The Ditches

Chapter Twelve

Under the raging sun, the asphalt withers, and for once I don't regret wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt or piling my hair into a bun. The lower half of me, however, does not fare so well. Thick, black combat trousers encase my legs and below them a pair of heavy-duty boots. A jet moves nearby, towards the runway, and a rippling breeze hits the back of my neck.

"You can board if you like?" a stewardess calls from the arched doorway of our private plane. First class all the way, this time.

I turn from the terminal and look up. "Nah, don't like planes. I'll be the last on."

She smiles, sympathetically. "Scared of flying?"

"Not flying ... I just don't like confinement."

"Well, if it helps, we have a bar. I'll be serving when we're in the air."

"Oh, that helps. It's a date." I laugh and if I'm not mistaken her cheeks redden.

I turn at the sound of footsteps and watch as two men approach from the terminal. Old and young. Weathered and ripped. Scarred and less scarred. But both have noses that look as if they've been punched one too many times. They brush past without so much of a nod. Dareal follows a few paces behind, with his younger, fresher face, and grins as he reaches me.

"Good to see you," Dareal says, enthusiastically, and he sweeps back golden curls. "I know we were in the coach together, but you didn't look like you wanted to be bothered."

"I was tired," I say.

Dareal frowns. "I thought entra didn't need sleep?"

"Fucks sake Dareal." I sigh, too irritated to peddle the lie any further. "I was pissed because I hate planes. Sometimes you just need to accept the lie."

His eyes widen, like he doesn't know what the fuck to say. Ahh, the awkwardness of youth. I'm pretty sure he's twice my age.

"Your nose is looking a lot better," I say, only because it looks like Dareal isn't planning on moving anytime soon.

"Yeah." he sighs.

I laugh. "Is that not good?"

"It's just, people been asking how I got it. I'm dying to tell them, the best Ditch fighter that ever did exist twatted me right in the nose ... but I can't say anything, can I?"

"I tell you what, after this job, I'll headbutt you again."

"Really? That would be—" the enthusiasm drops from his face "—after the job ... yeah, thanks Ramet. You're a good person," Dareal says as he jogs up the stairs to the plane.

I watch him go with a frown. That was weird. Never been called a good person for offering to headbutt someone before.

Heels click and scape tiles with the unmistakeable rhythm of an approaching pair of expensive shoes. It's Hara and she's cutting it fine. She passes through the open terminal doors and glides to me effortlessly. Dark circles under her eyes become apparent as she stops before me. On top of that it seems like she dressed herself by rolling on the bedroom floor and whatever stuck would do.

"Rough night?" I ask with genuine concern.

"I thought you weren't talking to me."

I reach forward and adjust her askew collar. "Just planes, isn't it ..."

"Yeah?" Hara takes my hand, and we walk towards the luxury aircraft. "I couldn't sleep."

"You should have called." She should have called. Truth is, I spend a lot of nights bored, thinking of creative ways to top myself.