This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

 

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

 

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

 

Thirty-nine

(Saturday, October 15th)

Pilot Officer Grant is collecting the glasses and bottles, since we are on approach to Goose Bay or Charlie Yankee Yankee Romeo as we are hearing from the cockpit. It is just about eight forty-five, since this part of Newfoundland is on Atlantic Standard Time. The sun is blinding me through the window on the other side of the plane. Dad sees me flinching and closes the window shade.

Thanks, but you won’t be able to see anything.” I pat his hand, being restrained by the seat harness from doing something more dramatic.

Believe me, Daniel,” he smirks knowingly. “unless you’re a bleeding meteorologist, horticulturist or possibly a lumberjack, there’s nothing to see.”

Ron leans forward toward Seph’s shoulder. “You forgot the bears.”

That’s right,” Dad nods. “if yer a feckin’ bear, you’d probably have lots to see.”

I look out the window to check. We are just entering a bank of cloud, so everything is turning grey-white. Inside the cloud, the plane starts to sway and bounce, which is nothing drastic. But the red light glowing in the cloud on the tip of the wing somewhere near a white strobe is hypnotizing me.

Then, we fall abruptly below the cloud. And it’s not a cloud bank, as I’d just wrongly assumed; it’s grey cloud cover.

Below, we see, and I mean, as far as the eye can see, a haze covered forest, that stretches forever to meet the horizon. We’re flying over a long body of water at very low altitude and, from what we’re hearing from up front, approaching runway zero-eight.

The trees and haze are getting closer, much too close for my liking. Now, I can no longer see the tree tops from above, because we’re low enough to veritably touch them, and that’s when we feel the jolt.

Our wheels have made contact with the ground. I see the comforting lights and painted markings on the asphalt, confirming that it must, in fact, be a runway.

Looking towards the rear, I recognize the flaps on the wing in position to assist the reverse thrust of the two turbines, just like Flight Lieutenant Chance said they would be. I release the tension in my neck.

What looks like rain mixed with snow streaks the window. Raph lets out the breath he’s been holding and gives me a grin of relief. Marty is resetting his wristwatch, according to Atlantic Standard Time, that Ron is telling him about. Seph is the only one, who is apparently not relieved. He gives me a faint smile.

You okay?” I feel the sudden need to know.

He nods in affirmation. “Just extremely exhausted.”

Do you want to see a doctor, while we’re here?” I press him, and Marty, Ron and Raph exchange glances of concern.

No, Lad.” He chuckles. “I want to get home to Brighton and sleep for about a month.”

You can’t” I quip, although I’m worried about him “We have to inter your hand baggage on the 24th.” and nod toward the BOAC flight bag next to his seat.

I can sleep in Paris just as easily.”

In a hotel bed?” I add in a no-one-would-really-believe-that tone.

He shakes his head slowly. He glances at me then looks away quickly.

I find it amazing that this man has been the longest serving British spy in history, since he, at least for me, is so easy to read. “Okay, there is obviously something that you haven’t told us, and it’s preying on your conscience. Would you care to tell us what it is?”

We have a home in Brighton, which belonged to my parents. That’s where we’ll be living. At least for the time being.” He looks at the BOAC flight bag with the urn and pats it. “We also have a home in Paris, where we were all going to live happily ever after, until ...” His eyes are watery, and he lets his hand rest on the top of the bag rather than wiping his face.

The twin-engine business jet has pulled into a parking space and Flight Lieutenant Chance is about to open the door. “The Pilot Officer has reserved showers and ordered a meal for you.” He pushes his weight against the large, red, latch lever. An electrical motor hums as the door with the stairs lowers. “If you’ll follow me, I shall get you sorted.”

As I move behind Dad and Marty to the stairs in the door, a gust of cold, wet air greets me. Surprisingly, it feels good, invigorating and extremely fresh. The mixture of maritime air and this light, cold, snowy rain, being thrown at us by a brisk wind, makes me want to stand in it for a while to wash off the dust from Midwestern America.

Raph looks as if he is enjoying it as much as I am. The others, however, are moving quickly for shelter, forcing us to run to catch up.

Raph, Vince, Ron and I move to the showers, while Marty and Seph are looking for something to eat. Since Ron and Vince are several yards in front of us, I only pick up the loudly whispered response that Ron spouts: “When can we, then?” Vince shushes him and glows a tanned scarlet, as he looks at us. Ron, on the other hand, is grinning.

Raph and I get close enough as not to cause a scene with a loud voice. “I think that Dad sort of expects you to come home with us.”

I didn’t get that impression.” Vince looks uneasy. “He seems to be a bit standoffish, at best.”

He’s exhausted from the past couple of weeks.” Raph speaks up in Joseph’s defence.

He’s exhausted from the past couple a decades.” Ron adds.

I wonder how long this Ron and Comrade Joe thing has been going on. “Anyway, I’m sure, that he’s counting on both of you coming with us. But I’ll confirm it with him, after we get cleaned up, if you want.”

Please do, Dan.” Vince remains serious and walks off to a shower cubicle.

Plenty of hot water and Raph’s soaping me up feels as good as it sounds. We are both too hungry to think about sex, although I can’t resist sucking something, even if it’s just for a couple of seconds.

When I open my backpack, I am amazed at how much my Raph managed to get into the 25-litre, camouflaged bag. A whole set of civilian clothes, a sweater and my penny loafers. I get dressed and tie the combat boots together by their strings.

Carrying our field jackets under our arms and the boots dangling off our backpacks, we go look for Seph and Marty. We cross the large, carpeted lounge, feeling somewhat worn and famished.

And just before we get to their table, a large, burly, uniformed man approaches. “You do realize that you are out of uniform?”

Marty bristles and looks aggressively at the man. I turn to see a visage resembling that of an overfed bulldog, growling at me. So, I get into his face. “And?”

This is a military installation, and you are not allowed to be here without--”

--Oy!” I picked up this word from an English film, I’d once seen years back, not remembering anything other than that ‘Oy!’ gets attention. Then, reverting to my best Ulster accent: “D’ya feckin’ see any bleedin’ insignia?”

Uh?” The NATO Bulldog stammers. “Well, no. But that doesn’t--”

--then, a word ta the feckin’ wise:” I’m back in his face. “Piss off!”

At this not terribly subtle display of civilian prowess, Flight Lieutenant Chance appears, seemingly out of nowhere. “Is anything amiss, My lord?” Seph can’t contain his snicker, and Marty covers his smirk.

Now, our being in a class-oriented society and at a military airport in said class-oriented society, and being that Flight Lieutenant Chance obviously outranks the Bulldog, and the ranking officer’s referring to me as a member of the aristocracy sends said Bulldog into a tailspin of copious apology but standing on military protocol.

Therefore, in the interest of all things orderly and proper, he demands to see Flight Lieutenant Chance’s authorization, which the good Flight Lieutenant duly produces. It reads in essence: No. 32 Squadron RAF, Royal Flight for Lord Mongrain-Bourke & entourage, and he adds: “It’s the Royal Blue Hawker Siddeley, HS-125.” He nods toward the large window, through which the aircraft is clearly visible. “There is a reason for the colour, you know, Sergeant?”

This now starts the Bulldog’s “I can’t tell you how sorry…” bowing and scraping and ends with my being very magnanimous, i.e., not asking for his head, but requesting to be left alone.

« Vous êtes tous les deux trop méchants. » is Dad’s remark, with Marty nodding in agreement but grinning, then realizing that, since Canada is bilingual, everyone in the place has likely understood that Dad thinks the two of us are naughty. “Would you stop making a scene, Daniel?”

Being a model of tact, he leaves the good Flight Lieutenant out of the English admonition, who then nods and presumably returns to what he was doing. “Please, Lad, do not get us into trouble. I want to get home.”

Under one condition.” I grin at Marty and wink at Dad.

He sighs to signal that I’m approaching the limit. “And that being?”

That Vince and Ron can come home with us.”

Thought that was the plan.” He looks at Marty and then back at me as if requiring an explanation. “Of course, they may.”

As he is saying this, Ron and Vince appear, freshly washed but still in uniform, being eyed by the Bulldog, who, however, keeps his distance. Seph motions for them to hurry to the table, as Raph and I go to the buffet. The food is abundant but bland, reflecting the forested countryside, the weather and its institutional origin. When we return to the table, Dad is explaining their status of being permanently welcome in his house.

Does your Ma know that you’ll be home for a fortnight?” He’s giving Vince a stern look but not his Irish one.

I’ve not had time to phone her.” Vince sees where this is headed.

And is there any chance that she or your Da would just happen to show up in Brighton?” Joseph is looking at all the angles.

Not likely.” Vince gives Ron a shy smile. “An entire flat, you say?”

The property was converted into flats in the 1930s, after my father died, and most of us had left.” Joseph is explaining things to Vince. Although I know that it’s uncalled for, I’m feeling just a bit left out, since this is also new to me. “There are four floors and a basement, making six flats, and leaving the ground floor and basement for family use.”

Hmm, basement” I coo. “Now, that must be cosy in damp weather.” I glance out the large window toward the plane. The rain has picked up.

Dad and Vince chuckle, and Vince takes it upon himself to explain: “On Sussex Square, the houses don’t have basements, like you have in North America. They’re not subterranean. In the front, they are below street level but with full windows and a small paved area, and in the back, they are at ground level. So, if you have rooms in the basement, you have access to the garden.”

Raph looks at me; I look at Marty; Marty shrugs: “Hey, different folks, different strokes.”

Anyway,” Seph clears his throat and returns to Vince. “the four flats at the top have tenants. But the two on the first floor are both unoccupied. They are identical one-bedroom affairs with a terrace overlooking the gardens on the square. Dan and Raphaël get the one and you and Ron can have the other.”

For the entire fortnight?” Vince sounds relieved, but it’s mixed with apprehension, that this might be just too good to be true.

Naught, I think we should make this permanent.” Seph’s tone is telling us that there will be no discussion.

And what are you asking for it.” Vince is looking at the practical side.

That you and Ron behave yourselves.” Dad chuckles.

I’m talking about pounds, shillings and pence, Joseph.” Vince’s voice is prim.

There are no pounds, shillings and pence involved, Vincent. End of bleedin’ story.” Now, Vince is introduced to Dad’s Irish look.

And why are you givin’ us a place rent free?” Ron wants to know.

What did you used to call me?”

Ron chuckles. “Comrade Joe.”

There you have it.”

Flight Lieutenant Chance comes to the table to inform us that due to changing weather conditions, we’ll be leaving somewhat ahead of schedule, and consequently, he has filed a revised flight plan. Marty, Vince and Ron storm the buffet to get a quick bite. We stand up and gather our things.

Since Raph and I have Seph by himself, Raph gets to the point: “And the real reason?”

We have three problems, which can be solved with a random gesture of kindness.” Dad laughs to himself. “Firstly, Martin should have people near, whom he knows to have lived in Kansas City other than just us. Secondly, while you were in the washrooms, I phoned Richard in Winnipeg and he told me that Vincent has applied to be demobbed,” Seph recognizes our questioning looks. “to leave the service, because he’s not dealing well with the stress of sequestered life. And it has been approved. Thirdly, I want people living above me whom I can turn over my knee, rather than a buncha feckin’ hippies stompin’ about above me bleedin’ head day and night.”

We smoke dope, too.” Raph teases.

It’ll take more than that to make you lot hippies.” Seph laughs and turns to go back to the plane.

Raph and I wait at the door for the others, who are munching on chicken legs as they walk with Flight Lieutenant Chance, who’s bringing up the rear. “All set?” he inquires with a full mouth, staring the Bulldog down, one last time in passing.

I guess.” Raph’s voice has an apprehensive side to it. “What kind of changing weather conditions?”

The Flight Lieutenant wipes his hands and mouth on a paper napkin and deposits it into the waste bin along with the chicken bone. “Clear-air turbulence is moving up from Maine and is on the increase, which could delay us indefinitely, if we don’t get out now.”

Is that dangerous?” Raphaël doesn’t seem as concerned as I am.

It can be, if it results in low-altitude wind shears, which we can’t see.” Not waiting for our confused faces. “A wind shear occurs when, for example, a headwind whips round to become a tailwind.” He’s checking for concerned looks. Since mine is the only one out of five, he continues. “Say, we’ve just past the final approach point at 100 knots with a headwind of 20 knots. Then, the wind whips round to become a gusty tailwind of 15 knots on average. That would make the aircraft pitch downward, and if we’re too close to the ground, it could mean an unfortunate outcome.”

I like that. ‘An unfortunate outcome’ is much more delicate than ‘crash’. “Is there any danger of that happening today?” I go for the whole truth.

Not if we get airborne within the next twenty minutes.” He glances at his watch for confirmation. “We’re going to have a less than smooth takeoff, as it is. But it’s still viable without using too much fuel.” He takes his humour to the limit, and, to judge by his mischievous grin, he knows it. “Swimming in the North Atlantic off Iceland this time of year is rather unpleasant. Or so I’ve been told.”

As we climb the five steps into the aircraft, we see Pilot Officer Grant seated across from Joseph, who is nipping on what appears to be his favourite amber coloured beverage. The Pilot Officer gets up off the grey-blue, leather seat, where Marty had been sitting during the flight from Winnipeg. He greets us with: “Gentlemen.” He nods knowingly at the Flight Lieutenant. “Do you wish anything to drink before takeoff?”

Oddly, everybody declines. I think mainly because we all just want to get things underway. We still have six and a half hours flight time with a thirty minute fuelling stop at Keflavik according to our flight plan.

I think it’s really cool, that Raph, Marty, Ron and I will all first arrive on European soil in Iceland. Although, I don’t think we’ll be getting off the plane; since it’s only a fuelling stop. So probably, we’ll actually first set foot on European soil in England. Things are slowly starting to take on proper perspective.

Of course, the ‘Fasten Seat Belt – No Smoking’ sign has been on ever since we came into the final approach here at Goose Bay. Now, we are taxiing to the end of the runway to start our three-and-a-half-hour flight to Keflavik. Since none of the buildings looks familiar, we are probably going to take off on the North/South runway. I decide to leave the piloting up to the two Royal Air Force officers, who obviously know what they are doing, and think of something else.

My mind has been on sensory overload since the day of Mack's funeral. That was two weeks ago today. Since then, life has changed for Raph and me more fundamentally than during the sum total of our previous seventeen years.

Come to think of it, maybe, change isn’t the right term. Our lives have had to readjust more rapidly than ever before. And luckily, Raph and I have been able to do this together. Of course, I can’t speak for him, but I’m certain that I could not have done any of this alone. And then we have all the help from Dad.

The twin engines are screaming to be set free, and the pilots release the brakes. We’re off.

This time the runway is less bumpy than when we take to the air. We are climbing more sharply than we did in Winnipeg. It feels as if the plane is sliding up a washboard. Then, we’re in freefall. And before the chill can climb from my tailbone to the top of my spine, we’re above the clouds, and brilliant sunshine is filling the cabin.

I look at Raph and he is forcing a smile; his fingers are gripping the grey-blue armrests tightly enough to leave permanent marks in the leather. I force my fingertips to release the armrests.

Marty, on the other hand, is reading a paperback, and Seph is casually sipping his whiskey. Ron seems to be sleeping, and I can’t see Vince, since he is directly behind me. Somehow all of this indifference to the so-far spine-tingling flight appears to be disingenuous. I can tell when people are acting, and I can smell fear circulating in the cabin. It smells like the theatre’s dressing room on opening night minus the greasepaint and bouquets.

The ‘No Smoking’ part of the sign goes off, so I fumble in my left upper pocket of my field jacket to retrieve my cigarettes and Zippo. I light the cigarette and return to my thoughts about how Dad has helped us through all this, when it dawns on me that he is the cause.

I give that thought free rein to see if it would change anything about the way I feel. Like with everything in life, there is the advantageous side and the disadvantageous side. But, without getting sentimental, I have to say that the good times by far outweigh the bad.

True, his work, which I knew nothing about, is the reason we are fleeing the place where I grew up. True, he let me be abused, both mentally and physically, by his wife and led me to believe that she was my mother.

But it is also true, that had he not had the work, which is the reason we are fleeing, Raph and I would not have been protected and helped to this extent. It would have been left to us to get to England, whichever way we could. And, whenever there was an altercation with Mildred or Busby, he generally took my side, or at least, got me out of their line of attack.

All in all, he’s a pretty good father and a damned good friend. With this thought lingering in my mind, I put the cigarette out in the ashtray in the armrest. Directly below the ashtray, I discover the lever, which allows the back to recline. I let the seat back down a little and close my eyes to relax. Of a sudden, I reach the same drowsy, careless state that I used to get, lying in the front-porch hammock back on Quincy.

Everything is fine; Raph is near. Everything is great; Raph and Dad are near. Everything is at its best, since not only are Raph and Dad near, but our bodyguard and friend is near, and we’re sitting in a military plane way outside the jurisdiction of the United States,’ are my last thoughts as I drift off in the comfort of being absolutely safe.

***

Raph’s hand on my knee jolts me to my senses. « Nous sommes arrivés, mon amant. » And, of course, I think he means that we’ve arrived at our fuelling stop in Iceland. I look out through the window and see Dad and Marty standing on the tarmac talking to someone in uniform. Ron and Vince are also climbing down the five steps.

Pilot Officer Grant is standing behind the seat where Marty was, smiling. “That you had such a sound sleep is the best compliment any pilot can have. Glad to have had you on board.”

I’m still drowsy and not quite cognisant of where we are. I look around to get my bearings. I give Raph a puzzled glance. And only when Pilot Officer Grant says: “We’re home.” does it dawn on me that we must be at Northolt.

Oh, uh, well, hmm,” I pick up my backpack and sling it over my left shoulder. “thanks for the lift.”

Any time, Sir.” which I interpret as a request to get off the plane, so he can go home.

Raph precedes me down the steps. Everyone is a bit jittery, but I put it down to being tired, until Dad introduces me to the man in uniform as Mr. Fearless.

And he sleeps like a feckin’ baby through turbulence, an aborted landing in Iceland and twenty minutes of circling in the landing pattern over London.” Seph looks at me as if I had two heads.

Lads,” Seph now presents the tall blond guy in uniform to us. “this is Wing Commander Jean-Luc MacDonald, better known as ‘Lucky Luc’, your second cousin, who’s going to let us hitch a lift on his chopper to RAF Wartling, just north of Brighton.”

Finally, I’m awake. We are actually being greeted by family. We have cousins, and, as a matter of deduction, aunts and uncles. Jean-Luc even looks the part. He and Dad are obviously related.

Of course, this is nothing new for Raph; he has loads of cousins. But it’s a first for me. And by the look on his face, it’s new for Marty, as well. The way Marty and I are gazing at him sends blood rushing into his fair complexion. I come to my senses and nudge Marty. “I’m sorry, Jean-Luc, but you’re the first cousin I’ve ever met.” Marty nods.

Uh, right, then,” His face is scarlet and radiating heat into the brisk night air. “hmm, welcome home.” He manages a brisk smile. “We should get moving. This way.” His stride is just as brisk as his smile. Marty falls into step. “Military?” Jean-Luc wants to know, as his smile turns much warmer.

Was once, Sir.”

Last unit?” Now, I’m wondering, of course, if this is ordinary military banter, since Marty seems so absolutely comfortable. Personally, I’d be asking the wee fecker if he ever uses a predicate to go with the subject.

US Army Special Forces.”

Green Beret, huh?” Jean-Luc straightens his back. Guess he’s impressed. Vince and Ron, who are directly behind the two, exchange glances.

Action, I presume.” Jean-Luc glances at a twin-engine helicopter.

RVN” Marty replies.

Decorations?” Our cousin’s stride isn’t as stiff as it was.

Marty’s voice is barely audible over the whine of engines. “Two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star, Sir.”

Impressive. And all the more impressive, you’ve returned them to the Pentagon, I understand.” Obviously, Jean-Luc is used to projecting his voice over the sounds of aircraft. “And now, you’re one of us.” The Wing Commander’s facial expression becomes much more cordial, if not likeable. “You’ll fit in nicely, Martin.” He pats Marty on the shoulder, and I notice that Jean-Luc and Marty could be brothers. “But first of all, we have to get you lot cleared through Immigration and Customs.”

Marty enters the shed first and presents his laissez-passer to the uniformed woman, who smiles very broadly, as she looks at us. “We’ve been expecting you and your family, Mr. Mongrain-Bourke. I take it, your flight was enjoyable?”

Not knowing quite what to say, “Hmm, it was okay.” will have to do. Then, Marty gives her his down-home smile to match his Ozark drawl. “But thank y’all fer askin’, Ma’am.”

She blushes and stares down at her inkpad and entry stamp, stationed in the upper right-hand corner of her pulpit. “Uh, well ehmm, uhm, welcome home.” Apparently, Marty is having an odd effect on his new compatriots.

She is still the colour of beetroot, when I approach the desk, and she gives me an awkward, lopsided smile. Without as much as checking my face against the picture, she stamps my passport as arrived, and returns my dark-blue booklet.

When Raph approaches the bench, she really turns on the charm. I imagine it’s the name, Yves-Raphaël Mongrain-Bourke, which prompts her to ask en français if he speaks it, as well. And, of course, my man, Raph, never one to let a fellow human down, or to put anyone on the spot, simply replies: « Oui. » And when she hands him his stamped passport, he smiles. « Merci. »

« Ce n'est rien du tout, monsieur Mongrain-Bourke. À votre service. » The woman is falling all over herself, concerned about Raph something fierce and is still following his tight ass with her eyes, when Dad approaches.

Bringing up the rear, Seph also gets the cold shoulder. She’s not impolite to him, just totally indifferent. Something is amiss, aside from the fact that no Customs officers are to be found, and I’m determined to find out what it is. I wait for him outside the Custom’s shed. “What’s with her? She was acting like you and I don’t exist.”

Seph laughs loudly. “Martin and Raphaël have double-barrelled surnames. You and I don’t, at least, not in the passports.”

Jean-Luc overhears what we are discussing and responds to my confused, frustrated face. “If you have a so-called double-barrelled name, you’re considered at the top of the Middle Class. Therefore, Mongrain-Bourke puts you a whole station above your simple Bourke. Welcome home, Daniel.” He and Seph share a gut laugh, as we continue to walk toward a Range Rover.

As compensation for having been ignored at passport check, would you like to drive to the helipad?” Jean-Luc holds out the keys, probably expecting me to decline.

Sure.” I take the keys and head for the driver’s door on the right. His mouth isn’t quite gaping, but he is surprised when I get the correct side of the car. Seph and Marty are almost smirking. “You’ll have to tell me where to turn.” I inform my cousin, while he’s climbing onto the front, left passenger seat next to Raph, who is seated in the centre next to me.

I wait for Ron and Vince to get settled in the back, then start the engine and put it into gear and pull out of the parking berth. When I change smoothly into second gear, he turns to glare at Seph.

Thought you said, he’d never been here before.” Then to me: “A sharp left at the roundabout." Jean-Luc's glare refocuses on Seph.

He’d never as much as had a feckin’ passport till this Wednesday past.” Dad lets his right hand rest on my right shoulder and squeezes lightly.

So, he practised operating a right-hand drive Land Rover on the left side of the road in Kansas City?” Jean-Luc sneers.

No, Sir,” Marty’s voice becomes camp Ozark. “His car had right-hand drive all along, ‘n’ in Missoura, we drive down the middle o’ the road anyhow, so it don't make no difference.”

Sarcastic giggles arise from Vince and Ron in the very back. Seph limits himself to mild chuckles and a sneeze. Raph snorts and apologises.

Then using the educated Southern English (from the South of England not Mississippi) accent I had to learn in order to play Algernon Moncrieff in The Importance of Being Earnest, I conjecture: “Could it possibly be that I’m a quick study?”

The conversation screeches to a halt, which I didn’t intend. The only things Jean-Luc is now saying is ‘left’ and ‘right’ and ‘stop’. He motions for us to get out. He motions for us to board. He motions for us to sit.

The helicopter, which is a Bristol Belvedere, according to Jean-Luc’s pilot and a Type 192 according to Vince, is one Hell of a lot less comfortable than the twin-engine jet. And thankfully, the flight will be less than thirty minutes. Since Jean-Luc is not piloting the chopper, he’s on the co-pilot’s seat and doesn’t look back.

Marty is very tensed. Dad holds his hand, which I think is sweet. But naturally, I want to know, what the matter is. Jean-Luc’s mood couldn’t be the problem.

He swallows and tries to speak up. “The last time I was in a chopper, it got shot down.”

Seph pats Marty's hand. "I think we can rule that out over the Home Counties."

Unless...” My grin indicates mischievousness, and Seph puts a stop to it with an abbreviated Irish look. I nod in acquiescence. He’s right. It’s enough that I somehow pissed off Jean-Luc.

Unless what?” Raph wants to know.

Never mind.” My demeanour shifts to borderline sheepish. “I was going to be a smart ass at our big brother’s expense. But it isn’t worth it. It wasn’t all that funny, anyway.”

Marty, who is strapped in next to me on the long wooden bench, lays his head on my shoulder. “For a kid brother, you’re awfully considerate.”

I can throw a shit fit, if it’d make you feel better.” I glance at Dad, who is doing his damndest trying to keep a straight face but losing the battle.

I dare you.” is Marty’s reply.

And “Stop it! The both of yus!” is Seph’s.