I guess this really is ‘as the crow flies’, even though I’m a falcon
, considered the feathery beast, as he continued on his way, gliding for seemingly vast distances without even flapping his wings.
I want to get up to the area where I died, trace back my steps and see what I can remember
, thought Ed and he made surprisingly quick time powering himself along the south coast. It was an astonishing feeling, toying with the currents, surfing on air. As he proceeded, he swooped down every few road junctions to check he was on the right path. A27,
Portsmouth
/ M3, then M27,
Southampton
/
Bournemouth
and finally M3 London / the North.
The M3 was one of Ed’s favourite motorways, especially in Hampshire where it meandered its way through, over and around the
South Downs
, carving a path through massive white chalk hills and off into the distance. He glided down to get into the flow of the traffic, to feel once again the exhilaration of travelling at ninety
“Where’re your speed cameras now?” he murmured to himself as he swooped down and past a hurrying police car. Just to confuse them further, he held his speed and flew in front of them before shooting upwards again, twisting and turning like a spitfire in an air display.
Ed Trew, caught on camera at last. That will surely get on a ‘cops with
cameras’ TV show
, he thought, as the two middle aged men stared with shock through the windscreen, instinctively reducing their speed.
Ed knew the road fairly well and decided to head north at
Winchester
along the A34. He knew that this intercepted the A303 and then he could fly along the route he took on that fateful day driving back to
London
. The more he could remember, the better he would be in trying to piece together a plan in helping him decide on his future. He knew from his research that he had died somewhere west of
Basingstoke
near Dummer.
Can’t get much dumber than texting whilst driving
, reflected the Falcon, momentarily getting angry with himself for being such an idiot. He was at least relieved that no one else had come to harm in the incident.
What’s done is done. I have to think ahead. If I fly north up along that route and then across on the A303 onto the northbound M3, then it
might help jog my memory
, thought Ed, inquisitive for any little scraps of information that could help.
Below him, the patchwork of fields created an enchanting landscape, yellows and greens, browns and greys all shapes and sizes, completely randomly carved into every sort of asymmetrical shape imaginable. Through it, the road carved its ugly, unending path, segueing off into junctions and smaller roads, like a life-giving organisation of concrete and tarmac veins. Through them a myriad of vehicles squirmed and flowed like millions of little red corpuscles speeding to fulfil their duties in the service of the all-encompassing master society. It made his death seem almost irrelevant as he looked down in awe at everything.
He sped on to the easily recognisable junction of the A34 and A303, swooping down to check the road signs before ascending once again and resuming his path along the A303, dipping into and out of the various avenues of wind.
I’d better get down lower and slow down a bit to get a better idea of things,
thought Ed before plummeting down and flying just above the fast moving traffic for a while before suddenly swerving left and taking a moment’s rest on a small wooden fence adjacent to the road. He looked on curiously at the traffic speeding by, each car battering him with a stomach blow of pressure and a deafening ‘zwooshhh’.
I can’t believe it - was I really going faster than that?
he thought, surprised by the speed of the traffic.
He was soon up and off again and in no time was flying at the same speed as the London-bound vehicles, swimming in the wind. It was a depressingly barren environment, the road cut through empty countryside with little else other than fields, a railway line and a few isolated farm houses. Further on there was a small airfield, loaded with dozens of tiny planes and two healthy looking airstrips. ‘26’ he could see clearly painted on one of them as he glided overhead.
Opposite was a small service station and restaurant. He could clearly see the big red sign ‘Little Chef’ adorned with a picture of a small fat cook obviously happy to serve up some tasty English breakfast.
Might I have gone in there on that fateful day?
thought Ed, as he swooped over the road to look a little closer, soon realising there would have been no way of getting over from the London-bound carriageway. He continued on, and a little further he came across another service station, much smaller and next to some sort of industrial unit or scrap yard. Behind this, there was a large scale off-road dirt track for bikes, cut into the landscape like a never ending squiggly line carved by some sort of large lunatic monster.
He flew down to get a closer look, perching on the roof of the fuel stop. Soon he was overwhelmed by the fumes coming up from the pumps and was forced to swoop over to the roof of a small provision store and pay centre adjacent to the pumps. In no time people started to gather below him, outside the shop.
“Look at that little beauty,” exclaimed one young man, dressed smartly in a silky, shiny, grey suit. Impatiently he dug around in his pocket before extracting some sort of smart phone device, holding it aloft in Ed’s direction, and snapping away merrily. Soon the crowd started to swell, staring and snapping away at the falcon.
Might as well give them some good photos
, thought Ed, as he stretched his wings to their full powerful span.
“Wow, Wow,” he heard from below as they clicked with their cameras, conversing with eager enthusiasm.
“That’s not something you see everyday,” uttered one gent as the queue of cars started to build up, unaware of the situation and impatient to get to the pumps. Not wanting to draw too much attention to himself, Ed decided to fly over into the cover of some adjacent trees, but only after swooping down over their heads, giving them all the fright of their lives.
Once in the trees Ed reflected on the location. He was sure he had stopped off there to get petrol before the accident. It was sketchy but he could clearly remember the external décor of the place and the layout of the pumps. However, he also remembered stopping off at a café but he could see no café there. Did this mean he was in the wrong place? He decided to get a better view and flew higher into the trees.
From this new vantage point he could see another building, part of the same complex but hidden around the back. It was some sort of café and so he decided to fly over and check it out, this time from a less conspicuous position than the roof of the mini mart.
Having swooped down, he perched himself on a cluster of bushes beside a small car park and started to check out the area. The car park was virtually empty but he estimated there was space for approximately thirty or forty cars. Steam poured from the kitchen vents on the roof of the adjacent café and bright lights inside suggested that it was open for business. The building itself was a cheaply built, strange, square bungalow construct with bright yellow placards around the top displaying the name;
‘303 DINER, THE PLACE TO
It looked anything but the place to eat, but on the road, if it’s edible then it’s a friend. The diner sat slightly on the top of a mini-incline and behind it, away from the road there was a stunning panorama of rolling hills and fields, stretching off far into the distance. The horizon was dotted with trees, clinging longingly to their last remaining browning leaves, hoping for just one more day of sunshine.
A dark grey Ford station wagon pulled into the car park and reversed into a space just along from Ed, partially obscuring his view. As the engine died into its last revolution, the final vestiges of carcinogenic smoke trickled out from the exhaust in a puff. He ducked down onto a lower section of bush, as the man got out and made his way into the café, twisting his body around half sideways, and flicking a switch that electronically locked the car, omitting a loud, single-toned staccato ‘beep’ in the process.
Ed jumped up to see the man heading through the front door and into the building, most certainly inspired by the big yellow sign that read; ‘
Eagerly he glided up onto the roof of the car before using his wing power to fly over a little closer to the café. The building was generously endowed with large windows that stretched across each side of the building, giving a clear and unhindered view of the inside. He perched on a small coin operated parking ticket machine covered in a yellow plastic cover that read: ‘
Not often you see that
, thought Ed, as he stared into the café. It was a large, open plan interior, American diner-style with tasteless grooved yellow leather upholstery. Fixed six-seater booths with plastic-looking tables juxtaposed with laminated menus and paper napkins. Waitresses wearing virulent yellow costumes, and halogen lighting with yellow and red stripy walls rounded off the décor of the establishment. Ed stared and stared, wishing he had sunglasses rather than top spec falcon eyes.
Why in God’s name would they think that anyone would want to eat in an environment like that
? pondered Ed, as he tried to remember more about his last visit there. He could remember that he was dealing with numerous urgent matters and he was making a lot of calls on his mobile.
It was something to do with solar cubes for the Olympics
, he remembered. A change in spec to meet EU requirements and a lot of hassle over some pointless technicality. Whatever it was, it didn’t really matter now. He just wanted to get a clearer idea of the moments leading up to his death.
Just then he noticed a tear in one of the leather seats at the back of the restaurant. He recognised it. This must have been where he sat. With this, the door flung open, and a middle aged, fat man emerged with a large plate of sausages, bacon and eggs. In his other hand he had a small plate piled high with crispy toast. Ed ducked down and hopped behind the parking machine, as the man took up a position on one of the wooden tables outside, lifting his legs one after the other over the long stool which was joined to the table at either end.
He was soon followed by one of the bright yellow waitresses.
“You forgot your coffee, sir,” she exclaimed, as she approached the table and carelessly placed the large mug down, spilling it over its edges and down through the slats of the table and onto his legs.
“Oh, Christ, can’t you be careful?” barked the man.
“Sorry, sir, you forgot your coffee. Isn’t it a little cold out here for you? We don’t have any heaters I’m afraid.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m fat and I get hot. I love the cold. Would you be able to bring me some tomato sauce please?”
“Sorry, sir, you’ll have to pop inside for that yourself, it’s self-serve. I only came out with the coffee because you forgot it.”
“Well I forgot the sauce as well,” exclaimed the man as he dried his leg with the paper napkins, getting grumpier by the second.
“Sorry, sir,” replied the young woman, pretty and in her thirties, and notable for her proud cleavage.
“Alright. No worries, where is it?”
“I’ll show you, sir.”
The man jumped up from the stool, slightly stumbling but catching his balance before the woman noticed. They disappeared into the building. Ed took his chance and flapped up onto the table, and within a very short time had consumed two sausages and made off with three slices of bacon. He headed behind the bush, dumped the bacon on the floor and started devouring it as the man returned outside.