Leap of Faith

Chapter One: Dismount

"You need to face up to things. You screwed up."

Those words burned Charlie like an infection. Even though his ear buds drowned out the external revving from the airplane engine as it prepared for take-off, those taunting words echoed through his mind and suffocated him far more than the packed cabin of Ryanair's Boeing 737.

Ramping the volume up on his playlist, he settled back and waited for the flight to take him home. Or away. The cabin shook, vibrating Charlie's seat as the wheels screamed on tarmac. He had no desire to watch the ascension. It's why he'd opted for the end seat and not the window one that he'd pre-paid for. He'd happily given that up to the toddler who'd bounced down the aisle in excitable delight and had stopped with a pout at his row on realising he didn't have the best seat in the house. Good luck to the kid. It would only pain Charlie more to have to see Birmingham—more importantly Loughborough—disappear into the distance.

So he focused on the music in his ears as the plane lifted from the ground and tore into clouds. Goodbye England.

"Maybe they'll forgive you for next time." Coach Fergal's voice wouldn't fade even with the rock music blaring from his playlist, nor the passenger beside him crunching through peanuts and laughing at his tablet screen whilst ignoring his child's pleas to watch the miniature world below.

"The people are like ants, Daddy!" the child said, shaking his father's arm. "I want to fly in the clouds forever!"

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut. Poor kid. He didn't yet know that all dreams came to a crashing end.

Hopefully not his plane with the passengers still on it.

"That's great, Bobby. Keep watching." The dad turned up the volume on his tablet and chuckled away to his comedy show on catch-up. Charlie thought the bloke might want to share in his kid's excitement. But Charlie shouldn't comment. His father had been as apathetic about his birth and life thereon. And he'd turned out okay.

On second thoughts, this journey home proved he hadn't.

An hour of petulance later, the plane bumped down at Jersey airport. The child in the window seat was as excited about that as he had been for take-off. The father still as indifferent. Charlie kept his buds in as the plane parked up and he was the first out of his seat to drag his sports bag from the hold above.

He caught the little kid's eye. "Good spot?"

"It was sick! Thank you!"

Charlie smiled, and gave him a wink. The kid's gaze trailed to the chest stitching on his tracksuit jacket. Jaw dropping, he thumped his dad beside him in the middle seat, but Charlie was long gone before the man could peer up from his screen.

The last thing he needed was that conversation.

He waited, impatiently, behind the queue of tourists lining up to vacate the cabin and start their holiday. There were a few Channel Island commuters decked out in suits on their way home from their offices—an hour flight from Jersey to England was worth the best of both worlds for some. Charlie couldn't understand that life. How did they ever know if they were coming or going?

The doors opened, and Charlie strode out onto the metal steps, squinting up at the blaring sun that should have been dipping down into the horizon rather than beaming on him like an interrogation spotlight. It was as though it was homing in on him with a sly tut and the words of, well, well, well, look what Ryanair dragged home.

"Fuck off," Charlie muttered under his breath.

"Excuse moi?" The elegantly thin woman in front twisted to face him, a scowl crossing her thin lips and her to-die-for cheekbones sharpening.