"You wait here and watch for our flight departure, I'm going to have a look around the Duty Free shop," I told Uncle Hobart. "And keep an eye on our suitcases while I'm gone, you know what these places are like. And when they call our flight come and get me if I'm not back. And whatever you do, don't..."
Uncle Hobart held up a hand. "Fer God's sake, Peter boy, will yer shut up? I ain't a little kid yer know."
Looking at him with raised eyebrows I pursed my lips, then turned stiffly away.
*
"Will Mr Barns please go to the nearest courtesy phone. Mr Barns to the nearest courtesy phone, please." I was in the middle of choosing an expensive bottle of whisky when the announcement caught my attention. " ...please go to the nearest courtesy phone."
Running to the nearest white phone I snatched up the receiver. "Hello, my name's Barns. Have you been paging me?"
"Your flight has been called twice now Mr Barns and unless you get to the departure lounge immediately the plane will be leaving without you."
Slamming the receiver back into its cradle I ignored the urgent shouts of the shop assistant and hotfooted it through the crowds with thoughts of a ruined holiday looming large in my mind. I spotted Uncle Hobart as soon as I entered the large hanger-like lounge. He was sitting with his feet up on our suitcases, watching the overhead monitors.
Running up, I breathlessly slapped his feet to the floor and stood over him. "For God's sake Uncle Hobart!" I shouted between breaths. "Why didn't you call me?"
"What's up?" he asked, rubbing his ankle in indignation.
"Can't you read or are you just bloody daft, man?" I shouted at him. "They've called our flight twice already." I glanced at the departure monitor, then turned back to give him another piece of my mind, but my head snapped back in a double take. The monitor showed a view of a sunny beach full of bronzed girls wearing scanty red swimming costumes. "What?" I asked pointing at the monitor, more than a touch confused.
"Thought I'd take look at 'Bum Watch' while I were waiting," Uncle Hobart said with a self-satisfied smirk. "All them numbers and things were getting boring, like."
"But it's supposed to be showing the flight departure times, not bloody 'Bay Watch'! What the hell's going on?" I demanded.
Uncle Hobart clicked his dentures, smiling proudly. "I stuck one o' our metal coat-'angers in the back. Works a treat, don't it?"
For a second, I came near to strangling him but just managed to stop myself. I wanted to spend the next two weeks in the South of France, not the local nick.
"What's that?" Uncle Hobart asked, pointing at my jacket.
"Oh shit!" I swore, patting my pocket. I'd run out of the Duty Fee shop without paying for the bottle of very expensive whisky. "Come on," I ordered. "I'll pay for it on the plane. We haven't got time to go back now."
"But if yer..."
Not stopping to argue, I grabbed the back of Uncle Hobart's coat collar, pulling him off the seat. With him in one hand and my suitcase in the other, I set off for the departure gate at a fast run. As he slid across the smooth tiles on his backside, Uncle Hobart's shoulder bag swung back and forth in a half circle on its long strap, bowling people over like skittles.
"Through here, please sir." I followed the smartly dressed attendant, hurrying through the metal detector, still dragging Uncle Hobart after me. The alarm went off with a discordant shriek and everybody's eyes turned in our direction. "Excuse me sir," the attendant smiled down at Uncle Hobart, who was now struggling to stand up. "Do you have any metal objects about your person?"
Regaining his feet, Uncle Hobart fished about in his pockets for a moment, finally pulling out a large bunch of keys.
"What the hell did you bring those for?" I asked, exhaling loudly.
"Didn't want ter leave 'em with those 'ouse sitters yer 'ired, did I? They might 'ave gone through all me stuff if I 'ad."
The attendant gently removed the keys from Uncle Hobart's grubby hand and led him back to the metal detector which discordantly rejected him for the second time.
I shuffled about impatiently. "Come on, come on, get all that stuff out of your pockets or we'll miss our bloody plane."
"Can't 'elp it, can I?" he complained. "It ain't my fault if I got a bleedin' metal plate in me 'ead, is it?"
"Metal plate? What the hell are you going on about now?" This was news to me.
"Got it in the war, didn't I?" he said, rapping his head. "'Ad 'alf me nut shot off when I were fighting in the dessert."
"Well that explains a lot," I muttered under my breath. Turning to the attendant, I raised my eyebrows and shrugged. Her smile had been replaced with a frown. "What now?" I asked.
Muttering under her breath, she waved us through.
*
A barrage of shouts and catcalls erupted as we boarded the plane.
"About time!"
"Hurry it up will you, we haven't got all day!"
"Are these the people we've been waiting for mummy?"
We were assailed with disparaging remarks from all sides and more grumbling and mumbling followed as we pushed our way along the narrow row of seats to our places.
I sat down with a sigh, swearing when Uncle Hobart jabbed a sharp elbow into my ribs. "Thought yer said yer were going ter get us window seats?" he grumbled.
I looked passed Uncle Hobart towards the two window seats I'd booked. One was filled to overflowing by a very large, very mean looking man who was wiping sweat from his bald head with a hand that would not have been out of place on a gorilla. Sitting next to him was a smaller but no less mean looking version, who I guessed to be his son. His piggy little eyes and close-cropped hair made him a clone of his father. They looked remarkably similar to a boar and piglet that we'd reared on the farm a few years before.
I lowered my voice as pig-boy glared at me. "No," I lied, "all the window seats were already taken." Uncle Hobart clicked his dentures in annoyance, while I clicked my seat belt in contrition. "I didn't know you had a metal plate in your head," I said above the noise of the engines as they warmed up.
Uncle Hobart smiled, winking at me. "I ain't," he replied.
"What was all that about in the airport, then?" I frowned.
Fishing about in his back pocket, Uncle Hobart brought out an enormous, silver hip flask. "Didn't want 'em finding this, did I? It's full o' me old dad's secret whisky recipe. I brewed some up t'other day, which ain't strictly legal like. If they'd 'ave found it they'd 'ave probably done us fer running an illicit still or some'at." Uncapping the flask, he took a hefty swig then held it out to me. "Want some?"
"Great," I moaned, looking at the ceiling. Sighing heavily, I took the flask from his hand and had a swallow, then held onto my seat as my head did its best to leave my shoulders. After getting my eyes back under control, I took a deep breath, trying to speak. "Hhhunnnn ... hhhunnnn ... hhhunnnn," was all I could managed. After taking a few deep breaths, I was more successful. "What the hell is that?" I finally managed in something slightly above a coarse whisper.
Uncle Hobart smiled proudly. "Secret, ain't it? Me dad - God rest 'is soul - taught me 'ow ter make it. 'E reckoned it'd burn paint off o' woodwork, given 'alf the chance."
I was struck by a sudden thought. "It's because you're afraid of flying, isn't it? That's what all this is about. The fiasco with the detector and the metal plate in your head. It was so they wouldn't find your whisky because you need to be half-pissed to fly." I laughed delightedly. "That's it, isn't it?" Uncle Hobart's shoulders slumped and he took another pull from his flask, suddenly looking small and wizened. "Why didn't you tell me you were afraid of flying?" I asked him gently.
"Didn't think it would affect me so bad, not after all this time," he confided in a low voice.
"What time? What're you on about now?"
"Well, when I were a fighter pilot in the war and…"
I groaned loudly. "Oh do me a favour, Uncle Hobart. Not more of your crazy war stories. I'm really not in the mood."
He harrumphed, took another swig of his whisky and promptly fell asleep, which didn't surprise me one bit because one sip of that firewater would have knocked out Cassius Clay.
*
Returning to my seat, I slumped down. Uncle Hobart raised his eyebrows at me. I shook my head. "It's no use," I said quietly, "they're fully booked. No spare seats anywhere."
We'd spent the past hour being tormented to the point of suicide by pig-boy, who was doing everything in his power to make our flight a living hell. His repertoire of annoying habits ranged from non-stop accidental kicking, through spilt drinks and sticky sweets over our cloths, to insulting remarks about Uncle Hobart's wrinkles. Pig-boy's father just smiled indulgently at his son, glaring at us whenever we muttered a half-hearted complaint under our breaths. I got the distinct impression that any direct criticism would be answered with a big fat fist.
The stewardess stopped at my seat. "Would you like a drink, sir?" she asked.
"I want a drink dad, I want a drink," pig-boy piped up.
The stewardess' gaze shifted to pig-dad. "And what would your son like to drink, sir?"
"Why don't you ask him instead of bothering me when I'm trying to get some sleep?" was the surly reply.
The stewardess sniffed disdainfully, looking at pig-boy with a forced smile.
"I want an orange drink," he shouted, "but a big one this time. Not like the last one, that was weeny."
The stewardess poured an orange drink into a plastic cup and handed it to me. "Would you pass this along to the little boy?" she asked.
I passed the drink to Uncle Hobart but when I turned back the stewardess had disappeared up the aisle with her trolley. "Hey," I called after her, "what about my drink?" She ignored my shouts and kept going.
Pig-boy suddenly jumped up, grabbed the orange drink out of Uncle Hobart's hand and roughly pushed his way passed us. As he did so, he kicked my ankle and spilt orange down the leg of my new trousers. Grinding my teeth together, I swore under my breath and dabbed ineffectually at the dark stain with a tissue. As he reached the aisle, Pig-boy stuffed his drink into my hand. "Here mister," he ordered, "hold this until I get back." So saying, he headed off in the direction of the toilets.
Uncle Hobart leant over taking the half-empty plastic cup from my hand. "Give it 'ere," he muttered. After checking that pig-dad was still asleep, Uncle Hobart topped up the orange drink from his hip flask and winked at me. "There, that should keep the little bugger quiet fer awhile."
"For goodness sake, Uncle Hobart," I whispered in his ear. "What're you doing?"
Ignoring my protest, he carefully placed the doctored drink on the tray, and after pig-boy had pushed his way back to his seat, Uncle Hobart smiled at him sweetly, patting him on his head. "There yer are little boy, there's yer drink."
Pig-boy snatched up the plastic cup and downed the lot in one gulp, as though he was afraid that Uncle Hobart might pinch it from him. As the alcohol hit the back of his throat, pig-boy's eyes bulged and he coughed, splattering orange juice all over Uncle Hobart. Swearing profusely Uncle Hobart grabbed pig-boy's ear, twisting it sharply. Pig-dad's eyes flicked open at his son's squeal of pain and Uncle Hobart quickly let go.
"Boy's will be boys, won't they?" Uncle Hobart said with a forced smile. "Tell you what little man, why don't I go and get you a refill?"
Throwing me a smouldering look, Uncle Hobart set off down the aisle in search of the stewardess. I settled back in my seat trying to read the magazine I'd bought at the airport. Reading was something I usually enjoyed but I soon gave up, frustrated by the constant jostling from the repugnant and undisciplined little monster sitting two seats away. Uncle Hobart came shuffling back, handed pig-boy a fresh cup of orange juice, smiled knowingly at me and settled back in his seat and it wasn't long before he was gently snoring again.
*
"Dad I feel sick." The urgency of the words woke me from a light doze and glancing over at pig-boy, I saw at once that his face was a putrid green colour. Before I could warn Uncle Hobart what was about to happen, pig-boy threw up all over him.
There was no reaction for a moment, then Uncle Hobart twitched his nose a couple of times. Slowly opening his eyes, he gazed down in a kind of bemused fascination at the mess in his lap. A look of utter repulsion suddenly crossed his face and without uttering a word he stood up, yanking pig-boy to his feet by a handful of hair. "Yer little brat," he hissed at the small boy. "I've a good mind ter give yer a bleedin' good 'iding!"
Jumping up, I quickly pulled Uncle Hobart's hands from around pig-boy's throat. "For God's sake," I urged. "Let go, you're strangling him."
As Uncle Hobart released his grip, pig-boy dropped to the floor in an ungainly heap and began to cry. Pig-dad's eyes snapped open and he lumbered to his feet. My stomach sank.. I'd not realised quite how big he was. He bore down on us like a huge bear; red faced, jowls quivering, hands outstretched. Moving fast, pig-dad pushed me aside as though I was an inconvenient curtain, grabbing Uncle Hobart by the front of his shirt, the meaty hand tightened its grip and I watched in dismay as Uncle Hobart was lifted clean off his feet.
I was gnawing at pig-dad's ear, in the vain hope that it might make him release Uncle Hobart, when I heard a sharp metallic click from somewhere behind me. Pig-dad unexpectedly loosened his hold on Uncle Hobart's neck and stumbled backwards. The expression on Uncle Hobart's face set the hairs on the back of my neck tingling and I slowly turned around, drawn by the fear reflected in his eyes, to find myself staring at a small black hole. The small black hole suddenly grew to the size of an old fashioned coal lid when I realised I was staring down the barrel of a gun. A warm, wet sensation spread down my legs.
"He's done pee-pee," pig-boy jeered gleefully in his alcoholic haze.
As I moved my gaze upwards from the gun to the man who was holding it, a broad Mediterranean face, sporting a large floppy moustache and thick black eyebrows, came into focus. He smiled, the overhead lights glinting from the gold crowns on his evenly spaced teeth. Cold, almost black eyes, stared into mine and I felt my testicles shrivel up as they burrowed their way into my stomach. He was one mean looking bastard.
His well modulated voice reached to every part of the cabin, its tone matching his eyes. "We're taking control of this flight," he said. "Do as you are told and you will be okay. Make trouble and my friend over there will take great pleasure in making sure that you only do it the once."
All eyes swivelled to another man standing by the central exit door. He had an implacable expression and a very big pistol. Floppy moustache poked me in the chest with the barrel of his gun. "Sit down and shut up," he ordered.
"And where the hell do you get off ordering people around like that?" an arrogant voice demanded.
Holding my breath, I closed my eyes and cringed as pig-dad's words echoed around the cabin. He was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid: I favoured stupid. Floppy moustache leant forward, gently inserting the barrel of his gun into one of pig-dad's nostrils. Then snapping the gun upwards, he bounced pig-dad's head off the overhead locker with a dull thud. Pig-dad's eyes rolled upwards until only the whites showed before he slowly collapsed backwards into his seat. As floppy moustache joined his companion by the exit door, I made up my mind that pig-dad was indeed incredibly stupid.
As I sat back down into my seat, I could hear Uncle Hobart mumbling away to himself. "What was that?" I whispered from the corner of my mouth.
He clicked his dentures angrily. "I said that swarthy little git deserves a good 'iding and I'd do it meself if I were young enough."
"For Christ's sake," I hissed urgently. "Will you keep your bloody voice down."
"Huh, ain't frightened o' them cretins," he said loudly.
"Well I am," I retorted, fidgeting about in my seat. "Have you seen the amount of explosives hanging from that guy's belt?"
Uncle Hobart's answer was a series of gentle snores. I couldn't believe it, he'd gone off to sleep again.
*
The next hour was uneventful, if stressful. Floppy moustache disappeared onto the flight deck, while the walking-bomb lounged against the exit door, occasionally picking his nose and examining the results. He'd taken off his bulky anorak and now everybody could see the collection of small packages hanging around his waist. They sent shivers down my spine.
"Bloody great," I muttered at the ceiling, "Airport security can sniff out Uncle Hobart's hip flask at fifty paces, but ask them to find a bloody bomb."
Turning my attention to pig-dad, I saw he was still slumped in his seat, a thin line of dried blood tracking down his cheek. Pig-boy, as though in an unconscious imitation of his father, sat in a glassy-eyed, drunken stupor, silent for the first time during the flight. The plane banked sharply and I felt Uncle Hobart jerk awake beside me. "You alright?" I checked.
"Yeah, but I could do with a drink. 'Ow about buzzing the stewardess?"
"Are you serious?" I pointed at the hijacker and Uncle Hobart's eyes widened when he spotted the explosives draped around the man's waist.
"Well perhaps later then," he agreed, clicking his dentures thoughtfully. Wriggling himself into a more comfortable position in the narrow seat, he looked at me. "So what's been going on then?"
The plane completed its turn then levelled out again. "Feels like we've changed direction," I muttered.
The 'Fasten Your Seat Belts' sign flashed on and a voice addressed us over the tannoy. "Ladies and Gentlemen this is your captain, please fasten your seat belts. We will be landing shortly to refuel." From the calm tone of the pilot's voice you would have been forgiven for thinking that nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that we were coming in to land at our holiday destination.
I heard Uncle Hobart whispering to pig-boy and leant forward, trying to overhear what he was saying. Pig-boy's face broke into a broad grin and he nodded enthusiastically. From the way his eyes moved independently of each other, I guessed he must have downed at least half the contents of Uncle Hobart's hip-flask. Uncle Hobart slipped him a ten-pound note, which quickly disappeared down the front of his shirt. The next instant pig-boy had dropped onto his hands and knees, disappearing beneath the seats.
"What's going on?" I whispered, a sinking sensation starting in the pit of my stomach.
"I've bribed 'im ter deliver a secret message ter the pilot," Uncle Hobart confided with a wink.
"But the hijacker'll spot him as soon as he tries to cross the aisle by the exit door. He'll never make it. Anyway, what are you sending the pilot a message for? How's that going to help? He already knows all about the hi-jack."
"Maybe it's the messenger that counts, not the message," Uncle Hobart whispered, laying a finger along the side of his nose. He nodded at the central exit door. "Maybe I've convinced 'im that's the pilot's door. After all, it is such a lovely 'ot day. The kind o' day when yer just might want ter take a walk" Before I could make any sense of what he was saying, Uncle Hobart shouted along the cabin at the hijacker. "Oy you!" he called, pointing a gnarled finger at the man. "What've I got ter do ter get ter use the loo around 'ere? I'm breaking me bleedin' neck."
Pushing himself away from the door the hijacker took a couple of steps into the central aisle, a slow smile spreading across his face, a look of sadistic pleasure entering his eyes. "Why don't you come down here and find out, old man," he sneered, crooking a finger at Uncle Hobart. "Come on, this way." He gestured impatiently with his pistol when Uncle Hobart didn't move fast enough.
As Uncle Hobart pushed passed me, I grabbed his arm. "Sit down," I pleaded, "don't go up there."
"And why don't you come too, my friend," the hijacker said to me, looking anything but friendly. "I prefer doing things in pairs, it saves a lot of time." His smile broadened as he caressed the barrel of his gun.
Looking at the passengers for help, I found they all had something more important to concentrate on. Uncle Hobart and I slowly walked the length of the aisle towards our doom. A movement caught my eye and I spotted pig-boy emerging from beneath the seats behind the hijacker. I watched from the corner of my eye as he drunkenly reached for the handle of the emergency door, suddenly realising what Uncle Hobart must have told him to do. The word, "No" formed on my lips but before I could utter it pig-boy had pulled down the release handle and all hell broke loose.
The exit door disappeared with an explosive decompression that made my ears pop, then my mouth opened in an 'O' of surprise as pig-boy was sucked through the opening. And after that things happened very quickly indeed.
The hijacker, spun round by the force of escaping air, quickly followed pig-boy, and as he did so, his hand struck the doorframe, causing his gun to fire. I felt the bullet graze my scalp as it skimmed across my head, shattering the window next to me. The toughened glass burst outwards with a whoosh that sucked me off my feet and even though Uncle Hobart managed to grab my belt as I flew passed, he didn't have the strength to stop me.
I unexpectedly found myself stuck feet first, halfway through the window opening, my shrieks of terror rebounding from one end of the cabin to the other. As the pressure in the aircraft fell a forest of air-tubes dropped from the bulkheads, lending the whole scene an air of surrealism.
Uncle Hobart clicked his dentures at me. "You alright, Peter boy?" he shouted above the din, concern creasing his forehead.
"Of course I'm not alright, you bloody idiot!" I screamed back at him. "Get me the hell out of here." It was at this moment something grabbed hold of my feet and as they were outside the plane at the time, my imagination went in hyper-drive. "Something's got me! Something's got me!" I screamed in terror, all the horror films I'd ever seen coming back to haunt me. I was convinced I was about to be eaten by some gigantic bird.
Uncle Hobart looked out of a window and chuckled quietly. "It's alright, yer can calm down," he reassured me. "It's only the little brat. 'E must have been 'anging onto the doorframe and now 'e's fallen off. Lucky fer 'im yer legs were 'anging out the window like that, otherwise 'e'd be a goner by now."
"You!" the hard voice cut through the turmoil, bringing with it an immediate silence. Floppy moustache prodded Uncle Hobart with his gun. "What's happening out here? Where's my brother?"
Uncle Hobart took out his hip flask, offering it with a sheepish smile. "'Ere," he said, "I think yer'd better 'ave a drink o' this afore I answer that question."
The man's eyes narrowed, but he grabbed the flask from Uncle Hobart, sniffed at it suspiciously, then took a deep, long swig. As the liquor hit the back of the hijacker's throat, his eyes rolled upwards and I screwed up my face in sympathy. I'd experienced what a sip of Uncle Hobart's home-brew could do, but the slug the size he'd just taken would sear the skin from the inside of his throat and melt his teeth. As the hijacker's eyes filled with tears, rolling around in their sockets, Uncle Hobart snatched his pistol and brought it smartly down across his head. Floppy moustache dropped to the floor, out cold. Ripping one of the air tubes from the bulkhead, Uncle Hobart tied the man's hands together behind his back, then standing up, he looked down at his handiwork with satisfaction. Finishing what was left in his flask, he burped loudly, clicked his dentures and smiled broadly.
"Yer can wipe that self-satisfied smirk off yer face," I warned him. "The timer on his bomb has almost run out. I reckon we've got about ten minutes left before we're all blown to buggery."
The plane landed with a jolt and I felt the vibrations shudder through the framework as it sped down the runway. I prayed it didn't pass too near any obstacles or I'd be legless in a way that would be more literal than was usual for me. As the plane shuddered to a stop everyone disappeared down the emergency chutes, leaving me alone with an unconscious hijacker and a bloody great bomb.
Then I heard a familiar voice shouting from outside the plane. "Quick, get 'im out 'o there yer cretins. There ain't 'ardly no time left."
A rope was tied around my ankles and the sound of a revving engine started up. Before I knew what was happening, I was popped from the window like a cork from a bottle to find myself dangling upside down from the end of a small mobile crane, gyrating back and forth as the driver made a mad dash for the airport buildings and safety. We'd just reached the front of a large hanger when the plane exploded into a fireball that shattered every window in the airport, peppering me with broken glass
*
I was laid out on a stretcher next to Uncle Hobart, who was quickly surrounded by the news media wanting to hear the story of how he'd saved everyone from the hijackers. As the cameras flashed I lay back, wondering how it was that Uncle Hobart always managed to turn a situation to his own advantage.
Footsteps sounded alongside my stretcher and turning my head, I squinted my eyes against the light, making out the large, red face of Detective Inspector Grunt glowering down at me.
"Hello Inspector," I greeted him hopefully. "Have you come to congratulate me for helping to save everyone on the plane?"
A slow smile spread over his face as he shook his head. "No Barns, I've not come to congratulate you." He paused, obviously savouring the moment. "Far from it, in fact." A vindictive glint entered his eyes. "I've come to arrest you." His teeth gleamed as his smile broadened even further. "You see my friend