SYNOPSIS
A London airport hotel is haunted by the spirit of a pilot who lost his life at the scene many years before. An American air hostess claims to have been raped by his unseen presence, provoking an investigation which reveals details of his bizarre accident and former troubled existence.
Karen Erikson, chief purser of Worldwide Airlines, teams up with a British airline captain who has compiled a dossier on the hauntings over many years. Together, through an exciting series of events, they attempt to rid the hotel of its evil presence.

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Quote from a review in The Log (British Airline Pilots' magazine):

"The flying sequences are written with fluency and conviction, as is the ending featuring an explosive finale. In summary, a good read whilst on holiday, but keep it away from the kids!" Mel Jenkins.

Another from Rabbit Books author Brian Bagot:

"This is one of the best books I've read on the e-mail networks. I found it to be 'as good as it gets.'"

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BLACK BILLY.

Chapter 1

Bill Goddard runs a hand through matted black hair and ruefully massages his neck.  The nagging pain he has endured for so long is getting worse.  Despite its constant ache, it cannot dull his craving.  He desperately needs someone to share the long, dark hours — someone to take the pain away.

        He moves silently through the shadows of his room and stares morosely across the hotel car park.  The November night is cold and clear, with only a whisper of breeze to stir the multinational flags hanging above the hotel entrance.  Three hundred yards away, the lights of Cranford's airport terminal send out a cold, impersonal glow.  To the east, landing lights of approaching aircraft probe the darkness, and overhead, far-off galaxies suffuse the night sky.  Somewhere out there is the one who will come to him, ease his suffering, and free him from the bonds which have held him prisoner for so long.

        His room, on the ground floor of the Cranford Airport Hotel, has been unoccupied for more than a month.  It is always the last to be allocated, but tonight, it seems, he will have a guest.  The chambermaids have completed their duties with unreasonable haste, alarmed by the history of the room, fearful of its chilling atmosphere and the real, or imagined, sense of evil emanating from its walls.  They do not know that in the light of day Bill Goddard cannot harm them.

        By day, the maroon carpet, matching curtains and rose-patterned duvets give the room a warm, welcoming aspect.  But now, in the darkness, despite the heating turned up full and the windows shut tight, the room exudes an unnatural chill.  It needs the soft warmth of a young woman's body to chase the cold away.

        He turns his bulky frame from the window and scowls.  There is little he can do but wait and reflect, as he has so many times, on the strange circumstances of his life and death.  From his earliest years, as a boy apart with malformed legs, he had led a turbulent life, always knowing he was different; different in life, different in death.  He hopes this guest will be the one he longs for, the one to free him and grant him peace at last.

        In life, he had no time to reflect on his bizarre existence, but from the day of his funeral he has done little else.  Three days he lay on that cold mortuary slab before they came to bury him; three days, before he followed the hearse to that corner of the leafy churchyard at Lower Cranford.  It was a simple service: the obligatory guard of honour; the station padre; a dozen colleagues detailed to attend; a solitary member of the local press.  No friends, no family — he had none.  When they had gone, he stood alone, the biting November rain saturating the carpet of leaves surrounding the heaped, fresh earth of his resting-place.  Dead and buried, gone forever, a blighted, turbulent life ended so abruptly.  The inscription on the granite memorial stone would remain engraved on his mind forever:

R.I.P.

Flying Officer

William Paul Goddard D.F.M.

Royal Air Force

Born 23 May 1920

Died Nov. 5 1951

        So long ago  — and still he waits for release.  So many times he has tried and failed.  Tonight, he will try again.

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Chapter 2

Eight miles to the east, Worldwide Airlines Flight 351 turned onto the centreline of Cranford's Runway Two-Five.  Assisted by tail winds, it was seven minutes early on its weekly service from Atlanta, Georgia.  Senior Purser Karen Erikson, thirty-four, and fifteen years with the airline, had received final reports from her cabin attendants.  All was well: meal trays and glasses stashed away, passengers strapped in, cigarettes extinguished.  She reached for the handset and pressed the flight deck call button.

        Bathed in the soft glow of instrument lighting, Captain Frank Sokolowski, a greying Vietnam veteran, picked up his phone.

        'Yeah, Karen, go ahead.'

        'Cabin secured for landing, sir.'  Karen's soft, southern accent carried just a hint of tiredness.

        'OK.  We'll be down in two minutes.  Say, are we havin' a party tonight?'

        She smiled wearily.  'Of course, Captain.  Don't we always?'

        'Sure do . . . and Karen, if you need any protection from that spook they got here, I'd be happy to oblige.  See you on the ground.'

        Karen smiled grimly and replaced the handset into its cradle.  She liked Frank a lot; he was a steady pilot, a good captain to fly with, but he was a family man, on his second wife and with two grown-up kids.  She knew what his 'protection' would involve, and she didn't think of Frank in that way.  He was old enough to be her father, and since her recent bust up with Brad, she was off men — of any age.

        After checking the escape slide lever on the forward passenger door, she smoothed back her short, ash-blonde hair and went to the forward galley.  Free from the inquisitive eyes of the passengers, she kicked off the soft cabin-shoes she had worn for the long flight and eased her swollen feet into navy court shoes.

        A two-tone chime from the overhead speakers signalled the cabin attendants to take up their positions for landing.  Karen's seat, one of a pair positioned by the forward passenger door in case of an emergency, was occupied only during takeoff and landing.  It faced to the rear, attached to the bulkhead separating the first class passenger cabin from the economy section.  Conscious of the many eyes watching her every move, she fastened the full safety harness, pulling the webbing straps tight across her slim shoulders.

        The spook Frank had mentioned was the reason why Karen had rostered herself as purser on Flight 351.  Three months previously, one of the airline's most experienced cabin attendants, Diane LeFevre, had refused to operate a scheduled service to Cranford and put in an official request never to be rostered on that service again.  Karen, in her capacity as Chief Purser, had ordered Diane's immediate suspension from flying duties and called her for interview at the company's headquarters in Atlanta.

        Diane was well known to Karen.  They had flown together many times.  A slim, olive-skinned brunette of twenty-eight, she was a French-Canadian with a history of occasional neurotic behaviour and a known drugs habit.  She had been disciplined several times for breaches of regulations, and on each occasion had narrowly avoided dismissal.  Check flights seemed to bring out the best in her, and her performance in the air could not be faulted.  It was on the ground, next to a man, a bottle, or a joint, that Diane's troubles began.

        Waiting for touchdown, Karen's thoughts drifted back to that Monday in August when a crestfallen Diane had presented herself at the senior purser's office at Atlanta airport.

Karen greeted Diane coolly, dismayed by the change in her appearance.  Since their last meeting, she had lost weight.  Her uniform hung loosely on her frame, and her red-rimmed eyes, sunk into sallow cheeks, showed evidence of recent tears.

         Karen indicated a chair in front of her desk.

         'So, Diane.  You've refused to operate the Cranford flights.  Like to tell me why?'

         Diane avoided eye contact, sat down and remained silent.  Despite Karen's prompting she seemed reluctant to explain why she had refused to operate her roster.

         'Look,' Karen warned,  'you'd better have a damn good reason for your refusal to fly the Cranford route.  If you don't, It could mean you going before the Disciplinary Board again, and this time you'll be facing dismissal.  We've known each other a long time now, been through good times and bad, but you can't rely on my support every time you go off the rails.  Give me a good enough reason, and I'll okay your request.'

         Diane folded her arms defiantly, eyes blazing.  'If I told you, you wouldn't believe me.  Nobody would.  You'd think me crazy.'

         'Try me,' retorted Karen.

         Diane remained tight-lipped, sullenly staring at the floor while the clock on the wall monotonously ticked away the seconds.  Karen waited impatiently.  After a full minute of uneasy silence, Diane looked up, blinking away angry tears.

         'OK, I’ll tell you, but you won't believe me.  Last time over there I . . . I was raped.'

         'My God!'  Karen shot from her chair and rounded the desk.  Her heart leapt to her throat and her mind flipped back fifteen years . . . rape . . . Amsterdam . . . Ulla and that despicable Henk.  She hoped he was rotting in hell for what he did to her.  The memories came tumbling back.  How could she ever forget?  And now, here was her friend, Diane, having suffered the same ghastly experience — an experience that would remain with her for the rest of her life.  She must be facing the same problems she herself had faced all those years ago; the humiliation, the misery, the consuming desire to exact revenge.  Had Diane done as she had done — told no one — kept the bitter secret to herself?

         She took a slow, deep breath before asking, 'Did you report it?'

         Diane dropped her chin to her chest and the tears began to flow. 

         Karen felt compelled to go to her, lifting the younger woman's face to her own.  The hurt in Diane's eyes and the warm wetness of tears on her cheeks touched Karen's heart.  She remembered how she had longed for someone to console her fifteen years ago, but there had been no one except her parents.  To tell them would have blighted their settled existence, ruined their faith in their only daughter.  No, she couldn't do that.  She kept the vile memory to herself and suffered in silence, hoping and praying for the passage of time to soften the hurt.  It had, but here was a cruel reminder.

         She wanted to hold her friend close, comfort her, but instead let out a deep sigh and moved away to sit on the edge of her desk, folding her arms and considering her position.  As Chief Purser, she had to get to the bottom of this.

         'C'mon, Diane.  We can't have this.  Rape is serious stuff.  Did you report it?'

         Diane shook her head.

         'You didn't . . . why the hell not?  Was it someone you knew?'          Diane raised eyes, wet, wide and defiant.  'How could I report it?' she spat out.  'There was no-one there.'

         'You mean no witnesses?'

         'No.  I mean, there was no-one there!'

         Karen, perplexed, moved back behind her desk.  'Perhaps you'd better tell me about it,' she said.  Then, with a show of impatience, 'Well, c'mon!'

         Diane shifted uncomfortably in her chair.  'OK, I'll tell you, but please don’t tell anyone else.' 

         Karen nodded and Diane continued in little more than a whisper.

         'We were in the Airport Hotel, the usual rooms in that spooky east wing.  I was in number 17.  I'd been out to a club and I can't remember now but it must have been about two in the morning when I got back to the hotel.  I was absolutely bushed.'

         Karen leaned forward expectantly.  'Go on, Diane, but do speak up.'

         Diane sniffed away tears and raised her voice slightly. 

         'I went straight to my room and used the bathroom.  I took a shower and when I came out my nightie was lying on the floor.  I know for sure I left it on the bed.  I'd just picked it up and put it over my head when the radio faded out and the curtains started blowing like crazy.  At first, I thought the window must have blown open, but when I checked, it was shut tight.  The room went very cold, and this peculiar smell — like the gas they use on the airplanes — came wafting in.  God, it was so weird, Karen.'

         Karen reached for a box of tissues on her desk and handed them to Diane. 

         'Very strange,' she said.  'Tell me more.'

         Diane dabbed away the tears. 

         'I phoned reception and spoke to the manager.  When I told him what was happening, he came straight up to my room, but by the time he arrived everything was normal again.'

         'And what did he say?'

         'He said there was nothing wrong with the room and I should get to bed.'

         'And did you?'

         'I must have done, but I don't actually remember.

         'So what do you remember?  And what's all this about being raped?

         'Oh, I remember that all right.  I must have gone to sleep with the light on.  Like I said, I was really tired.  The next thing I knew my nightie was torn off and I was thrown out of bed onto the floor.  Then a heavy weight — like a man's weight — was on top of me, holding me down.  He started groping me and before I could stop him, he was doing it.  He was clawing at me like a wild animal, and all the time his stinking breath was pumping into my face.  I couldn't fight him off.  God, it was the most horrible thing I've ever known.'

         Karen shuddered. 

         'Did you call for help?'

         'Call for help?  I couldn't breathe.  How could I call for help?'

         'Did you see his face?'

         'See his face?  My God, I know this sounds crazy.  The light was on — and like I told you — there was no-one there.'

         A surge of nausea shot to Karen's throat and the hairs on her arms began to crawl.  Unbelievable though Diane’s story was, there was surely no reason why she should lie about a thing like this.  She must have been dreaming.  Or perhaps she was back on the coke and was having a really bad trip.  True or not, it seemed real enough to her, and unless something was done about it, she was heading for a nervous breakdown. 

         'Then what happened?'

         'Suddenly, he left me.  The room became warmer, the radio came back on and the curtains stopped blowing.  I grabbed my raincoat and ran to reception.  That old night-porter they got there — Walter — didn't seem at all surprised when I asked for another room.  He must have seen how agitated I was, yet he was so composed about the whole thing.  He didn't ask why I wanted to change, why I was shaking like a leaf and why I had nothing on under my raincoat.  He went right back to collect my things — I didn't dare go myself.  He gave me another room on the other side of the hotel, but I couldn't sleep.  I never want to go back to that place ever again.  Please don't make me, Karen.'

         Karen frowned.  'I'm sorry, but I can't believe your story.  It's too fantastic.  You must have dreamt the whole thing.  You sure you're not back on the coke?'

         'God, no.  I swear it.'

         'But you had been drinking?'

         'Yes, but only two or three.  You know that wouldn't affect me.  Not enough to make me imagine something like that.'

         'What about medication?’

         'No, nothing.'

         Karen pursed her lips.  'I thought I knew you pretty well, Diane.  Now, I'm not so sure.  Obviously I can't make a decision on this today.  I've got a Standards Committee meeting in ten minutes, so I shall have to let you go for now.'  

         Rounding the desk, she took Diane's arm and steered her towards the door.

         ''Give me a few days to make enquiries,' she said.  In the meantime you're off duty.  Keep mum about this.  Not a word to anybody, OK?'

         In the following days Karen's discreet enquiries revealed little.  Worldwide had started operations into Cranford, London's fourth airport, only six months previous to Diane's alleged rape.  No similar incidents had been reported by any other Worldwide crew, but some had heard long-standing stories of a ghost haunting the east wing of the hotel.  When she telephoned Clive Horne, the manager of the Airport Hotel, he vehemently denied the existence of any ghost.  His protestations were a little too vociferous, Karen thought, and far from convincing.  Next time over there, she would bring up the subject again — face to face rather than by telephone.