The Return Home
Edward fastened his seatbelt and absently adjusted the backrest. He flew oftentoo often, if he was honest. Once a month, sometimes more: conferences, meetings, brief business trips that left his head spinning worse than cheap whiskey. This time had been especially mundanetwo days of negotiations, signatures, dinner with partnersthen back to London.
The only difference was the destination. The plane wasnt heading to Germany or Edinburgh but to a small town in the south where he was born and had fled twenty years ago. Hed been back only twice sinceonce for his fathers funeral, then again for his mothers grave. Both times, hed been desperate to returnto the hum of city traffic, to his projects, to a life where there was no time to think.
He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Last night, hed sat in a pub with colleagues, arguing over some presentation. Someone had drunk too much and strummed *The Wild Rover* on a guitar. Funny, but it was that tune stuck in his head now, humming softly beneath the engines drone. He almost smiled.
Excuse me, would you like juice or water? The flight attendant leaned over him, offering a practised smile.
Water, please.
She handed him a plastic cup. He nodded. The water was tepid, as if left in the sun. But he was thirsty.
The man beside him muttered something, flipping through a magazine.
Prices are mad, arent they? he said, glancing up.
Always have been, Edward replied. Theyre selling watches here for the price of a flat.
Both smirked, and for a second, it felt easy, almost companionable.
The plane flew smoothly, rocking gently. A baby cried somewhere ahead, quickly soothed. Someone clicked the overhead light on and off, chasing the glow. A girl across the aisle giggled at her phone, the screen casting her face in white light, making her look younger than she was.
Edward turned to the window. He expected to see the faint glow of a village below, the thread of a motorway, the flicker of a star. But outside stretched only an even, suffocating darkso thick it looked like black film pressed against the glass.
Dark out, isnt it? the man beside him said, peering over his shoulder. Pitch black.
Edward shrugged.
Well its night.
But something sticky and unpleasant stirred in his chest. Night breathes. This was emptiness.
He checked his phone. The screen flashedno signal.
Of course. The plane. What had he expected? He always forgot. Still, the habit remainedreaching for the screen, hoping for a message from his son. *At least send a smiley*, he thought, locking the screen with a wry smirk.
No signal either? the man asked again.
None, Edward said. Shouldnt be.
Right. The man returned to his magazine, tracing glossy ads for expensive coats as if he could feel the fabric.
The plane dipped gentlyjust turbulence, Edward told himself. But his water rippled, the circles too perfect, as if an invisible finger tapped the surface.
From the next row:
Youre sure theyll meet us? a woman asked.
Of course. They said theyd be waiting right at the gate, another replied.
The word *waiting* stuck in his skull. Edward pressed his forehead to the glass. Still nothing. No spark, no light. Just black fabric wrapped around the plane.
He thought of his mother. The one whod lain in the churchyard for over a decade. He remembered standing at her grave in his black coat, the strangeness of staring at dirt while her laughter still echoed in his mind. Now, staring out, he almost heard it*Eddie*and flinched like hed been shocked.
You all right? the man asked.
Edward blinked. Smiled.
Just remembered something.
Ah, the man said. Well, dont think about the turbulence.
Edward tried to read, but the words slipped away, letters smudging. He caught himself staring at the dark glass instead. Just ordinary blackness. Night was night. What else should there be?
The man flipped a page and scoffed.
Six grand for a watch. Thats a used Mini right there.
Yep, Edward said. Polite smile. Not funny.
From the aisle:
She said, Wait for us by lunch.
Then another voice, higher:
Mine said the sameWait for us by lunch.
A coincidence, surely. Just two passengers repeating a phrase. But the word *wait* left a chill in his chest, like a door swung open to a draught. He stared at the window again.
The glass reflected his facepale, tired. No clouds, no lights below. Just flat dark, so thick it seemed his fingers would vanish into it.
Dark out, isnt it? the man repeated.
Night, Edward said. Same as always.
He said it aloud, but inside, the words twisted: night lives. This was dead.
He set the book down, took another sip of warm water, and rolled his eyes. Full flight, yet it felt like sitting in a basement.
The trolley squeaked down the aisle. The attendant bent politely:
Tea or coffee?
The woman across the aisle lifted her cup.
Tea, thanks. And lemon, if youve got.
Her friend added, chuckling:
Sametea with lemon.
Both spoke identically, as if rehearsed. Edward thought hed misheard, but the girl in headphones giggled, mimicking in a high, tinny voice:
*With lemon, with lemon*
The man stopped flipping pages, frowning but silent.
The plane shuddered. Water trembled in the cup, ripples fine as mesh. Edward touched the surfaceit stiffened, like glass. Strange, but he brushed it off. Just tired.
—
Captain Harris tore his gaze from the instruments to the windscreen. Nothing. Even on moonless nights, there were gapsa horizon, stars. Now, just a black screen, as if the cockpit had been rolled into a hangar and left unlit.
Maybe were in clouds, he said aloud. His voice wavered.
Clouds? The co-pilot looked up. At this altitude? And no turbulence? Radars blank.
Electromagnetic storm, Harris suggested. Solar flares, plasma layers happens.
Then thered be interference.
There is. He tapped the silent radio.
He knew it didnt add up. This wasnt like any glitch hed seen in twenty years.
The co-pilot pressed his forehead to the side window.
What if its snowfields below? We just cant see them?
Snows not like this, Harris said. Snow glows faintly. This is black.
They did what they always didchecked the instruments. Course steady. Altitude stable. Fuel normal. Engines perfect. Everything worked except the world outside.
You see, the co-pilot said quietly, if it were a storm, Id understand. An ocean, fine. But this isnt night. Night breathes.
Breathes, Harris agreed, staring into the void.
He told himself: *Weve lost landmarks. Well find a beacon, land, routine.* But the words dissolved. As if the emptiness outside muffled thought.
Finally, he reached for the mic. He couldnt say *everythings fine*.
Ladies and gentlemen, he said hollowly, were continuing our flight. Navigational systems are temporarily unavailable, but the aircraft is functioning normally. The crew has the situation under control.
He released the button.
Silence hissed in his headphones. Outside, the black wall held them, waiting for the fuel to run dry.
—
The PA clicked off. A basement-quiet settled, then crackednot in the instruments, but in the people.
The man beside Edward snapped his magazine shut, shoved it into the seat pocket. His face sharpened, eyes gleaming.
Under controlhear that? Whats temporarily unavailable mean? Are we lost?
No one answered. But heads turned.
Across the aisle, a girl in a jumper with rabbits stuffed her phone into her bag and crieddry, shaking. A stranger handed her a tissue. She crumpled it, didnt wipe her eyes.
A man in a suit pressed the call button. When the attendant came, he barked too loud:
Explain no navigation. I demand contact with the ground! I have a connectionmy entire schedules shot! The attendant whispered; he waved her off. His voice shook. Edward thought: *Hes scared. Hiding behind anger.*
A young mother sat rigid, stroking her childs headtoo fast, as if her touch kept him alive. Her eyes were dry, wary.
From the back, laughterthin, stretched too long.
Edward watched, a strange calm rising. Here they were: real. Some shouted, some
