Air Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  Barry and I walk back into the toilets together. We are immediately followed by two Italians.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Barry, turning around to stop both of them in their tracks. ‘We have a problem in here.’ Maybe it’s the dog collar, or the powerful tone of his voice; either way they leave immediately and with no fuss. ‘Andy?’ he asks. ‘Could you stand outside and stop people coming in?’

  Andy gets up and vacates his cubicle.

  ‘Any progress?’ Barry asks Andy as he walks past.

  ‘None,’ he replies. ‘I still can’t get him to give me his name.’

  Barry knocks on the teenager’s locked door.

  ‘Hello there,’ he says. ‘My name’s Barry and I’ve come to help you.’

  ‘Go away,’ comes the reply.

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ laughs Barry. ‘I hate spending time in toilets. Filthy, stinking places. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. Why don’t you tell me what you are doing here?’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until you do.’

  ‘Like I care.’

  ‘Well, you should,’ says Barry. ‘Because I haven’t had any lunch yet and I’m starving. If you could see what a big bloke I am, you’d know how important food is to me. Are you hungry?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘When did you last eat anything?’

  ‘Breakfast.’

  ‘You must be starving. What did you have?’

  ‘Frosties.’

  ‘Oh, I love Frosties,’ says Barry. ‘Only thing is, I’m such a big fat bloke I’m not allowed them any more. My wife’s banned them from the house.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘I know,’ says Barry. ‘You should hear the other stuff I’m not allowed to eat. As if it makes any difference. I’ve always been a fat bloke and it’s not going to change just because she’s banned bread from the house.’

  ‘What else?’

  Within three minutes Barry manages to do what Andy and I have spent the last fifteen trying to do: he seems to have engaged the teenager and won some sort of trust. But then I suppose this is his job and he’s had plenty of practice. We get quite a few people threatening to kill themselves in the airport. Most of them are young and have just said goodbye to their lover, or loved one, and they think it’s the end of their world. They all think they are Romeo and Juliet and retire to the toilets for one last grande geste. Others are deportees not wanting to go home, or they are businessmen who have stuffed up, or who can’t cope any more. Either way Barry, or one of his team, is the first port of call.

  The chaplaincy team are quite an extraordinary bunch. There’s a Catholic priest, Benedictine brothers, two sheikh advisers, a rabbi, an Islamic adviser, two guys from the free churches (Methodist and Presbyterian) and a couple of members of the Salvation Army. It’s rather like a mini United Nations, which I suppose is the only way to cater for the huge cross-section of people who come through the airport. They run the chapel and the multi-faith prayer rooms but are also asked to attend to some of the more day-to-day aspects of airport business. They meet coffins, counsel the bereaved and deal with the homeless; they attend births in toilets, perform quickie marriages in the chapel (which they will only do for parish members) and take confession all over the airport. They are hard pushed at Christmas, but their busiest time of year comes around January/February during the haj, when some sixty thousand British Muslims descend on Mecca. Most of them come through the airport to connect up with specially chartered flights. The place is packed with people in white robes randomly putting down mats in the lounges and shops to say their prayers. It’s an extraordinary sight. Sometimes, even to someone like me who last went to a church in a christening robe, it can be quite inspiring.

  And a lot of the team’s time is taken up with those too frightened to fly. You’d be surprised how many people come to an airport and still can’t get on a plane. Paralysed with fear, they normally make it as far as the departure lounge but can’t bear to go any further. The airline staff usually try to take care of the situation, but if all else fails they call in the God squad. Barry tells great stories of actually having to escort people to their seats, all the while explaining that flying takes them closer to God. Although, given that what people fear most is crashing and death, I can never understand quite how proximity to their maker can be a reassuring thing.

  I hear Terry and Derek outside the toilets and rush out to head them off at the pass. Barry seems to be doing such a good job with the teenage boy that the last thing we need is for these two to come in and ruin it all with their banter and cynicism.

  ‘Barry’s in there at the moment,’ I say.

  ‘Right,’ says Terry. ‘Any idea of the situation?’

  ‘Teenager’s said goodbye to his girlfriend and says he has taken some pills.’

  ‘One of those.’ Derek yawns, stretching his arms above his head. ‘How long has he been in there?’

  ‘About half an hour.’

  ‘Probably crying wolf,’ says Derek. Terry nods in agreement. ‘How long shall we give Barry?’

  ‘Five minutes,’ says Terry.

  ‘He should get him out by then,’ I say.

  ‘You sound very confident,’ says Andy.

  ‘You didn’t hear him in there. Anyway, you two took your time. Where have you been?’

  ‘A couple of wheelies,’ says Terry. ‘And this piss artist.’ He shakes his head.

  ‘Oh my God,’ says Derek laughing, ‘you wouldn’t believe this one even if you were bloody there.’

  ‘This bloke gets off the plane, right,’ says Terry. Andy and I nod. ‘He leans on the finger gangway arm thing, right, and someone’s not secured it properly so he falls straight through onto the tarmac below. All hell breaks loose. We’re called. We’ve got a dead man on the ramp! Everyone’s screaming and shouting. No-one can believe it. We get there. He’s lying flat out on the tarmac. He looks dead. But I can feel a pulse. I put an airway into him. A tube. The lot. He doesn’t flinch. Derek has the spinal injury unit ready and we’re moving him on the count of three when he wakes up.’

  ‘Un-bloody-believable,’ says Derek, shaking his head.

  ‘He opens his bloody eyes, mumbles something like “How did I get here?” and stands up. Pulls out the tube thing, brushes himself off and stares at us all. Turns out he was so pissed, his body was so relaxed when it hit the ground, that the bastard bounced.’

  ‘Amazing,’ says Andy.

  ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen that,’ says Terry.

  ‘I know a couple of blokes who’ve fallen out of planes before,’ offers Derek, ‘but none of them has ever made it.’

  ‘He’s going to feel it tomorrow,’ says Terry.

  ‘That’s true,’ says Andy. ‘That’ll be the hangover to end all hangovers.’

  We are all laughing when Barry appears at the entrance to the toilets, his arm wrapped around the ashen-faced teenager.

  ‘This is Paddy,’ he says. ‘And he’s had a bit of a rough time of it.’

  ‘All right there, Paddy?’ says Terry, immediately springing into action. ‘How are you doing, mate?’

  ‘OK,’ says Paddy, looking anything but.

  ‘Now, have you taken anything?’ Terry continues, taking the boy’s face in his hand and shining a small torch in his eyes. ‘What have you taken, Paddy?’ The boy suddenly seems to go floppy in his hands. He falls to the floor, only to be caught by Terry just before he hits the deck. A huge burp of puke shoots out of his mouth and covers Terry’s shoes. ‘Oh fuck,’ says Terry, not even noticing the vomit. ‘What the hell has he taken?’ Andy’s going through his bags, I’m in his jacket pockets, Derek’s calling for back-up, Barry runs back inside the toilets. ‘Come on! Come on!’ says Terry, putting the boy in the recovery position. ‘Someone find out what this fucker has taken.’

  ‘Here it is!’ says
Barry, coming out of the toilets carrying a small white pot.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Terry.

  ‘Paracetamol,’ replies Barry, his face falling.

  ‘You stupid bastard,’ says Terry gently. ‘Let’s get him to hospital.’

  Within minutes the toilet area is a mass of green jumpsuits, police, drips, tubes and trolleys. Paddy is wrapped in a red blanket and strapped into a stretcher, a mask over his white, impassive face.

  ‘What do you think?’ Andy asks Terry as Paddy is wheeled away.

  ‘It doesn’t look good,’ says Terry, whistling through the back of his teeth. ‘Looks like he took all forty-eight of the pills in one go.’

  ‘And that’s bad?’ asks Andy.

  ‘Put it this way, it’s not good. Paracetamol is a slow burner. It takes days to eat up your system. It’s painful too.’

  Barry is sitting at the end of a row of yellow plastic bucket seating, his head in his hands. He looks very downcast. I go over to him.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask, sitting down next to him.

  ‘What?’ he says, looking up. ‘Oh, sorry, mate.’ He smiles. ‘It’s been a bit of a difficult one so far. That’s my second death today.’

  ‘He may not be dead,’ I point out optimistically.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘He looked pretty much on his last legs to me, and I don’t have a medical background.’

  ‘What was the other one?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh Lord.’ He sighs, getting up out of his seat and brushing down his black trousers. ‘Do you fancy a cup of coffee?’

  ‘I would actually,’ I say.

  I’m not feeling that good myself. It’s not every day a situation that we all read so nonchalantly goes so badly wrong. For some reason I’m feeling guilty. I know it’s mad, but I can’t help wondering if I’d acted sooner, broken down the door even, perhaps the situation could have been a bit different. Maybe if I had noticed his sad face when he’d asked for directions to the toilet in the first place he would not have had the opportunity to take the pills. I know I am not responsible. But somehow I feel I am.

  Barry and I walk over to Caffè Nero and order two strong black coffees.

  ‘I shouldn’t be drinking one of these,’ mutters Barry as he takes a sip from the paper beaker. ‘My wife’s put me off caffeine.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘No idea why. Apparently it’s not very good for me. But anything that stops me eating so much . . .’

  ‘I can’t get through the day without it,’ I say. ‘There have to be some advantages to having no-one at home.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Barry smiles.

  ‘So where were you this morning?’ I ask, hunching over my coffee.

  ‘Customs,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Perhaps I shouldn’t press him.

  ‘They had some Nigerian drug smuggler in there who had swallowed sixty condoms of heroin.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Barry looks at me. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter.

  ‘Anyway, he’d already passed some twenty condoms while sitting on the glass toilet they have in there and was waiting for the other forty when he suddenly got it into his head that one of the condoms might burst. He panicked and started screaming that he didn’t want to die, and in fear of death he turned to a police officer and announced that he wanted to be baptized.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah,’ nods Barry. ‘I’ve done it before, but this was much more difficult. Anyway, they called me in and I spoke to the prisoner in order to work out if he was of sound mind and reasonable understanding. Which he was. Under the circumstances. And then I baptized him with a cup of water right there in the cells. I have to say that there are ways, and ways, of coming to God. That wasn’t one of the best.’ He stares into space and takes another sip of his coffee.

  ‘So is he OK?’

  ‘No. Turns out he was right about the condoms. Some sort of premonition. Or perhaps he’d just worked out the odds. Three of them burst about half an hour after he was baptized. He died about forty minutes later. Apparently, according to the Customs official I spoke to, he had only wrapped the heroin in one condom when he should have used two. The stomach acid rots down one with relative ease. The longer they stay in there, the higher the risk.’ He looks at me across the table. ‘What a terrible, terrible business.’

  ‘At least you baptized him,’ I offer.

  ‘Well, I suppose so,’ says Barry. ‘Thank heaven for small mercies, eh? Oh look,’ he adds, pointing over my shoulder. ‘There’s Robert, one of our Salvation Army boys. Robert! Over here!’

  Robert, a young blond chap in the black and red uniform of the Salvation Army, comes over.

  ‘Afternoon, Reverend,’ he says. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not too bad. How about you?’

  ‘Oh, it’s the end of my shift and I’ve just come over from one of the prayer rooms in another terminal.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Very disappointing.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Lots of Muslims today and no Christians at all.’ Robert looks crestfallen.

  ‘Oh well,’ says Barry, ‘there’s always tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s true,’ nods Robert. ‘See you then.’

  ‘Absolutely. See you.’ Robert disappears and Barry smiles. ‘The enthusiasm of youth,’ he says. ‘It’s just a shame that some of that didn’t rub off on that young boy Paddy.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I say.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Barry, knocking back the remainder of his coffee. ‘Can’t sit around moping all day. I’ve got a homeless meeting to attend to.’

  ‘Right. The Lord’s work is never done.’

  ‘Something like that.’ He smiles, getting up from his chair. ‘You should look after yourself,’ he says to me, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re looking tired.’

  ‘The stresses and strains of life,’ I say.

  ‘You should get some early nights.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I’m always at St George’s Chapel or the office if you need me.’

  As he walks off in the direction of the terminal, I watch as he is accosted by some old lady loaded down with duty free. She touches his arm, tugging at his shirt. I can’t hear what is being said but she doesn’t detain him long. Some pleasant words and she is off, on her way again, a smile on her face.

  ‘What were you two gossiping about?’ asks Andy as he plonks himself down opposite me.

  ‘Oh, nothing really,’ I reply. ‘I think perhaps we should get back landside. We’ve got check-in soon.’

  ‘Don’t I just know it.’ Andy yawns. ‘D’you think that boy will be OK?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think it looked too hopeful. Why, what did Terry or Derek say?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ says Andy. ‘Which I always take as a bad sign. I prefer it when they talk.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I say, getting out of my seat. ‘Shall we go?’

  As Andy and I make our way back through Customs it starts to pour with rain. In any other airport in the Western world this would not make much of a difference. Here, however, it’s a different story.

  ‘Shit!’ says Andy.

  ‘Shit!’ I echo.

  We sprint back to the office to get out the baking trays and buckets. There are other airline staff scattering to their stations in front of us. It’s a nightmare. This place leaks like a sieve. They keep saying they are going to do something about it, but they never do. All you need do is look up towards the ceilings next time you come through here to see all the peeling paint, the patches of damp and the drips. Baggage is the worst. It pours through in there. But that’s what comes of having an ancient airport that no-one maintains. We’ve got one terminal so damn ancient that archaeologists come and paw all over it. The upstairs floor is made of the largest piece of granite in Europe, which means that it has a preservation order slapped on it and hundreds of fossil hunters crawling about. It also sadly means that downstairs the
terminal can’t be raised or refurbished and will always remain poky and low.

  Andy and I make it back in time to get out the buckets and trays without too much rainwater making it through into the back office. I’ve lost count of the number of times all our paperwork’s been rendered a useless pulp by a sudden downpour. We are also back in time to witness something else. As we turn the corner, he starts to shout.

  ‘Step away from the fucking microphone! Will someone get some fucker who can use this fucking technology! No-one can understand you! No-one! No-one ever has been able to understand you!’

  It’s my old mate Jim, who works for another airline and has had the misfortune to have spent the last ten years standing underneath a Tannoy that has sent him slightly deaf.

  ‘What the hell’s got into Jim?’ I ask Andy as we both stand outside the office and stare.

  ‘Fuck knows,’ says Andy. ‘But I like what he’s saying. He’s really laying into that Tannoy.’

  He is too. He’s standing underneath it, hands cupped around his mouth, using the sort of language last heard from someone with vicious Tourette’s.

  ‘Will someone learn to use the fucking microphone properly!’ he shouts. ‘It’s not that fucking hard! Step back and enunciate properly, you ignorant cunt!’

  Someone has obviously called security, because on the use of the c-word Jim is rugby-tackled to the floor and dragged out of public view.

  ‘What the hell happened there?’ asks Andy.

  ‘I’ve no idea. But I have a feeling it has been brewing for some time.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agrees Andy. ‘Another casualty at the coalface of the service industry.’ He smiles. ‘You’ll be next.’

  ‘Piss off,’ I say. ‘Is that a check-in queue I see before me?’

  ‘You slave driver,’ he says as he looks over his shoulder at the gathering masses. ‘It’s only a matter of time before they take you away in a white coat. Mark my words.’

  ‘Work!’ I say, an irrational note of fear sounding in my voice.

  5–6 PM

  THERE’S NO TIME to dwell on deaf Jim’s departure or quite why he decided to snap on this particular rainy afternoon; there is also no time for the extra cup of coffee Debbie seems to be brewing for herself in the back office.