Seventy Nine Years Late

While the plane was circling the Bay and Beckett was supposed to be in his seat, he was in fact in the bathroom. He ignored the stewardess outside rapping on the door, telling him to return to his seat.

What difference was it going to make? If the plane folded on landing he’d be just as dead in the bog as strapped in his seat, a vaguely human-shaped lump of jet fuel-roasted meat. With, of course, both his seat and tray in the upright positions.

He bent his efforts to the work at hand. He had to get the last of this coke up his nose before trying to gatecrash the biggest party in the world, the United Satiated States. He chopped at a ragged line of someone else’s powder with the edge of someone else’s credit card. He wished the pilot would at least try and steer around the bumpy bits.

It was nothing short of disgusting that the straight-looking old business tart in the seat next to him had these drugs in her handbag. What was the world coming to? But then, if she was going to get bombed on g&t’s and fall snoring asleep with her legs and handbag wide open, what did she expect? A tightly-rolled fifty pound note stuck up his hooter, Beckett snorted hard but just as he got the old magic dust up there, the pilot slid the plane sharply sideways and threw him hard against the door. This set the stewardess off again. Feeling the drug’s rush Beckett forced himself to wash the edge of the tiny plastic sink clean, then took a quick shufty at himself. He was forced to almost double over in order to look at his flight-ravaged face in the tiny mirror.

“Amazing.” he told his reflection.