The rest of the journey to the airport was uneventful. They arrived at 1.25 am, parked and made their way to the RFDS Aeromedical Base in the north-west of the airport. It was positioned along with the charter services, between the main terminal and the car rental places.
A woman in dark blue trousers and a light blue short-sleeved shirt approached them as they arrived. The logo on her shirt immediately identified her as an RFDS nurse. She was tying her long blonde hair into a high ponytail as she walked.
‘Hello,’ she said cheerily, readjusting her red-rimmed glasses. ‘You must be the Grayson family.’
‘That’d be us,’ answered Dad, stifling a yawn. ‘Excuse me.’
‘No worries,’ said the nurse, eyes bright and alive. ‘It’s rather late to be out and about.’
‘You seem to be handling it better than us,’ said Dad, heading into small-talk mode. He did it automatically whenever he was anxious – as if talking about normal, ordinary things would make everything okay.
‘Been doing shift work for many years now,’ said the nurse. ‘You get used to it pretty quick. And I rather like night flights.’ She turned her attention to Dillon. ‘Dillon, I presume. My name’s Felicity and I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.’ She stuck out her hand.
Dillon shook it awkwardly. ‘Ah … hi.’
‘There’s no need to be nervous,’ Felicity went on. ‘This is all pretty standard. Follow me.’ With a flick of her ponytail she turned and strode off. ‘By the way,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘you can call me Flick’.
Mum and Dad shrugged in unison and followed, Dillon bringing up the rear.
Flick led them into the almost empty terminal, through a door that bypassed the metal detectors and X-ray machines, and onto the tarmac.
‘There she is,’ announced Flick, pointing to the RFDS plane.
‘A Pilatus PC-12,’ piped up Dillon, his eyes going over the plane in the airport lights.
The plane looked very sporty, with its white body, red undercarriage and blue tail. Even though it only had one propeller, it still said ‘speed’ to Dillon.
Flick turned to him, a little surprised. ‘Well informed, aren’t you?’
‘I’ve been on one,’ said Dillon. ‘About six weeks ago.’
‘He liked it so much,’ said Dad, ‘that we got him a toy model.’
‘So you’ve flown with us before?’ said Flick. ‘Why was that?’
‘It was a false alarm,’ explained Mum. ‘We went to Melbourne for a donor liver, but after doing tests they realised it wasn’t a match.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Flick. ‘Hopefully things will be better this time.’ She turned to Mum and Dad. ‘Now, which of you will be accompanying our patient today? As you know, there’s only room for one extra passenger.’
‘I’m coming,’ said Mum.
‘And I’ll join them later in the day,’ added Dad. ‘Assuming all’s clear for the transplant.’
‘We’re good to go straight away,’ said Flick. ‘So I shall say goodbye to you, Mr Grayson.’ She lifted a hand and waved, smiling all the while. ‘Goodbye. And the rest of us may now board.’ She headed towards the plane.
‘Good luck, son,’ said Dad, giving Dillon a tight, bone-crushing hug. ‘I’ll be thinking of you.’
After he had also hugged Mum, she and Dillon followed Flick up the stairs and into the cabin. It was all very familiar. As before, Dillon marvelled at this flying hospital room.
Two stretchers were attached to one wall; monitors, IV drips and other equipment secured around them.
Dillon and Mum took the two seats that faced each other. Flick closed the door, the stairs hinging up to seal off the cabin.
‘All set, Igor,’ she called, sitting in the seat closest to the cockpit.
‘Igor?’ asked Dillon with a smirk, thinking back to the old black-and-white horror films he had watched with Dad. They were more funny than scary. ‘Does that mean Frankenstein’s on board as well?’
‘No, it does not,’ responded a low, gruff voice with just the hint of an accent.
Dillon and Mum stared towards the cockpit as a short man with a bushy dark moustache and sideburns appeared in the doorway. He wore a blue flight jacket zipped up right to the neck. He was chewing on something. Glaring from person to person, he swallowed, then sucked air through his teeth.
‘I am the pilot,’ said Igor, ‘not a mad scientist’s henchman.’
Dillon felt his face redden. ‘I … I’m sorry.’
‘Not to worry,’ said Igor, his face breaking into an unexpected grin. Dillon noticed he had food stuck in his teeth. ‘It is a common mistake. I am called Igor Vyacheslavovich Maspnov.’
‘He’s Russian,’ said Flick, by way of explanation.
‘No, no,’ corrected Igor. ‘My parents are Russian. Me, I am a true-blue, dinky-di Aussie.’ And as if to prove it, he added a ‘G’day, mate!’ before disappearing back into the cockpit.
Dillon and Mum looked at each other. This pilot was very different to the one on their last flight. That other pilot had seemed like he had walked out of a flight-school brochure – tall, blond, neat and very official, using words like ‘wilco’, ‘affirmative’ and ‘roger’. Igor was something else.
Flick shrugged. ‘You get used to him.’
‘Okay.’ Igor’s voice now came over the speakers. ‘Strap yourselves in. We are good to go.’
Dillon hurriedly secured his seatbelt for safety.
The cabin rattled as the engine roared into life. With a little jerk the plane began to taxi along the runway, the whine of machinery increasing.
‘Here we go again,’ said Mum, hopefully.
Dillon nodded then pressed his face up against the window. He took a deep breath and looked out at the airport, splashes of light illuminating the buildings and planes. The hum and shake of his surroundings faded into the distance as he gazed into the beckoning night. He barely even noticed the aircraft lifting off.
The events of the day fell away.
His worries about the future melted like snowflakes in the sun.