by T. S. Easton
‘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. S
o 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.
Dermot O’Leary’s voice-over started again. ‘Tension is high at JFK Airport. If Gex is considered to be an Undesirable Element and refused entry to the country, Ben might face a difficult choice.’
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.
I’d got over my initial terror after an hour or so and was now bored out of my skull.
‘Why have you come to the US?’ Roberto asked, for the fifth time.
‘For KnitFair USA,’ I explained. ‘I won a knitting competition. I wrote it all on the card.’
Honestly, why do they give you the card to fill in if they’re not going to read it?
He sat back in his chair, his eyes narrow.
‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘Do you really think I’d make that up?’ I replied.
Roberto made as if to speak but Jack interrupted. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I can’t see as anyone would admit that unless it were true.’ I could have sworn he smirked at Roberto then.
‘Look, phone Ms Gunter,’ I said. ‘She’ll tell you I’m not a terrorist.’
‘This is the probation lady?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t have her number?’
‘It’s in my phone, in my suitcase,’ I explained. ‘If you get me my suitcase, I’ll find you the number. Or just call 192 192.’
After a pause Jack spoke again. ‘We gotta go make some calls. Come on, Robbie.’
Robbie looked annoyed to be called away, but he stood and walked to the door.
‘You want anything?’ Jack asked. ‘Cigarettes? A burger?’
‘No thanks,’ I said tiredly. ‘I don’t smoke.’
I wish I’d said yes to the burger, though. It had been a long time since the cheese roll.
2.47pm
Roberto came back alone after a while carrying my landing card. He sat opposite me and stared at me coolly.
‘Um. Did you phone Ms Gunter?’ I asked after a long silence.
‘Oh, we phoned her all right,’ he said.
There was another pause.
Another silence. This time I waited.
‘Hey, sonny,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘I don’t give a rat’s ass about your goddam shoplifting.’
‘OK,’ I said cautiously. That was something.
‘Do you know why I don’t care about it?’
I shook my head dumbly.
‘It’s because you wrote it on the card,’ he said, stabbing his finger down on the document. He held it up and pointed to some text at the bottom. ‘What does it say here?’<
br />
I leaned forward and peered at the card. ‘It says it is a federal offence to provide incorrect information on this document.’
‘Yeah, goddam right it says that.’
I waited.
‘And you signed it,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ I wasn’t bored any more. My heart was pounding, I felt sick and hot.
‘So you say that everything on this document is the God’s truth?’ he said, leaning back.
‘Erm, I think so?’ I said, now not at all sure, but wondering what I could have got wrong.
He glared at me, then looked down at the card. ‘Question seven. Are you, or have you ever been a member of a group or organisation engaging in political agitation, terrorism or other unpatriotic activities?’
‘Right?’
‘And you ticked … ?’
‘No.’
He smiled; a look of triumph flooded his face.
‘So why is it, Mr Fletcher, that when I look at your security profile, I see, in bright green letters, that you are a member of a proscribed organisation?’
I sat, frozen in horror. What on earth?
‘It must be a mistake,’ I said. ‘Joz tried to get me to join the young Lib Dems but it was fifteen pounds and I told him to stick it.’
‘Are you saying the British security agency made a mistake?’ he snorted. ‘GCHQ got it wrong?’
‘Well, yeah, I think that’s very likely.’
He sniffed.
‘So I guess you’re going to tell me you’re not a member of KAW?’
‘What? A member of what?’
‘K – A – W,’ he repeated. He pulled another piece of paper from his pocket and slammed it on the table before me. I looked down at it.
It was a printout of an online application form, completed with my details. An application for …
I laughed. ‘Knitters Against Weapons!’ I said. ‘KAW! I’d forgotten I’d even joined up. It was free. I get emails from them sometimes asking me to knit flowers for peace.’
‘So you admit you are a member?’
‘Well yes, but seriously … it’s a group of knitters.’
‘Campaigning for disarmament,’ he finished.
‘That’s not illegal, is it?’
‘It’s unpatriotic,’ he snapped. ‘It’s goddam unpatriotic.’
‘Why?’ I asked, genuinely mystified.
‘Why? What happens when we disarm?’ he spat. ‘Do you think Omar the Terrorist is going to disarm too?’