Alaska

The turbulence hit abruptly and relentlessly. For almost ten minutes, the plane was kicked around the skies, between pockets of air, like a paper plane caught in the wind and dragged away from the round, sad eyes of the child who made it, and who knew would never see it again.

She braced in her seat, squeezing the armrests until her slightly scarred knuckles whitened, and silently hoped that they were still moving north.

When everything had calmed down and the plane had finally levelled out, the pilot light-heartedly told the cabin that that had been a bad one, but they were perfectly fine and still on schedule to land at Ted Stevens, 6:45 local time.

She exhaled slowly and for a long time. She realised she must have been holding her breath in longer than she had thought. The relief her chest felt made her feel good, rushed endorphins or dopamines or one of those other reward chemicals she didn’t really know much about, around her body.

‘Nervous flyer?’

He was her age, maybe a bit older. Good looking, if a bit generic, with the hint of salt in his otherwise jet-black hair. A small notch above his lip told an unsaid story of a long-ago violent struggle, or of a bad shaving technique. He had smiled at her when he had taken his seat, just after he’d stowed a small piece of luggage above their heads. Until he asked about her flying fears, that had been their only interaction since they left the tarmac back in Seattle. He was an earphones-on-eyes-closed kind of flyer, which she had appreciated.

But now he was talking to her, and it made her want to grip the armrests again.

‘At the best of times. Add that kind of turbulence? Fuck that.’ She spoke to the back of the seat in front of her. Above it, the balding head of a faceless man could be seen cresting the horizon. A wholly uninspiring sight, but better than eye contact with a stranger sitting so close she could smell the shower gel he had used that morning. Something coconutty with a hint of apple. It smelt good to her.

‘I hear that. I’ve never known it so bad. But it looks like the pilot knows what he’s doing. He sounds like a goofy fuck, though.’

She couldn’t help but smile a small, crooked smile. His cologne was nice too. Something expensive but not conspicuously so; subtle. Oud and lemon maybe. Definitely purchased from behind a locked cabinet.

He went on, prompted by her smile, if not her words: ‘You know, as much as I like it, and you do have very soft skin, you can let go now, if you want.’

Shit.

Shit, shit.

Now she really couldn’t look at him.

She unstuck her hand from the back of his. The sweat, probably hers, kept them together a fraction of a second longer than their skin would have otherwise touched. An agonising fraction. A lifetime. She couldn’t help but smile again, this time awkwardly, still staring at the back of the seat with its pale, domed occupant.

‘It’s fine. It really is.’ His tone was reassuring, but she still felt embarrassed. ‘I know what it’s like – you get hyper-focused and the whole world around you just disappears. It’s kinda the point, I guess. Hey,’ he nudged her with his elbow, just slightly. ‘You’ve got a hell of a grip; I wasn’t sure I’d ever get you off me.’

She smiled for the third time in as many minutes - this time at him, this time a full and proper smile - and her body finally relaxed back into the seat. He was a much better target for her eyes to land on than what was on offer in front.

‘I’ll see if I can’t get us a drink. I think we both need one. You for the anxiety, me for the pain in my hand…’

‘Oh, shut up, it wasn’t that bad – you don’t look like the type of man who’s such a wuss, so afraid of a little pain…or am I wrong?’

‘Looks can be deceiving…I wanna say Ally, or Stacy…’

‘Vicky, actually. You were close…Alan?’

‘Oh, come on! No way, in a million years do you think I look like an “Alan”. Not a fucking chance.’ He leaned in and whispered in her ear: ‘That’s an Alan. Whoever owns that head is an Alan.’ He pointed at the top of the bald head in front and Vicky let out an involuntary snorting laugh. The object of the joke moved from side to side in a fleshy shuffle before stabilising itself once more. No one turned around, no one said anything.

‘Ok. Point taken. You’re not an Alan. Still doesn’t tell me what you are though.’ She was thinking about his hot breath on her ear. How he had confidently gotten so close, without even hesitating.

‘I’m a Chuck. Or a Chucky, if you prefer. But only men tend to call me that.’

‘Charles? Charlie?’

‘Nope. Chuck is on my birth certificate, driving licence and passport. Hamburg, Arkansas — you know how it is. Victoria?’

‘Once upon a time, but not anymore. Only my dad really calls me that.’

‘So if I were to call you Victoria, would you call me Daddy?’

No. I’d probably call you Charles…or pervert. Both suit you.’

‘Ouch, Vicky! Now I really need that drink.’

As if influenced by his incantation, the seatbelt sign pinged off and the middle-aged but still leggy air hostesses (the sort you still tended to find on regional/domestic flights) were up and about, checking on the passengers, seeing what they could get everyone. Most wanted a drink, and they were on the house (or the plane) to make amends for the poor travelling conditions, as if air pressure was the fault of the airline. Still, nice touch, Vicky thought as Chuck handed her the large gin and tonic he had ordered for her. He had settled for two cans of beer – Singaporean, he was apparently eager for her to know - one of which he carefully poured into a plastic cup, taking pride in the head he had made of the golden liquid.

‘Very impressive, Chuck. I’m sure you can find a bar in Anchorage hiring if you need some work. You probably woudn’t even have to leave the airport to find one.’ The bitchiness out of her system, she took a big sip of her own drink, enjoying the bite of the ice cubes against her lips, while the fizzy goodness flowed down her dry throat, promising so, so much.

‘Thanks, Vicky. I’ll take that – a compliment is a compliment in my book. Cheers.’

He was nice. So there was no reason for her not to be. She was going to take her foot off the hard-to-get gas a little. Just a little. She had liked it when he leaned in and whispered. His breath ever so slightly tickled the rim of her ear, the sensitive skin of her cheek. That bodywash. That cologne.

The gin was getting into her bloodstream with a perilous swiftness, bypassing her empty stomach entirely.

‘You know what, Chuck? After all, you do kind of look like a “Chuck”.’

‘Is that so? Am I in for a bruising here?’ He grinned boldly, but Vicky picked up on the smallest, barely perceptible twitch in that grin. A nervous wobble. He wasn’t sure where this was going. She liked that.

‘Nah. It’s good. Chuck seems like and honest name, a bit rugged maybe. Someone who knows how to take care of himself and his. I don’t know, these things are hard to quantify. They’re all so subjective.’

‘You’re full of compliments today aren’t you, Vicky? You always this sweet, or is it just because I bought you a drink?’

‘The drink helps. And you didn’t buy it — it was complimentary. How’s your hand?’

‘I’m sure I’ll live.’ Chuck stretched his hand out in front of him, wiggling the fingers, opening and closing his fist. The back was still reddish from where her fingers had gripped so hard. ‘At least you didn’t dig the nails in.’

‘Never on a first date.’

‘Haha!’ His laugh was full and country and from deep inside him. ‘Why Alaska, Vicky?’

‘Why not? I’ve heard good things.’

‘First time, then?’

‘Yup. You?’

‘Nah. I’m back up here a couple of times a year. Oil rigs. Just gotta check and make sure everything is running smoothly.’

‘Ozark oilman, huh?’

‘Something like that. Hey, I think we’ve got time for another before we land.’ He held the second empty can aloft, alerting the attention of the stewardess with the bright crimson lipstick and the carbonised, hairspray-shocked hair.

‘So have you been to Singapore, then? The beer…’

‘Oh, yeah, a couple of times. Big wells in that part of the world. Deeper, mostly untapped, purer. The future of oil lies far away from the deserts, thank fuck. All that war.’

‘You don’t think there will be war if we start pumping out of the jungle, or the icecaps?’

‘You’re probably right. Although I’m not sure there’s gonna be anyone to fight us if we just take over Antarctica. The penguins, maybe. I’ve heard they love a good march.’

‘Well aren’t you just the comic book villain, Chuck.’

‘I suppose someone’s gotta be, Vicky. Everyone needs someone else to keep the lights on, they just don’t wanna know about it. We keep the lights on.’

‘Why do I feel like you’ve given that pitch to roomfuls of men in suits before?’

‘Lagos, two years ago. Quickly followed by Pretoria and Baku. Used it that whole winter season in fact.’

‘It’s cute, I suppose.’

‘What is? Please say my face.’ He smiled while he sipped his foamy beer. The action accentuated his jaw, outlined it further, highlighted the contrast between his tanned but soft-looking skin, and his five o’clock shadow with that touch of grey. His face was cute, no doubt about it, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling him that. Not yet anyway.

‘Your honesty. It comes through. It’s a good thing to have. People will always know where they stand with you.’ That was all he was getting for now.

‘Well that’s certainly one of the nicer things anyone has ever said to me,. I’m sure you could meet plenty of rig managers, executives and maybe even an ex or two who would tell you otherwise — but I’ll take it. Thank you.’ He hesitated for a moment then said: ‘So my face isn’t’ cute, no?’

‘Fine, you win: yeah, Chuck, you’ve got a cute face. As if you needed me to tell you that; as if you don’t already know.’

‘Still, it’s always nice to hear.’ He winked and drained the rest of his beer. Vicky had an almost irresistible urge to grip his hand again, but consciously this time, enjoying its feel beneath her own, maybe even digging her nails in a bit, too. But she was able to resist the impulse.

‘I’m sure you hear it plenty.’

‘Right back at you, Vicky. So you know why I’m heading up into the wilderness…but I don’t know why you are? You’re not an oil girl, that’s for sure — I’ve met hundreds of them, and I could spot one cross an ocean by now. Could probably smell them too.’

‘Charming.’ Her body told her that it was a sort of charm.

‘It’s just the truth. Good girls, all of them - can’t fault them for a second - but just not my type, I suppose you’d say.’

‘Good to know – and no, you’re right, I’ve got nothing to do with oil. Or gas. Or diamonds. Or gold. Or anything else the planet vomits back up.’

‘You’re the conscientious type, Vicky. You seem like the preservation kinda girl. Wildlife…wilderness…fish, maybe. Say, you’re not a fed are you? Fish and Wildlife?’

‘Do they carry guns?’

‘They sure do.’

‘Then no. Otherwise I probably would have shot your rude ass by now.’

‘Haha! I’m sure the pilot would appreciate that.’

‘Maybe not, but womankind would. Your exes probably would.’ She regretted that one instantly.

‘Ouch…but I’m sure you’re right. But let’s wait till we land before you start shooting me, shall we — I’d feel bad for the rest of the plane. Poor Alan.’

She broke into laughter again. So loud the stewardess who had brought them their second round of drinks gave her a disapproving look as she walked by, pushing the clinking drinks cart back to the rear of the plane.

‘I’m just…on holiday. Needed to get away for a while. Away from it all. Alaska seems like a good place to do that.’

‘I’ve lived in apartment blocks with more people than the whole state.’

‘I bet.’ The seatbelt sign pinged back on and the pilot’s voice pumped through the cabin again, telling them they were on final approach and what the weather was like on the ground, car rental connections, and all the other redundant info smartphones had made obsolete. She looked out the window at the world waiting below. They had flown through a blanket of soft cotton clouds the whole way, but now she could see a coastline peeking through. Black sand beaches bordered by dense, ancient forests that had survived millions of the harshest winters the planet had to offer. Tough fucking things. There was no snow now though; it was spring, edging on summer. Soon the place would be full of mosquitos and well-rested bears looking for a post-hibernation snack. The sun was shining bright but slipping gradually into the curve of the earth. She had no idea when sunset was this far north. Late, she imagined.

‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ He was close now, leaning over in his seat, his flat stomach straining against his seatbelt, his face over her shoulder, the beer mixed with the coconut mixed with the oud…and her gin and tonic.

‘It really is. It feels different here.’

‘Oh it’s definitely different. A beautiful woman belongs in a beautiful place.’

There it was. With that she knew he was the one. She promised herself she wouldn’t let another one break her, get inside her like that. But Chuck had just done it and now the countdown was on, and the urge was simply irresistible. Until she consummated these feelings, they would not let up, they would not let go, they would just keep building and building in intensity until it became painful. This was her problem, her affliction, her cross to bear. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This wasn’t supposed to happen on this trip. Not now. Not this time. And especially not before she had even gotten off the fucking plane.

So much for getting away from it all.

‘Where are you staying?’ She asked, her eyes still on the world outside, her thoughts on the future.

‘Marriot tonight. Heading up country tomorrow. Then out to the field. You?’

‘Double room?’

‘Sure. The company looks after me.’

‘Then I’m staying with you tonight.’

‘Well alright then.’ She could almost hear him grin with satisfaction as he sat back in his seat and exhaled loudly and comfortably. The tiny Anchorage skyline was coming into view. It wasn’t really a city at all – not by American standards – just a big fishing village with ideas about itself. And it didn’t have the design of a typical coastal city, small or otherwise. It wasn’t Seattle or Vancouver or San Francisco. It looked like it had been designed by a midwestern city planner; a Bismarck or a Fargo or a Lincoln. She supposed that was because of the similar winters those places would get. Somehow the low, blocky buildings would guard better against those elements. She didn’t know enough about architecture or engineering to know how that could be. Chuck probably did. Chuck seemed like the kind of man who took an interest in such things. Asked questions, read informative books, used Google for good reasons. Maybe she would ask him later to tell her everything he knew about this part of the world and its history.

Even before she finished thinking that thought, she had forced it from her mind. The urge was growing exponentially.

The planes wheels touched the hot tarmac with a satisfying bump. Chuck’s hand had found its way to her knee. She left it there, appreciating its comforting, strong presence.

Chuck kept his hands – and every other body part – to himself on the taxi ride from the arrivals lounge to the hotel. A part of her wished he hadn’t. She wanted him to tear her apart, piece by piece. Unravel her and rebuild her in his own image. Make her better, fix her, stop her. But the taxi driver wouldn’t have appreciated that, and she still wanted to keep a low profile, so it was for the best.

But the tension between them was concussive by the time he slid the card in the door of his second-floor room and a little green light along with the digital beep heralded their arrival.

He had asked her if she was hungry in the taxi. She told him she wasn’t. Not for food anyway. She returned the question; he gave the same answer. The notch above his lip twitched again, as had the notch inside her stomach.

He held the door for her and she carried her backpack through. His hand was around her waist before the door even clicked behind them. His weight pressed into her, his palm glided across her jeans. Bags went thumping to the floor, lips found each other, fingers found other things, other things found lips.

Chuck was satiated. His urges were taken care of for the time being. He would rest a bit, arm across her chest, head buried in her shoulder, satisfied he had satisfied her, that she too was satiated.

But she wasn’t. And it wasn’t his fault. He had tried his best, and any other woman in her position – in all of her positions – would have had a great time and felt a deep fulfilment. But it wouldn’t be enough for her - nothing he could do could take care of what she needed taking care of.

She didn’t have her tools. A hitch in the plan. Well, there was no plan. This wasn’t supposed to be happening, after all. That’s why she didn’t have her tools. Tools were old life; this was supposed to be a new one. Why did he have to have sat beside her? Have to have interacted? He looked good sleeping between the white sheets; the outline of his firm body called her back to bed. She ignored the call. His face was calm while he slept, peaceful. She could tell that whatever harm he had done in the past he had come to terms with it, made amends, been forgiven, forgiven himself. She forgave him for sitting beside her, but she wouldn’t forgive herself.

No tools meant improvisation. The ritual would not be performed. She risked not having the urge met, but she had to do it. Quickly.

There was a scissors in the bathroom. Really just meant for trimming an unruly beard, or catching an irritating cuticle, but it would have to do. The pillow was considered, but he was too young and strong, she wouldn’t have a chance.

She slid back into bed and his arm reached out to her in his sleepy state. She allowed it to rest across her midsection and her eyes studied his toned, vascular neck. She knew exactly what to do, where to put it. It would be messy — the blade wasn’t very sharp; the whole thing was sloppy – her face all over cameras, all over the news, so many witnesses, the taxi driver, DNA, so much evidence. Now they would finally know who she was, be able to put a face to evil. Good for them. They could have that catharsis if it made them feel better. At least Chuck hadn’t mentioned kids, and she’d been careful not to ask – she just couldn’t deal with knowing anymore. And where she was heading there would be no TV’s, no internet, no way to know. And no one to know. No men to ignite the urge, no men to target.

She would cry in the shower afterwards, cleaning herself with the cheap carbolic soap the hotel provided, crying as the ritual demanded. They would look for her, but she would have a good head start. And then after a few months winter would set in, long and freezing and bleak, and she would be gone forever and the world could go back to how it was before she was.

But first, Chuck, the cute, honest, kind oilman from Hamburg, Arkansas, had to die.