Christian Yorke

Mike spent the briefing fiddling with his flip-flops, himself and staring at Nafrini when she presented Gus’s Pink Lady. Slowing himself to disguise his Kirkby origins, Mike repeatedly muttered “Get on with it cocksucker,” or something similar. Nobody, least of all Ruben, could add to his database of diving knowledge. Flight analysed Mike struggling to restrain his talent, squatting expectantly in his flame tinted speedos. The air was still warm with Ruben’s advice when Mike bolted, leaving his poor wife to fight her corner alone. 

Gus’s team, dominated by the caravan set, was called as the lead group. Flight was happy for those drooling plodders to set the pace and he reclined on the sofa, soothed by a glorious breeze from the decks beyond. From his superior perspective he perused the anarchy of  amateur divers squeezing wet flesh into wetter rubber. The introspected bleeders carelessly swung BCD’s like overcoats, oblivious to steel cylinders cracking skulls in the crowd. Ugly noise and self interest primed everyone to fight hard over treasured snorkels. The swell staggered some, arms flailing, with only Isis’s close dimensions averting a comical domino effect. In the clamour, Patricia narrowly avoided a smack in the teeth when she accidentally touched Sarah Jane’s flipper. Stubbing out his Drome, Flight put the repulsive scene down to over excitement.

Beneath this theatre the Red Sea schlopped gently, trancing Flight until Naffrini tickled him and his eyes opened. The first divers were already in the water, congregating impatiently at the surface.

Picked out by a shaft of light, Nicole looked concerned, waving vigorously. “Come on honey or we’ll leave you behind!” she called, or mimed; Flight was uncertain which, but still managed a sexy eyebrow-lift in reply.  

With great ceremony he rose, spotting a relatively clear route through the sluggers. He tripped painfully towards his lovingly prepared gear, over a discarded shoe or foot that had disappeared when he looked back. He wrestled off his navy Paul Smith t-shirt (discreetly holding his stomach in), clattered loose lead, dragged out his cold wetsuit and stepped in. Bent double, he attached his weight belt before shivering on the bench, his back to the BCD so his arms slid easily through the harness that fastened at the front like a jacket. Vowing that Gus would pay for allocating them, Flight slipped on the loud yellow fins; next year he’d definitely fork out on his own kit. He spat at his mask, several times, and thumb-rubbed the lenses to stop them fogging: ‘the greener, the cleaner.’

Seemingly troubled, Isis bucked as Ruben arrived.

“What’s with you today?” he asked, sitting, arm round Flight. “You haven’t forgotten our talk have you? I really thought I’d got through. Or maybe it was the rum.”

“It wasn’t the rum,” said Flight, looking at his flippers, “you did your best. Did well. Helpful.”

“Gabriel needed to get things in the open. He didn’t mean most of the stuff he said that night and at least I was there to step in. He needs you to help him, that’s all.”

“So my heart will balance with a feather?”

“A what?”

“I’m reliably informed that the heart records all our good and bad deeds in life. If we do the right thing we’ll live forever in paradise. Or some shit like that.”

“Sounds like good advice. Karma,” said Ruben, unphased. “And you were brave to tell me about your own loss. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but like I said, your pain is killing you slowly but surely. It’s not too late though. Fight it. Helping Gabriel will give you purpose, a cause. If you do then great things will follow.”

“Can’t”

“Yes you…”

“He’s hardly even talking to me.”

“You’re a talented man by all accounts. You’ll find a way.”

“When did you get so wise Ruben, you’re just a boy,” said Flight, confounded.

“Blame my old man, like all lawyers he’s always dishing up the advice. Had to rub off I suppose, even though he’s written me out of the will.” Ruben chuckled doubtfully. “And as for you, do me a favour and take Nicole to dinner tonight, it’s getting embarrassing.”

Flight didn’t answer immediately. He appreciated Nicole’s sweet smile and radiant skin. But then again it was just skin, her hair just hair, her embrace just a motion, her smile just a spasm behind which, if pressed, conceit, bitterness, anger and envy would darken her. Nicole was just a bundle of flawed organs like the rest.

“Right you are Ruben, that sounds nice.”

“You’ve made my day! Now Mr Lancaster, get your ass over there,” shouted the young American. “Seriously, we’ve got a clock on this one.”

“I’m right with you.”

Digging deep Flight summoned some strength, rising in time to catch a funnel of diamond spray consume Knudd. Bloody great, thought Flight, lamenting his new buddy as Ruben left. He drained his hip flask and tossed it overboard for luck. A blister on his left foot made him hop and he cursed his old leather sandals. More than one pair of shoes had lost their lives for similar offences. Assessing the time available, Flight loosened his fin a notch or two. Ahead he saw Ruben, too cool for neoprene in his distinctive white shorts, somersault into the sea to carale the team and wait for tail end Charlie.

Flight was all over the place pissing about with his lemon flipper until Mshai held his elbow and guided him to the stern. Below him the aquatic assembly resembled severed skulls bobbing at the surface. Flight looked away, unsure, and saw young Kemnebi and Nafrini waving and smiling encouragement. Flight had to be a man and pulled on his mask, catching his fringe in the process. He inhaled bottled air through the regulator, releasing some into his BCD until it hugged his ribs. Ruben was waving madly, so he scooped his gauges against his stomach, held his right hand over his regulator, then deserted Isis with a giant stride…

Whoosh!

His BCD quickly pulled him to the surface, eyes bobbing inches from the twinkling skin. He spotted Knudd’s bald head. Miles away. Half blind, Flight made for his buddy, salt water pooling beneath his eyes. Squinting, Flight realised that the skulls were disappearing, no doubt chasing Mike and Gus. He raised his game when Isis’s engines turned over, upping the fin kicks, shaking, the sea strangely cold. Water tugged at every part of him, an irritating chill creeping through his body. 

The skulls thinned further, Knudd gone. Flight reluctantly understood Gabriel’s frustration, buddied with that queer specimen. He blinked painfully, emptily, twisting his head left and right, spinning in denial. Until he realised that he was alone. 

Healthy temper comforted him, told him to crack on, catch them, determined to harm Knudd later. Flight halted, legs dangling, the mute air suspended motionless. With a deep breath, and a determined nod, he raised his arm, depressed the blue button, and deflated his BCD. 

Water flooded over Flight’s mouth, then nose then eyes. The awareness of breathing unnaturally, beneath a fluid membrane, exhilarated him. Looking down Flight spotted Ruben’s group, Quink black erasing them. They seemed static, as though dangling from infinite tethers. The current tugged his ankles and reminded him that the descent had to be fast. He opened the valve fully, to purge his BCD, and his weight belt dragged him into the darkness.  

The placid moments at the surface were replaced by metallic kettle drum clangs and pops. Flight exhaled a plume of bubbles that pummelled his face, their hard percussion echoing eerily in the conductive brine.  Although, or because, his BCD had slackened Flight’s pulse raced. A sudden sharp pain in both ears felt as though a needle was piercing his eardrums. Normally he would have ascended slightly to ease the squeeze, but there was no time. He had to swim through it.

Flight checked his dials. Forty metres! And his air pressure had fallen dramatically. Sensing a second plume behind his head he pumped air into his BCD, slowing his descent whilst kicking hard. The titanic weight of ocean above crawled with monochrome divers at the massively overpopulated site. The seething canopy probably divided into organised groups, but to Flight it was a chaos of shrinking silhouettes. Between the humans barracuda and satan fish, black torpedoes one and all, turned silently, coming for him; a wall of shiny death to break his heavy heart.

Making history, for the first time on a dive dread possessed the man. He swam powerfully against the current but the water held him fast. He dared himself to look into the abyss but, now icy cold, he looked up instead. Where the hell was everyone? Where was Knudd? 

The wing of a manta ray brushed his ear, and a jelly fish, or squid or reef shark came close, putting Flight in the foetus position with shock and disgust. Bubbles swaddled his honey-head like drones, even when he held his breath; air leaking behind his ears. His breathing was laboured, short gasps, tight and restricted. He finally looked down and imagined being crushed by the thick ocean. He imagined falling, dragged endlessly into Purgatory. By now Flight could barely see and terror reached down and touched him. 

He purged his mask yet again, but it remained flooded, eyes tight shut against the acid sting. Blood coursed with the rhythm of rainfall, his throat tensing. He wheezed at the regulator. Almost no air reached his lungs, his breathing a vain spasm. Where was Knudd? Where was Ruben?

Pawing pitifully he struck for help, but immense depth dwarfed his minute reach; and anyway the flow of air had ceased, equipment failed. He sucked at the empty cylinder, legs thrashing, until a loose fin wriggled free, swallowed by the void. Flight’s naked left foot, his little limb, flapped pointlessly as self control abandoned him. His head swung manically atop his static body, carotid artery bulging hideously from his neck.

Movement, danger, caught his attention. Red eyes locked on his. It was Knudd. Flight reached out slashing across his throat. No air! No air! He lunged where Knudd’s second regulator should have been, but there was nothing. As though a garrotte was tightening he made a deep humming noise. A dismal stab at communication. Help me, help me! he begged to the sorrowful face.

Knudd was way beyond  the limit of his experience and looked on hopelessly. He reached out his hands and held Flight’s shoulders to ease the passing. Flight shook deliriously, chilled to the bone. He spied the shimmering surface almost 100 feet above. Again he drew fiercely at his  regulator, but there was nothing. Whatever reserves had been in his lungs were spent.

In a terrible moment of pathos Flight opened his mouth and loosened the regulator that he had almost chewed through. He felt unrestricted and inhaled saline fluid, swallowing, believing he might drink the sea dry. Water froze his lips, then his gums and then finally the ocean flooded his mouth. He could have been anywhere if not for the thunderous noise, its beat slowing. Flight opened his eyes for a second and was aware of a flash of white from his left.

With great force Knudd was shunted away. Ruben’s eyes met Flight’s as he fought to keep them open. A cloud of vomit nourished the water, escaping from Flight’s nose and mouth. There was also blood as something broke his lips. Pain sliced his brain; hot, sharp and nauseating. Flight definitely vomited again and again and again until his inhuman retching threatened to dislodge his soul.

And then the aching, the cold, was replaced by warmth. Gentle at first, but slowly growing in  intensity. It became the warmth of a summer day. It was the warmth of sleeping, soothed by the sun. Flight saw the sun, bright and familiar, and stared through closed eyelids. He saw Nicole. He saw Knudd. He saw Gabriel.

Thank God for that, the pain receding. He loved the sun and now he was back at the Hyatt watching Knudd splashing about. Thank God for that. Those sun loungers were so comfortable. He refused to get off his until the sun set. 

Flight’s pain had all but left him.