Broken Places (25 page)

Only now did he realize that, if Brad hadn’t cut his trip short, he would have been expected back in England at the very end of March. Had Mandy only agreed to accompany him to Seattle because she was frightened that her ex-lover might confront her, and was thus glad of an excuse to
disappear
?
All the things that had seemed so kind and caring on her part were now open to a different interpretation. The way she’d helped him research his origins could be seen as a selfish desire to know more about her baby’s ancestry. Even her sexual wiles and avidity might just have been a ruse to bind him closer, so he’d never leave her in the lurch.

He thought back to New Year’s Eve again, and the dramatic fireworks display. All that magic and radiance had been so much empty dazzle; rockets burning out in seconds to spent and blackened trash. And the noise had sounded very close to gunfire – perhaps a warning of the hostilities to come. ‘Happy New Year!’ the crowd had yelled in triumph – mass delusion, he realized now. Why should
this
year be any happier than last?

‘Let’s eat,’ said Stella. ‘I’m starving. All I had for breakfast was half a measly grapefruit.’

‘You’d better watch it, or you’ll fade away to nothing.’

‘No such luck. I put on weight just by
breathing
.’

He followed her to the table, which she’d laid with an embroidered cloth and a vase of daffodils. He was grateful for her trouble, yet when he cut into the stodgy lasagne, burnt black around the edges, he felt a sense of aching loss for Mandy. He missed her creativity, along with everything else; the way she could turn food into an art-form, or a flat into a treasure-house. His Precious Box, made with all her usual skill and style, was just such a work of art, but suppose she decided not to return it, out of misery, or spite?

The thought of losing all its contents – those vital and irreplaceable links with his past – was so upsetting, he all but groaned aloud. But he just
had
to shift his mind from Mandy, if only in fairness to Stella. He’d already been over and over that fatal Friday night in exhaustive, painful detail, yet it still seemed quite impossible to think of anything else.

Fortunately, Stella herself switched to a new topic – although hardly a very cheerful one. ‘By the way,’ she asked, ‘how d’you reckon you’ll do in this year’s appraisal?’

‘Badly – that’s for certain! What about you?’

Well, I always find it a bit awkward talking about my own performance, but actually I’m not so bothered this year. I feel I’ve met all my targets, so—’

‘Gosh, I wish I had your confidence. I’m pretty sure mine’ll be a disaster. These last few weeks, my mind’s been all over the place and Trevor’s well aware of the fact. He’s bound to give me a lower grade than last year.’

‘’Course he won’t! He knows damned well how good you are with customers.
And
incredibly punctual and always willing to try new things and go the extra mile. And your group’s been a great success – brought in new people and upped the issues. It’s only because you’re depressed that you’re seeing things in a negative light. I bet you anything you like you get at least a “B”, if not an “A”.’

‘Well, I’m preparing myself for a “D”, which would make even a “C” seem good.’

‘Eric, if you get a “D”, I’ll eat my hat. I’ll even eat Harriet’s revolting old brown beret. Anyway, let’s change the subject, if you find it such a drag. Have you had any more ideas about the Remembrance Project?’

‘Mm, a few.’

‘Me, too. In fact, I think we ought to discuss it before you leave for Seattle.’

‘Right. Fire ahead.’

‘Not now. I draw the line at working on my one day off.’

‘OK, but remember I’m only around for four more days, and I’ll have to get off sharpish on the Thursday, to do my packing and stuff.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Packing, huh! I don’t even have a case.’

‘I’ll lend you one – no problem. Take it with you when you leave.’

‘Thanks.’ He recalled, with pain, that it was Mandy’s case he’d planned to borrow – although
any
case sitting in his flat would only be a
panic-inducing
reminder that, this coming Friday, he would actually be on the plane. The mere thought made him break out in a sweat.

‘Right, when are we going to meet, then? Is tomorrow any good?’

‘Probably. We’ll need more than just ten minutes, though. I want to go over the poems for my group.’

‘Shit! Don’t remind me, Eric. Poetry’s simply not my thing and I’m bound to make some awful gaffe.’

‘You’ll be great – don’t worry. Anyway, who else can I ask to run the group? Kath’s too inexperienced; Trevor far too busy; Harriet opposes it on principle and Helen’s on leave that week.’

‘I’ll manage, I suppose. Though I’ll be jolly glad to see you back.’

‘Not as glad as I’ll be – just to
be
back.’

‘But aren’t you looking forward to seeing Erica?’

‘Yes, course. It’s just …’ He hesitated; had no wish to burden Stella with the whole raft of his fears, on top of all the other stuff. ‘I’m a bit nervous, I suppose, about how she and I will relate to each other, after all this time. Christine said she was playing up, even being bolshie and—’

‘Sound like typical teenage behaviour to me. I wouldn’t be too fussed.’

‘And I’m not sure how I’ll feel staying in the same house as Dwight – you know, seeing him and Christine in a clinch.’

‘Oh, come on, Eric, they won’t snog in front of you!’

‘Let’s hope not. And I’m not the world’s best traveller,’ he added, with a casual laugh, ‘so I’m a bit uptight about the journey. The whole thing didn’t seem so bad when I thought Mandy would be with me, but now …’

‘Oh, Eric, you poor love! I can’t come with you to Seattle, but I will come to Heathrow. In fact, I’ll lay on a snazzy limo to take us there in style – my treat. I insist. Which Terminal are you going from?’

‘Four.’

‘Shame! Five is so much nicer.’

He shrugged. Could any Terminal be ‘nice’?

‘And, from what I hear, they’re renovating Four, so it’s all a bit of a mess. Never mind, I’ll stay with you till you have to go through security. We’ll have lunch together, if you like, and—’

‘No, the flight leaves in the morning. I have to be at the airport soon after seven-thirty.’

‘Well, breakfast, then.’

‘Honestly, it’s sweet of you, but …’ Impossible to explain that no way would he be able to eat – or chat, or joke, or lounge about, or behave in any normal sort of manner. Even the mention of Heathrow had sent immediate spasms sputtering through his gut, so that he could barely swallow another mouthful of lunch. He was absolutely adamant that nobody – not even a firm friend like Stella – should witness his sheer panic at the airport. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, gritting his teeth in the semblance of a smile. ‘In fact, I’ll imagine I’m another Brad, jetting off without a qualm to some Third-World trouble-spot. Yes,’ he said, warming to the theme, ‘Why settle for somewhere as tame as Seattle? Don’t expect me back before Christmas, at the soonest, Stella. I’ve changed my plans – this minute – and I now intend to plane-hop from Zimbabwe to Islamabad, then on to the Sudan, with a lightning tour of Afghanistan and Iraq, an unscheduled stop in Palestine and … and …

The next destinations petered out in a cul-de-sac of stuttering, then, all at once, his voice skidded to a total halt, as he was racked by choking sobs.

Eric stopped to check the wheels of Stella’s case. They had been jamming since he set out from home, slowing him down as he manoeuvred the case along the puddled streets. Not that he was in danger of being late, since, at 4.55 a.m., the tube wasn’t even open yet. The journey to Heathrow took roughly fifty minutes;
he
had allowed two hours, for fear of hold-ups or emergencies – and because he couldn’t bear another second pacing sick and shaky around his flat.

The rain drummed against his back as he bent to investigate the wheels. He was so wet already, he hardly cared about a further drenching, but what did concern him was whether the downpour would affect the flight. Did planes have windscreen-wipers and, if so, could they cope with such
relentless
rain? And wasn’t there a danger of the aircraft skidding on the runway?

The case appeared unmendable – probably shared his own reluctance to make the journey at all. Having gone down with a filthy cold, his natural instinct was to creep back into bed and hibernate for the next few weeks. He pitied the poor people sitting beside him on the plane; feared they might erupt in air-rage if he coughed and sneezed all over them. He had dosed himself with aspirin, Lemsip and Benylin – together with Imodium for his over-active bowels – but there was no remedy for his mounting terror at having to board a plane.

He continued along Kennington Road in the grudging pre-dawn light. The shops were closed and shuttered, and an air of gloom seemed to hang across the area, as if spring had lost its confidence and retreated back to winter. Crossing the road, he could barely see his whereabouts in the driving, sheeting rain, and was relieved to reach the shelter of the tunnel that led to Vauxhall Station.

‘Spare some change, please?’

He fumbled for his wallet and placed a two-pound coin on the calloused,
outstretched palm. Despite the pitiable state of the beggar’s clothes and person (matted dreadlocks; rags tied round his feet), he would gladly have swapped lives with him. Better to be destitute and homeless than faced with a thirteen-hour flight.

‘God bless you, sir!’ the bloke called after him.

If only. What comfort there must be to believe in an all-powerful God who would ignore all other problems in the universe – war, famine, global warming, economic meltdown – in order to concentrate His efforts solely on the welfare of one Eric Victor Parkhill and on the safety of one
transatlantic
flight.

Emerging from the tunnel, he humped the case down the flight of steps to the tube. The entrance was still locked and barred, but at least he was in the dry now, and could blow his streaming nose, working through almost his entire supply of tissues. He also used the time to re-check his ticket and passport, which he’d done several times already during the short walk from his flat, continually worrying that someone might have nicked them. He ought to have purchased one of the theft-proof pouches advertised in that catalogue, but he’d been feeling too downhearted to buy anything at all, save a few presents for his daughter. Only now did it occur to him that he should have made more effort to impress her –
and
Christine, of course – by dressing with more care this morning. They hadn’t seen him for fifteen months and might be suitably appalled to come face to face with a creased, dishevelled hobo, whose skin had erupted in an unsightly rash –
stress-induced
, no doubt.

Well, that was the least of his problems. The female on his mind at present was neither Erica nor Christine but Mandy – especially the horror of their meeting on Monday, when he had turned up, unannounced. He’d been missing her so fiercely, he’d gone round to her flat to suggest that he should act as the baby’s father in all respects except the biological. However, he had found her, not alone, but entertaining the mysterious Oliver Birch – a fairly ordinary sort of chap, in cold reality, although he’d hated him on sight, of course, for no other reason than he was hobnobbing with Mandy. She insisted that he ‘just happened to be passing’ – a likely story at ten o’clock at night and when the fellow lived in Croydon. Presumably she was softening him up, in the hope he’d play the role of father number four – a wiser choice than Brad, maybe, since he was at least a decade older and did look rather fatherly. Well, good luck to him, the shit!

The whole devastating encounter had forced him to conclude that Stella
was right and he couldn’t live with a woman he would never be able to trust. The problem was, he still adored her, and that love was like a blockage in his heart; a thwarted and frustrated love, with no outlet and no access.

He was glad to see a member of the underground staff come towards the barrier and start unlocking the metal gates. All this hanging about only encouraged gloomy introspection. As he lumbered through the entrance with his case, another of the staff wished him a cheery ‘Good morning!’

Nothing very good about it, except at least there wasn’t a tube strike, and he hadn’t gone down with diphtheria or scarlet fever, just a piddling cold. And he had to admit he was feeling relieved about his recent appraisal. To his intense surprise, Trevor had congratulated him on a successful and productive year and said he’d be recommending a grade of B-plus. Of course, the assessors might disagree and mark him down when it came to the final result, which meant he would lose his higher bonus, or even …

His speculations were interrupted by the arrival of a train. Jumping on, he felt not a little conspicuous, with his sodden trousers clinging to his legs and his hair dripping water down his neck. Not that there was anyone to see him. He was alone in the carriage – apart from a suspicious-looking package, directly opposite his seat.

He eyed it warily, recalling the endless warnings about unattended
packages
. And this one did look dodgy: a cardboard box, with no address or label, loosely tied with several lengths of string. Could it truly be something dangerous, like a bomb? If so, he ought to welcome it, as it would provide the perfect let-out; blow him to bits before he had to fly. On the other hand, he might lose a leg – or two – be mutilated beyond repair and end his days in a home for paraplegics. Perhaps it would be wiser to get out.

Seizing his case, he crept towards the doors, making as little disturbance as possible, for fear any sudden movement might detonate the device. But, as the train rattled into the station, he remembered it was
Mandy’s
station – Pimlico. Suppose she were on the platform, giving Oliver a last, lingering kiss, after a night of steamy sex together; waving him off as he staggered back to Croydon.

Bullshit! Of course she wouldn’t be up at five; nor out in such lousy weather. But, as he was about to alight, the doors slid shut, imprisoning him with the package again. And, indeed, as he watched, it seemed to change before his very eyes into a living, breathing terrorist – bearded, turbaned, heavily armed and about to shoot him through the head. He waited for the
blinding flash; the ear-splitting explosion, but the only noise was that of the train rattling into Victoria, where a crowd of people got on, including a mother with her baby. If there was a genuine risk, he ought to act responsibly and try to avert the danger. Leaping out of the carriage, he began running the length of the platform, the rickety case juddering behind him, as he tried to reach the driver in time. He must beg him to take action – apply the
emergency
brakes, to halt the train. However, just as he drew level with the driver’s cab, the doors slid shut once more and he was left stranded on the platform.

He slumped on to a bench. He was probably overreacting – as usual. The package could well be harmless: a stack of leaflets, waiting to be
distributed
, or a parcel of books someone had left behind by mistake. Surely a bomb would have exploded by now, and the whole network would be closed, with staff and police pouring on to the platform to escort passengers to safety. Whereas there was nobody in sight save a few harmless-looking people on their way to work.

As soon as the next train came in, he lugged his case on board again, found a seat, took out his book and vowed to sit and read, instead of behaving like a human jack-in-the-box. And if Osama Bin Laden himself got on, armed with a grenade-launcher and a Kalashnikov, well, he wouldn’t even look up from the page. 

LIFTS TO DEPARTURES.

The sign alone was enough to send his panic-levels soaring. There was no escape – nobody and nothing could save him now from having to depart.

He trundled the baggage-trolley into the lift, and stood leaning against the wall, for support. He had always been scared of lifts, but at least they didn’t take off into the stratosphere and climb to 30,000 feet. He cast an envious glance at the woman standing next to him. Being male had definite disadvantages, due chiefly to the strain of living up to the qualities required: bulldog courage, heroism, maverick self-sufficiency. Women had it easy in comparison; could get away with being scared of lifts, or mice, or spiders – or of any damned thing, actually. Fear in them was excused as sweetly
feminine
, whereas in men it was plain pathetic.

As the doors opened to let him out, he was appalled to see a jostling mass of passengers crowding every inch of the space; with long queues snaking from each check-in desk, and a general air of chaos and confusion. Stella had assured him that, since British Airways’ move to Terminal Five,
this
terminal would be comparatively empty – at least until more airlines moved
in, later in the year. So he was completely unprepared for the scene that met his eyes, or indeed for the sheer ugliness of the place. It resembled an outdated industrial warehouse; the low, oppressive ceiling cluttered with lumbering pipes and hideous steel fans. Whatever the perils of air travel, he had somehow imagined it as glamorous – the preserve of rich sophisticates who expected stylish surroundings. Yet he had walked into a dump, with no comfort, no amenities and very little natural light. The only window was sited at the far end of the concourse, and did nothing to alleviate the air of dingy claustrophobia.

Well, he thought, venturing out into the mayhem, he wasn’t here to appraise the aesthetics. He had better bite the bullet and join one of the long queues.

Feeling like a new boy at some vast, confusing school, he went up to one of the airport staff and asked him where to go.

‘If you’re flying InterWest Airlines, sir, you need to check in at Zone A, but I’m sorry to inform you that the baggage-system has developed a fault, which means all flights are subject to serious delay.’

He stared at the man in horror. He would miss his connection and be stranded in Minneapolis. Although his insurance would cover an overnight stay, what it couldn’t do was alleviate Dwight and Christine’s wrath if he failed to turn up in time, when they were due to leave for Hong Kong tomorrow. Suddenly, the claims of that insurance policy began echoing in his head: Catastrophe Cover, Hijack, Mugging, Personal Accident. No, he couldn’t go through with this – the dangers were just too overwhelming. Even the prospect of a night on his own in some alien motel in Minneapolis filled him with near-panic.

‘We’re doing everything we can to fix the problem, sir, but, of course, a backlog has been building up, which is the reason for the queues and all the—’

‘OK, I understand,’ he interrupted tersely, ‘but which way is the chemist?’ He was now desperate for more Kleenex, highly embarrassed by the fact that his nose was running into his mouth, like some snotty little kid’s.

‘I’m afraid all the shops are closed at present, sir, during the current
renovation
. There is a branch of Boots in Arrivals, one floor down, but I strongly recommend that you stay here and check in.’

‘I
have
checked in – online.’

‘Yes, but you still need to drop off your bags and have your passport checked, so I suggest you make your way to Zone A, sir.’

Humiliated by his constant need to sniff, he squeezed between the crowds; jabbed by the sharp corners of other people’s luggage, or rammed by pushchair-wheels. Finally, he joined the queue at the far end of the terminal, remembering, with relief, that he’d packed a spare shirt in his flight-bag, assuming he would sweat so much on the first flight, he’d need a change of clothes for the second. That shirt would have to function as a handkerchief, however disgusting the prospect.

As he shuffled slowly forward in a stop-start, stop-start fashion, he noticed a young couple passionately embracing, just a few yards off. They were clinging to each other, kissing almost manically as they said a last goodbye. He could hardly bear to watch, since it served as a reminder that he hadn’t said goodbye to Mandy – just shouted incoherently as he slammed out of her flat.

After half an hour of queuing, surreptitiously mopping his nose on the shirt, he began to understand why passing through Heathrow was said to be as stressful as being mugged at knifepoint. So why did people travel? Presumably the majority were flying for pleasure (an oxymoron, surely), or at least had
chosen
to fly, which seemed equally inexplicable. Yet, according to recent forecasts, more and more quite ordinary folk would be travelling further and further. Why was he so different; so unable to participate in common human pleasures? And why was he feeling so alone, despite the press of people milling round? Without his usual props – his flat, his job, his daily routine – he was like a hollow tree; an empty shell of bark, with no solidity or sap; no inner core.

At last, he reached the desk, although the sharp-suited woman behind it did little to reassure him. No, she couldn’t say whether he’d catch his
connection
or not; all she could suggest was that he listen to the announcements. He’d been doing that, non-stop, but the maddeningly upbeat recorded voice had provided no real information; just apologized for the disruption and repeated the assurance that they were doing all they could to solve the problem. Perhaps the delay would give him time to dash down to Arrivals and invest in some paper hankies and a box or two of lozenges to dislodge the stash of razor blades embedded in his throat. But, no – the woman at the bag-drop desk directed him to another queue, this time for Security, where he was issued with a plastic bag, to put in any liquids he was carrying.