Backwards Into Hell

Part Two: The LFG

Abigail's Diary

Tuesday 26th October

It took a while to reach Barra. I drove from my quaint home in east Lancashire to grey Glasgow and got the next flight out. Unfortunately, before I could take my seat, there were two excruciating hours to kill in the airport.

After a few minutes of wandering aimlessly, glancing through magazines, looking at jewellery, and trying things out in technology shops, I gave up and grabbed a seat at a rotating sushi bar in the centre of the terminal while kids messed with the public piano near gate seven. A slightly out-of-time Heart and Soul echoed as I watched the conveyer belt spin. It was all so expensive.

I settled on a small plate of vegetable sushi and looked through the vast window to the runways as planes took off. It didn't seem possible the way they sat on the wind, hovering like a herring gull. When David and I had gone to France—our last holiday before Caleb arrived—he'd paid extra so we could sit together and I could grab his hand while the plane cannoned into the sky.

There would be no hand to hold today.

The nerves in the pit of my stomach grew stronger as I snapped a piece of sushi in two with the chopsticks. Damn things.

In an airport, no one bothers you. They're too focused on checking their gate, finding lost family members, and getting that bottle of cheap booze in duty-free.

I didn't do any of that. I finished my sushi and stayed in the seat, browsing through pictures of Caleb on my phone. The last time I'd held him was on Friday evening, moments before he toddler-walked down the front garden and into David's waiting Sedan. My knuckles turned white around the phone. I wasn't going to give up on him. Not yet.

David was a piece of work, but he wouldn't hurt our son.

At that point, I still half-believed the disappearance was some great publicity stunt. How else would such a huge group of people go missing?

I spent some more time searching for a hotel, but it was pointless. Everywhere on Barra was booked up—journalists—and even the neighbouring Islands were looking full. But I didn't want a boat trip every morning to get to The Lodge—I had to be closer, and if that meant sleeping on the streets, so be it.

After what felt like an age, my flight was called and I hurried to the gate. A snooty-looking woman with a big mole on the side of her face checked my ticket and grunted to let me through. My fellow passengers were a sea of journalists. You could spot them by their immaculate hair, well-fitted suits and dresses, and the phones moulded to their hands.

I followed the queue, feeling out of place in my jumper and trainers, and squeezed into my window seat near the back, watching as people filed on and praying that they wouldn't sit next to me. No one did, and soon enough, the tiny plane was packed: around fifty passengers, two pilots, and a steward.

I stretched out my legs to calm the butterflies—no, they were more like scorpions: stinging and prodding at my stomach lining. Maybe the sushi had been a mistake.

The Steward—an older man with cropped blond hair—ran through the safety instructions and I did my best to commit them to memory. The nearest exit was two seats in front of me. That was fine. If we crashed, all I had to do was walk forward two rows and jump into the abyss.

I told myself it wouldn't. This plane was shiny and new, and there'd never been so much as an incident on this line—I'd checked. But as it started to rattle down the runway, my eyes clamped shut. Any minute now my stomach would drop to the ground as we catapulted into the air. I felt sick.

'You alright, love?'

I opened my eyes, realising how tightly my hand wrapped around the armrest as the plane juddered. Someone on the seat behind me leaned over. Somehow the Steward hadn't noticed his lack of a seatbelt.

'Fine,' I replied and looked out the window. Big mistake.

The ground sped past us, and my whole body rattled with the engine. Faster and faster and—

'You know,' The man had a thick Yorkshire accent, 'I never like planes either—prefer to fly myself—but they grow on you.'

What was he talking about? I scrunched my eyes, shutting out his voice.

'Oh, I know what we can do. Let's play a game—take your mind off it.'

The plane began to rise.

'Just leave me alone.' I muttered. 'Please.'

He let go of the back of my seat. I felt the thud as he sat behind me and was surprised to see we were already in the air. Maybe the worst was over.

Nevermind. The pilot turned to right the plane and it felt like we were going to drop from the sky. Surely we shouldn't be leaning this far left?

The man leaned over the seat again.

'Sorry if I were a bit forward. Old tongue gets the better of me sometimes.'

Finally, I looked at him. He was in his sixties with a kind but lived-in face and a bushy white beard and dressed in a suit that was far too loose. Definitely not a journalist.

Next to him was a woman—similar age—dressed in pink and working through a crossword.

'Sorry, I shouldn't have snapped,' I said. 'It's just this sort of thing—'

'Oh, don't worry about that love. I'm used to it. Just ask the other half.'

There was a sharp thump as she tapped him in the ribs, and I turned forward to hide the smirk on my face. Finally, the seatbelt lights clicked off and we were free to roam the plane. No chance was I leaving my seat. Still, I could hardly believe it when the man leapt from his and collapsed next to me.

'I'm Sam,' he said. 'And that's the Wife.'

The lady offered a polite wave before burying her head back in the newspaper.

'Abigail.'

He grabbed me in a rough handshake.

'Good to meet you, Abi.'

I hated that.

'So, what's bringing you to Barra?' His brown eyes searched my face. 'It's not about the disappearance is it?'

I nodded.

'Oh, a journalist then?'

I bit my cheek and wondered if I should mention Caleb. Then again, if he was a local, maybe Sam could help.

'My son.' It was hard to stop the water coming to my eye. 'He's one of the missing.'

Sam raised his eyebrows. 'Really? God, I'm sorry love. If something like that had happened to one of mine, I'd be shouting the plane down.'

I laughed.

Sam placed a gentle hand on mine, and a warmth spread up my arm. Not in a sexual way—God no—but like I'd found an old friend.

'Look, if you need anything while you're on the Island, let us know. We're locals. Just back from a holiday on the mainland.'

Why anyone would need a holiday from a place like Barra was lost on me, but Sam's words gave me an idea. A cheeky idea.

'You don't happen to have a spare room, do you?'

I watched for his reaction. Had I been too forward? If the tables were turned, no way would I be letting a stranger into my home.

I watched as Sam's face ran through a few emotions: surprise, confusion, realisation, until finally, he smiled in the way only a wise old-man can.

'Why not? I'm not the type to leave someone on the side of the road, especially with what you're going through.'

I gasped like a fish. 'Thank you.' I placed my other hand on top of his on top of mine. 'Thank you so much.'

'I'd better check with the wife, of course.'

'Thank you, Sam,' I said again as he slipped away and hobbled to his seat as the plane swayed.

His wife said yes, and just like that, I had a home.

I don't know what convinced them to help me—I was a stranger on a plane with just enough fortune to be sitting in front of them. But whatever it was, and despite what happened next, I'll always be grateful.