An English Boy in New York (5 page)

7.38pm

So I saw Megan at college today, in the common room, for the last time before I leave for New York. It didn't go quite as I'd anticipated. Megan seemed disappointingly cheerful.

‘You're going to have such a great time,' she said. ‘I'm so jealous.'

‘Well, you could have come,' I reminded her. ‘I'd rather be sat next to you than Gex.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' she said. ‘But you know why I couldn't come.'

I wasn't sure I did, really.

‘I'll miss you,' I said.

‘It's only a week.'

‘So you won't miss me?'

‘Of course. But we can skype?'

I nodded. Another person to remember to skype.

‘Central Park should be pretty this time of year,' Megan went on brightly.

‘Goodbye, Megan,' I said.

‘Why are you saying goodbye?' she asked. ‘We're going to the same class.'

I'd forgotten that.

‘Yes but  …  I have to go to the toilet,' I said.

‘OK, knock yourself out,' she said, raising an eyebrow.

I could have handled that better.

10.34pm

My anxiety/mild OCD issues have kicked in big time. Can't sleep, so I did a dummy pack, made a list, unpacked in order to check everything off against the said list, then repacked. I keep getting up and staring at my luggage – and wondering if I've missed anything  … 

This is proper girl behaviour. It has to stop.

The other thing I am worrying about is obviously Gex. Not just because he is Gex, and that means all manner of ill-advised, uncouth and possibly illegal scenarios could happen over the next week, but because he is pathologically unreliable and I have had to resort to devious lies to ensure he gets on the same plane as me.

Normally, the advice is to get to the airport two hours before your flight leaves, which seems to me to be cutting it awfully fine. What if the coach is delayed? What if your watch battery runs out? What if Gex tries to smuggle his replica water pistol onto the plane and anti-terror police pump bullets into his brain? I want to get there three hours before the plane leaves. At least then I'll have time to wash Gex's brain matter off my Converse before boarding.

So, this is where the devious plan kicks in. As Gex is never on time for anything and I'm predicting he will resist strongly if I try to get him to the airport three hours before the flight is due to leave, I've told him the plane leaves TWO hours before it actually does. That way even if he's an hour late we'll still get there when I want to get there.

Genius. What could possibly go wrong?

Mum and Dad are dropping my sister at Auntie Angela's, who lives close to Heathrow, so they'll take a cab. I'm glad I'm not travelling to the airport with them. If I know my parents they'll be late and hold everyone up. They are on the same flight as us but in (
snort)
economy.

My packing earlier was interrupted by a call from Mr McGavin, rather surprisingly.

‘Is that ticket still going for New York?' he asked.

‘Er, no,' I said.

‘Just kidding,' he said. ‘I actually was phoning to ask if you could knit me one of those Hampton scarves. I'll pay of course.'

‘I'd like to,' I said slowly. ‘It's just Dad likes the fact that his is the only one  … '

‘Oh, come on, Ben,' Mr McGavin said. ‘No one's a bigger Hampton FC fan than me.'

‘Can I get back to you?' I asked. ‘I'm off to New York tomorrow and have a lot to do.'

‘Take your time, Ben,' Mr McGavin said. ‘I'd really love one of those scarves, but I understand if you can't.'

I don't like turning down work, I thought as I put down the phone, but Dad had been so delighted by the scarf. It was unique, and there's something wonderful about unique. I'd have to give it some thought.

Have I mentioned that I think I'm allergic to the colour cerise? I've tried to knit using cerise-coloured wool twice and each time I've ended up with a blinding headache and red blotches on my fingers. I'm going to have to google this. It's a shame, because I like the colour cerise and there's a lovely pattern which cries out for such a warm tone in the latest issue of
Knit!
magazine.

Maybe antihistamines might help.

8.14pm

Megan further undermined the dramatic goodbye scene by popping around earlier to wish me
bon voyage
. She gave me some Union Jack boxer shorts and a kiss and told me to watch out for American girls who have great teeth but are often emotionally unstable.

Is that a hint of jealousy I detect in her?

‘Are you going to be OK?' she asked.

‘Of course. Why wouldn't I be?'

‘Well. It's just you're not always the best at dealing with  …  stress.'

‘Stress? I'm going on holiday.'

‘Hmm,' she said. It was as if she wanted to say something else but was holding back.

‘Now you come to mention it, though,' I said, ‘I am a bit worried that I don't know how much to tip anyone. What if I get it wrong?'

‘Try not to worry about it.'

‘For example,' I said. ‘If you stop someone on the street and ask for directions, do you tip them?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘What about the hotel receptionist?'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘That's the thing!' I cried. ‘There are no rules. I looked this up on the internet and everyone says something different. You're supposed to tip taxi drivers, but not if they take you on a roundabout route. How will I know? I don't know the routes.'

‘I'm sure you'll figure it out,' she sighed.

‘I wish you were coming,' I said. She frowned and for the briefest moment I thought I saw her lip quiver slightly. But then she was just normal old Megan, all bustly and down-to-earth.

‘It's not the right time,' she said. ‘Do you know what I mean?'

‘Yes.'

But I don't think I really do know what she means. Is she talking about her gran being sick? Or does she mean it's not the right time in our fledgling relationship? After all, we haven't actually taken a proper ‘transatlantic flight' yet, as Mum might have put it. A few jaunts in a single-engined plane, yes. One quick helicopter flight to the Isle of Wight one night at her place when her parents were out, maybe. But that was all. It's a long way to New York.

Ben's Note: For Future Historians and Interested Parties at West Meon Probation Services. Since returning to the UK I have re-written and expanded on all diary entries I made while in New York or while travelling there and back. Though I made frequent diary entries I often found myself without the time to do justice to what was one of the most extraordinary weeks of my life. I tended to scribble notes and made a few voice memos and recordings which I have added to the narrative along with newspaper cuttings. I have not changed the order of anything, though some names may have been changed and I may have slightly altered my own dialogue to better reflect what I meant to say rather than what I managed to stammer out. Please note that I have not exaggerated Brandi DeLacourt in any way, shape or form. She really is like that.

Time unknown

We're on the plane. We've been flying for about two hours now, and I can't pretend our journey has been entirely smooth so far. The coach journey from Woking was OK, though we really crawled along. I kept checking my watch, worried about the time. Luckily, Gex slept most of the way, he's not used to getting up before midday. He woke just as we were nearing Heathrow and needed to go to the loo.

‘Hold it in,' I said. ‘We're nearly there.' The last thing I needed was for him to get stuck in the toilet on the coach and make us miss the flight.

‘I can't hold it in. ‘I've got IDS.'

‘Iain Duncan Smith?

Gex looked at me, baffled.

‘The Pensions Minister?'

‘Nah,' he said. ‘The fing where you have to keep going to the loo.'

‘You mean IBS, irritable bowel syndrome?'

‘Not half,' he said, holding his tummy.

‘It might help if you ate some vegetables once in a while,' I said.

‘I'm not eating no veg in America,' he said. ‘It's all GM.'

I started to reassure him about the safety of food in the US but he really did need to rush off. The driver seemed to speed up after that, I'm guessing he was anxious to get to the terminal and air out the coach.

* * *

The real trouble started once we arrived at the airport.

‘Which desk do I go to to check in?' I asked a tired-looking BA person. He glanced at my ticket and pointed to a line full of angry-looking people which snaked around Terminal 5, out of the door and possibly all the way to Terminal 4.

‘Um, are you sure? It's just that I have Executive Club tickets?'

‘That's the Executive Club line,' he said, walking off.

‘Wow, how long must the line be for economy?' I said to Gex. ‘Mum and Dad had better hurry up.'

So we waited, and waited and waited. Gex chatted animatedly about gangs and turf and hos.

‘You know you can buy guns in off-licences there, innit?' he said.

‘Don't talk about guns in the airport,' I hissed.

‘Why not?'

‘Because people will think it's suspicious,' I whispered, nodding towards a security guard, who was watching us.

‘
You're
looking suspicious,' he said.

‘Well, I am
now
,' I said impatiently. ‘But only because you started talking about guns.'

‘Shh,' he said. ‘Keep it down.'

Some more waiting. Gex started yawning loudly. After nearly an hour we were almost at the front of the queue. I checked my watch.

‘Just as well we came an hour earlier than we needed to,' I said.

Gex stared at me, shocked. ‘You tricked me.'

‘You would have been late,' I pointed out.

‘Brothers don't lie to other brothers, man.'

‘Don't call people brothers when we're there. Especially black men.'

‘Racist.'

‘I'm not a racist. You are not black, they will think you are taking the piss.'

I was now getting seriously worried about Mum and Dad. I was starting to suspect the queue for Executive Club was the same as the economy line. Which was irritating, and it was now even longer than it had been when we'd arrived. There wouldn't be enough time for them to get to the front of the queue and get on the plane.

Just as we arrived at the front of the queue there was a huge kerfuffle behind us.

‘Excuse me, excuse me. Coming through.'

A stocky lady in a tight-fitting blazer unhooked a rope and ushered my parents through. People who'd been queuing for over an hour tutted.

‘Oh my goodness, thank you so much,' Mum said to the blazer lady. ‘OUR CAR BROKE DOWN,' she called out so the queue could hear.

‘Don't worry, we'll get you on your flight,' the lady said with a smile.

Mum turned to me and gave a panto wink. ‘Car broke down?' I asked when the lady had gone. Dad was chuckling wickedly.

‘Works every time,' he said.

‘God, you two are such phonies,' I said. ‘I'm tearing up your nomination for Pride of Britain this year.'

‘Next!' someone was yelling. We all shuffled down to the check-in desk. Dad got there first and thrust out his ticket. ‘I have a bad knee,' he said. ‘I need a bulkhead seat so I can stretch it out.'

The man said nothing but jabbed keys furiously for a few minutes. Some of those keys sounded like they were going to fly into bits under the attack.

‘No bulkhead seats available,' he said eventually. ‘You need to get here earlier for those.'

‘Our car broke down,' Dad said, outraged.

‘Sorry about that,' the man said and continued destroying his keyboard.

Dad looked at Mum. ‘I can't fly for six hours without any leg room.'

Clatter clatter clatter
went the keyboard.

‘Can he have an aisle seat on the left?' she asked. ‘Then he can stretch his leg out into the aisle.'

The man looked up from his assault.

‘You're not supposed to stretch your leg out into the aisles,' he said.

‘I have a weak bladder,' Dad said quickly. ‘That's the real reason I need the aisle.'

The man's eyes narrowed then.

‘What is the problem exactly, sir?' he said. ‘Your knee, or your bladder?'

‘The knee was a decoy,' whispered Dad. ‘I was a bit embarrassed. It's a prostate thing.'

The man looked unmoved, so I looked at my watch and sighed loudly. ‘You can have my seat, Dad,' I said. ‘In Executive Club.'

He looked at me. ‘Really, son?'

‘Yes, it has extra leg room.'

‘Are you sure? You've been banging on about your Club Class seat for days.'

‘Yes, but you have a bad knee and a prostate issue.'

Dad's face lit up and he looked at me as if he were about to slaughter a sheep in my honour. ‘Thank you, Ben,' he said. ‘I really appreciate it.'

I turned to Gex and shrugged. ‘So I guess we're in economy after all.'

‘You are,' he said. ‘I'm in Executive Club.'

My mouth dropped.
Judas!
‘But don't you think Mum and Dad might want to sit together?'

‘I don't mind,' Mum said.

‘I'm happy to sit next to Gex,' Dad said, heaving a suitcase onto the weighing belt.

‘He has IBS,' I said quickly.

‘Well then, the poor lad definitely needs to go in Club,' Dad said. ‘There's always a queue for the toilets in economy.'

I sighed. This is not how things were supposed to turn out.

Later; somewhere over the Atlantic

Mum is snoring softly next to me. I can hear Dad and Gex laughing a dozen rows away in EXECUTIVE CLUB CLASS, I'm sure I saw an extremely attractive flight attendant up there pouring something fizzy earlier, before she pulled the curtain across. Mum and I got a cold cheese roll each from a grumpy old steward who keeps walking into my elbow. Mum felt sorry for me and gave me her roll and now I feel a bit sick. Also, the compression socks are perhaps a little too tight. I'm now worried about my circulation. No point avoiding deep vein thrombosis only to end up with gangrene.

I'm also obsessing over something else. Needles in my hand luggage. When we were checking our bags in, the keyboard killer asked me if I had anything sharp in my hand luggage.

‘Like what?' I asked.

‘Like a knife, or needles?'

‘I have some needles,' I admitted.

‘Are they for prescription medicines?'

‘No, for fuschia stitch.'

‘What?'

‘For knitting. They're knitting needles.'

He gave me an odd look.

‘OK, you'd better pack them in your hold luggage.'

‘Really? I asked. ‘It's just that I was going to work on my knitting on the plane. I get anxious sometimes and it calms me.'

‘Sir,' he said. ‘I have a long queue of people waiting.'

‘Fine, fine.' I unzipped my bag and shoved the needles and half-finished Hoopie in.

‘What else do you have in your hand luggage?' he asked.

I shrugged. ‘Passport, tickets, my Kindle, my Stiletto.'

He jerked back. ‘You have a Stiletto?'

‘Yeah,' I said, grinning proudly.

‘Why?'

I shrugged. ‘They're cool. You can play games with them.'

He shook his head. ‘It needs to go in the hold luggage, I'm afraid. ‘Is it in a sheath?'

‘A case, yes. Does it really need to go in the hold?'

He blinked in surprise. ‘Well, you can't use it in the cabin, obviously!'

‘No, I suppose not,' I said. So that went in the suitcase too and I watched it sail off down the conveyor belt.

I had this irrational fear that I'd never see it again.

I huffed and puffed in my seat. I was caught in a vicious circle. I was anxious at having been parted from my knitting; the only thing that could relax me was my knitting.

‘What is it?' Mum said, dragging her eyes away from her book.

‘Nothing,' I said grumpily. ‘Just felt like doing some knitting to pass the time.'

Mum nodded, and a tiny smirk appeared.

‘You are a weird and wonderful boy, Ben. Don't ever change.'

I sighed and fiddled with the in-flight entertainment controls.

‘I'm going to lose myself in a few episodes of
Breaking Bad
,' I told her, plugging in the ear-phones. ‘Let me know when they come round with the hot flannels.'

1.32pm US time

I'm writing this in a 6' x 8' cell. They've allowed me a pencil and a sheet of paper but nothing else. They even took my shoes and belt. They'll send me to Gitmo, I know it.

Here's how it happened. After the plane landed, we all shuffled out into the terminal and queued up for Immigration Control. I was a little worried about Gex. He doesn't actually have a criminal record thankfully, as the moped incident in Holland and Barrett happened when he was only fifteen. Then he got off with a caution after the Martini Rosso thing. But US immigration is notoriously thorough, and Gex, who was well ahead of me in the queue, has a tendency to lie just for the hell of it.

I stood on my tiptoes and tried to see him. I could see Dad, but not Gex. Had they already taken him off to a quiet room? A man in a dark suit and an earpiece stood to one side and watched me carefully. I realised I was probably acting suspiciously and made myself look casual and stop peering ahead.

Mum was beside me, making her passport disappear and re-appear. Then she started making my passport disappear. One minute it was in my hand, then it was gone and I was holding a red silk handkerchief.

‘Stop!' I hissed. ‘You'll probably get arrested.'

‘Sorry,' she said. She reached behind my ear, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and gave it to me.

The man in the dark suit had now transferred his attention to my mother. He was frowning, his hand hovering over his walkie-talkie thing.

Mum gave him her winning innocent smile, though, and he nodded amiably.

I rolled my eyes.

‘How are you feeling?' she asked me.

‘Anxious,' I replied, looking for Gex again.

‘Just relax, Ben,' she said. ‘Enjoy yourself, OK?'

Then I saw him, he was at the booth showing the man his passport. The officer asked him a question. Gex replied and the officer stared at him, disbelieving.

But then the man gave Gex his passport back and waved him through.

‘Now I can relax,' I said as I was called up.

I smiled as I gave the officer my passport and immigration card. He looked like a proper New Yorker, stocky and slightly grizzled. He had a great hat with shiny silver badges. Behind and to one side were cops wearing holsters with guns.

The man scanned my passport and stopped, looking at the screen.

‘You have a criminal record,' he said.

Suddenly I felt nervous. I saw Mum walk through the booth next to me, the lady officer there basically just waved her through.

‘I'm on probation,' I said. ‘Ms Gunter sorted it all out.'

He looked at me, unsmiling. ‘Ms Gunter?'

‘She's my probation officer. She said she was going to sort it out with the Home Office.'

‘Listen, kid,' he said. ‘Criminals are not allowed in this country.'

I laughed (first mistake). ‘I'm not really a criminal,' I said. ‘I mean, technically I stole something, but –' (second mistake). I stopped abruptly at his stern expression.

‘You think this is funny, kid?' he asked, getting to his feet.

‘That came out all wrong,' I said, flustered. ‘It was really just a big misunderstanding. I like knitting now.'

(Third mistake.)

What a mess. I'd been so busy worrying about Gex I'd forgotten to worry about my own situation. How am I supposed to keep up with all the things I have to worry about?

‘I think we need to ask you a few questions, young man,' the officer said. He stepped out of his booth, and gestured to me to stand aside. ‘If you don't mind?'

And then another officer arrived and asked me to come with him and everything went blurry and they took my shoes and my belt and gave me a Styrofoam cup of water and left me here in this cell. If I was Walter White from
Breaking Bad
, this kind of situation would be a mere nuisance.

But I am not Walter White. I'm Ben Fletcher. And I want my mum.

2.03pm

Roberto and Jack just came to see me. Roberto and Jack are immigration officers and are trying to ‘get to the bottom of my situation'. Apparently my parents have been told where I am and they are waiting in the airport until ‘the matter can be resolved'. An armed officer stood to one side, like in
The Shield
. I kept waiting for Roberto to ask the guard to leave so he could ‘talk' to me alone  …  Roberto is young and good looking. He's full of energy and scowls a lot. Jack seems to be the Good Cop. He's grey and avuncular and keeps disappearing to get cups of coffee for everyone. They've been in and out three times now, asking me questions about my conviction and the details on my landing card.