With a noise like heavy mortar fire, the 737 tore apart in front of the wings and suddenly they were ploughing into, up and over the forward part of the cabin and cockpit, wrenching it aside and tilting crazily as the rest of the plane thundered over it, then sliding into a manic spin, the Kentucky wind blasting through the cabin with shocking suddenness.

Some people screamed; most just hung on grimly, like he did. He was pressed hard into the woman beside him. She was screaming so high and fluttery he could barely make out the words – ‘pleasejesuspleasejesuspleasejesusopleasejesus …’

In his head, Tom replied, ‘’Sokay’sokay’sokay …’

The spin would slow the plane. Slow was good. Maybe they’d make it …

Then there was a grinding, squealing lurch and the whole world turned upside down.

42

IN THE LEXINGTON control tower, Dylan Tether watched the 737 lumber in steep and bounce hard.

It hit again – fierce but even – and the pilot braked immediately. Dylan let out a long, hissing breath. The 737 wasn’t going to crash. Not on his watch.

The breath he blew out was 99 per cent relief.

And one per cent disappointment.

Secret disappointment, of course. He was an air traffic controller and it would never do to let anyone know – ever – that, just once, he’d like to see one of these babies hit the ground and burst into flames. It might dent folks’ confidence in him, but, boy, that would be something, wouldn’t it? Not that he wanted people to die. Far from it. In Dylan Tether’s well-hidden fantasy, he always allowed for the fact that he’d undertake some act of such bravery and derring-do that, ‘against insurmountable odds’ (he could hear the news reporter shouting in amazement), he would somehow rescue all passengers and crew by a method that was always hazy in his mind, but which left him with minor burns and an heroic (not disfiguring) scar on his face. Across his cheek, most likely. Probably earned as he dragged the unconscious flight crew out through the shattered windshield bare seconds before the cockpit was engulfed in flames.

He was brought back from his crowded split-second reverie by Jackie McKenzie muttering, ‘That’s the way. That’s the way,’ as the jet screamed down from flying to rolling.

Four fire trucks and three ambulances raced down the asphalt after the plane, like hungry puppies after a bitch, their sirens yapping and howling at being outpaced. The—

‘FUCK!’

Dylan’s heart almost stopped as the 737’s starboard engine disintegrated in an impossible instant, tore the front of the cabin half off, then the back of the plane ran over it before slewing sideways and starting to spin.

Jesus Christ!

At least the spin would slow—

But before Dylan could complete even his thought, the plane, still travelling forward too fast to bear the force of the sudden spin, flipped onto its side and cartwheeled down the Blue Grass runway.

And Dylan Tether realized, with a sick, sucker-punched feeling, that he was all about the 99 per cent, and wished he’d never imagined for one second that watching a plane hit the ground and burst into flames for real could ever be anything but fucking, fucking terrible.

*

Primed by years of mental rehearsal, Tom opened his eyes and his seatbelt clip at the same time. He fell upwards and landed hard. He grunted in pain and surprise, coughed, sucked in thick air and coughed again. Then all escape bets were off because nothing was where it should have been and the cabin was full of smoke.

He felt smooth plastic under his fingers and slowly realized he was on the cabin ceiling. Which meant the plane was upside down. He rose to his knees and reached around frantically – finally touching a headrest.

His eyes ran and burned and were pointless to open, but he kept trying, kept hoping to see something in the murk. Everything was quiet, as if he was the only person in this nightmare. He tamped down the rising panic, put up his hands and gripped the headrest – his only reference point – as he tried to align his mind’s eye with this new, unexpected world. Why had he never worked this one through in his head? He hated himself for not thinking of it.

He was five rows back.

But which way was he facing? He ran his hand over the headrest and got his bearings. That was forward. That was safety. He chanced letting go of the seat to bend and press his nose to what had been the ceiling and was now the floor. He sucked in air that made him cough, then rose to his knees again and groped in the grey tearfulness that had become his vision.

His headrest.

Remember: the way to safety was straight ahead.

He flapped his hand out to one side. Felt a cloth-covered arm hanging down towards him. Wrong side. Lucia had had short sleeves on, a blue T-shirt. This was the old woman in 15B. Tweedy jacket. He reached up and dug about in her lap until he felt the belt buckle, then yanked it open. The woman moved in his arms as he lowered her roughly to what was now the floor. He shoved her towards what he hoped was the front of the plane and left her.

He flailed with his left hand. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

He knelt again and breathed more smoky air. This time it hit him like a first cigarette. He choked and retched and panted and choked some more, gasping and wheezing.

He was running out of time. Lucia might not even be there. She might have got out – he’d told her to, hadn’t he? Made her promise.

He should get the hell out too.

He had to check.

This time he chanced half rising so he could feel further. He banged his head on another hard head hanging down. Found two more arms – one wearing a man’s watch – the other in wool.

A hand grabbed at his hair and he put up his own to feel it. A man’s hand. He grimaced as he tore his own hair out to get away, and groped blindly, his chest burning.

Then a naked arm, a woman’s small hand.

Tom guided himself up the arm until he touched the face. He went further up to the cotton-covered breast that fitted neatly in the palm of his hand.

‘Lucia!’

He shouldn’t have spoken. It took the last of his air. His head started to hurt.

He grappled with her belt. Ripped the buckle open, and she fell onto him. As he went down under her, Tom desperately tried to keep his sense of direction. He thought he had it.

Somewhere he could hear vague sirens but inside it was still so quiet. Eerily so.

On his knees, he gripped Lucia’s arm and started to drag her.

A choking, whining sound approached fast, like a ghoul in the mist, and a dark shape trampled over Lucia and fell onto Tom, flattening him with one leg twisted awkwardly.

‘Shit!’

The man lay on him, struggling, crying, his feet kicking at Tom’s hips for purchase as he tried to get up again. Tom shoved him up and forward.

‘Keep going!’ he croaked, and the man was gone.

Tom turned his face to breathe close to the new floor but this time there was little more than thick smoke, and his lungs started to burn. He put his hands round his mouth and gulped again, but it didn’t work. The air he’d breathed what seemed like hours ago was all he was going to get.

And Lucia hadn’t even had that.

His chest screaming from lack of oxygen, his eyes and nose streaming, Tom got to his feet, grabbed Lucia’s wrists again, and ran backwards with her, not caring about turning right for the door, or left, or wherever the fuck it was, just running and dragging her through the blazing horror of his juddering lungs until there was no floor, no ceiling, just a swift, airy nothingness, during which he dug his nails into Lucia’s wrists to keep her with him, then an odd squishy thump that made him think of throwing himself onto his couch at home. After that, blackness.

*