Chapter 12 Elis
Elis
This is it, then: they’re going to New Zealand.
Seat belts are fastened, the cabin has been secured and there’s no going back now.
Elis has lucked out with a window seat, with Miles to his right and Reubyn next to the aisle.
George sits in the row in front, next to an older couple, and Polly is out of sight – for reasons unknown to the rest of them she’s sitting in a different part of the plane.
Elis is all ready for long-haul travel, having changed into a pair of shorts and a loose-fitting T-shirt.
The plane has taxied into position, and he feels his shoulders being pulled back into the seat as it accelerates towards take-off.
The streets and buildings and fields around Heathrow drop away, becoming smaller until the ground below is a toy landscape of matchbox houses and trees of painted sponge, and for a second the view becomes misty and then it’s all gone: Britain is lost below the clouds, and it’ll be more than two weeks before he sees it again.
He slaps Miles on the thigh. ‘We’re out of here. How does it feel?’
Miles glances nervously around the cabin. ‘It feels . . . I’ll be happier when we get on to the next flight, I think.’
‘Just try to relax.’
He doesn’t look relaxed, and Elis knows why; he noticed it too, when they were boarding – the way some of the other passengers recognised Miles, their double-takes and lingering looks, the surreptitious nudges and finger pointing.
It’s enough to make anyone uneasy. But it’ll be over soon.
Once they transfer on to the next flight, and the one after that, those gawpers will have been weeded out and removed, replaced with people who hail from lands thousands of miles from theirs and who have no interest in the tawdry tabloid tales of the UK.
In a couple of days, no one will recognise Miles.
He’ll be anonymous. And free. Elis can’t help but feel a smidge of pride for the part he played in that redemption.
Who knows what would have happened if he hadn’t been there in court to testify in Miles’s defence?
If it weren’t for Elis, if it weren’t for Chinatown, Miles might be starting a life sentence right now.
But instead, here they are cruising at 30,000 feet with the world and all its endless opportunities spread out underneath them.
Elis claps his hands together and looks along the row. ‘Right, then. We should get some drinks in. What are we having first?’
George peers through the gap between two headrests. ‘Cognac is pretty good with morning coffee, I find.’
‘Gross,’ Elis says, wrinkling his nose.
Miles studies the in-flight menu. ‘They do a Singapore Sling.’
‘What’s that?’ Elis asks.
‘It’s a gin cocktail,’ George says, through the gap. His head is tilted forward so he’s literally looking down his nose at Elis. ‘It’s fruity, you’d probably like it. Although I doubt they make it fresh in economy class.’
‘Sounds a bit pricey,’ Reubyn says.
‘All the drinks are included.’
‘Oh, bloody hell. No one told me that. Sling me one of those, then.’
The drinks arrive, pink-hued in small plastic cups, and they disappear in a few swallows.
Next, they have some lukewarm beers. George has given up craning his head to stay in the conversation and is quiet in the seat in front, leafing through an in-flight magazine.
Elis was slightly relieved to find George was seated in a different row.
Of everyone in the group, it’s George who’s been the frostiest towards him.
On the other hand, maybe being sat next to each other would be exactly what they need – a bit of forced proximity to allow them to get to know each other.
He’s happy to be next to Miles, of course.
They’ve never been closer. Their shared experience of giving evidence in court, and the time they’ve spent together in the aftermath, has done nothing but strengthen the bond between them.
But he still has a bit of work to do if he’s going to fully integrate into this group as a whole.
It should be doable, though. If he’d met this lot twenty years ago, he would have stuck out as being different.
Now, he should fit in fine. It helps that his accent has melted away.
Being able to slip into an authentic Welsh Valleys voice remains a string to his bow, in an acting sense, but even as a teenager he instinctively realised that speaking with a strong accent wouldn’t do him any favours at auditions and parties.
Not if he wanted to be taken seriously. When he became friends with Miles, he noticed his voice changing even further, and his mannerisms and intonation syncing with those of his new friend.
It was just a natural thing. Elis is more suited to the world Miles is from than the one from which he himself emerged.
It’s not that he’s embarrassed about where he grew up.
Far from it. But he needs to be around people who have a great passion for the arts, who can converse with him about the things he finds exciting, without fear of shame or ridicule.
When Elis tried to explain this to Miles, he seemed a little confused.
But if Miles went to a small-town rugby club in South Wales and tried to strike up a conversation about Shakespeare or arthouse cinema, that would quickly put paid to his scepticism.
Elis is halfway through his beer and already eyeing up the menu for their next tipple.
He isn’t a big drinker, normally. Too much alcohol makes it hard to maintain a good physique, which is important for his work.
In any case, binge drinking is overrated and most of the things that come with it – the hangovers, the inflamed organs, the poor decision-making – simply don’t appeal to him.
He prefers adventure, the outdoors: seeing a view that isn’t the generic interior of a bar.
Alcohol is a complete waste of time. But right now, crammed as they are into an aircraft cabin and unable to move, all they have is time to waste.
Eight in the morning might not be the accepted hour for a drinking session, but they’ve entered a brain-melting thirty-six-hour period of international travel, layovers and jet lag, so the time of day is irrelevant.
If Elis wants an adventure, the only place he’s going to find it currently is at the bottom of one of those miniature spirit bottles.
He drains the dregs of his beer, then orders a vodka and soda.
There’ll be a few minutes before the drinks arrive, and he asks Miles and Reubyn to let him out so he can nip to the toilet while they wait.
Elis is smiling, and a little woozy, as he sways up the aisle, and his bladder is uncomfortably full – he’s left it to the last minute before getting up.
Who knew it was possible to have so much fun on a flight?
He stumbles into the cubicle and finds it dimly lit, the air heavy with the smell of industrial soap and the whooshing sound of speeding air.
He uses the toilet and washes and dries his hands as quickly as he can, his long arms awkward in the tiny sink, and after a quick grin at his reflection, he hurries back out into the main cabin.
Elis is only a few rows down the aisle when he realises something’s changed. He slows up for a moment. George’s laughter is loud and grating, even from this distance. And he’s switched places. George has moved back a row and is now in Elis’s seat.
Elis quickens his step down the aisle, his pulse rising with it. He stops by their row, and all three – Reubyn first, then Miles and George – turn their heads to look at him. Elis forces a smile. ‘Everything okay?’
George raises a drink which Elis suspects is the one he just ordered. ‘Yeah, mate. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve swapped seats with you for a minute.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
George grimaces. ‘You look annoyed. I’m sorry.
It’s just that I saw you’d brought some reading material with you, and I haven’t, so, to pass the time, we’re playing this game, The Minister’s Cat?
’ He raises an eyebrow, then shakes his head.
‘It’s a bit obscure, not many people know it.
I’ll give the seat back when we’re done, yeah? ’
Elis’s jaw locks tight, and blood fizzes in his veins. ‘Well, actually, I’d rather have it back now.’
‘Why?’
Elis takes a deep breath. Remain calm. ‘Because it’s my seat. All my stuff is there.’
‘Oh, that’s no problem at all. Allow me to move it for you.’ George reaches into the seat pocket and grabs Elis’s stuff – sunglasses, book and pillow – and dumps it on the seat in front. ‘Okay?’
‘No, not okay,’ Elis says. ‘That’s my seat – it says so on my ticket.’ He points. ‘That is yours.’
George laughs. ‘Gosh. Don’t make a scene – you’ll get us kicked off the flight.’
Elis leans over Reubyn’s seat, lowers his voice. ‘I’m not making a scene. I just want to take my seat.’
‘Look,’ George says, ‘we’re going to be on this plane a long time, and we can move about if we want. It’s not a big deal.’ He starts to say something in Latin, but Elis talks over him.
‘Just move.’
Elis locks eyes with George and finds his baffled expression infuriating. A few seconds of silence seem excruciatingly long.
Miles presses his lips into a line. ‘Look, George is a bugger, he shouldn’t have done that. But actually, do you know what, it has been a while since we played this. You don’t really mind, do you, Elis?’
Elis clamps his teeth. What’s he supposed to say to that?
With those words from Miles, his argument has been utterly defeated.
He nods and folds his arms. ‘Fine.’ The two passengers in front, who have clearly been eavesdropping, make way, and Elis squeezes in, sweeps some wrappers off his new seat and sits down.
He picks up his book, a paperback copy of Touching the Void his aunt gave him for Christmas, and flicks through to page 1.
It’s the first time he’s opened this book.
His heart is still beating fast, and his teeth grind on every syllable.
He tries to focus, but it’s not going in – the words on the page are no match for the ones uttered by the three men in the seats behind.
‘Reubs, it’s your go,’ George says.
‘I’ve run out of drink.’
‘Don’t worry – I’ve got you.’
Elis feels something jerk into the back of his chair and the sound of George rummaging in a bag at his feet, then the chair decompresses.
‘Where did you get that?’ Miles asks.
‘Picked it up in duty-free.’
‘Nice.’
‘You’ve got to have some backup ammo if you’re flying cattle-class; the cabin crew are far too slow with the drinks.’ A screw cap cracks, followed by the sound of something glugging into a plastic cup. ‘And why settle for a taste of the fruit, eh fellas?’
That last quip from George spurs a disproportionately enthusiastic reaction from all three of them: they laugh and grunt their approval like pigs watching scraps being slopped into a trough.
There’s a tap on Elis’s shoulder and he looks around to see Miles holding up a bottle of wine. ‘Do you need a drink, mate?’
Elis makes eye contact for a split second. ‘Nah, I’m good thanks.’
He turns back to his book. Still on the first page, he hasn’t made it past the opening four-word sentence.
He sighs. If only they were on a later flight, then he could bosh a zopiclone and wake up at their destination.
This is going to be torture. And there are ten hours to go.
Behind him, the game has started up again.
Reubyn: Hungry cat.
George: Imbecilic cat.
Miles: Jealous cat.
Reubyn: Knotty cat.
George: What? That’s N, you idiot.
Reubyn: No, knotty, not naughty. His fur’s knotted.
George: Oh. Fine. Long cat.
Miles: Mindful cat.
Pause.
Reubyn: Narrow-minded ca—
George: Piss off, you can’t have that – it’s a compound. And it was too slow, anyway. Drink!
Elis slaps his book shut. He stashes it in the chair pocket, and swipes through the menu of in-flight movies. It’s all crap. But he needs noise – anything to block them out.
George: Observant cat.
Miles: Punctual cat.
Reubyn: Qu . . . qu . . . quick cat!
George: Too slow! Drink!
Elis tears a set of headphones out of its plastic wrapping and puts them on. He selects a film almost at random – a Jason Statham action – and turns up the volume to the max. He puffs out his cheeks. It’s going to be a long, long flight.