Forecast (4 page)

But her most dangerous expedition had seen her streak across the Himalayas with her old friend John Rhodes, barely clearing the peaks before losing altitude and crashing unexpectedly into the mountainside. The balloon was a write
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off and Rhodes was killed instantly from head injuries. A climber named Nick Parsons spotted the balloon and the pilots, one lying flat in the snow unmoving, the other walking away from the wreckage. The climber reached the stranded balloonist as quickly as he could. He offered her his Gortex jacket. “Everything’s gonna be alright,” he shouted over the brewing storm. “I’ll get you down to Base Camp.”

He worried that she’d gone into shock because she was so calm, but soon she was crying because he felt her body shuddering at his side. Faraday was scared, but Parsons was amazed that her face didn’t carry the fearful, defeated look of a mountain victim. Not far from Base Camp, roles reversed and Faraday had to assist Parsons along when he began to slip in and out of consciousness. She shouldered him all the way to Base Camp, a bustling tent city full of pioneering climbers and with little energy he directed her to his tent. A trained medic was staying at Base Camp acclimatising like the rest of the mountaineers, and with his mobile medical kit he examined Parsons and confirmed that fatigue had overcome him, insisting that he rest. Faraday spent the night with Parsons relaxing in the warmth of his tent, eating dal bhat lentils with rice and sleeping away the night.

The next morning, after breakfast, they waited for a helicopter to transport them off the mountain.

“Some daring flight you were making,” Parsons commented, his sleeping bag pulled up over his chin. “Do you always fly into mountains or just the most dangerous mountains in the world?”

Faraday frowned. “Do you always pass out on mountains or just the most dangerous mountains in the world?” she retaliated.

Parsons sniggered and shrugged. “Fair enough. I guess we’re both as reckless as each other. Anyway, I guess I’m glad you chose yesterday to crash.” He smiled at her and took her hand, rubbed it in his, appreciating how much she was hurting, having lost a dear friend.

“Well, I guess I’m glad you’re a lightweight, a fairly handsome one at that.”

Back in the UK, a week after John Rhodes had been cremated, they were dating as often as they could spare the time for each other and three years later they got engaged.

One morning, Parsons found Faraday sitting in the study. “You’re up early.”

She looked up with a pencil clamped between her teeth and saw Parsons looking down at her with tired eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s not like you.”

“I’ve got a million things on my mind.”

“The flight into space?”

“Among other things. Are you making coffee?”

Breath escaped his mouth in a sort of laugh. “Whatever you say, angel.”

Flying to an altitude of twenty
-
five miles was not her primary concern. Something else overshadowed her thoughts. It had grown into an evanescent idea that had begun to torment her. Like a powerfully thrown spear, the notion stuck in her and it plagued her mind, affecting her relationship. Faraday looked out of her window at a pair of magpies fluttering on a tree branch, thinking. While Parsons clattered about in the kitchen, she picked up the phone and dialled a number she had memorised over time.

“It’s Claris.”

She paused. “I need to see you as soon as possible. I’m going out of my mind.”

She listened.

“Okay,” she said, her head flopping back on her shoulders. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

At Sandown Medical Centre, Faraday approached the reception desk. The receptionist peered over the rim of her spectacles. “Do you have an appointment, love?”

Faraday shook her head. “No, but Geoff, I mean Doctor Casper, is expecting me.”

“I’ll have to double
-
check that, hold on.” She pressed a button on her phone pad and looked at Faraday as she confirmed the appointment with the doctor. She lifted the phone away from her mouth. “Second door on the left, my love.”

Faraday nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

High upon the cliffs of Alum Bay overlooking the Isle of Wight, Faraday sat cross
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legged, thinking about Doctor Casper and their meeting a few hours before. Seagulls pecked at a washed
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up fishing trawler down at the beach and in the distance a P&O ferry chugged towards France. Behind the ferry, the coast of Britain sat flat and disguised itself as low cloud. Faraday loved the ocean. If ever a place brought her clarity and peace it was anywhere with a view of the sea. She had chosen to live on the Isle of Wight as no matter where she lived on the island she was within close proximity of the water and could always be alone when she wanted.

Overhead, a fleet of hot
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air balloons whooshed by. Fifteen, perhaps twenty, drifted peacefully above her in a range of shapes and colours, each one breathing fire intermittently with a roar like dragons. Each balloon streaked across the rays of the breaking sun and threw shadows on the wind
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blown grass of the Alum cliffs. Faraday stared at them, her gaze going beyond into the endless sky. She really wanted to feel the excitement of flying the world’s largest balloon to the edge of space while the world watched in admiration, but she couldn’t get in the spirit. She had issues and now she had the impossible task of telling her fiancé. There was no easy way to explain it. She dug out her mobile phone from her overcoat, pulled her hood back and dialled Parsons’ number. He would have scores of questions, none of which she had a good answer for. He would be in denial. She would leave him hanging on the end of the line, wondering. He might even blame himself.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered and hung up, pressing the phone to her forehead.

Less than twenty seconds later it rang and it was Parsons.

“Hello you,” she said softly.

He asked her if she’d called him.

Faraday said yes.

He asked why.

She made a quick excuse. “Can you meet me at the airfield in an hour? We can have a picnic. And I have something I want to talk to you about.”

Parsons said alright.

Faraday phoned her old friend, Terence, who still worked at the Isle of Wight Airport, which had been decommissioned in recent years for private and domestic planes but remained operational for gilders and balloons.

“Terence, it’s me, can you prepare Froggy and a chaser vehicle for the mainland? I’ll be there shortly.”

“
Already puffing
,” he replied.

By the time she arrived, Terence hadn’t let her down. Froggy stood erect and rocking in the wind and was tied to several pickets in the ground. The bottle
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green balloon was one
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hundred
-
and
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five-thousand cubic feet, officially categorised as an AX
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8. Propped up against the reinforced wicker with his broad back tilted, Parsons smiled as Faraday walked slowly to greet him.

She tried her best to hide her anguish, but her eyes betrayed her. “You ready then?”

“Yep. Why this all of a sudden?”

“Just fancied some fresh air.”

Faraday fired up the burner and the pilot light ignited the propane. Terence unpegged the pickets and the balloon took off. Faraday gave the burners more thrust and the balloon shot along with more urgency. Within minutes, the wind was carrying them towards the mainland of Britain. “Sunrise is the best time to fly a balloon, you know, not afternoons,” she said. “Sunrise is typically heralded by the day’s calmest winds.”

Parsons scowled at his fiancée. She had been acting strange all morning.

“A balloon seems to make a counterintuitive statement about gravity. There is just something magical about it, don’t you agree?”

“You haven’t brought me up here to teach me about hot
-
air ballooning. We’ve flown several times together. Claris, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

Parsons grinned, but he was not smiling. “Come on, strange behaviour, a picnic without food. There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

Faraday looked into his green eyes. She brushed her fringe off her face. “Waiting for the right weather can be a bit like a skier’s quest for the perfect slope, if you see what I mean. It can also be compared to finding your soul mate, someone you’re compatible with, both physically and mentally. We’re certainly compatible mentally.”

“What exactly are you trying to say to me, Claris?”

“It’s all coming out wrong. I…I’m sorry.”

“What’s coming out wrong?”

Faraday looked him in the eye. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

The whir of a siren sounded, startling Faraday from her memories. She looked in her side mirror. A police car; they must have seen the dead sheep. She stayed seated as the policemen circled the Aston Martin with curiosity. One of the officers appeared at her window and banged his knuckles on the glass. Faraday slipped the window down.

“Are you alright, Miss?”

She dried her eyes. “Yeah. It appeared from nowhere, there was nothing I could do.”

The officer looked at the flanking meadows. “It happens. Do you have any idea how fast you were travelling?”

“I was doing the speed limit.”

“Which is?”

“Thirty. I’m in a bit of rush, officer, I have to be at an important conference.”

“I won’t keep you. Can I see your driving licence?”

Faraday shakily retrieved it from her glove box. “Here you go.”

The second officer was checking the expiry date on her tax disc, then went back to his car to run a number plate search. She watched him speak into his radio.

“Thank you Miss…Faraday,” he said, glancing at her licence. With slow, meticulous strokes of his pen, as though he was painting the words, he copied the details to his pad. Double
-
checking what he’d recorded, he passed the licence back to her. “Can I just get a contact phone number in case we need to call you?”

She sighed inconspicuously. “Give me your pad and pen.”

He passed them to her and she scribbled down her number.

“Cheers. You drive carefully now.”

“I will.”

“And get that taillight fixed.”

“I will.”

When she arrived at the Moorland Links Hotel, she claimed one of the last spaces in the car park and cut the engine, allowing herself a couple of minutes to fix herself up. She put the car blowers on full in an attempt to dry out her clothes and shoulder
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length hair. She applied fresh makeup – a touch of dark green eye shadow, blush and a little eyeliner, though it did nothing to conceal her red eyes. She thought about Parsons, then tried to force him from her mind altogether. Feeling more presentable, she made for the hotel foyer. She asked the receptionist the way to the Chandelier Ballroom, said thank you, and walked briskly to get there.

The 747 from Chicago O’Hare International Airport touched down at London Gatwick at two fifteen in the afternoon. By five, Jen Hennessey was at Plymouth City Airport, one of two commercial airports serving Devon. By six she had checked into the Moorland Links Hotel in Plymouth. Strolling along the corridor, her case trailing on wheels behind her, she arrived at her room and leaned down to pick up a complimentary newspaper outside her door before going in. Automatically she made her customary inspection of the bathroom, the bedroom and the facilities, all of which met with her approval.

Peruvian by birth, American by naturalisation, English by language, Hennessey felt drained from the long international flight, but still managed to remain polite and civil to those assisting her through the processes of temporary migration. Those she had met and had engaged in conversation with were surprised to learn that she flew aircraft for NASA. She didn’t look like a NASA pilot, nor a pilot of any sort. She was the picture of beauty with long, black hair, toffee
-
coloured skin and a curvaceous body.

Later that evening she filled the bathtub with piping hot water and dimmed the overhead lights to set a mood. Slipping off her clothes, she dabbed a bare foot into the steaming water, recoiling at the torrid heat, before sliding elegantly in. No sooner had she got comfortable than the phone rang, but she ignored it.

After towelling off, she meandered to the balcony and stared out at the black emptiness. Lightning scratched the sky illuminating the hard rain and thunder rumbled thereafter. She closed up the balcony doors and plopped herself down on the hardwood floor of her room, where she meticulously painted the nails on both feet, skilfully applying two coats of red enamel on nails separated by white cotton balls. Then she got into bed with her airport magazine, resolved to do nothing else that evening.

Sporadic jetlag prevented much sleep, so she was up early the next morning, her body on American time, which was approaching midnight if she had calculated correctly. She decided to call her boss in America to let him know she’d arrived safely. They talked for an hour. Following that, she slowly got ready for the conference taking place later that afternoon in one of the large rooms at the back of the hotel. She turned the television on. Her President was addressing the country. “
Eyewitness accounts from Spanish naval ships and a US submarine conclusively confirm that the uranium onboard the North Korean naval ship heading for Yemen was bomb
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grade, enriched uranium, despite denials from both the military and the government
.”