"I lived in London for two years, Camden Town…a great place to live. We…"
"Where're you headed now?" I asked, cutting him off in mid flow. I knew Camden well of course, but really didn't have the time or the inclination to strike up a conversation.
"Los Alamos. Any good?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Is it anywhere near the airport?"
"About three miles away, give or take."
I almost hugged him. "Fantastic," I said. "How long will it take?"
"About half an hour on this thing," he joked, handing me the spare helmet that had been hooked over his handlebar.
I took off my cap, zipped it into my rucksack and strapped the helmet under my chin before climbing onto the bike.
The noise of the engine made conversation pretty impossible but that suited me fine. The last thing I felt capable of was a chat. With my hands gripping the side handles firmly and allowing the weight of the helmet to tilt my head back onto my shoulders, I basked in the joy of finally having a cool breeze in my face. Lost in thought, villages passed me by in a blur — Benalmadena, Puebio Monterrey and then Arroyo de la Miel — tranquil looking places in comparison to the mayhem of Marbella. I wondered what it was about me that had drawn me to Marbella in the first place and why I'd always felt the need to be at the centre of things in crazy, wild places. Admittedly, I'd been itching to feel the blood pumping through my veins again after the few months of staying with my parents, when the daily routines had become mind-numbingly tedious. But right then, I couldn't have wished for anything more than to be back in London, back in their home, with the knowledge that the milk would be on the doorstep at seven and coffee would be in the pot by seven fifteen.
We came to a roundabout and took the first exit, and then a few yards down the road we pulled over and stopped.
"Los Alomos," the driver said over the hum of the engine, looking over his shoulder at me. "Just walk back up to the main road mate and you're back on track for the airport."
Swinging my leg over the seat, I dismounted the bike, but my rucksack fell awkwardly on my back, sliding to one side, and I swayed on my feet.
"Thanks so much," I told him, wrestling with the buckle under my chin. For a moment I felt dizzy again as I pulled off the helmet and handed it to him. I breathed heavily in through my nose in an attempt to get some air and re-adjusted the bag on my back but the dizziness remained. I crouched over with my hands on my knees, desperately trying to pull myself together.
"Are you alright, mate?"
"Yeah…," I said, "…I'll be fine." I stood up and the blood rushed straight to my head. "Shit."
"Hey! Take it easy!"
I got my bearings and stood up, looking around me. I felt sick and my legs were wobbling; I really felt awful.
"I don't suppose you could…"
"Get on," he said, handing me back the helmet and starting up the engine.
We reached the airport in a matter of minutes and he pulled up just yards away from the main entrance. I got off the bike and sat down on the verge, taking everything in as I handed back the helmet.
"Are you sure you're ok?" he said.
"Far better than I would have been if you hadn't stopped," I told him, trying to laugh.
"Anything I can do?"
"You've done more than enough. Thank you."
I reached out my right hand and he shook it firmly. "Have a good flight, buddy."
Within seconds he was gone, back down the road and queuing at the roundabout.
I sat there for a few moments, gathering myself together, then stood up and made my way cautiously to the main doors. With my head down and my cap and glasses back on, my eyes were flitting everywhere — picking out people with suitcases on their way to check in and more people who had just arrived, congregating in the roadside. Policemen were stationed outside both the arrival and departure entrances, looking every bit as intimidating as they intended to be with their pistols strapped into holsters by their sides. Most were smoking and in deep conversation with their colleagues, but a few were looking out, ever observant, monitoring the motorists pulling up outside.
I walked between two rows of taxis waiting for fares, counting the paving slabs in front of me. There were fifteen slabs between me and the glass fronted sliding doors and in front of them were three policemen, standing to attention. My heart was in my throat, constricting it and unsettling me. I paused, trying to regulate my breathing, fumbling around with my rucksack, trying to blend in. I kept glancing up, waiting for them to be distracted by something or somebody else, and when an engine roared in the distance — a plane hurtling down the runway — I almost willed myself on it, desperate to get through those doors.
As I approached the policemen, taking huge breaths in and out, one of them suddenly moved. I froze on the spot, certain he was heading my way, but he ambled over to a car pulled up in the drop off area and leant over to speak with the driver through his window. The other two policemen started chatting; their backs towards me, and I watched as one took a cigarette packet from his trouser pocket. I took my chance and strode towards the doors, reaching them just as the second policeman flicked his lighter. The automatic doors slid open and I stepped into the bright, air conditioned building, mingling with the crowds, unable to believe I'd managed to make it past them.
I headed straight for the toilet, weaving my way through the crowds and barging straight through the door. I lowered my head at the sink, gulping back unsafe water that I knew I shouldn't be drinking. The sensation of it sliding down my throat was incredible and I drank until I couldn't swallow another drop.
Back outside, I pulled my ticket and passport from my rucksack, glancing around to find my check-in point. And that's when I saw it — the large, digital clock on the main foyer wall. It was ten past six and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I stared at it.
Fuck.
My thoughts turned to the apartment I'd left behind and to Paul, who right at that very moment was undoubtedly cursing me for being ten minutes late.
As I approached the check-in desk, I wondered how long it would take him to work out I wasn't going back… how long it would take for him to find my passport gone and to pick up his phone.
WHITE LINE
The thought that Paul would discover his own passport on the bedside table instead of my own made my head spin. I lined up behind a queue of people feeling like I'd keel over at any moment, the hum of chatter around me becoming an unbearable drone in my head.
"Hurry the fuck up," I said through gritted teeth, standing behind a woman struggling with her two young children and their overweight suitcases. As much as I tried to focus on the task in hand, I couldn't keep still and my eyes flitted across hundreds of nameless faces, searching for Paul's, convinced he was going to show up. There were police on three sides of the building, their stark uniforms standing out amongst the colours in the crowds, and I watched them all as my queue shortened, ready to make my escape if they so much as moved in my direction. My mind was pumped and ready to run but my body was fucked; I knew I wouldn't even stand a chance. I talked myself into a panic, trying to find a solution to every possible scenario in my head, but I came up with nothing. I thought back to my time in the cell, the stink of piss, the prisoners glaring through the bars, all sense of humanity gone.
Dave, stay calm. Just collect your boarding pass and get on the fucking plane.
If getting past the check-in desk wasn't terrifying enough, I knew I'd still have to get through passport control. I may as well have had a sign on my head that said: ARREST ME NOW because I'd never felt so conspicuous in my life.
My mind spiraled completely out of control. I glared at every person who so much as looked in my direction, and there were quite a few of them. I could smell my own sweat; smell the leftover smoke from the fire lodging in my nostrils. I smelt my own fear and felt it in my gut with every step I took towards the counter.
The queue in front of me slowly dispersed and
I inched my way forward until finally the only thing between me and the dark-haired check-in girl was her white, melamine desk. I handed her my ticket and passport, warily took off my glasses and placed them on the counter. I stared at her, every bone in my body willing her to be at the end of her shift, too tired to question anything, too dumb to want to.
Be an airhead….go on…give me the same, stupid spiel you give them all.
"Any luggage sir?" she said, opening my passport and then tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"No, no, just hand luggage," I replied, lifting up my rucksack with one hand as I wiped beads of sweat from my forehead with the other.
She looked at my passport, looked at me, then back at the passport again. Closing it with a phony smile, she handed it back together with my boarding pass.
"Have you had a nice trip?"
What was this — twenty fucking questions? I smiled at her, aware I didn't look like I'd had the average package holiday.
"Yes. Lovely, thanks." What more could I say? I fidgeted, unable to look her directly in the eyes, willing her to move on.
"Your flight's on time, Sir, and due to leave in forty five minutes. You can make your way to the terminal."
"Thank you." I took my card and left the desk, but no more than four or five steps away from her, she spoke again.
"Excuse me sir…"
A sick feeling washed over me and I held my breath, slowly twisting my neck to look at her.
"Don't forget your sunglasses." She had them in her hands, leaning over the counter to hand them to me.
Giving a halfhearted smile in return, I walked away, slipping them back on, my head a complete mess.
Come on Dave, keep it together.
It felt like being a fugitive on the run.
Dave, you ARE on the fucking run I told myself, striding through the crowds to the terminal.
On my way, something caught my eye. To my right, I spotted a newspaper on top of one of the plastic red chairs that lined the length of the waiting area. The closer I got, the bolder the headline became and then staring straight at me were those words again:
I STEPPED OVER DEAD BODIES TO LOOT
"Is someone fucking playing with me?" I said out loud, looking around as the paranoia suffocated me. I hurriedly snatched up the paper and tossed it into the nearest bin.
You bastard Paul; you two faced fucking bastard.
My panic rocketed as I approached passport control and took my place behind three small groups of passengers. The guy behind the glass checked each passenger's passport and one by one they went through.
This is it Dave… it's now or never.
The man nodded for me to move forwards and I took five steps, crossing the white painted line on the floor with the fear and dread coursing through my body in a sickening rush. I was aware I was breathing far too heavily and my stomach churned, my heart slamming against my rib cage as a cold sweat consumed me.
We came face to face.
I slid my passport under the gap at the bottom of the glass screen and watched as he took it in his hands and opened it. My head was pounding and I started to shake as he stared at my photo. He pointed to me to remove my sunglasses, which I did, trying to keep my hand from trembling as I slipped them into my shirt pocket. Turning away, he looked down, checking a list on his desk. I was scared, really fucking scared, and stood there just waiting for him to signal to the police to come over and arrest me. The seconds passed by and I thought that at any moment he'd see my name on his list and I'd feel the hand of the law on my heavy shoulders.
Stay calm, Dave. Just hold it together.
He looked up, staring at me intensely, his eyes digging into mine as the adrenalin raced inside me and whooshed around my head. He looked at the passport again, and then at me again, with piercing eyes that didn't flinch.
You're fucking playing with me, you bastard.
He just kept staring at me, unblinking, his black pupils dilated, and I could hear my heart throbbing in my ears. I was prepared for the worst — ready for it — but then he snapped my passport closed, pushed it through the gap and nodded for me to move on.
I was too stunned to be ecstatic. I'd made it through, and of course I wanted to jump for fucking joy, but there was a huge part of me that didn't believe it was even possible to leave a country under such circumstances. Were they crazy? Didn't they have the slightest idea what was going on around them? I had to stay calm — stay focused until I was on that plane and on my way home — but by now I had so many thoughts in my head I was close to losing the plot completely.
They're gonna get you on that plane, Dave. Just you wait. The further they let you get, the more they'll charge you with. They're biding their time…they're watching you.
Moments later I handed my boarding pass to another member of airport security who tore off the stub, returned the pass and waved me on. I ran down the corridor, overtaking the other passengers, and jumped onto the waiting bus that was taking us to the plane. As we drove the short distance, the harrowing feeling that I still wouldn't make it consumed me.
The bus came to a halt and the doors slid open. I waited for a number of passengers to step off first and then I jumped out, losing myself amongst the crowd as we made our way across the small stretch of tarmac to the plane's steps. It was like being caught up in a snowball, being pushed along, with no sense of direction. One by one the people climbed the steps to the entrance, but I held back, not wanting to be caught up in a queue I couldn't escape from. When they were clear, I dashed up the steps, turning to take one final look around, just to make sure Paul or the police weren't on my trail. I showed my boarding pass to the air hostess who welcomed me on board, noted my seat number and directed me to the end of the aircraft. Strolling down the narrow aisle past all the seated passengers, I felt their eyes on me and my paranoia kicked in again. But who could blame them for staring? Looking disheveled with a ripped, dirty shirt and undoubtedly wafting lingering smells of smoke and perspiration in their direction, I lowered my head and made my way to the end.
I'd been given a window seat, the only one empty in a row of three, next to a young couple who were already seated. They stood up as I squeezed past them and with great relief I sat down, finally resting my exhausted and mentally drained body.
A beam of light from the early evening sun shone through the small window making a warm square on the leg of my jeans. I looked out over the runway with wide eyes still on alert as the captain introduced himself and his crew. He announced that we'd be taking off within a few minutes and that the journey to Gatwick would take approximately two hours and forty minutes. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary outside — nothing to alarm me — I let my head fall back against the seat and I closed my eyes, trying my best to blank out the chatter and movement of the other passengers. Hearing the stewardess' pull the doors closed, I opened my eyes and breathed deeply, knowing that within minutes, I'd be on my way home.
They performed their standard routine of showing us what to do if we nose-dived into the open seas below; how to use the life jackets under our seats and the oxygen masks above. They pointed to the exit doors — at the front, the centre and the rear — and finally made their way along the aisle to check that our seat belts were secure. When I felt movement beneath me, it couldn't have come quickly enough, and peering through the window, I watched the black tarmac being left behind. The plane picked up speed and the noise of the roaring engine, the sensation of being pushed back against my seat and finally being lifted into the fading blue sky, was unbelievable.
I leant my head against the window and stared out at the darkening sky as we rose above the clouds. All I could think of was seeing Dad at the airport; of embracing him and not letting go.
I'd done it. I'd actually, fucking done it.
As we soared higher in the sky, I thought of England, visualizing all the people and places I knew and loved.
And then it hit me.
Before I could even wra
p my arms around Dad or do any of the things I was dreaming of, I still had to get through passport control on the other side. I was stupid enough to believe that it was almost over, when in reality, it had only just begun.
PERFUMES AND AFTERSHAVES
Turbulence suddenly shook me and I awoke disorientated, but the plane was still; the unbalance was within. Catching my breath and sparing a glance out to the other passengers, I clocked the watch on my neighbour's wrist: seven forty five. There was just under an hour to go.
The couple beside me still had their heads in their paperbacks, in fact the only time they'd put them down was to change the time on their watches, rewinding them an hour in preparation for our arrival in the UK. We hadn't had one conversation — not because I was being unsociable but because I felt humiliated and embarrassed by my appearance.
Staring at nothing but my reflection bouncing back at me from the square window and with only the navy blue sky as background, my mood lifted in anticipation of seeing Dad at the airport. I wandered what he may be going through as he drove to pick me up and whether or not he was alone. Perhaps he was chatting to Mum, to Pink or one my brothers? I hoped he had someone with him — I really didn't want to face him alone.
Words floated around my mind in an attempt to form sentences as I contemplated what I'd say when I saw him. I wasn't sure if words would even be necessary — the guilt was etched clearly across my face.
"We have a full range of perfumes, aftershaves, toys and watches," the pretty blonde airhostess said in her cute, Irish accent as she pushed the trolley of goodies past me. I declined of course, having no money at all on me. In fact I hadn't had any for days, for weeks. The guy next to me turned a page of his book, ignoring her, and his wrist twisted towards me. I checked the time again, straining my eyes to see the numbers pinpointed by the tube of light funneling itself from the dashboard above. It was seven fifty seven.
Adjusting myself in my seat, my brain was a mash of thoughts. It felt like my head had been split, sliced open with a razor sharp knife, and all my thoughts careered off in different directions. Feelings of being happy, sad, frightened and lonely crashed into each other and snowballed.
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