Overtime. Part 1

OVERTIME.

Tom Holt.

Caen.

If it's half past four, that must be Caen. From up here, it could be Lisieux for all he knew, or Pont L'Eveque, or perhaps just an unusually large railway shunting yard, because geography wasn't exactly his strong point; but for once the map and the radio beacons and the big sprawling thing directly underneath him seemed to tally exactly. Prepared to stake good money that that's Caen. Nearly home. Good thing, too, what with the lack of petrol and everything.

It hadn't been the most restful of nights, even by his standards. Flak he could cope with; he didn't take it personally, it was like rain or turbulence, something that came at you out of the sky, a natural occurrence that had no innate malevolence. Fighters, on the other hand, were different. They frightened him. They were doing it on purpose. Furthermore, since Guy had no great confidence in his own abilities and attributed his survival in these circ.u.mstances to random or religious factors, he felt quite strongly that one of these days they were going to get him. Tonight was a good example. Tonight they nearly had. Well, they'd got Peter.

'Didn't they, Peter?' Guy said. Peter didn't reply; his navigator in the seat next to him was dead, and in no position to comment. Mind you, he'd never exactly been the most riveting company, even at the best of times.

Guy wasn't sure when Peter had died, or even what had killed him. A fair number of bullets had hit the Mosquito at various times - it hadn't helped that Peter, not the world's greatest authority on navigation, had taken them directly over the night-fighter base at Aachen - or it could have been flak, or perhaps Peter just had a weak heart. He was definitely dead, though, and that was another good reason for getting home sharpish. One doesn't like to seem intolerant or anything, but Guy preferred not to spend too much of his time in the company of dead people. For all he knew, it might be catching.

Behind him, Guy was aware that there was a pretty sensational sunrise going on, which ought to be having some beneficial effect on his morale. Apparently not. A warm bath might do the trick, or fermented liquor or even a smoke, but not a sunrise. Guy tried to whistle the tune he'd thought up last evening, but his lips were too cold. Better be getting home. Rosy-fingered Dawn. Nuts.

'You can drop me off here if you like.'

Guy blinked. If this was going to turn out to be a ghost story, he really wasn't in the mood. He waited for a moment, then looked round. Not that there was a great deal to see, even with the early light of a new day, but Peter still looked remarkably dead; head lolling forward, that sort of thing. Perhaps he was confusing the intercom with the radio.

'Sorry?' he said tentatively.

'Here will do fine.'

'Ah,' Guy frowned. If this was really happening, then he felt he would be entirely within his rights if he baled out now, took his chances with the Germans, and the h.e.l.l with the cost of the plane. The Government had lots of others, and this one had several holes in it. 'Did you say something?' he asked.

'Yes. Here will do fine. Thanks for the lift.'

'Are you all right, Peter?' Guy asked.

'I'm fine., Actually, my name's not Peter.'

There was a long silence. Not long now till they were out of France and over the Channel. Not much fun baling out over the Channel if you can't swim.

'I think it's terribly clever the way you people work these things.'

'Sorry?' Guy asked.

'Of course,' Peter's body said, 'you'll get much better at it soon. In twenty years or so, for instance, they'll work out how to fit heaters in these things and then it'll be much more comfortable. Do you intend to carry on flying after the War?'

'No,' Guy replied. 'Look, Peter, are you all -'

'My name's John,' Peter's body said. 'John de Nesle. To be honest with you, there's not a lot about this century of yours that appeals to me, but these aircraft things are really pretty impressive. If my old father could see this, he'd have a fit.'

'Peter...'

'You're lucky, though,' said Peter's body, 'that times have changed. I mean, when I was a lad they'd have called this sort of thing witchcraft, and you'd have been tied to a stake and burnt so fast your feet wouldn't have touched. Very suspicious of technology they were, where I come from. Look, I hate to be a bore, but do you think you could just let me off here? I think we're getting pretty near the coast, and I don't want to be late.'

Guy could feel something uncomfortable happening to his insides. His mother had always declared that he had a nervous stomach. 'Peter,' he said sharply, 'will you please shut up? You're beginning to get on my nerves.

'Sorry, sorry,' said Peter's body. 'I do chatter on, people tell me, but it's just my nature. Anywhere here will do.'

'Look...'

'You do know how to land one of these things, don't you?' Guy turned his head and scowled. 'Of course I know how to ... Look, who are you?'

The dead body didn't move. Thanks to the light of the spectacular sunrise, Guy could see that there was a large hole in Peter's head. Cannon-sh.e.l.l or something. The head was lolling forward. Extremely dead.

'John de Nesle,' said Peter's body. 'And will you please land this thing and let me out?'

'How can I let you out?' Guy said. 'You're dead.'

'Who's dead?' replied Peter's body huffily. 'If you can't do landings, just say and I'll do it. Which one of these things works the steering?'

I'll say this, Guy thought, going mad isn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I always imagined it hurt, but apparently not. I shall ignore the whole thing. I shall switch the intercom off, and ...

'Here,' Guy shouted as the Mosquito suddenly lurched in the air, 'what do you think you're -?'

'Sorry,' said the voice in his ear, 'I think I pulled the tiller the wrong way. Which way is down?'

'You leave the controls alone!' Guy said. 'You could get us both killed. Me killed,' he corrected.

After a moment he felt control of the plane pa.s.s back to him. 'Fair enough,' said Peter's body. 'Just so long as you take us down.'

So Guy took them down. He found what looked like a reasonably flat field with no trees and headed for it. This was silly.

'Sorry if I startled you,' Peter's body said. 'I'm not really used to these old-fas.h.i.+oned planes, to be honest with you. The sort I'm used to, you can do it all just by pressing a few b.u.t.tons. Shouldn't you lower your undercarriage, by the way?'

'I'm trying to,' Guy said.

'Ah. You think it's got stuck?'

'Yes.'

'Damaged, probably. Hit by flak or bullets or something. Want me to try?'

'No.'

'Be like that.

The undercarriage definitely wasn't having anything to do with it, and Guy could understand its point of view, in the circ.u.mstances. Ah well, he said to himself, never mind, I wouldn't have enjoyed Life being off my rocker anyway.

'Are you praying?' said Peter's body after a while.

'Yes,' Guy said. 'Seems sensible, don't you think?'

'Oh, I don't mind,' said Peter's body. 'A man's beliefs are his own affair and all that sort of thing. No, I was just wondering whether you shouldn't be trying to do something about those dratted wheels. I mean, we could crash, you know.'

Guy frowned. 'Is Death usually like this?' he asked.