Harvey Truelove never flew. If confronted with this fact when sober he would simply suggest, aerily, that he was never ever in that kind of hurry. If confronted when drunk he would opine rather that he preferred to avoid the jealous poison directed by the things that crawled against the creatures of the wing. But get him when he was honest and the truth would be depressingly Freudian – his father flew, as did his mother, and often, and by night, and on bat wing and broom. And that put paid to that.
His father had been a plutonium plutocrat who had spent the nineteen-thirties attempting to befriend as many jackbooted sociopaths as possible, no matter where in the world they were trampling freedom and innocence. His mother had been a social doyenne amidst royalty and celebrity, cavorting as to the same vector as syphilis. Had there been air miles in those days they would have been rich people. They were in fact rich people, but they had made their money the old fashioned way. With menace and a sense of entitlement.
(c) Ian Bird 2013