My Little Armalite (21 page)

But I was me, I had read Kafka and knew the history of this place built on fault lines. What could Prague possibly mean to all these idiots?

Dear God, what right did these morons have to think they should be able to take days off work just because they felt like it and fly anywhere they wanted for peanuts while children slaved away in the Third World to make their foul trainers and logoed jumpers? Was the ozone layer going to die, were the ice caps doomed to melt for this? So that these slack-mouthed, uncomprehending louts could wander around like hideous modern caricatures of eighteenth-century aristocrats, off to yet another city they did not understand in the least, just
to alleviate the crushing boredom of their meaningless lives? Was I, who had studied European culture for years, going to be stuck here for ever in this queue just because so many of these ridiculous little gits had decided on some whim that they fancied a couple of nights pissed in Prague this week?

I mean, why can't there just be, for example, well, say, an exam, a little test you have to pass before you are allowed out of the country? To prove you know at least something, anything about where you are going. Nothing too hard, just a few simple multiple-choice questions would be enough. Which great European war was started by an incident in Prague in 1618? What was the official language of government in Prague in 1890? When was the Prague Spring? If you can't answer those, excuse me, what the hell right do you have to think you can just jump on a plane and blast the upper atmosphere to hell with untaxed kerosene so that you can blunder unknowingly around a place that could have been thrown up last year by Disney for all you know? If people don't even know that, why should I have to queue behind them? Why should my children have to compete with theirs for college places and jobs and houses?

—Sorry? Row twenty-eight? But, I mean, that's right at the back, isn't it?

—Yes, Dr Goode. The flight is very full today, as you've no doubt noticed.

—Um, I was wondering, you see, I know that those seats are pretty cramped and my legs are quite long and …

—Yes, sir, that's why we only allocate those seats to our last passengers.

—Oh God. Well, OK, can I at least have the window seat? I'm very tired.

—The window seats have all been allocated, sir. Row two may be available for a cash upgrade on-board, at the discretion of cabin crew, sir.

—May be?

—That's right, sir. On a first-come-first-served basis.

—What, you mean, if I fight to get on early and pay extra I might get one of those front seats with room for normal human legs?

—At the cabin crew's on-board discretion, sir.

—How much are they?

—Twenty-five pounds one way, sir, on-board, if available.

—That's more than the flight!

—That's right, sir. Funny, isn't it?

—So, OK, who do I see, on-board?

—Me, sir.

—Oh. Well, I don't suppose I could, you know, book one now?

—You're welcome to contact me on-board, sir. I'm check-in staff just now, not on-board crew.

—Right. I see. Oh well then, see you on board! I mean,
on-board
, ha!

—Excuse me, sir.

—Sorry?

—Are you quite sure that carrier bag will fit within the on-board-baggage guide rack, sir?

—Hmm? God, yes, don't worry about that.

—Have you actually checked, sir?

—Well, no.

—We do ask people to check, sir. That's why the guide rack's there, you see.

—It's OK, it's only a pillow, actually. I'm an experienced traveller.

—I'm sure you are, sir, but will it fit in the on-board guide rack?

—Well, yes, of course. It's only a pillow, for God's …

I tried to keep the anger from my voice, and to stop myself actually clutching the soft, fat pillow to my chest. For hours I had been allowing myself to look forward to the moment I nestled down into its familiar cocoon, earplugs in ears, safe from the world. And now they wanted to take even this little salvation away from me on some absurd pretext.

—Can I
see
it fit please, sir?

—Um, well, Christ, OK, OK. Um, I might have to squash it down a bit, of course.

—Would you mind squashing it down for me, sir?

—Yes, yes, of course. There, you see. Hold on. There. Oh, for God's sake, I'm sure it'll fit in. It must. This is ridiculous. Oh, come on, you stupid bloody bag of Norwegian … There. OK? In.

—That's fine, sir.

—Thank you so much.

—But will it still fit when you stop holding it down?

—Sorry?

—If you let go of it, sir, will it still fit?

—Well, yes, I mean, virtually. Of course, it's bound to, sort of, puff up a bit.

—On-board baggage has to fit into the guide rack
without
being pinned down, sir.

—Oh come on, this isn't baggage, it's a pillow.

—If it's on-board, it's baggage, sir.

—Look, it's going to be squashed under my head, isn't it?

—Not in an emergency, sir.

—What?

—If there's an emergency evacuation you won't be asleep, sir, will you? You'll have assumed the impact position. Where will your oversize on-board baggage be then, sir? It might be blocking an emergency exit.

—A pillow, block an exit?

—Someone might fall over it. That's why we have size regulations, sir.

—No it isn't, it's so you can charge people for extra baggage!

—Passengers abusing staff will not be permitted on-board, sir. As it says there right in front of you.

—Yes. Sorry. Sorry, look, it's just, I mean …

—If you'll just stop holding your on-board baggage down, sir, we'll see, won't we?

—Right. Fine. Whatever.

—Oh dear. That
has
puffed up quite a bit really, hasn't it, sir? I'm afraid that's going to have to be checked in. Checked-in baggage is five pounds per item, sir.

—But what good's a pillow to me if it's in the hold?

—I wouldn't know, sir. It's your baggage, not mine.

—Look, OK, you win, how much extra do I have to pay to take it
on-board
?

—We're not permitted to offer an additional on-board baggage allowance, sir.

—Oh for God's sake, I'm desperate to sleep on the plane, I've offered to pay, can't you just bend the rules a little bit?

—Sir, we are a budget airline, we don't offer on-board sleeping facilities on a two-hour flight. Relax, why don't you, sir? You're only going for the cheap beer and a good time, after all.

—No! No I am not! Not me. I'm going on important business.

—With just a pillow, sir?

—Look, it's all very complicated, but the point is I need to get there in good form, so can't you, for God's sake, just bend the rules a tiny little bit for once? I'd write a letter of thanks to your boss. I am a doctor, as you see from my passport.

—Now, let me ask you a few things, sir. One: what good would a letter to my boss do me if it said I had broken the rules? Two: where would the rules be if I bent them for everyone when the flight's rammed full? Three: why do you think I'd bend them just for you? Four: if you've got such an important meeting, why don't you go with a premium carrier, club class, so you can arrive nice and fresh for business? Five: I'm closing here now,
Doctor
, so did you want to check your pillow in or leave it behind?

Like a cheap coffin in a crematorium, my pillow was carried away from me up the squeaking belt. I only just managed not to cry with the unfairness of it all. But then I dug deep into my reserves of strength. I was a man. I had arrangements to make. I hurried to the nearest payphone and, having fished for their number in my pocket, called Prague RimShot Tours.

—He-llo, RimShot! answered a voice with a positively Dickensian north-Kent whine.

—Oh, hi, er, I'm coming to Prague just to, anyway, I saw on your website that you do shooting.

—Tell you what, what did you think of the website?

—Sorry? Oh, well, very good.

—Nice, isn't it? Classy? Just invested heavily in that. Shooting, yes, no problemo. Our speciality, in fact. Not to be confused with the cheap and cheerful pistol ranges. When did you want to come, sir?

—Today, actually.

—Ri-ght. Short notice. Might be possible. How many in your stag party?

—One. Me. And it's not a stag party.

—Well, no, a stag party for one would be a bit unusual. Though tell you what, if you
was
going to do a solo stag, Prague would be the place! Now, thing is, our minimum is usually four shooters.

—Then I'll pay for four.

—You see? Always a solution to these little problems. Was it shotguns, pistols, rifles? Rambo, Clint or Arnie, ha ha? Or all of them?

—I want to shoot an Armalite, that's all.

—Oh yes, very tasty weapon. Nice. I can see you know your stuff. Yeah, we can do that. Ammo's more expensive, though, I should warn you.

—That's fine. But I want to be shown the gun properly.

—Individual tuition, eh?

—Exactly. This afternoon.

—Well, it'll be a pleasure. Make a nice change from the stag-parties. I'll be honest with you, we've been trying to position ourselves more upmarket. Lot of cheapo competition on the stag-night trade these days, Riga and Tallinn, you know, so we'd be delighted to accommodate the wishes of, how shall I put it, a premium customer who is obviously a serious enthusiast. Tell you what, I'll only charge you for three shooters, and we'll forget the extra cost of the ammo, how's that? And I'll get you our best man. What time this afternoon?

—I want you to meet me off the plane as well. I get in at one and I need to be back at the railway station to get the 17.45 to Berlin.

—Ri-ight. I'll have to charge for the pick-up. Tell you what, we'll go back to the four-shooters price but I'll pick you up at the airport and take you back to Holesovice Station my very self. How's that for executive service?

—Perfect.

—Now the bad news is that's going to have to be about, oh, well, hmm, got to be knocking on four hundred euros all in. Now, at a push I could maybe …

—That's fine.

—Oh. Right then. Great.

—So, look, what, do I just bring my passport? Do I need any special, I don't know, shoes, gloves, glasses?

—Passport? No, God, we don't bother with that sort
of thing. Not out here. Just turn up and bring the dosh and get ready for some fun, eh? Ha ha! All the gear‘s ready and waiting. See you at the airport. Oh, tell you what. We don't take cards, not set up for it yet, as such. Cash only, sorry. You OK with that?

—Oh yes. Cash is fine.

—Perfect! Better have your name, eh?

—My name? Yes, of course …

Hold on. Think. No passport? Cash? Incredible. But then, shit, that meant …

—Hello, mate?

A name, any name! Every little extra layer of disguise might help if anything did go wrong when I came to dump the unloaded gun. Not that it would, but I might as well, given the chance. Any name, any name at all! My God, and if I shaved off my beard as soon as I got back? It would be strange to not have a beard, of course. I had had it since beginning my PhD in 1984, it had served me well throughout the Miners' Strike and my years in the Irish pub in Kentish Town. I had courted Sarah behind it. But it had to go. If I could go and shoot not only under a false name but also bearded, no one would ever be able to link the new and beardless me to some shooting range, whatever happened, even if it all went wrong and I was caught dumping the gun, even if some clever bloody copper decided, despite my Dresden alibi, to check my every possible move in Prague and see if …

—Hello, mate, you still there?

—Sorry, sorry, line went for a second. Yes, of course, my name is, it's …

My mind had locked off. What name would I use? Shit, come on, just any good old English name would do. Anything believable, anything I'd be able to remember easily for the rest of today, that was all.
Nothing got through the mesh, except one. It was a ridiculous name, but it was English, or at any rate Anglo-Saxon. I would have no trouble remembering it, and it was the only one I could hear in my head right now. So I gave it, helplessly, trying not to giggle as I did so.

—Gotcha. Flight number? … Lovely. I'll be there myself with the old sign round my neck. See you in Prague at one then, Mr Bush!

—Oh, call me Tony, I replied.

Americans, hard-working pioneers, are happy to pay the going rate for what they want so long as they get it. Englishmen, the dispossessed heirs of Empire, cannot give up on the thought that they deserve a little upgrade in life for free.

Many of the people crammed on to the wretched flight to Prague, notably the few linen-clad folk who obviously considered themselves a cut above, tried various entertaining ruses to try to get the vacant front-row seats without paying. The stewardesses, who I guessed were on some form of bonus scheme for selling these seats, blanked them all smilingly. No one was prepared to cough up the actual money.

Normally, I would have quite agreed with these stoutly English sentiments, but today I was so tired that I simply bit the bullet and handed over twenty-five quid (though I counted the notes out with the huffing bad grace demanded by my national heritage). I thus managed to get a seat where I could almost stretch my legs out straight, allowing me to lean my head on the fibreboard cladding and close my burning eyes at last.

Perhaps it is because I never flew anywhere until my twenties, but I can never sleep on planes, even with my pillow, until we have passed the point at which the newsmen would say
on take-off
or
shortly after take-off
. And when a flight is as full as this one was, I find it impossible to rid myself of the horrible awareness that
as we leave the earth every rivet in the airframe and engines is straining at the absolute limit of tolerances decided upon by the accountants who work out exactly how long this plane has to last, flying backwards and forwards to Prague three times a day every day (and to Glasgow once a day in between) like some winged bus, in order to turn a penny for the owners.