‘This your HAG?’ asks Andy, rather absentmindedly as he takes the short woman’s boarding pass.
‘Um,’ I say. Shit, I think.
‘What?’ she says, stopping in her tracks and pulling herself up to her full diminutive height.
‘Sorry?’ says Andy, looking down his tanned nose.
‘What did you just say?’
‘What?’ says Andy, unaware that he has actually said anything.
‘You just called me a hag,’ she blusters.
‘Did I? Oh I’m sorry. I’m not sure I did.’
‘You did,’ she replies. ‘I heard you. Did you hear him?’
She looks at me, her newfound friend, for confirmation. I shrug and think about starting Andy’s defence. But he launches in himself.
‘Oh God, I shouldn’t worry, madam,’ he says, shoving her boarding card through the computer. ‘It’s a technical term, you know, that we use in the industry.’
‘Is it now?’
‘It means “have a go” passenger,’ explains Andy, not lying for once. He looks up and smiles. His white teeth shine. ‘We use it all the time to mean people who are late but who give you some sort of story as to why they are late.’
He is being so disconcertingly honest that the short woman’s chest deflates. ‘Oh,’ she says.
‘Yeah, I know.’ He nods. ‘I can see the confusion. Anyway, have a good journey.’ He points her in the direction of the plane, then looks at me and rolls his eyes. ‘That woman needs a fucking Valium,’ he mutters with a cheeky grin.
‘I heard that,’ she says, turning around and marching back along the corridor towards us. ‘You’re a supercilious old queen!’ she yells.
‘Oh, don’t use words you can’t spell,’ says Andy, his voice sounding deeply jaded.
‘Madam, why don’t you just board the plane?’ I suggest. ‘I really think it would be better for all concerned.’
‘I shall be complaining about you,’ she says.
‘Who, me?’ I ask.
‘No, him,’ she says, pointing at Andy.
‘Go right ahead,’ Andy says with a smile.
‘I will,’ she insists, stamping her foot.
No sooner has she turned the corner than Andy is on the radio to Chris inside the plane.
‘Chris, mate,’ he whispers. I can hear some vaguely garbled reply. ‘Listen, you’ve got a right old bitch coming through. Seat number ...’ He taps away at the computer. ‘Forty-four C. Anyway, just to warn you guys that she is coming and if someone wants to spit in her coffee, be our guest.’ Chris says something that makes Andy giggle. ‘That sounds great. Mmm ... yes . . . short ... fur-trimmed leather thing ... got her?’ Chris says something else. ‘I know. You’re right, it’s always the short ones. Thanks, mate. Over and out.’ Andy turns to me and smiles. ‘That’s sorted. Her dinner is going on the floor of the toilet before it goes on her plate.’
You may think he is joking, but he’s not. Piss off the ground staff enough that they radio through to their colleagues on the plane and you really are in for a bad flight and probably a couple of bad tummy days when you arrive at your destination. Flight staff can spit on your food, piss in your coffee and wipe your steak around the rim of the toilet before it gets anywhere near you. And you would be none the wiser. Some of the more badly behaved cabin crew carry laxative powder that they use to spike the drinks and food of those who get on their tits. It’s a simple form of revenge that is not readily traceable. So the best way to get the best service is to be pleasant and affable from the off.
Andy looks very pleased with himself as he puts on his service-industry smile again and carries on processing boarding passes. Ordinarily I should be giving him a gentle bollocking for his Valium comment, and perhaps for the HAG thing, but the woman was a nightmare and she’d already shouted her head off at Debbie and bored the backside off me, so quite frankly I’m glad to see the back of her.
And anyway, there is something much more interesting going on in the far corner of departures. A large woman has been pulled over, and someone from Baggage along with a Customs official is going through her bags. Alerted by swiping her boarding card through the computer at the gate, these two officials would have been waiting for her to turn up for a while. Her bags must have failed any one of the various security tests that luggage is subjected to after check-in. Most irregularities such as weird electrical goods are discovered right from the outset during X-ray, almost as soon as they are put on the conveyor belt, provided that the scanners aren’t too stoned, lazy or tired to keep their eye on the screen. But if there’s something the scanner can’t quite discern, the computer alerts the operator and the bag is moved and taken to the next level. Level two is a 3D scanner, which looks at the bag from every angle and dimension. If the operator is still not satisfied the bag is searched by hand. There are apparently some substances, such as marzipan, that the scanners actually can’t see through at all. Garry is always saying that it’s the affianced couples arid newlyweds we should watch out for, as wedding cakes are potentially lethal. If a bomb is suspected, then the Bomb Squad are called in and the suitcase, through a system of volunteers, is removed from the baggage area.
But this situation, as I approach it, looks like none of the above to me. There was a time when women with big tits were pulled over all the time for the amusement of the Customs and Baggage guys. Bra underwiring shows up on the scans, and when things were slow and they were bored they’d pull over the woman with the most underwiring and therefore the biggest tits just for a gawp. But those days are long gone, and the only reason why this admittedly large-breasted woman would be pulled at this late stage is if something battery-operated had switched itself on in her suitcase and was making a noise.
Sure enough, just as I arrive ready to ask the woman if she needs any help, the Customs official pulls out a pink buzzing cock. The woman doesn’t bat an eyelid. Either she is playing it cool, like people pull bright pink cocks out of her suitcase all the time, or she is so embarrassed that she can’t move. I turn and try to catch her eye, only to notice that she has two puce patches on her cheeks. She is mortified.
‘Everything OK here?’ I ask.
‘Mmm,’ she says, not able to speak.
‘Not quite,’ says the Customs official, holding the cock in one hand and riffling through her baggage with the other. ‘We still have a noise going on in here. Are there any more?’
‘Mmm.’ The woman appears to nod in the affirmative.
‘Aha!’ he says, pulling out a small, veined, flesh-coloured vibrator that is not switched on. ‘Oh,’ he adds, sounding disappointed. ‘No, that’s not it.’ Both he and the Baggage guy stand still, their heads on one side. ‘Can you hear anything?’ the Customs bloke asks the Baggage bloke. ‘Or is it just this one?’ He waves the pink cock. ‘There’s definitely something else. I can hear it.’
This scene is beginning to remind me of the occasion when we pulled over an elderly family entertainer only to find that he had a suitcase full of big buzzing vibrators. Even though my back is turned, I can sense Andy beginning to take an interest. He loves this sort of thing.
The Customs official digs a little deeper and finally brings out an enormous shiny black vibrator that is not only buzzing but, like some rampant snake, also appears to be bending and stirring the air at the same time.
‘Jesus Christ,’ declares Andy from across the other side of the room, boarding pass hanging limply in his hand. ‘That’s huge!’ He has a habit of voicing what everyone else is thinking.
‘Right,’ says the Customs official as he puts the two cocks on the table. ‘That seems to have, um, cleared the matter up. Would you mind taking the batteries out of these please, madam, so they don’t start up again.’
The woman mumbles something and, picking up each of the vibrators in turn, tries to remove the batteries. She sweatily fumbles the batteries out of the pink and the flesh-coloured vibrators, but when it comes to the big black cock her grip slips and it is l
aunched across the floor of the lounge in a frenzy of buzzing and writhing. Everyone – the Customs official, the Baggage bloke and the last remaining passengers – just stand there, mouths ajar, staring. None of us knows what to do. We all stand stock still, watching it crawl and weave its way over the carpet tiles.
Andy is the only one to move. He speeds across the room, whips up the dildo, removes the batteries, and hands the whole lot back to the woman, with immense deftness and grace.
‘Have a nice flight,’ he says with a smile, then turns back towards his post. ‘Right,’ he says loudly. ‘Now, who’s next? Let’s get you all on board this plane before we’re delayed.’
Soon we are closing the door on the last passenger, and Andy and I are quite relieved to get the flight away. It’s only a couple of minutes late on its stand and hasn’t missed its departure slot. It’s been quite exhausting getting all the tigers, terrorists and loud-mouthed aggressives on the flight, and I feel in need of a large cup of strong coffee and a sneaky cigarette to celebrate. We have an hour and a bit before the next check-in, so neither Andy nor I is in a particular hurry to get back to the office and catch up on the paperwork that I know awaits us both.
‘Shall we have a go on the computer games?’ suggests Andy as we walk past one of the many amusement arcades that are in the airport and only ever seem to be used by staff. ‘Do you want to do the dancing one?’
‘What?’ I say, stopping on the concourse. ‘There’s a machine that makes you dance?’
‘Oh yeah,’ says Andy. ‘I come and use it quite often when I’m on a break.’
‘When are you ever on a break?’
‘You know those times when you can’t find me . . .’
‘You’re dancing?’
Andy looks sheepish. ‘Well,’ he says. His mobile rings in his top pocket. ‘Saved by the bell.’ He smiles. ‘Hello?’
While Andy ‘noo-o!’s and ‘really?’s with extreme enthusiasm, I stand and watch the endless stream of passengers pour past on their way to their gates, or madly dropping silly money on unnecessary must-haves in duty free. We are near the cigar room, a Mecca for the larger man and the vacantly curious teenager. One big bloke seems to be stocking up on boxes of Monte Cristos while his bored wife looks on. Further up, the seafood bar is going great guns with a gaggle of blondes tucking into smoked salmon sandwiches for their afternoon tea.
‘Excuse me,’ asks a youngish bloke with a rather pale face, tapping me on the shoulder. ‘D’you know where the toilets are?’
‘Oh, hello.’ I’m half asleep. I’m obviously developing airport brain myself. ‘Right behind me,’ I say, pointing to the toilet sign. ‘You can’t miss them.’
‘Thanks,’ he says, weakly wandering off.
‘Fucking hell!’ says Andy, his eyes shining, high off the back of his chat. ‘That was Tom.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘He’s finally been released from the hotel room. He was strapped to the bed, stark bollock naked.’ He grins. ‘Hotel security had to let the other bloke in.’ He laughs. ‘Fucking funny. Can you imagine? Being laid out like a starfish? So embarrassing! And to have hotel security let the boyfriend, or whatever he was, in. Hilarious. It could only happen to Tom.’
‘Sounds like it,’ I say, not really listening.
‘Anyway, the great thing is that Tom can now come to Dubai with us tonight!’
‘Great.’
‘I know, isn’t it?’ Andy’s bouncing around all keen and excited. ‘After he missed Bangkok–Sydney, he’s got to work the Dubai flight tonight. He’s due for a stopover in Dubai anyway before going on to Sydney or Melbourne or wherever, so he’s taken it. He’ll work our flight and join us in the hotel.’
‘That’s great news.’
‘This is going to be the best birthday,’ says Andy, rubbing his hands. ‘I can’t fucking wait. Tom, you, me, Craig, Rachel . . .’ His voice goes down an octave. ‘Oh, and,’ he smiles again. ‘Sue, Sue, Sue!’
‘Before you take the piss any more, I need one,’ I say. ‘Wait here, will you?’
‘Sure,’ he replies. ‘Don’t be long now,’ he adds, wagging his finger. ‘We’ve got dancing to do.’
I walk into the toilets just as one of the cleaners is finishing up. Wearing industrial-strength maroon rubber gloves, he is wiping down the last of the urinals and then turns the same cloth onto the basin and taps. I stop slightly in my tracks. My mouth hangs open. How am I meant to wash my hands now I know where his cloth has been? He doesn’t seem to notice the look on my face. In fact, he doesn’t seem to notice or engage with much at all.
‘Afternoon,’ I say as he walks past me, his head down, his back hunched. He doesn’t bother to reply. I shrug and unzip my flies.
There appears to be no-one else here in the toilet; all I can hear is the dripping of a tap. I am alone. What a relief. Sometimes it’s nice to have a bit of time out, away from shouting passengers and chatting cabin crew. One of the things that is so difficult about this job is that you always have to be ‘on’. You’ve got to have the right smile on your face, the correct, helpful cadence in your voice, ever ready to assist. It always amazes me that the customers expect this sort of service. It’s not as if anyone looks after you and your children like this if you get on a bloody train. Who cares if you left your jacket at Clapham Junction? Or that you’re allergic to nuts? What’s it to me that your legs are a bit too long for the seat? It’s all some hangover from the days when it was glamorous to fly, when airports were destinations and people would dress up to go on a flight. Today, I may as well be running a bus station.
Just as I zip up my trousers, I hear what sounds like crying coming from a cubicle behind me.
‘Hello?’ I say, my voice echoing. I turn around and notice the locked door. ‘Anyone in there?’ The crying gets a little louder. ‘Anyone there?’
‘Go away,’ comes the reply. It sounds like the voice of a young man.
‘You OK in there?’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘My girlfriend’s left me. I hate myself. Leave me alone.’
‘What are you doing in there?’
‘None of your business. Leave me alone.’
‘Do you want to talk? I can help you, if you want.’ I am beginning to sense something is not at all right and it scares me. I’ve been in this situation before and it’s not good.
‘Leave me alone,’ he says, sounding increasingly agitated. ‘Let me die on my own.’
‘What do you mean, let you die?’ I say, my face right up against the toilet door. Here we go, I think.
‘Go away!’ His voice is growing louder. ‘Go away! Go away! Go away!’ There are now proper heavy sobs coming from inside the cubicle.
‘Maybe if you talked to me I could help,’ I suggest, as calmly as I can.
‘I don’t want to,’ he says, struggling for breath between sobs. ‘I want to be on my own.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I’m not leaving.’ I try to make it sound like it’s a joke.
‘It’s too late anyway,’ he says, his voice now growing weak, his crying more resigned.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, looking under the door. His white trainers are pointing towards me. He must be sitting on the loo.
‘I’ve already taken the pills.’
‘What pills? How many pills?’
‘I don’t know.’ He sounds confused. ‘Pills. Pills. White pills. And a few of them.’
‘Wait there, I’ll be back in a sec.’ I run out of the toilets and grab hold of Andy. ‘Listen, mate,’ I say, taking both his shoulders, ‘there’s some bloke in the bogs who’s taken some pills, trying to kill himself.’
‘Shit,’ says Andy, paying attention.
‘Go and get Barry the chaplain and Terry and Derek. And be quick about it.’
‘Fuck,’ says Andy. ‘Sounds serious.’
‘I think so.’
‘Is it that young bloke you directed in
there while I was on the phone?’
‘What?’
‘He hasn’t come out yet.’
‘Could be,’ I say.
‘It’ll be another one of those teenager, jilted-lover cries for help.’
‘I don’t know. I think this one might mean it.’
4–5 PM
ANDY AND I have a toilet each and are trying to engage the teenager when Barry arrives all red-faced and out of breath. Tall and overweight, with a rolling, fat voice designed to resonate all the way up the nave, Barry is the sort of gentle, ebullient fellow you want to confess all to.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ he says as he stands outside my cubicle, his black shirt sticking to his chest, his black trousers all creased. ‘I got caught up in Customs. Terrible business.’ He shakes his head. ‘Now,’ he smiles, concentrating on the matter in hand. ‘What do we have here?’
I get off the throne and beckon him outside, thinking it better to explain the situation out of earshot of the suicidal teenager.
‘He’s young,’ I say to Barry, who is nodding away, his arms crossed over his girth. ‘I think he has taken some pills.’
‘Pills, you say,’ says Barry. ‘What sort?’
‘No idea. I don’t even know if they are life-threatening, but I suspect they are.’
‘Oh dear. I do hope they’re not paracetamol. I hate it when they take paracetamol. You think you’ve sorted them out, got their stomach pumped, and then they die of liver failure three days later. Evil stuff.’
‘Well, I’m not sure what it is, but he does seem quite keen on killing himself.’
‘Right. Girlfriend?’
‘Girlfriend,’ I confirm.
‘Has he just said goodbye to her?’
‘I think so.’
‘And is due to board the plane?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘OK. Police and ambulance?’
‘On their way.’
‘So I’m not late.’
‘No, you’re the first.’
‘Good.’ He smiles. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’
Air Babylon Page 14