The Control Tower – Part 1: Night Watch

"Ryanair six-two-nine, descend flight level one-two-zero."

"Descending one-two-zero, six-two-nine."

Niamh scribbled on her pad and glanced across the dim tower room. Conor was bent over the second radar screen, his pencil behind his ear, his tie loosened to the second button.

"Good night," he murmured.

"Excellent night."

"Please never say that on frequency."

"I said it to you."

They had worked the night shift together for six weeks. Niamh was thirty-one, quick, sharp, with a dry sense of humour and an unrivalled memory for call signs. Conor was thirty-five, calm, steady, with kind hazel eyes and a habit of bringing biscuits. They had one rule, scribbled on a sticky note on the console: No feelings on frequency.

It had been easy for three weeks.

The tower was quiet between two and four, when the last transatlantic arrivals landed and the first morning departures hadn't started. The radar screens glowed green. Rain streaked the windows. The runway lights lay in strings of white and blue across the dark.

"Tell me something," said Niamh, into the hush.

"Yes."

"Why do you bring biscuits?"

"Because you forget to eat."

She turned in her chair. "How do you know that?"

"I watch you." He shrugged, embarrassed. "It's part of the job. Noticing."

"Not that part."

"Perhaps I'm a thorough man."

She laughed, and he laughed, and a pilot's voice crackled over the speaker, and both of them snapped to attention. "Aer Lingus three-one-four, cleared to land runway two-eight."

Afterwards, Conor passed her a custard cream. Their fingers touched.

"Can I ask you something?" said Niamh.

"Yes."

"Do you think the sticky note is still in force?"

"Green?" said Conor, with a half-smile.

"Green," said Niamh. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Handover.