Dryden pushed open the cab door and noticed that a talcum of rust fell on his worn leather shoes.
He was almost past the bench when the man on it spoke. ‘Mr Dryden? Philip Dryden?’ The man stood, stepping into the pool of neon light shed by The Tower’s foyer. It was Lyndon Koskinski. Dryden felt a surge of relief that he’d managed, at least in part, to fulfil Maggie’s wishes.
Koskinski brushed down the creases on his uniform, that of a major in the US Air Force. The physique was anything but GI – there was nothing general issue about the tall wiry frame and almost complete lack of puppy-fat. He radiated a shy intelligence and a civilized reserve which made Dryden wary.
‘Hi,’ said Dryden, walking back.
The pilot’s face was handsome in the light, spare of flesh and still with a desert tan. He was bare-headed with his forage cap folded and held under one epaulette. The hair was brown-blond and longer than military regulations normally allowed: the eyes were hooded and held a permanent squint, like someone looking constantly into the glare of the sun. Dryden felt himself in the presence of a personality which habitually radiated an almost tangible sense of calm and self-possession. But Koskinski’s air of complete physical control was undermined by his hands, which fluttered awkwardly at his pockets. Dryden concluded this man liked his own company, and possibly even prized it. He felt like an emotional trespasser but pressed on, sensitive only to his own curiosity.
‘Hi, Lyndon,’ said Dryden, his tone light, insincere, and almost perfectly pitched to avoid any real emotional contact. They shook hands. Koskinski’s eyes, dimly seen beneath the heavy upper eyelids, seemed to brighten a few watts. ‘Major Sondheim got the message to me. About Maggie. We’re both back. Estelle’s up in the room.’
Dryden saw again the newspaper picture of the baby saved from the crash at Black Bank being held up by his grandparents for the
Koskinski looked up at the half-moon Victorian window: ‘I phoned the base to see if I could get my treatment in the UK extended. The medics said Major Sondheim had left a message. So we came back…’
Nobody seemed in a hurry to go up to Maggie’s bedside. Dryden sat. ‘I was reading, yesterday, about the crash. The crash in ’76. She saved your life, that night. Bringing you out of the fire.’
Lyndon, not answering, took out a lighter. It was a Zippo, the kind pipe smokers use, and roll-your-own fanatics; standard issue for GIs. They were icons, if original, and this one was worn to a golden sheen by years of use. Koskinski flicked the top up expertly, sparked it, and examined the blue flame. Dryden noted the smell of the fuel, and a pronounced shake in the pilot’s right hand.
‘This was Dad’s,’ said Koskinski, gazing into the flame.
‘They found it?’ said Dryden. ‘At Black Bank?’
Koskinski shook his head: ‘They didn’t find anything at Black Bank. Not even a body. The coffin just carried his medals and a dress uniform. Grandpa told me that, later. I never forgave him. No, their luggage went separately from the air convoy. Clothes, some furniture, stuff from ’Nam and Cambodia. This was in a trouser pocket. Not much else.’
‘What happened to you?’ Dryden was pleased with the ambiguity of this question.
‘Nerves got shot,’ he said, examining the shaking hands.
Dryden nodded and let him fill the silence. ‘I spent some time in Al Rasheid. Baghdad Hilton. The war. Four weeks in a cell. Shit happened, every day, like the sun coming up. You don’t want to hear.’
‘Solitary?’ asked Dryden, imagining it would be better if it was.
Lyndon shook his head and took so long to answer that Dryden thought he’d have to ask again. ‘Nah. I was with Freeman, Freeman White. We came down together – engine failure. Freeman was bad. But we stayed together.’
‘Where’s Freeman?’
‘Mildenhall. Medical treatment like me, then home, I guess. Ejector seat made a mess of his head.’
Dryden winced. ‘You kept in touch with Maggie Beck. It’s been nearly thirty years.’
Koskinski seemed to think this was a question. He held his hands out, palms up, as if mystified.
‘Why now?’ said Dryden, relaxing visibly, trying to put his interviewee at ease. ‘Why visit now? Did you know Maggie was ill?’
‘No.’ He shook his head both ways as if trying to dislodge persistent desert flies. ‘They knew at home but, I guess, they felt – my folks – I had enough to deal with. I was just going home. To Austin, to Texas.’
‘Folks?’
‘My grandparents. They brought me up after the crash. We’ve talked about Maggie and they think I should stay too, hang around while she needs me. We all owe her. I was flying back to the States but they’ve got the medical teams here. I had some treatment to wait for – that’s when I ran out to Black Bank. I didn’t plan to. It just kinda happened. I’d never been. Weird.’ He shook his head again.
‘Why weird?’
‘Coming back through Mildenhall like that. Just like Dad did in ’76. I’m glad. I’m glad I’m here.’ He smiled again, and Dryden sensed a real joy, even excitement.
Lyndon flicked the Zippo lighter again, pocketed it, then looked at a watch on his wrist which would have embarrassed James Bond. ‘We’d better go. She’s out cold but the doc said I should be there when she comes out of it. If she comes out of it.’
‘We?’ said Dryden, standing reluctantly. ‘Why we?’
‘She asked. She asked both of us – Estelle and me – to make sure you were here too. She’s got something to say – to all of us.’
