Broken Places (26 page)

‘I’ve already done that,’ he objected, having spent twenty minutes yesterday studying the small print about the dimensions of the plastic bag, and any containers that went into it, along with the pedantic definitions of
what constituted ‘liquids’. He understood, of course, that such precautions were intended to prevent jihadists from smuggling liquid explosives into perfume or shampoo bottles and then blowing up the plane. But, according to Jeremy, nothing could actually stop them and, in fact, another air atrocity was almost guaranteed to happen, so long as such jihadists saw their mission as divinely ordained.

Once he had rummaged for his plastic bag and looped it over one finger, he was told to join yet another queue. Queue number three was at least different in its format, in that it wound its zigzag way between lengths of tape strung between blue posts. He found himself behind a woman carrying a baby, and pregnant with another child. Every mother and baby he saw only underlined his aching sense of loss, and again he felt choked with grief as he traipsed along between the posts, like a refugee in transit.

When he finally reached the head of the queue, he was ordered to proceed to desk number one – where there was, of course, another queue, although a shorter one, admittedly. All the other passengers seemed to know the ropes, and appeared to be undressing – or partly, anyway – putting their coats and jackets into black polystyrene trays, along with other items like their belts and keys and phones. He, the fumbling novice, was holding everybody up, as he tried to follow suit, yet still managed to disgrace himself by failing to put his flight-bag on the conveyor-belt.

Once he had complied with all the procedures, he was directed through the security arch; seriously alarmed as a loud bell rang and an official came striding over and began running his hands up and down his body; even between his legs. He was then instructed to remove his shoes – pathetic, sodden things, and clearly objects of intense suspicion, since they were put back through the x-ray machine by one of the security staff. Could someone have planted drugs on him while he was waiting in the various queues? All his childhood experience of being a pawn, at the mercy of those in authority, came flooding back as he stood mortified and shoeless; an object of suspicion, already attracting curious stares. His clothes were still wet and soggy; his nose running like an urchin’s. Then, as now, there was nobody to plead his case; no one who believed him, even though he knew full well that he hadn’t committed any crime.

But still they hadn’t finished. A second little Hitler appeared, armed with some sort of metal-detector, which was dragged across his body, with
obsessive
thoroughness. They must be looking for lethal weapons. Would he be forbidden entry to America; even locked up in a cell?

Nothing was said; no explanation given. He was simply frogmarched to the end of the conveyor-belt, where yet another official investigated his flight-bag, taking everything out, object by humiliating object – the Imodium, the Senokot (only
he
would need both); the fluffy black toy cat (Stella’s good-luck gift to him); the three separate books on overcoming panic; Mandy’s scarlet thong. He had packed the thong as a memento of their fantastic sex and because, if he didn’t have her with him in person, then at least he had this one small thing that had sat against her skin, still bore her intimate smell. But, of course, the security staff would assume he was a pervert who liked to dress in woman’s underwear.

However, the fellow’s interest seemed fixed on something else. ‘What’s this?’ he barked, seizing on a brightly coloured package.

‘A present for my daughter.’ Erica’s other presents were in the case, but this one was too fragile: a heart-shaped pendant, made of Venetian glass.

‘All presents are subject to screening and searching,’ the official told him sternly, ‘so they have to be carried unwrapped. Would you unwrap it and show me the contents, please.’

Reluctantly, Eric prised off the gift-wrap and the layers of tissue
underneath
, opened the box and showed it to the bloke. The guy all but snatched it from him and took out the delicate heart; handling it so roughly Eric felt almost more assaulted than when he himself was being searched, as if his own heart was being torn from him and crushed. And, even after it was grudgingly returned, the officious hands continued to probe remorselessly the innermost crannies of the bag, finally unearthing a packet of tampons, which Stella must have overlooked when she cleared it out for him.

By now his cheeks were scarlet, especially as several other passengers had been observing the whole procedure and continued to watch, with interest, as tampons, bowel-aids, fluffy cat, scarlet thong
et al
were shoved summarily back in the bag.

‘OK,’ the guy said curtly, ‘you’re free to go.’

He was almost surprised to be released. Growing up in care had left him with scant respect for justice, since he’d been invariably found guilty, regardless of the facts. Yet, here he was, actually walking free and, indeed, once he’d reclaimed his possessions, he found himself in more congenial surroundings than the drab and functional area he had mercifully escaped. What was strange, however, was that he appeared to be in a shopping mall, rather than an airport. He had expected to see the actual planes, but there was no sign of any aircraft, nor anyone to ask for help, except a crush of
passengers, all busy with their own concerns. Scanning the
departure-boards
, he saw that almost all the flights bore the word ‘delayed’, including his own, to Minneapolis. Yet despite what had seemed like hours of queuing, it was still only half-past eight, so there was still some frail hope of catching his connecting flight.

Having bought a stack of Kleenex, he prowled aimlessly around; too sick to eat or drink; too anxious to sit still, but too keyed up to do any further shopping. However, everyone he watched seemed to be gorging, guzzling, browsing, buying.
He
was a different species, lacking their robust digestions and laid-back temperaments; their ability to forget the fact they were about to board a death-machine. Just last Friday, he’d been stupid enough to read an account in the paper – written by plane-crash survivors, no less – the horrors of which made even Jeremy’s experiences pale into insignificance. Snippets of their testimony were still shuddering through his head: ‘“Brace for impact!” the captain announced, then we hit the water and skidded to a halt, like the worst car-wreck you could possibly imagine …’ ‘The plane slammed down, bounced up, came back down on its nose and began to cartwheel …’ ‘The aircraft broke into five sections and I was knocked unconscious. When I came round, I was hanging upside-down from my seat-belt …’ ‘Then there was an almighty crunch, which was the port-wing catching a tree. The next thing I knew was waking up in hospital. I’d lost an eye and my nose, and broken my spine, shoulder, jaw and ankle….’

Retching, he made a dash for the men’s toilet, found an empty cubicle and crouched above the bowl; emerging half-an-hour later, deathly pale. Only then did he notice a sign for a multi-faith prayer-room and was tempted to go in search of it. The way he felt at present, he would convert to
any
faith – Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Christian, Sikh – if it could save him from the flight. The longer he hung about, the worse his sense of dread, but every time he checked the departure-boards, his flight was still marked ‘delayed’. Delayed by how
much
, for Christ’s sake? Couldn’t they give details? Surely other passengers must be anxious about missing their connections, although all those he could see seemed totally unfazed; some even laughing and joking. He could no more laugh than train as a matador. But then, even as a boy, he had been over-serious; a wary child; old before his time; not interested in sport or toys; only in books, because they could transport him to another world. And books had been his friends – the only friends, in fact, who wouldn’t let him down, or sneak on him behind his back, or be moved to other placements, just as he’d got to know them.

So why didn’t he go to Smith’s and find himself a book that truly
was
a friend – not a self-help manual that only served to emphasize his fears, nor a stodgy novel, like the one he’d been struggling to read on the tube – but a magical tome that would whisk him to a realm where no one flew except fairies and all endings were guaranteed happy?

Queue number five. Worse than all the others because he was queuing now to board. And, outside the large windows, were – at last – the planes –
terrifying
objects, far too large and cumbersome to fly. How could such ungainly Titans wing their way across the vast Atlantic, then from one side to the other of the whole huge American continent? Although he might never reach the far side – not today, in any case – but only get as far as Minneapolis. The plane had been due to leave at 9.40, and it was now 11.05. True, he had some time in hand at Minneapolis, but that time was slowly ebbing away, and all the extra stress of whether or not he would make it, had reduced him to a wreck.

The book he’d bought was useless, for all its seductive style, since he couldn’t concentrate on even the first page. Nor could he strike up a
conversation
, because, despite standing in this long, long line of so-called fellow humans, he felt cut off from every one of them. And so tired, he could collapse. It wasn’t just the lack of sleep, but the exhaustion of fear itself; the way it sapped and undermined you; made every moment fraught. However, this particular queue he would gladly stay in for ever, so long as he never had to reach the officials at the end of it, who were directing passengers down a ramp that must lead out to the plane. Yet every second he was drawing nearer, nearer – and every second fighting the temptation to turn tail and run the other way; not stopping till he was safely back in Vauxhall.

Somehow, he stood firm though and, within cruel minutes, drew level with the desk.

‘Where are you staying in the United States?’ the uniformed hulk demanded, peering closely at his passport.

Eric’s mind went blank. Such was his state of terror, he couldn’t recall his ex-wife’s address; could hardly even remember his own name.

‘I asked you where you were staying in America?’ the man repeated, drumming his fingers irritably on the desk.

‘With my … my daughter.’

‘I need the address.’

Eric started fumbling in his flight-bag. He’d stowed the address in one of
the pockets, if he only knew which one. After what seemed like hours of scrabbling, accompanied by more finger-drumming from the increasingly impatient bloke, he finally located it and passed it across the desk, not trusting himself to speak.

As the man studied it in silence, Eric plunged once more between abject fear and hope. Perhaps, even now, he would be forbidden to travel – the most enticing, glorious prospect in the world.

‘OK, go on through.’

He stood rooted to the spot. Proceeding any further was physically impossible.

‘Move on, please! You’re holding people up.’

It was a miracle his legs could actually function, let alone lead him down that treacherous curving ramp – a passage into Hell. His heart was thumping; his mouth dry and full of gravel, as he staggered further on, into some sort of corridor, then stopped dead in his tracks, suddenly confronted by a group of what looked like stewardesses. Surely this couldn’t be the plane? Didn’t he have to go outside, on to the tarmac, and mount a flight of steps, with the great flying-machine towering high above him? He had seen it often on television – dignitaries like presidents and popes walking up those steps into the aircraft. Yet there
were
no steps, no aircraft – he had simply reached the end of a corridor.

‘Welcome aboard!’

He was being greeted not only by the stewardesses, but by an
important-looking
bloke, rigged out in braid and epaulettes. Indeed, judging by their effusive welcome, he might well have been a long-lost friend, rather than someone who detested airline staff on principle.

And, yes, he was
on
the plane, although he couldn’t understand how he had ever got there. Indeed, his first impression was one of total shock. It was nothing like the huge metal monster he’d seen parked outside the windows, but hideously small and cramped, like an overcrowded bus. Almost every seat was taken; the passengers squashed up, with no room to stretch their legs, or barely breathe. Some were standing in the aisles, and he had to struggle past them, as he was directed by a stewardess, further on and further on, to what must surely be the worst seat on the plane, right bang in the middle of the aircraft, with rows of heads in front of him and rows of heads behind.

‘That’s your seat,’ she smiled, pointing to the centre of the row.

‘But I booked an aisle seat,’ he protested, already feeling trapped and
claustrophobic, ‘and in the last row at the back.’ He’d studied the
seating-plan
with the utmost care; choosing a location near the toilets, in case he had to throw up, and close to the emergency-exits, so he could make a speedy getaway.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but according to your boarding-card, this is the seat you’ve been allocated.’

‘No, it certainly isn’t. My seat was 44 J.’

‘I’m afraid you should have explained that when you checked in, sir.’

He’d been too petrified at that stage even to think about seats. ‘Would it be possible to move me?’ he asked, with increasing desperation.

‘I’m sorry, no. Seat 44 J is already taken. And I must ask you, sir, to kindly sit down, as we’re getting ready for departure.’

Aware that people were listening in, he squeezed, with considerable
difficulty
, past a hugely overweight guy, who patently needed
two
seats to accommodate his massive thighs. Just his luck to be sitting next to such a fatso, which would make escape extremely difficult. His neighbour on the other side was a woman in a niqab, with only the slits of her eyes showing – possibly a man in disguise. Jeremy had told him that violent criminals sometimes managed to evade arrest by donning burkas or niqabs; relying on the laxness of security staff, who often failed to make them remove their veils, for fear of being labelled Islamophobic. Eric seethed at the injustice.
He
had been subjected to a virtual striptease, whereas the individual beside him might be carrying a gun or bomb beneath those flowing robes.