Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘God bless you, sir!’ the bloke called after him.

  If only. What comfort there must be to believe in an all-powerful God who would ignore all other problems in the universe – war, famine, global warming, economic meltdown – in order to concentrate His efforts solely on the welfare of one Eric Victor Parkhill and on the safety of one transatlantic flight.

  Emerging from the tunnel, he humped the case down the flight of steps to the tube. The entrance was still locked and barred, but at least he was in the dry now, and could blow his streaming nose, working through almost his entire supply of tissues. He also used the time to re-check his ticket and passport, which he’d done several times already during the short walk from his flat, continually worrying that someone might have nicked them. He ought to have purchased one of the theft-proof pouches advertised in that catalogue, but he’d been feeling too downhearted to buy anything at all, save a few presents for his daughter. Only now did it occur to him that he should have made more effort to impress her – and Christine, of course – by dressing with more care this morning. They hadn’t seen him for fifteen months and might be suitably appalled to come face to face with a creased, dishevelled hobo, whose skin had erupted in an unsightly rash – stress-induced, no doubt.

  Well, that was the least of his problems. The female on his mind at present was neither Erica nor Christine but Mandy – especially the horror of their meeting on Monday, when he had turned up, unannounced. He’d been missing her so fiercely, he’d gone round to her flat to suggest that he should act as the baby’s father in all respects except the biological. However, he had found her, not alone, but entertaining the mysterious Oliver Birch – a fairly ordinary sort of chap, in cold reality, although he’d hated him on sight, of course, for no other reason than he was hobnobbing with Mandy. She insisted that he ‘just happened to be passing’ – a likely story at ten o’clock at night and when the fellow lived in Croydon. Presumably she was softening him up, in the hope he’d play the role of father number four – a wiser choice than Brad, maybe, since he was at least a decade older and did look rather fatherly. Well, good luck to him, the shit!

  The whole devastating encounter had forced him to conclude that Stella was right and he couldn’t live with a woman he would never be able to trust. The problem was, he still adored her, and that love was like a blockage in his heart; a thwarted and frustrated love, with no outlet and no access.

  He was glad to see a member of the underground staff come towards the barrier and start unlocking the metal gates. All this hanging about only encouraged gloomy introspection. As he lumbered through the entrance with his case, another of the staff wished him a cheery ‘Good morning!’

  Nothing very good about it, except at least there wasn’t a tube strike, and he hadn’t gone down with diphtheria or scarlet fever, just a piddling cold. And he had to admit he was feeling relieved about his recent appraisal. To his intense surprise, Trevor had congratulated him on a successful and productive year and said he’d be recommending a grade of B-plus. Of course, the assessors might disagree and mark him down when it came to the final result, which meant he would lose his higher bonus, or even …

  His speculations were interrupted by the arrival of a train. Jumping on, he felt not a little conspicuous, with his sodden trousers clinging to his legs and his hair dripping water down his neck. Not that there was anyone to see him. He was alone in the carriage – apart from a suspicious-looking package, directly opposite his seat.

  He eyed it warily, recalling the endless warnings about unattended packages. And this one did look dodgy: a cardboard box, with no address or label, loosely tied with several lengths of string. Could it truly be something dangerous, like a bomb? If so, he ought to welcome it, as it would provide the perfect let-out; blow him to bits before he had to fly. On the other hand, he might lose a leg – or two – be mutilated beyond repair and end his days in a home for paraplegics. Perhaps it would be wiser to get out.

  Seizing his case, he crept towards the doors, making as little disturbance as possible, for fear any sudden movement might detonate the device. But, as the train rattled into the station, he remembered it was Mandy’s station – Pimlico. Suppose she were on the platform, giving Oliver a last, lingering kiss, after a night of steamy sex together; waving him off as he staggered back to Croydon.

  Bullshit! Of course she wouldn’t be up at five; nor out in such lousy weather. But, as he was about to alight, the doors slid shut, imprisoning him with the package again. And, indeed, as he watched, it seemed to change before his very eyes into a living, breathing terrorist – bearded, turbaned, heavily armed and about to shoot him through the head. He waited for the blinding flash; the ear-splitting explosion, but the only noise was that of the train rattling into Victoria, where a crowd of people got on, including a mother with her baby. If there was a genuine risk, he ought to act responsibly and try to avert the danger. Leaping out of the carriage, he began running the length of the platform, the rickety case juddering behind him, as he tried to reach the driver in time. He must beg him to take action – apply the emergency brakes, to halt the train. However, just as he drew level with the driver’s cab, the doors slid shut once more and he was left stranded on the platform.

  He slumped on to a bench. He was probably overreacting – as usual. The package could well be harmless: a stack of leaflets, waiting to be distributed, or a parcel of books someone had left behind by mistake. Surely a bomb would have exploded by now, and the whole network would be closed, with staff and police pouring on to the platform to escort passengers to safety. Whereas there was nobody in sight save a few harmless-looking people on their way to work.

  As soon as the next train came in, he lugged his case on board again, found a seat, took out his book and vowed to sit and read, instead of behaving like a human jack-in-the-box. And if Osama Bin Laden himself got on, armed with a grenade-launcher and a Kalashnikov, well, he wouldn’t even look up from the page.

  LIFTS TO DEPARTURES.

  The sign alone was enough to send his panic-levels soaring. There was no escape – nobody and nothing could save him now from having to depart.

  He trundled the baggage-trolley into the lift, and stood leaning against the wall, for support. He had always been scared of lifts, but at least they didn’t take off into the stratosphere and climb to 30,000 feet. He cast an envious glance at the woman standing next to him. Being male had definite disadvantages, due chiefly to the strain of living up to the qualities required: bulldog courage, heroism, maverick self-sufficiency. Women had it easy in comparison; could get away with being scared of lifts, or mice, or spiders – or of any damned thing, actually. Fear in them was excused as sweetly feminine, whereas in men it was plain pathetic.

  As the doors opened to let him out, he was appalled to see a jostling mass of passengers crowding every inch of the space; with long queues snaking from each check-in desk, and a general air of chaos and confusion. Stella had assured him that, since British Airways’ move to Terminal Five, this terminal would be comparatively empty – at least until more airlines moved in, later in the year. So he was completely unprepared for the scene that met his eyes, or indeed for the sheer ugliness of the place. It resembled an outdated industrial warehouse; the low, oppressive ceiling cluttered with lumbering pipes and hideous steel fans. Whatever the perils of air travel, he had somehow imagined it as glamorous – the preserve of rich sophisticates who expected stylish surroundings. Yet he had walked into a dump, with no comfort, no amenities and very little natural light. The only window was sited at the far end of the concourse, and did nothing to alleviate the air of dingy claustrophobia.

  Well, he thought, venturing out into the mayhem, he wasn’t here to appraise the aesthetics. He had better bite the bullet and join one of the long queues.

  Feeling like a new boy at some vast, confusing school, he went up to one of the airport staff and asked him where to go.

  ‘If you’re flying InterWest Airlines, sir, you need to
check in at Zone A, but I’m sorry to inform you that the baggage-system has developed a fault, which means all flights are subject to serious delay.’

  He stared at the man in horror. He would miss his connection and be stranded in Minneapolis. Although his insurance would cover an overnight stay, what it couldn’t do was alleviate Dwight and Christine’s wrath if he failed to turn up in time, when they were due to leave for Hong Kong tomorrow. Suddenly, the claims of that insurance policy began echoing in his head: Catastrophe Cover, Hijack, Mugging, Personal Accident. No, he couldn’t go through with this – the dangers were just too overwhelming. Even the prospect of a night on his own in some alien motel in Minneapolis filled him with near-panic.

  ‘We’re doing everything we can to fix the problem, sir, but, of course, a backlog has been building up, which is the reason for the queues and all the—’

  ‘OK, I understand,’ he interrupted tersely, ‘but which way is the chemist?’ He was now desperate for more Kleenex, highly embarrassed by the fact that his nose was running into his mouth, like some snotty little kid’s.

  ‘I’m afraid all the shops are closed at present, sir, during the current renovation. There is a branch of Boots in Arrivals, one floor down, but I strongly recommend that you stay here and check in.’

  ‘I have checked in – online.’

  ‘Yes, but you still need to drop off your bags and have your passport checked, so I suggest you make your way to Zone A, sir.’

  Humiliated by his constant need to sniff, he squeezed between the crowds; jabbed by the sharp corners of other people’s luggage, or rammed by pushchair-wheels. Finally, he joined the queue at the far end of the terminal, remembering, with relief, that he’d packed a spare shirt in his flight-bag, assuming he would sweat so much on the first flight, he’d need a change of clothes for the second. That shirt would have to function as a handkerchief, however disgusting the prospect.

  As he shuffled slowly forward in a stop-start, stop-start fashion, he noticed a young couple passionately embracing, just a few yards off. They were clinging to each other, kissing almost manically as they said a last goodbye. He could hardly bear to watch, since it served as a reminder that he hadn’t said goodbye to Mandy – just shouted incoherently as he slammed out of her flat.

  After half an hour of queuing, surreptitiously mopping his nose on the shirt, he began to understand why passing through Heathrow was said to be as stressful as being mugged at knifepoint. So why did people travel? Presumably the majority were flying for pleasure (an oxymoron, surely), or at least had chosen to fly, which seemed equally inexplicable. Yet, according to recent forecasts, more and more quite ordinary folk would be travelling further and further. Why was he so different; so unable to participate in common human pleasures? And why was he feeling so alone, despite the press of people milling round? Without his usual props – his flat, his job, his daily routine – he was like a hollow tree; an empty shell of bark, with no solidity or sap; no inner core.

  At last, he reached the desk, although the sharp-suited woman behind it did little to reassure him. No, she couldn’t say whether he’d catch his connection or not; all she could suggest was that he listen to the announcements. He’d been doing that, non-stop, but the maddeningly upbeat recorded voice had provided no real information; just apologized for the disruption and repeated the assurance that they were doing all they could to solve the problem. Perhaps the delay would give him time to dash down to Arrivals and invest in some paper hankies and a box or two of lozenges to dislodge the stash of razor blades embedded in his throat. But, no – the woman at the bag-drop desk directed him to another queue, this time for Security, where he was issued with a plastic bag, to put in any liquids he was carrying.

  ‘I’ve already done that,’ he objected, having spent twenty minutes yesterday studying the small print about the dimensions of the plastic bag, and any containers that went into it, along with the pedantic definitions of what constituted ‘liquids’. He understood, of course, that such precautions were intended to prevent jihadists from smuggling liquid explosives into perfume or shampoo bottles and then blowing up the plane. But, according to Jeremy, nothing could actually stop them and, in fact, another air atrocity was almost guaranteed to happen, so long as such jihadists saw their mission as divinely ordained.

  Once he had rummaged for his plastic bag and looped it over one finger, he was told to join yet another queue. Queue number three was at least different in its format, in that it wound its zigzag way between lengths of tape strung between blue posts. He found himself behind a woman carrying a baby, and pregnant with another child. Every mother and baby he saw only underlined his aching sense of loss, and again he felt choked with grief as he traipsed along between the posts, like a refugee in transit.

  When he finally reached the head of the queue, he was ordered to proceed to desk number one – where there was, of course, another queue, although a shorter one, admittedly. All the other passengers seemed to know the ropes, and appeared to be undressing – or partly, anyway – putting their coats and jackets into black polystyrene trays, along with other items like their belts and keys and phones. He, the fumbling novice, was holding everybody up, as he tried to follow suit, yet still managed to disgrace himself by failing to put his flight-bag on the conveyor-belt.

  Once he had complied with all the procedures, he was directed through the security arch; seriously alarmed as a loud bell rang and an official came striding over and began running his hands up and down his body; even between his legs. He was then instructed to remove his shoes – pathetic, sodden things, and clearly objects of intense suspicion, since they were put back through the x-ray machine by one of the security staff. Could someone have planted drugs on him while he was waiting in the various queues? All his childhood experience of being a pawn, at the mercy of those in authority, came flooding back as he stood mortified and shoeless; an object of suspicion, already attracting curious stares. His clothes were still wet and soggy; his nose running like an urchin’s. Then, as now, there was nobody to plead his case; no one who believed him, even though he knew full well that he hadn’t committed any crime.

  But still they hadn’t finished. A second little Hitler appeared, armed with some sort of metal-detector, which was dragged across his body, with obsessive thoroughness. They must be looking for lethal weapons. Would he be forbidden entry to America; even locked up in a cell?

  Nothing was said; no explanation given. He was simply frogmarched to the end of the conveyor-belt, where yet another official investigated his flight-bag, taking everything out, object by humiliating object – the Imodium, the Senokot (only he would need both); the fluffy black toy cat (Stella’s good-luck gift to him); the three separate books on overcoming panic; Mandy’s scarlet thong. He had packed the thong as a memento of their fantastic sex and because, if he didn’t have her with him in person, then at least he had this one small thing that had sat against her skin, still bore her intimate smell. But, of course, the security staff would assume he was a pervert who liked to dress in woman’s underwear.

  However, the fellow’s interest seemed fixed on something else. ‘What’s this?’ he barked, seizing on a brightly coloured package.

  ‘A present for my daughter.’ Erica’s other presents were in the case, but this one was too fragile: a heart-shaped pendant, made of Venetian glass.

  ‘All presents are subject to screening and searching,’ the official told him sternly, ‘so they have to be carried unwrapped. Would you unwrap it and show me the contents, please.’

  Reluctantly, Eric prised off the gift-wrap and the layers of tissue underneath, opened the box and showed it to the bloke. The guy all but snatched it from him and took out the delicate heart; handling it so roughly Eric felt almost more assaulted than when he himself was being searched, as if his own heart was being torn from him and crushed. And, even after it was grudgingly returned, the officious hands continued to probe remorselessly the innermost crannies of the bag, finally unea
rthing a packet of tampons, which Stella must have overlooked when she cleared it out for him.

  By now his cheeks were scarlet, especially as several other passengers had been observing the whole procedure and continued to watch, with interest, as tampons, bowel-aids, fluffy cat, scarlet thong et al were shoved summarily back in the bag.

  ‘OK,’ the guy said curtly, ‘you’re free to go.’

  He was almost surprised to be released. Growing up in care had left him with scant respect for justice, since he’d been invariably found guilty, regardless of the facts. Yet, here he was, actually walking free and, indeed, once he’d reclaimed his possessions, he found himself in more congenial surroundings than the drab and functional area he had mercifully escaped. What was strange, however, was that he appeared to be in a shopping mall, rather than an airport. He had expected to see the actual planes, but there was no sign of any aircraft, nor anyone to ask for help, except a crush of passengers, all busy with their own concerns. Scanning the departure-boards, he saw that almost all the flights bore the word ‘delayed’, including his own, to Minneapolis. Yet despite what had seemed like hours of queuing, it was still only half-past eight, so there was still some frail hope of catching his connecting flight.

  Having bought a stack of Kleenex, he prowled aimlessly around; too sick to eat or drink; too anxious to sit still, but too keyed up to do any further shopping. However, everyone he watched seemed to be gorging, guzzling, browsing, buying. He was a different species, lacking their robust digestions and laid-back temperaments; their ability to forget the fact they were about to board a death-machine. Just last Friday, he’d been stupid enough to read an account in the paper – written by plane-crash survivors, no less – the horrors of which made even Jeremy’s experiences pale into insignificance. Snippets of their testimony were still shuddering through his head: ‘“Brace for impact!” the captain announced, then we hit the water and skidded to a halt, like the worst car-wreck you could possibly imagine …’ ‘The plane slammed down, bounced up, came back down on its nose and began to cartwheel …’ ‘The aircraft broke into five sections and I was knocked unconscious. When I came round, I was hanging upside-down from my seat-belt …’ ‘Then there was an almighty crunch, which was the port-wing catching a tree. The next thing I knew was waking up in hospital. I’d lost an eye and my nose, and broken my spine, shoulder, jaw and ankle….’