Five

It was just Martin's luck. Martin's luck never changed – he didn't know why he had expected that it would. No matter how hard he tried, he always fell at the last hurdle.

Martin knew all the answers. If fact, Martin knew things that the answers had never heard of in their wildest dreams…and he was proud of that. Lord knew he was proud of that…he had to be. Nobody else paid his achievements a lick of attention.

Not that failing one's CPL was an achievement. Not that spending all that money on flying lessons only to fail was an achievement. Passing the written exams was an achievement…it was. That's what Martin had to keep telling himself. The CPL he could retake…just one more time.

But he had passed the written exam.

So long as Martin kept telling himself that, he could hold back the crushing weight of failure and focus on the hot spike of frustration that flared in his chest and made him want to try again. Martin would try again – and again, and another time after that if that was what it took to become a pilot.

Simon had had to retake his A-Level in politics and nobody thought any less of him…he'd still got the job in the end.

The thought did nothing to raise Martin's mood from its dreary low. When Martin had been informed of his failure, he had been miserable. However, he had hoped that he would be able to go home and wallow in comfort, then wilt in front of his family so that they could simper over him. Just a bit of sympathy, perhaps some special attention to make up for his loss; that was all he wanted.

No such luck. There was never such luck for Martin Crieff – at this rate, there never would be.

Before Martin had even been able to call his parents and inform them of what a disappointment their son was, Mum had called him. Martin's phone had rung in his pocket, far too loud, as he was riding the bus home.

Mum had called to say that Dad had had a health scare…on the day of Martin's exam, of all days. While Martin had been failing his CPL, Dad had been taken to hospital, then taken home to rest. They had thought that something was wrong with his heart, but apparently it had been a false alarm.

In retrospect, Martin knew that his problem was far less serious compared to his father's health scare. Even so, when he had finished being relieved that his Dad wasn't dying, Martin couldn't help but feel that everyone should try and be a little bit upset for him.

After all…Dad hadn't failed an exam and potentially ruined his future…he'd only had chest pains.

Martin didn't say ant of that out loud, of course. Instead, he was perfectly polite while talking to his mother.

"You should go and get your father some flowers to make him feel better." Mum cooed down the phone, oblivious to her son's private suffering, "For his bedside – to make the room look nice when he's stuck in bed all alone."

"Dad won't want flowers for your bedroom." Martin whinged, but he wouldn't have admitted it to a soul, as he pouted and picked at his trousers, listening to the bus's engines rumble beneath him, "He's not even in hospital."

"Of course he'll want flowers. Everyone likes flowers." Mum insisted, then there was a clattering down the line and her voice travelled as if over a distance, "Here, Martin, I'll put Dad on the line."

Martin huffed and rolled his eyes, curling closer to the window so that the other passengers didn't have to listen to him.

"You alright son?" Dad's voice rang in Martin's ear, "How'd your exam go?"

"I failed the CPL, Dad." Martin grumbled, somewhat pleased that he had remembered when Mum hadn't, "I'm not getting my license."

"Oh well, these things happen. You can try again. " Dad sighed, but the disappointment in his tone was loud and clear, "Now – about these flowers."

"Why would you want flowers?" Martin retorted.

"Now, come on. What kind of man doesn't want a big bunch of flowers, maybe some daffodils, proper up on his bedside table?" Dad crooned, "When you get here, I expect a proper bouquet, son. I'm sick after all."

"Yes, fine. I'll get you some flowers." Martin muttered, avoiding the gaze of the old woman that had turned in the seat in front of him as a smile curled his lips and something inside him warmed, "Bye Dad."

With that Martin hung up and shoved his phone in his pocket. When the time came, he hopped off the bus and made his way to the nearest shop on the high-street that sold flowers. Dad was probably right…things happened, but he could try again.

As was Martin's luck, the first shop on the high-street didn't sell flowers. In fact, Martin had to walk around for an hour, pulling his coat shut against the high winds and biting chill. Finally, he gave up and wandered into the big multi-story shop that sold everything from cheese sandwiches to lamps.

Dad wanted flowers, but Martin wasn't about to spend horrendous amounts of money on posh flowers for a man that was lounging about at home being waited on hand and foot by his wife.

Or…Martin tried to wander into the big multi-story shop…he didn't quite make it inside.

The entrance to the shop was filled with a rotating door; the sort that Mum always complained about when she was trying to navigate them with armfuls of bags and three children. Martin had never really had a problem with them…what he did have a problem with was the crowd of twelve year olds that were loitering in the doorway.

Martin had held an apathy for twelve year olds since he had been twelve years old…and it seemed that it was mutual.

As he strode into the revolving door, head down, hands in his pockets, Martin managed not to stare or scowl at the twelve year old boys and girls. He placed his hand on the glass as the door jammed in its rotation, tripping over his own feet.

Martin heard sniggers from behind him.

That was when everything went wrong. The moment that Martin tried to step through the wide gap on the other side of the door, the door whipped around on its central mechanism and hit him in the back.

Martin stumbled forwards, only to stumble again when the door whirled around, jamming and jarring. He turned his head to see the twelve year olds, two in each of the three other segments of the door. Each of them had a vicious smirk on their face as their little legs steamed along beneath them and they pushed the door around and around…and around and around…

Martin didn't get a good look at them. He was too busy keeping his legs beneath his body and focusing on avoiding another collision with the doors either side of him. He yelled and shouted, but he kept going around and around…getting dizzier and dizzier…spinning and spinning…

His head went fuzzy, his ears rang, his vision blurred…Martin knew what was happening before the weightlessness kicked in…

When Martin woke up, it was to find himself flat on his back, neck aching, head spiked through with pain, to the sight of a security guard on one side and a woman holding a water bottle and a baby on his other, while his face dripped from an early wake-up call.

As he talked his way out of an ambulance, Martin found himself thinking that now he was the one that deserved the flowers.

Thank you for reading.