Travelling Back

Della clung to his legs pitifully that morning. He half-heartedly pulled her away from his ankles and held her up so their eyes were level.

“I’m sorry DD but Daddy has to go.”

She bawled and squirmed as he handed their daughter to his wife.

“Text us from the airport and when you land.” She held a surly Della with one hand and squeezed his arm with the other.

He nodded as he closed the apartment door behind him and stepped toward the elevator. The first mode of transport on this longest of days.

His taxi was waiting at street level. The local guys hated airport runs as they had to charge a set fee from the city regardless of how long it took. James dropped his own case in the boot as the driver wordlessly released it from inside. He then dropped himself into the rear seat and saw the ID badge hanging from the rear view mirror. Hassan remained silent and James did not complain. The traffic was mercifully light, so much so that Hassan even thanked him as he retrieved his own case and stepped into the terminal.

Bad weather meant that he was circling high above London for an hour, waiting for a slot to land. He imagined the holding pattern of aircraft, heavy steel tubes floating miraculously and wondered how long they could keep each flight in suspense. Presumably scorched corpses raining down on London were something the populous was keen to avoid.

His companion in 35J had wanted to engage in conversation the whole way from Dubai. He had opened with a quip about the drinks not coming often enough then something about his meal and how they all tasted the same no matter if you went for chicken or beef. James had smiled noncommittally each time and conspicuously placed his headphones over his ears. He preferred this style over the buds that sat in the ear, he wanted people to be in no doubt he was in his own world.

The last time he had seen his father had been four years ago. They spoke of course, intermittent and impersonal on both sides and the final conversation had only been exceptional in its ordinariness and because James would now always remember it as the last time.

Heathrow was the usual cattle market with a mixture of fast walking regular travellers and a gawking tourists. Competitors jockeyed for position to arrive at customs and get through to baggage claim as quickly as possible.

James knew airports. Knew how they flowed and moved, knew people and how they behaved once they were free from the tyranny of the seat belt sign. He also knew baggage handling was glacial at Heathrow, so he strolled and pulled his case through the moving sea of people as it swirled and eddied around him. One queue was the same as another and no-one got out of here any quicker regardless of your suitcase skills.

He stood on the traveling walkway and watched as those who had chosen to walk alongside double timed and slalomed around elderly obstacles. Ahead of him was a young couple standing one behind the other with the guy at the front holding his empty hand out behind him for the girl to take.

“I just wish you could see me for who I am.” She said.

James could hear her pretty well, though he was standing a respectable distance behind. She was short, had long blonde hair and was dressed comfortably for a flight. From behind he guessed her to be around 25, she had the long-limbed maturity of a woman but somehow the naïve stance of someone younger.

The man in front retracted his empty hand and said something indistinguishable from the surrounding noise. The girl had heard him though, and there was no way to miss her response, loud and clear above the din.

“Fuck you.”

James looked around, trying to casually inspect his surroundings without taking his focus away from her as they came to the end of the walkway and were ejected onto a short stretch of carpet before the next one began. He slowed his pace to match the girl and let other travellers speed up to gain on him. The three stepped onto the next walkway with James slightly closer than previously.

“I don’t understand why you think it’s OK to treat me the way you do.” He heard her again.

James looked down at her suitcase. It was a small black, plastic carry on with wheels, nothing unusual about it except there was a sticker on the side that was a little fluffy cloud against a blue sky. No words or context just the cloud. He stared at it, struck by the simplicity and beauty of the image.

“Look maybe we should cool things for a while.” She was quieter now, after the man did not appear to answer.

This certainly generated a response and he turned to face her. He was now moving backwards as his face contorted.

“Do what you want, I’m tired of your bullshit, see how you manage here without me.”

Not waiting for a reply, he turned to face forward and started walking quickly. She remained standing and the distance soon grew. When James and the girl were spat onto the carpet the man was still marching, he clearly wasn’t bluffing. In a few seconds he would be gone from view.

“Are you OK?” The girl had stopped, and James found himself standing next to her on the carpet between the walkways. People huffed and blew as they made their way around the new chicane.

“What?” She snapped at him, nervous at the sudden interruption from a total stranger.

“I’m sorry I don’t mean to be rude, but I was right behind you, and I overheard a little of what was said.”

She stared at him. There was a large, angry pink scar stretching from the edge of her right eye to the middle of her cheek. He feels himself not staring at it. She is clearly used to the reaction.

“I’m OK thanks.”

The scar was vivid, almost luminous. It was clearly old, maybe a childhood fall or a car accident, it couldn’t be a knife wound, could it? She clearly did not wish to extend the interaction as she unconsciously pulled her hair across the right side of her face.

She turned, hot with shame and nervousness and started to walk away, out of the flow of people towards an empty gate which had no flight assigned.

James waited a beat, then followed.

“Are you sure there is nothing I can do?” He hears the words and wonders why he is asking.

“No, really I just need to sit a minute.”

"OK." He nods and steps backwards to join the ever-flowing river of people.

At the baggage carousel there was the usual microcosm of human behaviour. Some pushed and clawed their way to stand right next to the conveyor belt whilst others, gathering like a throng at a sermon, worshipped the curtained opening from which their bag would be miraculously regurgitated. He stood behind, tall enough to see when his bag would appear and annoyed enough to just push his way through when it did.

He had flown on family holidays with his parents when he was a kid. His father had always been on edge, always hurrying and always some undercurrent of darkness that was liable to pop to the surface with no real provocation. Air travel had been a marvel then, something to do once a year when the world was larger, and adventure seemed inevitable.

He was suddenly aware of a presence in his personal space.

“Excuse me, sorry.”

The girl was next to him with her case and the sticker, her short stature made him feel like he was towering over her. The blonde hair had been brushed and was now falling neatly to cover the right side of her face.

“Oh hey.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m sorry to ask but my phone isn’t working yet, I can’t get any signal.”

She held the device up for him to inspect the evidence. The screen told him it was ‘searching for carrier’.

“Where are you from?”

“The US, California.”

“You don’t have an accent.” He chastised himself, he sounded like he was interrogating her.

“So, anyway, can I borrow your phone to make a quick call?”

He took his phone from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. He idly wondered if this was some sort of scam. No, you can’t run away here you still need to get through customs.

“Can you unlock it?”

“Oh, sorry.” He said as he used his fingerprint to unlock the device and a little picture of Della appeared.

“Thanks, I’ll just be a minute I promise.”

She turned her back and took a pace away, providing the notion of privacy without the appearance of making a run for it. The number must have been in her memory because she didn’t need to look at her own screen.

The call was quick, and her shoulders were slumped as she turned to face him.

“Everything OK?” He asked.

“Yeah I guess, thanks so much for the phone I appreciate it.”

She smiled at him, and he felt his eyes dart to the scar unconsciously. She turned away with a little nod, wheeled her case into the sea of bodies and was engulfed.

He stood in the taxi rank outside the terminal, dutifully lined up taking tentative steps forward each couple of seconds. There were barriers which forced the snake of people to move up and down like waiting for the worst ride at Disneyland.

“Why do you take taxis, the train station is right there in the airport?”

That was always his father’s first line as the taxi would crunch up the gravel driveway of his childhood home. No hug, no nice to see you, just a chastisement about the cost of the taxi.

Today, when the taxi turned into the house there was no welcoming committee, how could there be? He paid the driver and watched as he looped round, went out of the gate and was gone. He wheeled his case and felt under the mat where the lawyer had said the key would be. It was quiet of course, no reason for it not to be, as he unlocked the door and reached for the light switch, a move he had not made in years, but his fingers found it without any difficulty.

The place was empty now, not just of people but furniture, as if a squad of world champion burglars had come in the night and decided to show off their skills.

He wandered downstairs from room to room examining the emptiness and felt tired. He had already decided he would not stay in the house, too weird, too creepy and certainly he would not go upstairs. He went through a door in the hallway that took him into the garage. In the gloom he could see his father’s car, like a dog waiting patiently for its master it stood there motionless.

He had never driven it before, they had called it his favourite child, only half a joke between those that knew. He threw his case onto the back seat without care and got into the driver’s seat. Had he ever sat here before? It started after a couple of argumentative coughing sounds, and he gently coaxed the old Jaguar into the light.

He drove quickly, enjoying the powerful engine. He stopped for coffee and drank it as he drove. Drinking and eating within the leather confines had been absolutely forbidden. At the hotel he pulled into a vacant space and sat alone in the car, closed his eyes and felt immediately tired.

After checking in he wheeled his case down a depressing corridor and opened the door to his nondescript, middle of the road hotel room. Beige and white everywhere, a chair that looked as welcoming as a medieval torture device and a large double bed.

He threw his case to the ground and himself onto the bed then fell asleep immediately.

He woke at some point, clearly in the middle of the night, fretful and sweating. He looked at his phone and saw it was 0240. Jetlag. He thought about the girl with the scar as he examined the phone screen. He scrolled through an increasingly irate one-sided conversation his wife had been having with him whilst he slept.

He groaned and texted her that he was sorry and that yes he was still alive.

He opened his case and pulled out his black suit, tie and a white shirt. The shirt would need to be ironed.