Chapter Summary: It's Birling Day! Arthur astonishes Douglas with the wisdom of innocents, and reveals something Carolyn will either love or roll her eyes over. Martin is mistaken for a dead man to his dismay, and Carolyn flexes her claws in Arthur's defence.

Story note: Head-canon for Arthur - his gay-dar is better than Douglas'.

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March, 2013, Fitton

"Is Mum still here?" Arthur poked his head in the portacabin, eyes darting around.

"No, she's gone to pick up Mr Birling. She'll call us when she's thirty minutes out from the airfield," Martin said. "Why? Did you need to ask her something about the catering?"

"Oh, no, catering for Mr Birling is dead easy. Roast beef sandwiches and this." Arthur shook a bottle at them. Douglas whistled and took it away.

"That's no way to treat a fine whiskey, Arthur. Twenty five year single malt Talisker? Mm. Was the nasty boy mean to you, darling?" he crooned to the bottle, brushing it off with his sleeve.

"You sound like you're in love," Martin commented from his position over fuel calculations.

"Not love, though I've had a few flings with Lady Liquor here," Douglas said. He sighed and set the bottle upright on the desk. "I'm getting nostalgic in my dotage."

"But Mum won't be back for a bit?" Arthur had to restrain himself from bouncing on his toes. "Can I show you chaps something? I've been wanting to show it off for a while."

"Show what off?" Martin asked.

"But you have to promise you won't tell Mum! She'll kill me. Okay, not kill kill me, but you know."

"I think I do," Douglas said. "Though I don't hold out much hope for your mother not finding out whatever it is on her own." He looked rueful a moment. "As I happen to know."

Arthur's face fell.

"We promise anyway, Arthur," Martin said, seeing his expression. "Don't we, Douglas?"

Douglas shrugged. "Certainly. Now, young Shappey, don't keep us in suspense. It's obvious you'll burst if you keep it to yourself much longer."

Arthur beamed at their interest. "You know Dirk? How he's got all those great tattoos? I've always kind of wanted one, but when I tried, you know, before, I sort of passed out when the guy first started. So I have this black spot like a freckle, but it was going to be a flying heart. Tattoos hurt! A lot! But I saw Dirk's and I thought, well, Arthur, it's not going to hurt if you do it now! And so I did!"

"You found a tattoo artist for, for PDSers?" Martin said.

"Sure! Dirk told me. He has lots from when he was alive, of course. But he had to get a touch-up over his appendix surgery scar. It was part of a huge snake that went all around him."

"I trust he didn't show you the tail end," Douglas said. Martin made a strangled noise.

"No, don't be silly, why would he? He likes girls," Arthur said. "I thought everyone knew that!" Gosh, Douglas was thick sometimes. Douglas opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Anyway, he told me where I could find a guy in Fitton who'd do it. I thought it'd be cool to get one over some of my scars, too. Look!"

He pulled up his vest and shirt to his lower ribs, turning to show them the side of his belly. "What do you think?"

"It's certainly… different," Douglas said. "Why didn't you get the winged heart?"

"I was going to! A heart with 'MJN' on it would be cool. But then I thought that might be silly and maybe I should put 'Mum" on it, because she's my mum. But next I got worried that she might not like that if she found it, so I got something we both love. So… if she does find out like you said, Douglas, she might not be too bothered. Do you like it, Martin?"

Martin had gone all weird like he sometimes did, where his freckles seemed extra dark. He swallowed and dragged his gaze up to Arthur's. "It's… it's really well done," he said.

Douglas looked between Martin and Arthur. "Yes, the artist was very skillful. Your dog? Why don't you cover up and show Martin a picture of the real thing?" Arthur looked down at the tattoo and his translucent white skin marked with traceries of veins and the ridges of scars from the accident.

"Oh, right! Right. Sorry, Skip, I know some people are funny about scars and stuff." Arthur dropped his shirt and dug out his phone. "It's Snoopadoop, our cockapoo. See? This is the photo I showed the artist." A smiling brown dog panted out of the picture and Martin managed a smile.

"Snoopadoop?"

"I named her. She's really sweet." Arthur swiped to another photo of Snoopadoop on her back, waiting for tummy rubs. "I know she was a good girl and kept Mum company when - well, when I wasn't around. So? Do you think Mum might like my tattoo after all?"

"I honestly can't…" Martin paused. "You know, I think she might."

"Brilliant! I'm glad. You know, Dirk didn't think I should get it."

"Oh, Dirk said that, did he? Why?" Douglas raised a brow.

Arthur tucked his phone away. "Oh, er. It's this Undead Liberation Army thing? I'd heard about it from a few PDS friends, they really seem to be into it. Dirk thinks I could be like a poster child for them, 'cuz I've got a good job and go lots of places. And what with how MJN helps PDSers."

"He says that, does he?" Douglas was grim.

"Undead… Liberation Army?" Martin asked. He swallowed. "That… that doesn't sound very friendly. A bit… confrontational. 'Association' would be a better word than 'Army'."

"Yeah, you're right, Skip! Or maybe 'Club'. Though that makes it sound more like a football team. Hey, that'd be brilliant! ULC!" Arthur shook his head and dragged his mind back to the topic at hand. "But no, Dirk thought getting tattoos to cover up my scars was like hiding what I was? Which was a bit stupid, I told him. Normal people get tattoos on scars all the time and there's no problem with that, so why should it be different just 'cuz I'm not living?"

"You told Dirk he was stupid?" Martin said. His mouth was hanging open. Douglas was smirking. Arthur smiled back.

"No, that would be rude. I said his idea was stupid, that's not the same thing. You can change ideas, right? Though I guess you can also change yourself if you're being a bit stupid. I did say that it was my body and my choice, which kind of shut him up. He's got loads of tattoos. If tattoos are going to change what people think of you for the worse, then why'd he get all his?"

"Great wisdom from one so young," Douglas said. "Arthur Shappey, I'd no idea you were so deep."

"Thanks, Douglas!" Douglas was really clever, so it pleased Arthur to hear the compliment.

"But, but what about this Undead Army thing?" Martin wanted to know. "What's that all about?"

Douglas snorted but Arthur answered. "Oh, I don't know. I went to the website, and there's this creepy guy in a skull mask who calls himself The Undead Prophet? And it's all about fighting back against our living oppressors and going around not wearing makeup and how being undead is even better than being alive?"

Martin blinked rapidly. Douglas pursed his lips. "What did you think of it, Arthur?"

"Oh, I didn't like it," Arthur said.

"Really?" Douglas lifted a brow. "Tell us why. I'm interested in your opinion. Martin is, too. Aren't you, Martin?" He kicked Martin's ankle and Martin jumped.

"Oh! Yes. P- please go on."

Wow, they wanted his opinion? Brilliant. Arthur thought a moment before speaking slowly. "Okay. So... I read some of the stuff and watched a few videos. And… well, I wondered - why does the Undead Prophet wear a mask?"

"He… he's probably worried about being recognised and the police watching him," Martin said.

"Well, yeah, sure, I get that, and maybe it's all, like, supposed to be mysterious and cool? Like Batman! And if he wears a mask, it could be anybody. It could be Douglas! Or me! So maybe people like that, imagining they're leading this army thing. But… it doesn't make sense to me," Arthur said.

Douglas hm'ed. "No?"

"No!" Arthur said. "If, like, the ULA is all about being yourself and showing the world what you are, why does the Prophet wear a mask? Okay, like Martin said, maybe he's afraid of the police. But if he's a PDSer and telling us to be proud and not wear makeup, why is he hiding himself? It doesn't make sense. And it's kind of hard to trust a guy in a skull mask with a creepy voice, don't you think?"

Martin nodded. Douglas tilted his head. "Yes, it is a bit hypocritical. Good job spotting that dichotomy, Arthur."

Arthur didn't really understand what 'dichotomy' meant but it was apparent that Douglas was praising him. He puffed up a bit with pride. "And… and it's all just wrong. Okay, I can see some of their points, especially in the older posts. How PDSers need to help each other, since people aren't very fair to them because of… because of what some of us did. Or are. It's not like we can help that we came back! And MJN is helping, so I'm helping too, like the website says. But - some of the newer articles and videos, it's all just how we are the Redeemed and immortal and better. And that's just very… very not okay." Arthur drew in a deep breath. "If being better because I'm a PDSer means I'm better than Mum? Or Martin? I don't think that's right. I'm not better than living people. Or worse! I'm… I'm just people."

Douglas gave him a slow clap. "Well spoken, Arthur. Don't you agree, Martin?"

Martin's mouth was hanging open a little. He blinked. "Oh. Yes. Yes. You… that's a good point, Arthur. I… you've given me something to think about." Martin's brow was furrowed a little, but not in a bad way, Arthur thought. He grinned at Martin and shrugged.

"Dirk said I'm an idiot. But maybe he needs to think he's better than other people. I don't think he's very happy," he said. "I wouldn't be very happy if I had to wear that head brace. But just think of the brilliant dancing he could do!"

"What?" Douglas asked, thoroughly diverted. "What kind of dance do you see our Dirk doing?"

"The robot dance, of course! It'd be perfect!" Arthur demonstrated, moving his hands and torso in stiff movements, making whirring noises. Martin burst out laughing.

"Please," Douglas begged. "Please tell me you asked him to dance for you, Arthur. I'll die again happy if you did."

Arthur puffed out his cheeks and tucked his hands behind his back. "Well…" Douglas started chuckling and Martin pressed hands over his mouth, gurgling. "He looked really, really surprised. Then he said something about, 'First Freddie Mercury and now this,' and told me to go away. He was kind of gripping a big spanner when he said it and it was a little scary. So I did."

"Oh my god," Martin said. He hiccuped and caught his breath. "He must think we're all idiots in MJN."

"I'm fine with that," Douglas said. "So long as he lays off about that ULA rubbish around us."

"It wasn't all rubbish!" Arthur protested. "I quite liked the message boards. People sharing stories about their old lives, giving advice. Some of it was a bit sad, but I think it helps them to tell other people. Was going to create a username and chime in, but then Mum came home and I shut off the computer really quickly.

"You said that before, Arthur," Martin said, hesitant. "About how... how it's like a secret handshake, telling your stories."

"Well, I don't mean it's like a secret club or anything, really, Skip." Arthur said. "I'd be happy to tell anything you want to know. Except my dying! I can't remember that bit."

Douglas snorted. "Why would you?"

"Because most people... I mean PDSers! They remember what they were doing before they went, right? The last thing I remember was singing along to the radio in my friend Kate's car. We were going to Bertie's birthday party. It was August 27th." He heaved a doleful sigh. "At least Kate wasn't hurt. Saw her last week for a coffee date. Well, she had coffee. I just dumped sugar in mine and stirred it. It was weird. She cried all over, but I told her it wasn't her fault - the other car went through the light after all. And it's not like I was gone forever - I'm back now!"

"Okay," Martin said. "So, you had a car accident. W- what's the mystery in that?"

"His scars," Douglas supplied. "Healed, not just sutured or stapled together." Martin's mouth formed an O of realisation. Douglas tilted his head at Arthur. "You don't know what day you died? Looks like you had maybe six weeks of healing, from what I can tell."

"I know! You could check your headstone," Martin said. His face fell. "Oh, wait. No... a lot of the cemeteries are still under quarantine. Sorry."

Arthur shrugged, "Mum probably knows but I don't want to ask. Guess the accident was pretty bad if I died anyway after all that time like you said."

Douglas looked as if he were having an unpleasant thought but shook his head. "But as you say - you're back now."

"I, I guess it's lucky in, in... in a way," Martin said. "I, I mean! Um. A lot of ... PDSers were, were... killed."

"I guess being buried in obscurity in the countryside has its perks," Douglas said.

"I wasn't!" Arthur said. "I was buried in London!" He grinned at Martin's wide-eyed look. "Was in a walled cemetery, had nowhere to go, so I was picked up."

"Picked up?" Douglas was frowning at him. "You must be joking! Most of the ones that rose in London were picked off by the Army in the first few weeks."

"Oh, I didn't come back right away," Arthur said.

"Really? But I thought -" Martin stopped as if unsure of how to finish the sentence.

"That all the Partially Deceased rose in December," Douglas finished. "You didn't, I take it."

"Nah," Arthur said. "The Centre said I was a special case. Crawled out in January sometime. Which was lucky, right? Because they were starting to capture PDSers by then instead of just, well, you know." He shrugged.

"You rose a month later?" Martin stared at him.

Douglas was grinning. "That shouldn't be a shock to you, Martin. You do know Arthur's always been a little slow."

"Yeah!" Arthur grinned back. "You should have seen Mum trying to get me out of bed for school when I was young! I guess being underground must have been like that, all dark and snuggly. Who wants to get out of a comfy bed, especially in winter?"

"I understand completely," Douglas said. Martin was biting his lower lip, eyes crinkled up and shiny. Arthur was glad Martin liked his story. But he did want to know something.

"Anyway, I can't tell you exactly how I died, except it was probably from the accident. How about you, Douglas?"

Martin sat up. "Y-yes, Douglas. I… I'm, er-"

"Morbidly curious?" Douglas supplied. "Shall we make a bet of it? If you and Arthur can guess the nature of my death within ten questions, I'll give not only full disclosure, but also procure the phone number of that dark-eyed stewardess that was eyeing you up in Brussels."

"Ooh! That sounds like fun," Arthur said. "Did you die in a fire?"

"In a fire? Does it look like he died in a fire?" Martin exclaimed.

Arthur regarded Douglas sheepishly. "Yeah, you're right. He doesn't look toasty enough."

"And proud to be so, though I've been told my heart is warm enough." Douglas grinned at Martin. Martin ignored him and wrinkled his nose at Arthur.

"You've wasted a question, Arthur! Anyway, I'm not sure I want to play," Martin said. "She, she wouldn't be interested because, because…"

"You're not her type, and she's not yours?" Arthur supplied. Martin went red. Oops. Maybe he shouldn't have said that, if the gleam in Douglas' eye was anything to go by, but really! Douglas couldn't tell? Thankfully, Douglas didn't delve into Martin's 'type' any further.

"What, not interested in an airline captain with pre-mortem rigor mortis? That captain's hat is wasted on you."

Martin's flush faded slightly. "Yes, well… I mean, no, why do you have to be so, so…"

"Me-ish?" Douglas said. "Because I can."

"I don't want her number, regardless! I'm not a charity case. But, but, if we guess correctly, then… then you have to call me 'sir' in front of everybody," Martin said.

"Doesn't he do that already?" Arthur asked.

"With proper respect!" Martin said. "Not his usual sarcasm. And, and, he can call you Mr Shappey in the same spirit."

"Oh, I dunno," Arthur said. "Sounds like he'd be talking to my dad, I wouldn't even know it was me! I don't need a prize, really. I just wanted to know. That's enough for me."

"Fair enough," Douglas said. "And if you lose, I get the cheese tray."

Martin exploded. "You can't even eat it!"

"No," Douglas agreed. "But I would get the pleasure of watching your face scrunch up with frustration."

"What would you even do with it?" Martin wanted to know.

Douglas tapped his lips. "Mm. Make a cheese sandwich and use it in a swap to eventually trade my way up to a Lexus? Use the Brie to spackle nail holes in my flat? It doesn't matter, really, so long as I have it and you don't."

"Douglas! You are such a child!"

Douglas smiled at Martin's indignation. "And there's the expression I so enjoy. Well? How about it?"

Martin sniffed. "Fine. Was it health-related, like Dirk's appendicitis?"

Douglas shook his head. "Arthur?"

Arthur thought. "Did you… did you meet a midget on a train who gave you free tickets to the circus, and when you went there, you were enjoying the clowns and elephants but then -"

"Arthur, it's not likely he was crushed by a maddened elephant!" Martin said. "Are you sure this is a line of reasoning you want to continue?"

"I'm counting 'death by elephant' as a guess, by the way," Douglas said. "Though it would have been spectacular."

"Hey! That wasn't even framed as a question!"

"I wasn't done!" Arthur protested. "And, and when the lady in the spangled leotard did a somersault from the elephant's head, did you inhale a peanut and choke to death?"

Douglas' eyes crinkled but he shook his head solemnly. "No, Arthur, I didn't choke on a peanut."

"Oh." Arthur deflated. "I almost did once. It was a pretty amazing flip, though."

"Oh, my god," Martin said. "We'll never find out if you keep asking the questions. Not health-related, not choking, not circus elephant. Was it an accident?"

"Hm. Closer," Douglas allowed.

"Oh, I know!" Over Martin's groan Arthur plowed on. "Were you in the shower singing away and you didn't notice the bar of soap on the floor and when you turned to rinse your hair, you stepped on it and slipped and bashed your head on the bath?"

Douglas raised his brows. "That's a pretty specific question. Another near-death experience culled from your own life, I presume? No, Arthur, I didn't -" The phone on Carolyn's desk rang. He snapped it up. "MJN, how may I - yes? Yes, everything's tickety-boo on our end. Martin filed the plans an hour ago. Right then." He disconnected. "Looks like the battle for the cheese tray must be continued at a later date - Mr Birling will be upon us shortly. Time to get the old girl warmed up. Martin?"

"Yes, fine," Martin sighed. "Not like we were going to win your respect anyway. You take the checklist, I'll do the walk around?"

"As Sir commands."

"One of these days you'll say 'sir' properly," Martin griped.

"I'm sure we'll all await that day with breathless anticipation," Douglas said. "Or Arthur and I will, at least."

Arthur giggled at Martin's expression. "Don't worry, Skip, we have to breathe. How else would we talk?"

"I'm beginning to think I can live without Douglas talking, then," Martin muttered. Douglas chuckled and followed him out the door.

..

.

Cardiff

"Arthur! My dear boy! So good to see you again, and dare I say welcome back to the land of the living? Or at the very least, congratulations on having waded part-way back through the river Styx!" Mr Birling boomed.

Mr Birling was… well, Martin didn't know what he'd expected, really. A wealthy man, obviously, if he could afford to hire a charter to take just himself to the Six Nations Rugby Final. Elderly, lean and with intimidatingly bushy eyebrows, Mr Birling was all energy and aggressively posh accent.

"Hello, Mr Birling!" Arthur said. "It's good to see you too! However did you get to the Finals the past three years?"

Mr Birling shook his head. "Oh, dark times, dark times without your dear mother and MJN shepherding me about, best not to dwell, hm? And who are these new faces?"

Carolyn indicated Douglas and himself with a gesture. "My new pilots. First Officer Douglas Richardson and Captain Martin Crieff."

Douglas made no move other than to civilly nod. Martin eyed him and decided to fill in the breach of etiquette. He stepped forward, hand out. "It's our pleasure to serve you today, Mr Birling."

"Quite sure it is, young chap," Mr Birling said, making no move to shake Martin's hand.

Puzzled, Martin dropped his hand and looked at Carolyn. Her smile was fixed and professional.

"Aren't you going to shake Skip's hand?" Arthur wanted to know.

"Press the flesh? With him?" Mr Birling said. He flashed a brief smile. "No, my dear lad, I'm really, really not! Bound to be clammy, eh?"

Martin flushed. "I'm - I'm not dead!"

The only surprise Mr Birling showed was limited to a single blink. He looked down his nose at Martin. "That's what I mean, my boy, sweaty palms not the thing at all," he blustered. "Icky. Death brags not that you wander in his shade, it's obvious. It's you then, Richardson?" He looked between Douglas and Martin. "Must say, what a pity."

"It's a pity I'm not dead?" Martin said in blank astonishment. Douglas coughed.

"I'm sure Mr Birling only meant that it's clearly a tragedy that both Arthur and I were struck down in the prime of our lives."

"No, didn't mean that at all, but well done you," Mr Birling said. "Wish it had been my wife's fate, but she's too awful to have done the decent thing and too enormous for even a swarm of zombies to finish. Ha! Not that they didn't try. Cool hand with a hunting rifle, Elizabeth." He ignored the varied reactions to his callousness and clapped his hands. "Shall we get on? Flight and rugby finals wait for no man, be he living or not!"

"Of course. I'll show you to your seat and leave you in Arthur's capable hands," Carolyn said.

"Lead on, good lady!" Mr Birling said. "Are you quite sure you won't join our merry little band? It's been years since I've had the pleasure of your service. Not that I think your boy's not capable, I'm sure dying couldn't have made him any slower."

Martin watched as Carolyn's expression shifted to one of mild thought, her gaze moving from Arthur to their client. "You know, you are quite right, Mr Birling. I think it will be a nice change from the usual boy's club atmosphere. Arthur, don't forget the whisky tumblers and that extra bottle in the fridge." She led Mr Birling up the steps into G-ERTI.

A moment passed. Finally Martin burst out, "What a horrible old man!"

"What, because he thought you were one of us?" Douglas said.

"No - well, yes, that wasn't great but he wouldn't even shake hands when he knew I wasn't!" Martin was furious. "He does know you can't catch deadness by association, doesn't he? That's - that's just stupid!" He scarcely noticed Douglas' face relaxing. "Why does your mother put up with him, Arthur?"

Arthur toed the ground. "Well. He was a client for years before, and he does give big tips. So, there's that. He's not so bad, really."

"He as good as called you stupid to your face! And gloated over killing Partially Deceased p-people! Yes, he is that bad, actually!"

"Calm down, Martin," Douglas said. "The flight to Cardiff and back is scarcely a half hour each way. You won't be in much contact with him."

"Well, I pity Arthur, then. I'd never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad Carolyn's going to be along," Martin said. "Sorry, Arthur, but your mum's terrifying sometimes."

"I know!" Arthur beamed at him. "Isn't she brilliant?" His face fell. "But what did she mean about another bottle? The good tumblers are already on G-ERTI, along with the Talisker."

"I think she meant the bottle of apple juice," Douglas said slowly. "Mr Birling doesn't seem the type to share the good stuff in the unlikely event he asks her to have a drink with him."

"Ugh, no," Martin agreed. He sighed. "Well, let's do this. Douglas?"

"You and Arthur go on ahead," Douglas said. "I'll just nip back and get the juice for Carolyn."

"Really? Thanks, Douglas!" Arthur said. Martin frowned at his first officer's unperturbed face but followed Arthur into the plane.

The flight went as well as might have been expected from its inauspicious start. Mr Birling was dreadful. He loudly protested when Carolyn refused on the grounds of the new regulations to let him into the 'deadpit'. He rang the service bell incessantly but wanted just Carolyn to serve him drinks, suffering Arthur only to take away his empty glasses. While the rugby final went off, Martin and Douglas reluctantly participated in a game of Charades with Arthur to pass the time and to bolster his flagging spirits. Mr Birling was red-faced and even louder on the return voyage and Arthur soon joined the pilots in the flight deck.

"Can I get you some coffee, Skip," Arthur said in a low tone.

"What is it, Arthur?" Martin said.

"Oh, nothing, just I'm dead and never going to have a proper girlfriend again, according to Mr B," Arthur said.

"What?" Martin exclaimed. "No, he couldn't have said that. That's just - just -" Arthur's sigh was all the confirmation he needed, not that Martin should have doubted the type of insults Mr Birling was capable of leveling.

Douglas was annoyed. "He said that, did he? What twaddle. You're good company for any young lady, and without going into salacious detail, there are many ways to make one happy. I should know, with my extensive relationship history."

Martin could feel the flush climbing his neck. To distract himself, he asked, "What did he say, exactly?"

"Oh, I can't remember it all. Don't want to, really. Lots of terrible jokes. He wanted to know if I was seeing anyone, and made some crack about how hard it could be to find a ghoul-friend." Arthur pulled down the jump-seat and slumped. "People always make fun of me for not being that clever and it's all right. I know I'm not, so I can laugh about it mostly. But I don't think I like being the butt of jokes about zom… PDSers. Anyway, Mum called a Code Red and I came up here. You chaps don't mind if I stay until we land, do you?"

Stay? In the tiny flight deck with him and Douglas? Martin scotched the protest that leapt to his tongue about regulations. "N-no. It… it's fine with me. Douglas?" He drew in a deep breath and loosened his tight grip on the yoke.

Douglas lifted a brow at him and Martin looked away from his questioning gaze. "You're welcome to stay," Douglas agreed. "As the captain says."

..

.

Fitton

Carolyn watched as a swaying Mr Birling brushed off Arthur's attempts to prop him up by the limo his wife had sent, her lips set in a tight smile. Douglas and Martin stood behind her, beyond making any polite farewells.

"No, no need for your help, don't need that atrocious girly makeup on my clothes," Mr Birling said. "Now, then." He fumbled for his wallet and withdrew some bills. "The toadying and truckling were of an acceptable level, and of course Wales won. So - here." He thrust the wad at Carolyn, who stepped forward.

"Your business was appreciated, Mr Birling." She wrapped one hand around a sinewy wrist, smiling, and with the other folded Mr Birling's fingers back over the bills. "It was."

"Eh?" He peered at her. "What do you mean?"

She chuckled. They were standing close enough that she could smell his alcohol-scented breath, still clutching his hand as if it were the most fond of farewells.

"What's this?" Mr Birling's brows lifted, the beginning of a smirk curling his thin lips.

"Mr Birling. Lewis. You won't mind if I call you Lewis? I do think, after today, you're an acquaintance and not merely a client." From the corner of her eye she saw Arthur edging away. Good boy, he was bright enough to know which way the wind blew. "An acquaintance who has been tolerated in the past due to the continued and valuable business he provided."

Mr Birling straightened. "Eh? Yes, that's right. I patronise your little company every year because you carry the whiskey I like." He tried to pull his hand away but Carolyn only clutched tighter.

"Yes," she cooed. "So kind of you to fly with us. I cannot even begin to express my gratitude. A trip a year with a frankly horrible septuagenarian Welsh drunk who can find nothing better to do with his position and money than insult my crew. I appreciated it at the time. That, and the absurd tips which almost made up for the penance of having you aboard."

She gently pushed his money into his chest and stepped away, wiping her hands on her skirt. "Keep your money, Lewis. I hope you enjoyed your last flight with MJN."

Mr Birling's mouth opened and closed, face growing even redder. "Well. Well! I don't need to fly with your ridiculous company, crewed by a lot of Rotters and imbeciles. Since you seem more interested in losing my business -"

"That's just it." Carolyn beamed at him. "I don't need you. I have other contracts that will just about cover the loss of one measly trip every year to the Six Nations finals. I finally find myself in the position of having - what's it called?"

"Sod-off money?" Douglas suggested.

"Yes, that sounds about right. So, Lewis, you see? I don't need to put up with anyone who is an unmitigated bigot - particularly to my son - on top of your other less-than-sterling qualities. So." She flashed him a lady-like V-sign. "Sod off."

"I'll tell my friends," Mr Birling blustered.

"What friends?" she heard Martin mutter and Douglas shushed him.

Carolyn chuckled. "Do as you like. I won't change my mind."

Mr Birling stared at her, blinking reddened eyes. "You remind me of my wife." He snorted, and to her horror, looked her up and down, an admiring glint in his eye. "Well done, madam. Well done." He winked.

"Go. Go away fast and go away now," Carolyn ordered. She turned smartly on her heel and marched off, listening as Mr Birling began to berate the limousine driver. The engine started, and he was gone. At last she allowed her shoulders to relax. Douglas ranged himself beside her as they went to the portacabin. She pretended not to hear his appreciative, "Well done indeed, Carolyn."

Inside, they all collapsed into chairs and looked at each other. Predictably, it was Arthur that broke the silence first. "Mum?"

"Yes, dear heart?"

"That - was - brilliant!" Unable to contain himself, he launched himself at her for a hug.

"Yes, I know, don't crush me, love," she said but ran a fond hand over his hair as he released her.

"Just - wow! That was -"

"I know," Martin agreed.

"And the way he looked, and what you said - just… brilliant, Mum, I love you!" Arthur couldn't stop beaming. "And ugh! Does he fancy you now? You were horrible to him!"

"Some people like that kind of thing," Douglas said and lifted his hands in surrender at the look Carolyn shot him.

Martin's lips were twitching. "I thought I'd die when he winked." He stifled a giggle. "Sorry, sorry!"

"Yes, laugh away," Carolyn said. "We're well shut of him. And the flight was already paid for, so no worries on that end."

"That was the worst customer I've ever seen," Douglas said. "But at least we have more than monetary recompense to soothe us." He lifted his flight bag on the table and drew out a bottle.

"The Talisker? Douglas, tell me you didn't steal it!" Martin said.

"Oh, good, you brought it in," Carolyn said. She lifted it. "Still three-quarters of a bottle. Drink, Martin? On the house, just this once."

Douglas shook his head at Martin's open-mouthed expression. "Have one, Martin. You don't get to drink hundred pound whiskey every day."

"But how is there so much left?" Martin asked. "He was slobbering drunk! On, what? A glass and a bit? I'd better not, if it's that strong."

"I'll drive you and Mum home, Skip," Arthur said, fetching glasses.

"Oh, it's easy to get drunk on Talisker, on top of whatever he must had consumed at the match," Douglas said. "If you fortify the first few glasses with vodka minis and then swap out the good stuff for McHamish Tartan Terror. Isn't that right, Carolyn?"

"Well, Douglas fortunately took my hint about the 'juice'," Carolyn said. She nodded regally at Douglas. "Your assistance in my little subterfuge is appreciated."

"Dare I hope your gratitude will take a remunerative form?" he asked.

"Certainly. Equal to the value of the amount Martin here puts away," Carolyn said grandly. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling as Douglas poured a protesting Martin a full glass. She accepted her own and lifted it. Martin lifted his brimming glass with care, as Douglas and Arthur did the same with empty ones. "Gentlemen. To MJN."

"To Mum! And telling Mr Birling to sod off! Oh, and -"

"To MJN, long may it prosper," Douglas cut across Arthur's babble.

Martin sipped, brows rising. "This… it's quite good, isn't it? I usually don't like whiskey."

"Oh, how I wish I could taste it," Douglas said. "Drink up for my sake, Martin."

"You mean, for your bonus!" There was a ringtone, and Martin set down his glass, pulling out his phone. He frowned at it. "My mother. Sorry, I've got to take this." Carolyn nodded and set Arthur to fetching pretzels while she retrieved a plate of cheese from the fridge. When she turned back, Martin was staring at his phone, freckles standing out like brown ink spots on his cheeks.

"Carolyn…" His voice broke. He swallowed and continued in a hoarse croak. "I, I need to book a day or two off next week."

"Skip, what is it?" Arthur asked. Douglas' face had lost all expression.

"I… oh, god. It - it's my dad." Martin raised agonised eyes. "They - they found my dad."