The Flight

Grey, the sort of day when the clouds don't look like clouds, just a grey, high ceiling. No fluffy, romantic clouds, or dark, heavy, foreboding clouds, just a grey duvet covering a grey city. As well as the grey, the first day of autumn had brought with it a chill wind, a portent of the winter to come. Gregor pulled his flimsy jacket around him and marched on regardless of the odds stacked against him. If the writing was on the wall, then Gregor was convinced it was written in chalk and with a bit of hard work it could be erased. He moved swiftly, oblivious to the eyes that watched his every move. Not oblivious to, he knew he was being watched, he'd spent his life being watched but he'd given up trying to work out who were the innocent and who were the watchers. 
Summer had been hard. Comrades and colleagues had disappeared at an alarming rate and once they were gone, they were gone. The days of show trials were over, the days of imprisonments or labour camps were over. These days people disappeared into thin air; the state denying all knowledge. Gregor liked to think they were all together in one large cell, catching up on old times, but he knew deep down that the only way they'd be together would be if their souls had reached a heaven he'd long since stopped believing in. Now, he had to get to the airfield, he had to get on the plane and away from this living hell.

The plan was crazy. He was going to be smuggled on to the airside of the airport and then slipped on to a normal passenger plane under a false name. It was never going to work but he had to try, or more likely die trying. At the airport, he waited nervously by the staff entrance. He was trying to act normal but was normal? Eventually the door swung open and a huge bear-like man stood in front of him. Gregor didn’t know if he was friend or foe. The bear gave Gregor his documentation and led him through the doors. No words had been spoken; it was safer that way and anyway there was nothing to say. The man pointed to a room where Gregor was to change his clothes. He practised the line again and again in his mind as he changed.

‘I think you have the wrong man, my name's Pierre Lejean of the French consulate.’ He practiced his French accent but it was not very good. He clung to his ticket and new passport as he waited for the flight to be called. He noticed the clouds had got thicker; the wind stronger, rain was in the air. He hoped the plane would be able to take off in the storm. He didn’t need any unnecessary delays. He felt sick now, scared, sad, tired, everything, but most of all impatient. He found himself counting the ticks of the clock that was marking time above his head.
Finally they boarded, the man on the gate looked him up and down, Gregor’s stomach leapt but then the man waved him through with a cheery have a nice flight. Just minutes now and he'd be free to fight the good fight from afar. He'd never wanted to leave but he knew he had to. The only way the opposition could survive was from the outside.

The plane crept around the runway like a cat creeping up on its prey, slowly, steadily it manoeuvred into the perfect position to pounce and then stood stock still purring gently. The rain had started and was lashing the Tarmac, splashing into the puddles that were becoming one small lake. Straight hard rods of rain arrowed to the ground suggesting take off might be a bumpy affair. The cat let out a roar, and sprinted gracefully down the runway before leaping into the air in one easy motion.
The plane swung left and then hit the clouds, it was no longer a cat, but a cocktail shaker shaking up all that was inside. But Gregor wasn’t shaken or stirred, he wasn't scared, no Gregor could relax, in just about an hour he'd be in Paris.