Cynthia Tullet's Big Jump

A Christmas story, of sorts, featuring the main characters from my forthcoming novel, Johnny Siddley's Life of Crime; Johnny, Cynthia Tullet and their friend Ranjan. It begins in the recreation room at Tranquil Tides Executive Lifestyle Village.


“What’s up, Cynthia?” Johnny asked. “You’re not yourself today.”
“Then who am I? Michelle Obama?”
Bad choice. 
Cynthia felt anything but a giant of a woman, respected the world over, with a handsome, debonaire husband and two gorgeous kids.
Don’t think about children.
Always worst at this time of year, with the lifestyle village buzzing over plans for Christmas gatherings with welcoming offspring.
Cynthia forced a grin, worried by Johnny’s expression.
A prime example himself, Johnny had been invited to lunch with his daughter-in-law, Penny, and his thoroughly adorable granddaughter, Sienna. They’d invited her, but she couldn’t, could she? It was their day. Johnny’s and Sienna’s. They didn’t need a morbid spinster facing what might have been.
In a different life.
Without cancer.
And where did that come from? The disease had nothing to do with her poor choices when options were open.
The anniversary.
Cynthia knew it. Hated the affect it had every year. Leant on her famous determination to rise above the annual reminder of life’s fragility, but how could you really?
She’d delayed the tests until school closed for the summer, which made the deadly diagnosis the worst Christmas present ever.
Five years clear now, lovely Dr Lim assured her. Health restored. Except no-one recovered completely from malignant tumours that devoured their breasts and half their self-worth, did they?
And there was Johnny, soon to be joined by her other best friend, Ranjan, returning to their favourite chairs by the snooker table with today’s bounty from the Tranquil Tides clubhouse selection of home-cooked delicacies.
Even Ranjan had a family Yuletide excursion to savour — his partner Bevan’s son and grandchildren.
“What’s next on that bucket list of yours?” Johnny asked. Trying to cheer her up. It usually worked, but it wouldn’t today.
“Ooh,” Ranjan chimed in, offering a cupcake. “How about some more detecting?”
That got Cynthia’s attention. “What did you have in mind?” Another village mystery to be resolved? Hopefully, this time it wouldn’t be the brutal murder of one of their neighbours, but it had been enormous fun tracking down clues and brushing shoulders with real live criminals — exhilarating even, especially when it had been scary towards the end.
“That one in the paper today,” Ranjan said.
“Which one?” Johnny asked. “The paper’s full of violence. That’s why I don’t read it, or watch the news.”
Johnny hated reminders of his ‘life of crime’ as a barrister for the defence. They all had their regrets. Did anyone really say, ‘I wouldn’t change a thing?’
“The Rockingham Ripper!”
Ah, there was one. Not the serial killer roaming Perth’s southern suburbs, Ranjan. A man as content with his lot as ever there could be. 
“We’ve caught a murderer. Let’s get another,” he said.
“Steady on. That was a one-off, surely.” Johnny wagged a finger. “And how do you propose we solve the murders from Cottesloe?”
“What do you mean?” Ranjan asked around a cupcake.
“It’s rather in the name, isn’t it? The Rockingham Ripper. Rockingham’s forty kilometres away. How did you think we might contribute?”
“By keeping our eyes open?” Ranjan tugged up his sleeve to demonstrate.
The talk of the news was a distinctive tattoo — a rose pierced by a stiletto knife — which the Ripper’s only surviving victim saw on the killer’s forearm as he grasped her from behind.
“Did you think this character might pop in to Tranquil Tides with his sleeves rolled up?” Johnny said.
“Well, no. I suppose not.”
Johnny turned to Cynthia. “So, what is on that bucket list?”
“A parachute jump.” In her present mood, she might not bother with the parachute. Oh Dear, did that constitute suicidal thoughts?
“Perfect,” Johnny said. “An excellent idea.”
“You’ll come with me?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, Johnny. Thank you.” It would be wonderful to share one of her adventures, though she’d never imagined staid old Johnny with his books and his little drink in the evenings doing anything so physical.
“I’ll watch you come down. From the ground.”
“Oh. How about you, Ranjan?”
“Heavens, no. Why would any sane person launch themselves from a perfectly sound aircraft?”
“But that’s sorted, eh? Ranjan,” Johnny said. “Our Christmas present for Cynthia?”




Ironically, the pleasant drive to her appointment with destiny took them along the coast to Rockingham in Johnny’s Mercedes.
He parked at the drop zone and stayed with Ranjan as Cynthia left in the skydive company van with a cheerful young lady called Suki.
“Are you nervous?”
“You bet.” It was one of the best aspects, having the heart pumping. “I didn’t think you’d be able to parachute at my age.”
“Too young?” The girl laughed. “You don’t look old to me.”
What a nice girl.
Sturdy young men met the van in jump suits with the chiselled confidence and windswept tans Cynthia usually associated with ski instructors.
“Is this your first jump?” Cynthia’s guide, Will, asked as she emerged from the changing rooms in her baggy suit.
“Yes.”
“Wicked. Mine too. The regular bloke wanted to go to the pub, so I said I’d have a go. Only joking! There’s nothing to worry about. You don’t even feel like you’re falling. You’ll be strapped tight to me.” He thumped his chest. “But I’ll bet you know all about being up close with young men, don’t you, Cynthia?”
A little laddish for Cynthia’s taste in humour, but she chuckled. It wouldn’t be bad at all to be squashed against the hard muscles Will’s overalls couldn’t hide.
In no time, Cynthia and the nice young couple who’d booked the same time slot — Tim and Trisha — had been fitted out, taken through a detailed safety lecture, strapped to their tandem partners, and they were rattling down the runway.
“How you going, Cynthia? All good?”
“Lovely thanks, Will.” She had to shout in his ear.
The plane was tiny, just the pilot in the single seat cockpit and space for half a dozen jump leaders to sit with their parachute packs against the bare fuselage, their tandem partners in their laps and their boot soles propped on the struts that braced the plane’s walls. It shook like a garden shed as they circled skywards at a steep angle. 
Cynthia exchanged eager grins with her fellow initiates. They couldn’t speak over the deafening thunder of the propeller.
Cynthia loved it. Until they levelled off. The pilot shouted something over his shoulder and Will’s colleague, Jurgen, hauled back the cargo door.
The cabin noise soared to new heights as an empty space opened to clear blue sky, and a dizzying drop to the Indian Ocean.
The plane door was open!
Fear lanced Cynthia in its purest form, a fiery burst of adrenaline, delicious when common sense took over, even as her heart rate galloped off the scale.
Jurgen shuffled Tim into the doorway, raised his thumb and rolled out and down — taking Cynthia’s stomach with him.
Trisha and Suki went next and Cynthia was facing the chasm over Will’s boots, wondering what the hell she had been thinking.
“Here we go. You’re gunna love it.”
Will thrust forward and Cynthia was outside the aircraft fifteen thousand feet off the ground.
Slipstream buffeted her face and helmet.
“Head and feet back, love. Like we said. Kick the plane with your heels.”
She arched into the freefall position they’d learned in the safety demonstration, and they did. Her boots clipped the fuselage!
“Yeeee hah,” Will rolled forward, and they plummeted.
Don’t feel like you’re falling be buggered!
The first seconds were more unadulterated terror until Cynthia got used to wind tearing off her cheeks and madly fluttering her boiler suit as an incredible vista opened before her. Australia’s infinite shades of brown and forest green, a strip of gold and the ocean scuffed with miniature waves, laid out like a sultan’s carpet for her personal enjoyment.
Magic!
It wouldn’t be so bad to die like this.
She’d be content if the parachute never opened. What a way to go, but a pity to take Will to his doom. He had a lot to live for.
Will pulled the rip cord and their parachute billowed with a jerk that stretched the harness straps thrillingly. Cynthia found herself in a silent capsule, suspended in a virtual armchair with details revealed slowly, gently, in perfect splendour as they drifted down; Rockingham’s little wharf, Garden Island Naval Base — a submarine tied to the dock, she couldn’t wait to tell Ranjan — and the glorious sea — ooh, she must look, there might be sharks! 
The professionals pulled on stirrups in the parachute lines to bring the customers into a comfy circle ten metres or so apart.
“Whoa! That was amazing,” Tim yelled.
“And how good’s this?” Trisha grinned. “Did you like it, Cynthia?”
She raised her thumb, too stuffed with emotion to speak.
Will tapped the top of Cynthia’s helmet. “Almost done. Remember? I have to loosen the straps a little so we can land on our feet safely. Are you ready?”
“Okay.”
But she wasn’t. 
The six inch drop took Cynthia’s breath away until the harness caught her again.
She let out a little shriek.
Will tugged hard and Cynthia realised she’d grabbed at his sleeve in her panic. How embarrassing. Until her heart stopped. Will’s cuff and a bandage had risen up his forearm to reveal half a tattoo — a knife blade emerging from a flower of some sort, criss-crossed with scabs as if someone had scratched at it.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Will wrenched his arm free and pulled his sleeve down.
But he couldn’t erase the image burnt into Cynthia’s startled brain.
Below, a long way below, Tim and Trisha swung over the Rockingham foreshore on final approach.
“You saw it, didn’t you? Bitch!”
Straps jerked behind Cynthia’s back and she slipped free, to certain death on the beach below. She threw out her hands, whirled desperately, and caught khaki. Cynthia dug in her nails, and whipped her other hand until fingers caught on leather and laces — Will’s boot.
He roared, grunting and kicking.
But Cynthia clung on, cackling.
Ha! I didn’t want to die, after all.


They thudded into terra firma together. Way too hard, a miracle they didn’t break their necks.
The air whooshed out of Cynthia’s lungs, winded as her back met the turf.
Alive!
Jurgen and Suki were on them in a flash, yelling incoherently in professionally controlled horror.
Suki hovered over Cynthia. “You okay?”
Jurgen released the safety catch on Will’s parachute before it dragged him into the ocean. “Don’t move. You all right, mate? What happened?” 
“The stupid cow—”
Cynthia rocked up, her chest burning as breath returned. She pointed a shaking hand. “Will’s the Rockingham Ripper. He tried to kill me.
“No.” Suki protested.
“Yes, he did. He released my straps deliberately because I saw his tattoo.”
Will staggered up. He rubbed at his arm and backed off under the startled gaze of his colleagues and customers.
Johnny and Ranjan hurtled from the car park, arms waving, straight past the busted serial killer.
Old men looked so silly running in their baggy shorts and sandals, bless their hearts. 
“Cynthia.” Ranjan slapped his hand to his stomach. “We thought you were dead.”
“Me too.” She pointed at Will. “I just caught another murderer. Will’s the Rockingham Ripper.”
Ranjan rose, staring. “He’s the…? Oh.” 
Will limped for the van in a shambling run. Jurgen brought him down with a flying rugby tackle. Suki pulled out her mobile phone and dialled. 
Triple 0, hopefully.
“But you’re not hurt?” Johnny crouched, a palm on her shoulder. Of course, he’d met dozens of murderers, but it made Cynthia feel quite special that he wasn’t the least bit interested in a serial killer’s demise.
“Well done,” Ranjan said. “Two bucket list ticks in one day.”
Cynthia beamed. “Yes. I wouldn’t be dead for quids. Johnny, do you think Penny would mind if I gatecrashed your Christmas lunch after all?”


Banner photo by Joseba Garcia Moya: https://www.pexels.com/