Final Flight

The call comes in at about seven. My heart sinks when I see who the client is. There I was, hoping my last ever shift would be a quiet one. No chance of that now. I’ve visited this family before, and only just lived to tell the tale. Still, after tonight it’ll all be over. I’m hanging up my wings for good.

It’s a long journey, so I get ready as quickly as I can. I won’t be sorry to see the back of this skimpy uniform, the same one for all seasons and all shapes and sizes. What I could do with is a nice, warm parka, but I suppose the powers that be would say it’s not in keeping with the image we’re trying to project. But then the powers that be don’t have to fly half way across the world in mid January wearing nothing but a nylon nightie.

To tell the truth, my wings aren’t really up to this any more, designed as they were in a gentler, more sedate era. I could apply for an upgrade but there’s a waiting list a mile long, and there’s no way I can afford to go private; not on the wages they pay me. It wasn’t so bad until they centralized everything. In the old days we all had our own little patches to take care of, nice short flights, there and back in no time. We were like part of the community, watching families grow up. Now there’s a lot less of us, with more work to do, and we have to go wherever Head Office sends us. It’s no job for an old fairy. The truth is, there are no jobs for old fairies.

The flight’s quite a smooth one. The traffic’s normally pretty light at this time of year, now Christmas is out of the way. It’s just as well. My nerves are in a state. I’ve still not recovered from the incident in the early hours of Christmas morning when I drifted into Rudolph’s flight path on my way home. Don’t ask. People don’t realise what a dangerous job this can be.

It’s after nine o’clock by the time I get there. Unsurprisingly, my client is still wide awake, not even in his pyjamas yet. I’ve a feeling I’m in for a long night. I make myself as comfortable as I can on the windowsill, where I can peer in through a gap in the curtains. The little brat (sorry, client) is whingeing and whining, shouting downstairs to his mum, saying his mouth hurts, which is never a good sign. It doesn’t stop him tucking into a handful of biscuits, though.

He’s got a television in his bedroom and he’s just sitting there, staring at some totally inappropriate programme. Lots of naked human bodies writhing around on beds. Honestly, what happened to bedtime stories and being tucked up, fast asleep by eight o’clock? Nothing’s the same as it used to be. I’m starting to sound like my mother.

I do some aerobics, trying to keep myself warm. I’m not sure how they’d react to a deep-frozen fairy when they open the curtains in the morning. It’s nearly ten before the mother comes in, half-heartedly muttering something about putting his pyjamas on. He’s started messing about on his Playstation and he doesn’t even look up. She sighs, gives up and goes away. He shouts after her that he’s hungry. Five minutes later, she’s back with the biggest slice of cake you’ve ever seen. He opens his mouth as wide as it will go, which is not a pretty sight, and starts shovelling it in. I have to look away.

It doesn’t look as though I’ll be able to move in and do my business for a good while yet, so I settle down for a nap. It’s amazing the places you can fall asleep in, once you get the knack. The only really danger is being kidnapped by a passing bird. This happened to a friend of mine once. She woke up to find herself being carried off who knows where in an owl’s beak. Fortunately, she has an excellent pair of lungs. She screamed so loud the poor thing was terrified and dropped her into a fishpond. She was hauled to safety by a friendly gnome and survived to regale us with the story of her lucky escape. More than once. Anyway, I’ve perfected the technique of dozing with one eye open, just to be on the safe side.

I drift off into a half dream about the life I might have had, if things had worked out differently. When I was younger, it was always my ambition to be a greeting card model. But you must have seen those fairies. Perfect hair, perfect bodies, perfect everything. To be honest, they give you lot the wrong idea about us as a species. We come in all shapes and sizes, the same as you. I did manage to get myself an interview once. But they took one look at my chunky thighs and that was the end of that little fantasy. It turned out I was more suited to undercover work like this. It doesn’t really matter what you look like when no-one’s meant to see you. And I suppose it could have been worse. I could have ended up a Christmas tree fairy. They have the worst deal of all; seasonal work only, pine needles sticking in unmentionable places, and humans looking up your skirt every five minutes. So I shouldn’t grumble. But I do.

I’ve no idea how much time has passed when the beeping from my phone rouses me from my reverie. It’s a text from Head Office, wanting to know why I’m not back yet. It’s past midnight. I give myself a bit of a shake to wake myself up and get my circulation going again, then peer in through the window again. At long last, it looks as though he’s asleep, although he’s not even bothered to get undressed. He hasn’t even taken his shoes off. His mouth’s lolling open and the television’s still blaring out.

I can’t tell you how I make my entrance, on account of it being a trade secret. Once I’m in I go and hover over the bed and take a good look around, hoping I won’t have to go foraging under the pillow. I’m in luck. I spot an envelope propped against the alarm clock. It seems to be bulging a bit, which gives me cause for concern, but I’ve no time to mess about. As quietly as I can, I dive in. And I do mean that literally, the envelope being about a hundred times bigger than I am. After a struggle I manage to get the letter out and unfold it.

Well, I say letter. Actually it’s more of an invoice. When I started in this job, there was a set rate, and we paid by the visit. Now the ‘clients’ think they can charge whatever they like. They seem to think they’re doing us some kind of favour. And I can hardly believe what this spoiled little slob’s expecting me to pay for the contents of his envelope. I’ve been putting off looking for as long as I can, but my curiosity finally gets the better of me. Now, I’ve been in this job all my working life, and I’ve seen some pretty gruesome sights. Nothing much shocks me now. But, hand on my heart, this is the worst case I’ve ever come across. I count them, and then count them again, just to make sure. There are ten of them, every one black, rotten and crumbling. There’s no way I can take this lot back with me. For one thing, there’s a limit on the weight I’m allowed to carry. It’s a health and safety thing.

I read the ‘letter’ again. Not so much as a ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ or a polite enquiry about by health, just a list of what he wants. Apparently, back teeth are worth double. He should be so lucky. Finally, something snaps inside me. This is one job too far. I’m not doing it. It’s not like they can sack me, is it?

I can’t just leave them, and let him think I didn’t turn up. I need to make sure he knows I’ve seen them. I think for a minute, then scrabble about at the bottom of my backpack until my hand closes on what I’m looking for. Obviously, they’re too small to be of any practical use, but hopefully they’ll serve to make my point. I set them down on his television, where I know he’ll see them – my toothbrush and toothpaste, the ones I carry in case I’m stuck out overnight and need to freshen up. I heave the teeth back into the envelope. All the rustling makes him stir in his sleep, and I hastily make my exit.

I don’t bother going back to the office. There’s no point now. It’s not as though they’ll have organized a leaving party for me, the mean so-and-sos. My shift ended hours ago. I fly straight home, contemplating the pleasures of retirement, which suddenly look a whole lot more appealing. If you look closely enough, you might see me, cultivating my allotment at the bottom of a garden near you.