And breathing this air is an air traffic controller who looks at blips. And the blips swim in front of him because he’s tired and unhealthy and when he shuts his eyes they’re still there, expanding and shrinking and pirouetting under his lids. But today he’s not at his screen. He’s not in the tower. He’s in a field and his feet are wet and there’s sick on his shirt and his breath is frosting and he’s looking up and waiting and wishing things were different.

And his breath floats upward and he’s wondering what has happened to the trade winds. Perhaps they’ve died. Perhaps he’s in the doldrums. He’s thinking of dead calm and slow-moving surface winds, Horse Latitudes, above and below the equator, where sailing boats floundered and had to throw precious cargo overboard in an effort to lighten the load. Horses were discarded. Valuable but heavy.

He wonders how they got them over the side. Did they make them jump? Perhaps they were made to walk the plank. Blindfolded. He imagines a slow drifting vessel in a sea of thrashing horses. Crew praying for a wind. Water screeching. Perhaps some of the horses swam after the crawling ship, hoping to get pulled back on board.

He thinks of tragic cargo as he waits and waits.

No light breeze here though. No need to jump ship unless I make the choice myself. I’m in a jet stream. The wind is at my back. And Solomon said, “Around and around goes the wind, and from its circuits returns again.” And he was right and if you’re facing the wrong way it can hit you square in the face and knock you off your feet. He should have pointed that out.

I say Solomon; in fact it was someone pretending to be Solomon, writing Ecclesiastes and calling himself the son of David. High risk. You’re bound to get found out sooner or later. You’ve just got to hope it’s after you’re dead.

But I am real. I’m pinching myself and though my fingers are numb and the thing I’m pinching is numb, and though I can’t see myself because it’s so dark and I can’t hear myself speak because it’s so loud, I know I exist. Cogito, ergo sum. And the story is mine and this plane is its end.

Another plane is its start.

And its arrival is the point of departure.

Its name is SA841 and it took off from New York City and landed six and a half hours later at Birmingham International Airport, UK, at 7:05 GMT. The day is yesterday.