jerked a little in his arms. "Since I missed three," he finished lamely, berating himself for bringing the topic up. Of course his mum didn't want to think of missing birthdays, he'd been dead!
To his surprise, she snorted a wet laugh. "That's my darling boy. You can have all the birthdays you want now. Oh, Arthur."
Arthur felt the weight of her forehead against his shoulder but was a little sad he couldn't feel how warm she was. He missed warm hugs. She didn't seem to want to stop hugging him anyway and Arthur was glad. He had three years of hugs to catch up on. Also, he thought maybe Mum was crying but that was okay. He was so happy he could cry too, if he could only make tears. But he couldn't cry any more, so he just squeezed her tight.
It was brilliant to be going home.
..
.
September, 2012, Fitton
Douglas kept his face sober as he answered Carolyn's questions. Rebooting his long career as a pilot at some small charter firm wasn't ideal. Well, perhaps beggars couldn't afford to be choosers, he thought, eyes drifting around the shabby Portacabin. This Carolyn Knapp-Shappey didn't seem like any sort of professional, much less a CEO, judging from her matronly wear. Getting the position should be a piece of cake.
Carolyn tapped her finger on his CV. "And what were your reasons for choosing to leave Air England?" She tilted her head, a daft old bird enquiring for crumbs of gossip.
"For personal reasons. Involving my family." Douglas dropped his voice into sombre tones, implying something too serious for further inquiry if the other person had any tact. He lowered his eyes.
"Oh, I see," she said, all treacle and sympathy. "And that's why your licence lapsed?"
"Indeed," Douglas said, relieved she'd taken the bait. "My renewal application is under review as we speak." If the CAA would ever get back to him about it. Still, better to get the job now and cross his fingers about his licence. He still knew some people that might be able to help.
"Oh, well, that's good, saves me from filling out more paperwork," Carolyn said brightly. "So your leaving had nothing to do with a pending investigation for smuggling by your former employer?"
The sudden question made Douglas sit upright. He opened his mouth for a reply but she waved it away.
"Well, that's not important any more. I trust you learned your lesson, hm?" She tipped her reading glasses down and eyed him, leaving Douglas to squirm like a schoolboy before the headmistress. Good lord but he was off his game. It had been over twenty years since he'd done a job interview and they'd never gone like this one. He usually had it in the bag within a few minutes. This Carolyn - she was tricky.
"Yes, Mrs Knapp-Shappey," he said in his humblest tone, trying to placate her. His ego wouldn't allow him to screw up this interview. He sat forward, prepared to turn the tap of his charm on to full. "You can believe me when I say that these past few years have given me perspective and time to ponder my mistakes."
"Good answer," she said, and was that the twitch of a devilish smile? "Twenty years with a large firm like Air England - excellent work experience. Your reference letters are glowing. Not forged, I trust? No, no, I was joking," she said at Douglas' intake of breath. "Nevertheless, MJN may be a drastic change from what you are used to, Mr Richardson."
"I wouldn't have applied if I weren't interested in a change, Mrs Knapp-Shappey. But if I may… this is a charter firm, is it not? Flying aeroplanes differs only in degree, no matter the company."
"Delivering bananas from Brazil on a cargo plane is quite different from shuttling business men back and forth in jumbo jets but I take your point. How do you feel about PDS sufferers?"
"Pardon?" That had come out of the blue. He ought to have expected it, what with the state of affairs today.
"Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers. How would you feel, as a pilot, if you had one on your plane?"
"I…" He took a moment. "It would have no effect on my ability as a pilot, of course. My only concern would be for the usual reasons. Will he or she follows safety guidelines? Seatbelts, emergency exit scenarios, the usual. And of course, whether they posed a danger to either other passengers or myself as potential terrorists or…"
"Rabid brain eaters, yes," Carolyn finished for him. Douglas coughed.
"But since all PDS sufferers take daily doses of Neurotriptyline the way a diabetic must take insulin, I don't really see how having them as potential passengers is a problem." He essayed a smile. "Less trouble than normal people, I'd say, since they're not likely to drop dead during a flight."
She gazed at him long enough that the joke fell flat before smiling. "Well, it'll save on catering, it's true. It's good to hear you say they don't trouble you, as PDS sufferers are likely to make up a large percentage of our passengers."
Douglas' jaw loosened in disbelief as she began to explain her firm's business model. MJN Air, courtesy of government contracts, would fly civilian scientists and sensitive lab equipment that the military couldn't or wouldn't be bothered with. In addition, MJN would also fly chartered flights transporting PDS sufferers for treatment, as well as those being reunited with families either inside or outside the UK. "If there's time available, we'll take on the usual private charters. Wedding parties to Ipanema, football fans to World Cups. So." Carolyn folded her hands placidly and looked for his reaction. "Could you see yourself working in such an environment?"
It took a great deal to stun Douglas Richardson. Carolyn had managed it. He regarded her with new respect. "That's quite the business model. Risky as well as risqué. Who came up with this plan?"
"Oh, I came up with the idea. My ex-husband's financial advisors set up the rest. He's been kind enough to invest in my venture." Her smile was sharp. "I ran a charter business for several years before the Rising. That's his old jet -"
"Mum, the hoover bag's busted and there's dust all over the inside of G-ERTI! My contacts are all fogged up!" A tall young man blundered inside, knocking into a chair. He squinched his eyes at Douglas before blinking again in a rapid pattern, obviously in distress. "Oh, sorry, didn't know you were busy with someone."
Carolyn sighed and opened a desk drawer, passing over a bottle of solution. "Take them out and give them and your eyes a good rinse. No, not here - oh, for heaven's sake!" The young man had tilted his head back and squirted solution directly in his eyes, frantic to clear his vision. Carolyn started to rummage for a tissue but Douglas beat her, standing up to pass his handkerchief to the man. He took it and mopped his streaming eyes.
"Oh, that helps! Thanks." The stranger blinked and focussed on Douglas, grinning in relief. "Hi. I'm Arthur Shappey. Sorry to interrupt, Mr…?"
"Richardson. Douglas Richardson." Douglas couldn't help staring. "I'm sorry, but you seem to have, erm…" He tapped under his eye. "Your contact lens fell out." He forbore mentioning that the lad's cover-up mousse was now streaked from the solution, revealing tell-tale white skin beneath.
Arthur's brow puckered. "My contact? Oh. Oh no!" He looked into the handkerchief, aghast, then dropped to his knees. "Where, where? Oh, hurray, there it is!" He clambered to his feet, lens cupped in his palm.
"Arthur, my love," Carolyn said with a sigh that told Douglas how often this sort of thing happened. "Now that you've comprehensively interrupted, would you mind letting Mr Richardson have the rest of his interview?"
"Right! Right. Sorry, Mum. Mr Richardson. Sorry." Arthur ducked his head at them and shouldered his way out again.
Douglas settled himself in his seat again. Ah hah. So that was the reason Carolyn was starting up such a niche business. Her son wasn't likely to find employment easily with his condition. Hmm. This could be useful when it came to discussing his salary.
"Yes," he said. "In answer to your earlier question. I could see myself working for MJN."
"Grand! You're hired." Carolyn beamed and began to pull papers and pens from the desk.
"Just like that?" Douglas said, unable to believe what he'd heard.
Carolyn lifted a brow. "Yes, why? Oh, in case I hadn't mentioned it, the position is for First Officer. Probationary. And of course we need to sort out your licence as soon as possible. That won't be a problem, will it?"
"First officer? Surely you can do better than that. You'll have a twenty-year veteran, a senior captain flying your jet, with all that confidence that can inspire in clients." Douglas dug in his heels. This woman was not going to run roughshod over him, damn it. He had twenty years of experience!
Carolyn chuckled. "Mr Richardson. Douglas. You've got nerve, I'll give you that. It'll come in handy. But your CV, as excellent as it appears, is somewhat incomplete. In the golden years of my life I may be, but stupid I am not. You're dead."
Douglas clenched his jaw but said nothing. Carolyn tilted her head at him.
"Though I must compliment you on your make-up, it's very convincing, with all the shading and highlights in the proper places. It takes a woman to appreciate the nuances, you know. Nice work not shaking my hand when we met, by the by. It would have been a dead - ahem - give-away."
"I do try," Douglas said. He paused. "What are you going to do now?"
"Me?" Carolyn chuckled again. "About your little deception, which was never going to hold up once you had to explain why your licence hadn't been renewed? Nothing. But you are going to start on the tedious paperwork." She pushed the sheets over to him. "Fill out these forms for a Special Issuance of a Medical Certificate, and this one for a Statement of Demonstrated Ability. I assume you can fly? In which case, we'll get you back in the air in spite of your, erm, medical defect which is... " She traced a line on the form. "'Static and non-progressive in nature.'"
"That's an excellent tactic," Douglas admitted. "It's not like I'll die any more than I have already. But can we really finagle the CAA into giving back my licence?"
"The aforementioned ex-husband again. He has a legal team like a battering ram, influence of the unsavoury but untraceable type, and a certain sense of obligation concerning…" She waved her hand at the door Arthur had exited. "Well."
"I see." Douglas did. "Well, then. Let's get on with this, shall we? It's not likely a person like me will get another chance like this." The words were cheerful but he couldn't help the underlying bitterness in his tone. He picked up a pen and turned the form around. There was a silence. He glanced up and sat back at the full focus of her attention.
"Perhaps, Mr Richardson, you are thinking to yourself that I'm a soft-hearted woman who doesn't want her son to live and work in an environment of prejudice and hatred. I do want that - but I am not soft. And if you in any way hate yourself or him for what happened and what you've become, say so now and we will terminate this interview."
Douglas didn't answer her directly. "But really - First Officer?"
"Regulations. Mine, to be specific. It will be much easier to get MJN off the ground as a business if a living captain is in charge. You're capable, I know. But there are certain groups… well, bigots in government, may as well not mince words - that must be placated. I'm sorry." Carolyn did look vaguely apologetic. Amazing.
"No, you're not," Douglas said. It was true - unless he wanted to earn his keep doing scut work, he had few options as a PDS sufferer. If he took the job with MJN, at least he'd have a decent wage. He could put money by again, give his life structure and purpose. Living on his own meant that he had too much time to think. A job, even as a lowly first officer, would help.
At Carolyn's glare, Douglas reviewed what he'd just said. "I mean, no. You're not soft. Not at all." A real Iron Lady, to be honest. Yes, he'd been well off his game, misjudging her as he had. He held out his hand. She shook it with no sign of being bothered by the coolness of his grasp. "Mrs Knapp-Shappey, I'd be pleased to work as your first officer."