Chapter Text
1.
When Martin Crieff is nearly five years old, all he wants in the whole world is to be an aeroplane. He will be, when he grows up; he has it all planned out. And then he’ll take Caitlin to France because she says it’s magical there and all she wants in the whole world is to climb the Eiffel Tower. Why you would want to climb something that big when you could just fly is a mystery to Martin, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind anything once he gets his wings.
And he’ll take Simon to Japan too, because that’s where all the best games come from and it’s really far away and did you know they don’t even use English letters? Martin wouldn’t have believed anyone else who had told him this. He finds it hard enough trying to make sense of there being a whole twenty six letters to remember, and all in the right order too – surely you can’t be allowed any more? But Simon said so. And Simon knows everything.
Before he can do any of this though, he needs to practice. How will he ever learn to fly if he doesn’t practice?
Their street isn’t long enough or wide enough to be a real runway, but he’s not a real plane yet either so that’s okay, it will do. It is very straight, right up to the sharp corner all the way at the other end, and hardly anybody ever drives along it really. Especially on a weekend.
He’s not supposed to play on the roads. He promised Mummy before she let him come out into the garden. But he’s not really breaking his promise is he? After all, it isn’t a road anymore, it’s a runway now. It’s his runway.
So he checks very carefully to make absolutely positively sure there are no cars, in case he’s caught so he can tell Mummy that he looked, honest, and nothing was coming so it was all safe wasn’t it?
Then he strides as purposefully as his little legs allow to the centre of the runway and spreads out his wings – well, his arms really but he can’t very well practice with real wings until they’ve grown, can he?
He twists his outstretched hand like he has seen Daddy do to start the car and makes little engine revving noises that he isn’t completely sure aeroplanes make, but he’s never seen a proper one up close before, not starting up, not yet.
‘Three,’ he announces boldly, shaking curly ginger locks out of his eyes, ‘two,’ he fixes his gaze dead ahead and flexes his arm-wings, ‘one...take off!’
He goes from standing to full clumsy speed so quickly he lurches and trips and almost falls flat on his face straight away but rights himself before that happens and charges full pelt down the street with his eyes squeezed shut now and the wind whistling through his hair – ‘brrrr!’ he shouts, ‘bbrrrrrr, bbbrrrrrrr –’ he thinks he might actually do it this time, he might actually take off and imagine Mummy and Daddy’s faces then – any second now he’ll lift into the air and his wings will grow and –
There’s a squeal and a screech, and a very loud voice saying very bad words and Martin opens his eyes but he’s too late to stop now and runs face first into the hastily swerved and halted car.
He lands with a smack on the floor and suddenly his nose hurts and his bottom hurts and he thinks he might be bleeding and he’s crying and then there are hands on him, rough hands grabbing his shoulders and pulling him up and someone talking –
‘Jesus Christ, Martin!’ Daddy gasps desperately. He looks pale and terrified. His hands are shaking. Martin wonders if he’s going to get into trouble for denting Daddy’s car; it only makes him cry harder. ‘Oh my God, f – God, oh Hell, Martin, you stupid boy you could have got yourself killed –’
Daddy pulls him into a hug, but Martin doesn’t notice that Daddy is crying too.