ESCAPE

The maiden flight of the Aero-movil numero uno lasted approximately seventeen seconds and observers estimated that at the apex of its climb it had reached a height of 80 feet and had travelled a distance of 2,800 feet over a pronounced leftward curving course. Unfortunately, Carriscant learned later, according to the rules of the Amberway-Richault prize, the destruction of the flying machine, or the injury or death of the flyer, rendered any attempt null and void. The senior adjudicator, Mr Gallo, thought the whole episode a great shame and hoped that Dr Carriscant would continue with his colleague's pioneering work. He invited him to form the first committee of the Aero-Club of Manila. Carriscant agreed at once, nodding dully. Pantaleon's death and his extraordinary achievement left him feeling both hugely upset and humbled, visited at the same time by an acute sense of loss and awestruck admiration.

After giving his statement to the Sampaloc constabulary, and seeing Pantaleon's blanket-shrouded body being carried into the police station, he returned to the nip a barn where he found the place deserted, the crowd quite dispersed. He wondered how many of them were aware that the Aero-mobilist himself had perished in his attempt to win the Amberway-Richault prize. Carriscant walked morosely up and down the wooden roadway trying to come to terms with what happened, trying to sort and understand those endless seconds of terror and alarm. At least Panta had felt that exhilaration he so craved surge through his body. Carriscant remembered his manic shrieks and yelps of triumph as they really flew for the first time, recalled his sobs of helpless gratitude as they hurtled towards the trees on the San Roque estero. At least Pantaleon had died happy, full of the knowledge that he had achieved something monumental and triumphant. There were worse ends than that, he reflected, worse ways to die, and he sensed some of his sadness wane, and grew aware that, simultaneously, there was a new emotion blooming inside him, a feeling building of an irrepressible and transforming jubilation. That his own life had been spared now appeared to him the most astonishing miracle and, while he knew that he would still shed a few tears for his lost friend, a voice inside him was whispering delightedly, 'You're alive, alive, ALIVE!' Whether it was blind chance or divine intervention he was taking it as a clear sign. Carriscant's luck… Carriscant's luck was holding. Salvador Carriscant and Delphine Blythe Sieverance were destined to be together. Everything that was due to happen in the next few days was going to go according to plan. He knew, with a fierce, passionate certainty, that now all was going to be well.

The next morning he woke stiff and bruised, with a large livid weal on his left thigh and a left shoulder that clicked audibly, and ached, whenever he raised his hand above chest level. He endured the next few days in a somnabulist's stupor, doggedly and diligently following the routines of his work and home life, concentrating intensely on the matter in hand however insignificant and banal. On the morning of 20 May he rose early and went to the San Jeronimo as usual. He returned home in the afternoon, knowing he would find Annaliese absent, and wrote her a note saying that a long and complicated operation looked like it would necessitate his staying late that night at the hospital and she should not wait up for him. At the end of the afternoon, before leaving, he glanced around his silent house wondering if there were any small object or precious possession he wanted to take with him, but could think of nothing in particular. He remembered Delphine's comments, how nothing was owned, how possessions were merely borrowed from the world's supply for a short period of time, and decided to leave empty-handed. He would stride away from his house with only the clothes he stood up in. He was going to make as fresh a start as the woman he loved.

The evening routine at the hospital passed in its usual fashion. He tried to keep himself busy, to avoid looking at his watch or any of the clocks positioned at the intersections of passageways. Other members of staff, knowing he was taking two weeks' leave, wished him a pleasant stay in San Teodoro, some even commented he was looking tired and was clearly in need of a rest. News of Pantaleon's death had depressed everyone, and the mood was sombre.

At around 9 in the evening he was suddenly overcome with fatigue, after the mental and physical stresses of the past few days, and fell asleep in the armchair in his consulting room.

He dreamed about Pantaleon. A Pantaleon impeccably dressed, accepting a soup-plate-sized medal from a tiny potentate; Pantaleon, flying like a bird, his arms gracefully flapping, as he circled the belvedere at Sampaloc cawing raucously like a rook; Pantaleon making a speech outside the nipa barn extolling the beauties of someone who sounded suspiciously like Delphine. Then a jumble of images from the flight itself: the freshly lopped trunks of the guava trees slipping beneath the wing; Sieverance in his uniform shaking hands with the other adjudicators; the stark shock on Pantaleon's face as he registered the blood-soaked clothing of his co-flyer. Then he saw the twisted upside-down stare of Pantaleon dead, his lips moving as he delivered a version of his usual pre-operation injunction: 'Spring has come, Salvador,' he said softly. 'It's time to plant rice.'

He woke abruptly, immediately awake, and checked his watch. He walked through the dark wards, past the sleeping patients, quietly greeting the nuns at their stations, feeling alert and poised. There was a minimum of staff on duty. In the main reception hall at the front gate a few messengers lounged and snoozed. No other doctors were in the hospital, only a duty sister sat behind her wooden desk, patiently embroidering a muslin camisa. The San Jeronimo did not encourage emergencies out of normal working hours.

He returned to his office via his operating theatre, just to make sure once again that everything was prepared and ready. As he stood there he felt a shiver of expectation run through him, a thin filament of excitement energising his body. It could not be long now: he was ready.

In his office he completed his paperwork and tidied his desk. In the desk drawer of Senora Diaz was another sealed letter – with instructions for it to be delivered to Annaliese a week hence – saying that he had left her, for ever, and had gone in search of a new life. He wondered now if this was the right note to strike? If Annaliese thought he had gone to his mother's and heard nothing after two weeks she would become alarmed. By the time she discovered he had never been there it would be too late. Searches would be initiated, the police would be informed, but there would be no sign, perhaps he might have been spotted down by the docks? Had he been killed? If not that, why would he run away? There would never be any answers to these questions and perhaps that silence would be kinder to Annaliese. She could then in her grief and bafflement construct whatever explanation was the most consoling. He went to Senora Diaz's desk and tore the letter up.

He was impressed and not a little amazed at how coolly he could deliberate about his leaving of Annaliese. He felt no guilt: she was well provided for, she would have a large proportion of his money and property. Their marriage had been a sham for many months and he felt no love for her. Surely it was kinder to leave her with a mystery rather than the knowledge of brutal rejection? Surely – He heard the running feet of the messenger cross the courtyard to his office. It was 1.35 in the morning. It had begun.

He opened the door.

'A man and a woman, Doctor. Americanos. She's very sick.'

Carriscant ran with the messenger to the reception hall.