Traveling Not Moving by Al Lansley Knee-jerk Watching the express bound through platform seven left me in no doubt; it was time to move on. To shake up the routine and give in to impetuous urges, to board a train and go. The routine had already been broken, with the receipt of a pink slip hand-delivered to my "In" tray. The legendary company hospitality having been stretched too far (as in a tiny, tiny bit) and having broken under the strain. I cleared my desk of all personal junk, threw this week's report in the air, waved so-long to the people I was on speaking terms with and walked out through the revolving door, giving it an extra hard shove for spite or fun. Maybe both. I nearly took a run up. It wasn't the worst thing that could have happened, so I resigned myself to the thought that it was better now than later, at least I can rebuild all the sooner now it's done. Over the next several pints I managed to half-convince myself that this was true, so why the hell didn't I live a little? I knew that turning to drink wouldn't give me any answers, but it would sure as hell make me feel better. So sitting it out in the worn lounge of the first pub I'd came across, I was angry. Dot the i's, cross the t's, and get fired anyway. I let it go, watching my drink settle and holding it up to the frosted-glass window, a thousand reversed waterfalls switching cloudy for clear. I think I laughed. Alcohol as stress-reliever; as executive toy. I wasn't quite an executive to begin with, but it didn't even look like I was going to have the chance to be one now. At least not with the Cel-Trak co., may their share prices drop through the floor. Straining at the departure board with its blocky characters and permanent screen-burn I could make out a little; four trains were leaving in the next hour, four ways out. Which should it be? It wasn't as if I had work tomorrow... I closed my eyes and tried to think of a random number. No dice, literally. I don't think the human mind is designed for randomness. Searching through my pockets I pulled out a rough edged 50 pence piece and considered. If I flip twice I can do this, even after whiling away the day on beer and crisps my head was still relatively clear. A Head then Tail, train 1. Head/Head, 2. Tail/Head, 3. Tail/Tail, 4. Easy... With a sense of accomplishment I placed the coin on my right thumb and flicked it high into the air, eyes aglow. I could almost feel fate invisibly twisting as it glinted in the station lights, timelines opening and closing with the ragged breeze. I reached out, palm open, and missed by a good 3 inches. The coin struck the floor and chimed, rolling unevenly along the platform in an arc, past the white line which stated clearly that it should not be crossed onto the oil-soaked gravel of the track. Like a child who's kicked the football over a neighbor's fence and knows that this time it won't be coming back, I stood slack-jawed on the platform. "Fuck it. Two." I muttered, and looked again at the screen above me. The second line down read "Heathrow. Platform 5. DPT 16:42" Glancing at my watch showed 4:29. Time enough. I walked through the thin milling crowd to ticket sales, then thought better of it; the line was long, 4 out 5 positions were closed, and it didn't look like picking up the pace any time soon. A typical rush, I'd just get a ticket from the conductor. They probably even take cards these days. Pulling my coat around me in the chill autumn air, I reached the platform by underground walkway, the clack of heel on tile and smell of diesel filling the air. This would be a change, for better or worse. I couldn't help but smile, this would be a change. Stepping into a carriage of the grimy intercity-express I looked down at the gap between train and track almost as ritual. The cracked cement gave way to embossed metal in an instant and then to dark pockmarked carpet. The train was sparsely populated, it not being rush hour for another forty minutes or so, when the nine-to-five brigade got cut loose. The tribe I'd left behind. Picking an empty table for four, I sat at a window seat, hoping it would be the one that looked forward, not back. With my briefcase on the steel-rimmed desk I cracked it open to reams of paper in a foolscap folder, a filo-fax filled with appointments now as redundant as me, and half a bottle of whisky. Good enough. Staring out the window at hunched travelers with trolleys laden with luggage and half-defeated half-exhausted looks almost made me turn back. I could still step off and go home. There'd be nothing there but furniture and a night infront of bland commercial television, but it would be certain, a bed and warmth. At that moment the train coughed once, twice, and started off. I blanked it; mind racing. By the time I could think again the last lights of the platform had just disappeared and the regular sway and clack of the train was moving me headlong towards its destination. The sunny, tropical tax haven of Heathrow. What was I doing? Oh yeah, leaving... Well if I'm leaving, lets leave. Crossing bridges past warehouses and distant pylons, past a hundred back gardens filled with laundry lines and the occasional bonfire, I felt like a kite cut free, wondering where the breeze would take me next, how far and how fast. And what tree I would snag on. I sat back and closed my eyes for a moment, too late for thinking now... And opened them to a smiling stranger across from me, female, dark and.... curious? My watch said 5:34; I hadn't been asleep that long. She looked intriguing, late 20's maybe, the same as me, short harshly cut hair and a black overcoat. Almost smirking as if she knew something I didn't. I smiled, feeling it false in my soul but knowing it would suffice; all the hours in the mirror hadn't been for nothing. If laughter's in the eyes, then the eyes have it. I clapped my briefcase shut and raised my hands to my face, fingers stretching skin over contours of bone. Maybe I'd snored or something, I don't know. Whatever it was, the twinkle in her eyes couldn't be the result of watching a half-drunk city-type fall asleep. Reason stepped up close, it's hot breath on my collar: "Everything is about and involves You." She probably just got laid an hour ago... but I couldn't help thinking that something was up. Glancing discreetly at my flies at least put one fear to rest, though I didn't relish spending the next hour and more under scrutiny. Thinking it time to depart I reached for my case, nodded, and walked away. Picking my way unsteadily down finger-thin aisles to the buffet-car took up the next five minutes. Having first reached the freight and engine carriages, I stepped back over spanning legs and spilling bags. Past her. The about turn and embarrassed retracing of steps took me through first-class and into a beige coloured realm adorned with retro Guinness posters and menus. All prices doubled and quality halved, I queued with the rest; weaving and bobbing indefinitely. An idea I would have normally dismissed kept ringing in my mind, but today wasn't a normal day by any stretch of the word, so taking two pale looking coffees and a limp cheese sandwich back to economy I almost felt triumphant. This woman was an enigma when day to day I dealt with trivia. I stopped off at the bathroom and just stood before the mirror placing all on the floor. Slack features mired by life... Maybe it'd be a sign if we rounded a bend and it all got ruined. I washed my face. I combed my hair with my fingers. I felt like a runaway child who had to take the next train or coach or wheeled-transport home. But I knew I wouldn't, and the cups held their contents. The difference between blind flight and tactical retreat a matter of opinion, I dried my hands on a wadded fist of rough recycled paper and straightened my tie, it was time to bite the bullet. Tray in hand I approached my seat and the woman who had piqued my curiosity. "Excuse me, Miss. But would you like to share?" She looked up slowly, taking me in, "Do you like Irish coffee?" "Irish-what sorry?" "Irish coffee. Coffee with whisky." I sat down and smiled, "Yeah, I do. Right now anything with whisky has my approval. You?" "I'd love to," spoke the southern voice. With a smile showing a dozen small even teeth she took a cup to her lips and drank half like it was a sip, a challenge. Taking a breath, I brought the paper cup to my mouth, letting the inhospitable liquid slide down my throat. Tipping it back and leveling out I set the cup down away from the wrought-cardboard tray and shuddered. "This will be an improvement." With my case on the vacant seat beside me I snapped the catches out, pushing the lid back and pulling out the half-bottle of single malt. "Did I say anything while I was asleep? I'm curious. How did you know I had whisky?" "Woman's intuition. Can you leave it at that?" "I can, but I'd prefer not to." "I just picked a table that seemed almost free, I'm not telepathic and I left my X-Ray specs in my other coat. Although you mumble a lot while you're asleep, and your briefcase was sideways and open... My name's Laurie by the way." I reached across the table and shook her offered hand "Mike. How're you doing?" "Not bad, Mike... you?" I thought about it, "Well, I've had better days, but then I've had worse too." "Ahh, swings and roundabouts. Got it bad." Looking into large hazel eyes I knew I was okay. There was no sarcasm or snideness in that face, and that was good enough for me. Snapping the top seal and pouring half an inch into each of our cups, we raised them. "So what's the toast? To new acquaintances? To weak coffee?" "How about... to change?" she smiled. "To change it is." We reached and knocked paper cups gently together, each taking a sip. It was a definite improvement. With warmth spreading around my throat and stomach I looked out through the scratched window. Behind 'E.W' scribed in stanley knife the street lights had just lit up, glowing pinkly across the landscape, making a join the dots pattern of streets and byways. A dozen points of high-mounted neon drew my attention as we briefly paralleled a motorway. Turning back I had my first real chance to closely take her in, engrossed as she was looking at the shifting scene with lips slightly parted. I didn't know if it was the drink or the sense of calmness that she seemed to radiate, but I found myself liking her. Coughing lightly with a hand over her mouth she turned back to me, "So, where are you headed?" It was a good question. "I was thinking Heathrow for now, from there... Well, I haven't quite worked that bit out yet." "Oh?", she paused, one eyebrow slightly raised. I stalled for time hoping a good answer would come to me, but my mind remained blank. "I kinda lost my job today..." I offered weakly, "Well. I did lose my job today." "You liked your job?" The question took me off-guard, it wasn't something I'd really thought about too much, it simply paid the rent and put some cash in my pocket. "Not especially, food on the table and all that..." "No great loss then." she said, as if he matter were as simple. Taking another sip of the doctored coffee I grinned. "That easy, huh? Just forget it?" Under long curling lashes, she shrugged, an almost imperceptible gesture, then spoke in a low tone of voice. "I would." And I believed her. At a light tap on my shoulder I looked around, into a navy metal machine attached to worn leather straps attached to the ticket inspector. "Your tickedsa." gasped the inspector in curt northern syllables. "I'd like one, please. Heathrow, single." Under a disapproving gaze I searched through my coat pockets until I came across my wallet as the inspector turned clicking dials on the punching machine. "Seventon twent." Pulling free a crumpled twenty pound note I took the ticket in the same hand, cradling two pounds eighty change after the inspector'd rummaged through virtually all of the many pockets and pouches of his satchel. I smiled briefly, "Many thanks." Not quite sure whether I was being sarcastic or not, and in no real position to do much about it if I was, he just grunted and continued walking down the carriage. False infatuation with nails taken care of, Laurie looked up, "Charm isn't quite a requisite for British Rail staff." I nodded, "It's probably a hindrance. But you can see where the guy's coming from. Dealing with strangers day-in day-out, it's not one of the worlds most glamorous... jobs." She must have read my look, because she perked up and raised her cup to me. "Hey... I thought I told you to forget about that...", all wry infectious smile. I put my back against the seat and looked up to the yellowing panelled ceiling looking unflinchingly back down. "It's good advice... I'll try to take it." Sipping the last of the now cooled coffee I placed the cup on my lap. "You haven't told me where you're going yet..." "Oh, Heathrow. Airport." "Really?" I asked, feeling immediately stupid. If she noticed I couldn't tell. "I need a break, and I hear Florida's nice this time of year. Thought I'd find out for myself." Florida... my mind started creakily to work, gaining momentum slowly. "Sounds nice. Traveling alone?" Beneath the table I dug my nails into my palms. What was this? The universe had turned inside out, and I was now the King of Banality? "As far as I'm aware..." she replied quietly, her attention once more fixed on the passing landscape. At least she'd even said she wasn't telepathic, or right now I might be worrying. Glancing at the wrapped sandwich on the desk my stomach began to growl, it looked sickly in the pale carriage lights, and there were always measures of desperation. I looked away. A two-tone bing sounded from somewhere I couldn't locate, followed by a tinny crackling voice. "Ladies and Gentlemen we are now approaching Heathrow Central, all change for Terminals One, Two and Three. Change here for Terminals One..." Passing a sign proclaimed "Turner & Sons Ltd." painted on a crumbling windowless warehouse, you knew it was a relic, monument to the past. The harsh shuttered light had started refuting the Sun, dusk glow losing out to the sodium-yellow of street lamps. Time passes when you're on the run... As we slowly ground to a halt she stood up, taking a brown leather shoulder bag from the rack above her head. "My stop; yours too." I stayed down. Ideas and options filling my head. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Mike. Don't let them get you down; remember to forget..." With that parting shot she walked out of my field of view as the train came to rest, a final sharp jolt marking completion. "Will do..." I whispered to the rapidly emptying carriage, will do. Picking up my case, I almost looked for my crown as I stepped onto a platform that could have been anywhere. The same weary travelers, the same haggard bums. Only the signs saying Heathrow were unique. Looking along the length of the platform I glimpsed a dark raincoat stepping down into the underground. I wanted to run after her, to not be alone here. I wanted a charm instructor, a one-liner coach, a confidence tutor and a hypnotist to push and pull me into shape. What I had was a pink slip, some high-octane beverage and nothing to lose. But what the hell would I say? "Hi! Would you like to spend some time with me? Maybe get a bite to eat? You don't really know me and I could be a psycho, but I swear I'm not!"? Even I wouldn't buy that line. But maybe she would… I broke into a sprint. Flicking my legs down two flights of stairs past indignant businessmen and cardigan-wrapped elderly I reached the floor and looked around; at milling passengers and red-rimmed advertisements. Smiling faces with teeth like tombstones selling chemicals from afar. Walking quickly through the throng I looked down two turnoffs to different platforms, jumping to try and see above the crowd. Nothing. I quickstepped to the end of the tunnel and climbed up onto a different stage. Looking down and up the platform again there was no sign of her, just unfamiliar faces and the muted roar of a diesel, a train leaving somewhere else in the station, maybe the one I'd just been on. The adrenalin started to wear off and my heart sank. I hadn't even said goodbye. It's wasn't as if I could just go to the airport, Heathrow was huge, and there were probably a good few flights going to Florida over the next several hours. What was I going to do? Stand at the foot of each departure lounge waiting? Then try and get a ticket on the same flight? It clicked too much of stalking to me, not what I'm about. At least not to that degree. Right now I felt being tired, miserable and hungry was what I was about; like I'd need to sink a mine shaft to get any lower. The least I could do was just be tired and miserable, so increasingly certain that I should have stayed at home I dejectedly retraced my steps out into the station main with its newsagents, phone booths and white-lined Wimpy. It was food. It was relatively fast, definitely close and I could do with the starch. Besides, I wasn't in the mood to go off traipsing around for anything better. I settled down on a red plastic chair while a waitress came and took my order for beans, chips and a pot of strong coffee. The alcohol comedown was making my mouth feel dry and my temples throb, so I drank the first cup black, sweet and in one, then poured a second to take my time over. Gratefully accepting my food, I ate half in silence, my appetite quickly fading. Pushing chips around on the plate as I tried to figure out my next course of action, the decision was made for me. "Hello again." Deadlines I don't why I approached him. Maybe it was a sympathy thing. Sat in the corner of the restaurant flipping through a recently acquired broadsheet I saw him slouched at a table under flickering light. Sad looking; lost. Reading about a small war taking place in Uganda and an article titled "Why Gary Can't Forgive Barry Over Sally" had made me put down the paper in disgust, the popular press being a shadow of its former self. That's when I saw, if not when I thought. He wasn't a disagreeable type, maybe a little ragged, but the guy'd had a hard day, so I couldn't really place too much blame. Forever a sucker for the hard-luck story I walked over and placed my bag on the opposite seat. "Hello again." Startling. The transformation that took place was like a light being switched on in a darkened room; you could see his posture change abruptly as the guards snapped into place. Dignity and pride loosen their grip with strangers, but with people you knew, it was always the case of trying to at least pretend you ran a tight ship. "Laurie! How was Florida?" he smiled. I sat down, "Oh, you know. Same-old same-old. Actually the flight doesn't leave for another five hours.", I shrugged ,"It's been a long time since I've been in an airport, thought I'd give myself a chance to get re-aquainted. Decided on where you're going yet?" He gave a peculiar grin, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly. "I'm not sure. Maybe..." Laying his fork down on the plate and pushing it to one side he sat up further, almost rigid with mouth half open, searching for words. "I don't know how to say this, so I think I'll just make it simple : Would you like a traveling companion?" He gabbled on quickly, a flurry of hand movements "I know this is all so sudden and that you don't really know me but since both you and I..." It was on impulse I replied. "Yes I would." "...have free time, and it's always cheaper for two to... to... What?" I don't know why I said it, or maybe I did. Why not? I'd broken up with my previous boyfriend four months ago, and was feeling the pinch from so many tedious nights alone. I went out a little, saw some friends, hit some bars, but no-one had come along to keep me company, let alone fill the space he'd left. And this broken man at least showed some initiative. Who knows? Maybe he was just bruised, not broken. So I said yes. He looked astonished, the same way I felt. "Excuse me?" I fixed him with my best confident smile, "I said 'Yes'. You don't seem so bad." With a sideways glance, "Besides, I feel like taking a risk." I tried to ride it out and bring some common sense back into play. "But there's one condition." "Oh?", his face a work in plaster and paint, still life. "If I decide it's not working out, you leave the equation. Pronto." He nodded assent, breathless. "Seems only fair. Do I get a condition?" I considered. "That depends on what it is." "If you don't have more fun with me around than you think you would on your own, I also leave the equation pronto. Do we have a deal?" I smiled, "Looks like you just wasted your wish, Aladdin..." "Shhh!" he whispered, "I'm very sensitive about my middle name." Not complete, whole or transparent; he still shook. But it was a start. With a gentle twist of the head I picked up my bag and stood, "Are we ready?". "As I'll ever be. By the way, what's the going rate for a return to Florida these days?" I raised my shoulders, "Around three fifty." "I can live with that." Confident. "Then let's get going, Mike. We have places to be." I turned and walked out, not looking back to see if he was following. This was going to be my show. I smiled secretly, make him sweat a little. At the arched station doors I stopped and looked right, to find him silently keeping pace. A black London-style taxi revved and moved off, immediately replaced with another from the long identical rank. Opening the nearside door, I pushed my bag along the seat and stepped into warmth, Mike quickly following as if he didn't want to let me out of his sight. What was the line I'd heard before? "Hook, line, sinker and copy of Angling Weekly...". I giggled. "What's so funny?" Feeling a little giddy, I sank back into the comfy padded seat and took a slow breath. Unsure myself. "Everything." The mustached driver turned around, putting his elbow on top of the foward passenger seat, not sure who to address. "Where to, Guv?" he inquired to the space between us around a splintering matchstick. I replied first. "Heathrow airport. Terminal three." "Right you are." Flipping a switch on the dashboard mounted meter we pulled out into the busy station-side traffic and away. The traffic jam on the ring road was to be expected, airports were busy places, as I'd found out sitting through a dozen tedious docu-soaps with snappy titles like "Airport!", "Vet School!" and "Newsagent!". Sitting cross legged in my flat I could still recapture the excitement. "Mr. Smith has now sold 15 Chokko-Crunch bars. But with only two days remaining until the 'use by' date he faces losing six pounds fifty on the remaining box, or reducing the price to fifteen pence in an effort to break even." It was certainly nonstop. I felt proud that my license fee was being put to such good use. "Laurie? Hello? Did you hear me?" Fading from my reverie, we were crawling slowly along the slow lane behind a logo'd white van. "Sorry? Sorry. What was that?" "I said I think we have a problem. I have a problem." "What's that?" "It's an unsatisfactory situation that causes difficulties." I grinned, at least he was keeping his sense of humour. "I see..." "No, you don't." He looked apologetic. "I don't have my passport with me. When I left the house this morning I hadn't really planned on jetting off to a different continent." "That is a problem. Do you have someone you can ring to get it and bring it here? A friend? Family?" Defeatedly he looked at the back of the seat infront of him, "Wouldn't be much use, I don't even know where the damn thing is myself. Some drawer, or wardrobe I suppose." Pulling at my sleeve I looked at my watch, seven thirty five. "How much do you want this?" "The trip? Lots." "Then there's nothing else for it. Get a cab back to yours, get your passport, pack a bag, and get back here. The flight isn't until twelve, you have just under four and a half hours." Your mission, should you choose to accept it... I could see him working it through, thinking of timings, how fine things could be cut. In a hopeful tone he sat forward on the seat and addressed the driver. "If I wanted to get back to XXXX and then back here by say, half past eleven, could it be done? Could I make it?" Still chewing on his matchstick the driver sucked in air noisily through his teeth. "Depends. The traffic on the way out'll be harsh. But getting back, that late... Yeah, just. If you don't stick around in XXXX and get lucky on the lights, yeah, I'd say it could be done." The first fat drops of rain spattered onto the cab windscreen. After all this, I wanted things to work. "If you want it like you say, put your courage to the sticking place, Mike." Looking at me, it seemed to be the push that made him decide, Lady MacBeth having served womankind once more. He changed back to the driver and made his pitch. "Are you up for it? As soon as we drop off Laurie here, we head for XXXX and back. I can make it worth your while." Pulling onto a turnoff and switching the wipers onto low the driver chuckled. "I've got six hours left on this shift anyway, if you want to give it a shot, then that suits me fine. Won't be cheap, mind." Mike sat back, "Nothing ever is." I wasn't sure whether to admire him for his conviction, or be worried by it. Before I could make up my mind we'd pulled up outside a row of sliding doors at Heathrow main. Somewhere close the sound of a whining turbine was making its presence felt. I wiped at the condensation on the glass and looked through the window, the evening crowd struggling with suitcases and umbrellas. "The flight number is FD326, with Transworld. Get your passport, get a ticket and get to the departure lounge. Don't be late." Opening the door to my side doubled the noise of the straining jet engine, rendering any reply futile. I clutched my bag over my head and stepped out, walking quickly to the entrance and out of the rain. As I turned around the cab was pulling off, disappearing in a moment behind a long row of coaches; out of sight not mind. Maybe I'd been a little harsh on Mike, and he hadn't deserved it. After all, he was doing pretty much the same as me. Escaping. The Sticking Place After ten or fifteen minutes in traffic, we finally pulled onto a motorway, accelerating up to speed with a steadily rising note. Something you more felt than heard. Progress. Adjusting the rear view mirror, pale sunken eyes turned back on me. "That's a hellava lady you got there." I leaned forward and squinted at the faded ID card sellotaped next to the rapidly climbing meter. John Sellers. The photo made me think he should be holding a chalk board with numbers on it, not a taxi license. John Sellers was not photogenic. I couldn't be bothered to talk, but even less still to lie, so I kept it brief. Mind filled with a repeating phrase; She said yes, she said yes! I tried to calm. "She's not really my lady, I only met her today." Putting the saliva coated matchstick in the ashtray with its peeling red "No-Smoking" sticker he shrugged and pulled a new match from a box on the dash. "Whatever. She still seems one hellava lady. You want one of these?" "Trying to give them up." I breathed. "And yeah, she does." As we swerved around a silver Audi, he palmed the horn and cursed, something along the line of fucking amateurs. "Look, I can get you to XXXX, but when we get there you'll have to tell me the way, it's not really my patch, you know?" "Sure, no problem..." Taking the conversation as over he tilted the mirror back to its normal position and just drove. I was grateful. I didn't need to tell him to put his foot down, we'd already passed half-dozen lorries and showed no sign of returning to the slow lane. The back-lit speedometer hovered on a steady ninety as the wipers went through their hypnotic dance, showing cats-eyes whipping past the headlights and the impression of a rapidly wobbling metal barrier. I closed my eyes and tried to think; badly in need of a reality check. Okay. Starting at the beginning. I have no job. Tick. I've met someone I like, and she kinda likes me. Tick. I have the chance to go to Florida with someone I like and who kinda likes me because I have no job. Tick. Well, that's that one sorted... Jesus. I looked at my watch, tick-bloody-tock. Time was running and passing, and there were still a lot of unknowns. Not the least of which being would there be a seat available on the plane, and would I get there on time. The answer to both questions being a definite "maybe". Airlines were loath to fly with less than full capacity, they'd cram us in on top of each other if they were allowed. But just one seat was all I needed, it would be touch and go. I was starting to relax more about getting home and back on time. What John Sellers lacked in aesthetic appeal he more than made up for in ability to depress a pedal. Staring at the back of his closely shaven head I kept expecting to see a tattooed bar-code, or the remains of some kind of antenna. But Mr. Sellers was clean, so I began to mentally search my small rented flat and let time pass, there were only so many places a passport could be... Miles passed, I didn't know how long it took and didn't particularly want to, knowing the journey'd take however long it took regardless of whether I looked at my watch every thirty seconds or not. The deceleration on the exit ramp was my cue, I spoke up. "Take the third exit from the roundabout, then straight until the second lights. Go left there, then left again. Number 49." I fully expected to have to repeat the instruction from "third exit", but no, without batting an eye we were cutting through the evening traffic on course. Good man. If the whole trip had felt like minutes, this last stretch felt like hours. Time was playing tricks on me, tying my shoelaces together and pushing me down the stairs. My hands were sweating as we passed the familiar landmarks of pub and cafe, chip shop and square. Pulling up outside the house I grabbed the door handle, which refused to budge. Just as I was about to get into some heavy-duty wrestling the driver spoke. "Before I let you out, I wanna retainer, at least half the fare." He seemed quite relaxed, retaining only me. "Nothin' personal, Guv. You now how it is." I looked at the meter, reading sixty seven pounds ten on it's red LCD. I wasn't badly off, but at this rate I was going to be, and soon. Pulling out the last banknotes from my wallet, I counted up thirty pounds, and handed it over. He looked at the offered notes, tension creeping up. "This isn't enough." I tried my most trustworthy look. "I've got some more in the house. You stay here, ten minutes max, I get my things, we head back stopping at the cashpoint two streets from here, and when we hit the airport, on time or not, you get the lot. Okay?" After a few silent seconds I thought it wasn't going to happen, but he took the notes and flipped a catch I couldn't see. The doors unlocked with a clunk. "You stay right here, okay?" I stepped out to the drivers mutterings of "Oh I will, sunshine. I will." and jogged up to the front door. Turning the key in the lock I dashed inside and up four split-flights of stairs to my third floor flat. Lock two relinquished with a second hard twist and I was back, perhaps where I belonged. Taking the first drawer completely out and emptying it onto the bed offered only receipts, envelopes, a dog-eared magazine and two broken watches. None of which would help at customs. The second drawer however was more fruitful. As I flipped it over a rectangular burgundy shape that had been at the bottom was now on top of the pile. Thank God. I was one of Her Majesty's subjects once more, and I had the paper to prove it. Looking at my photo on the last page showed a resemblance I wished I could deny. I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards and given a nasty fright moments before the bulb flashed, or that was the way it looked; wide eyes and stupid smile mixing flawlessly with orange shirt and harsh white background. I reached under the mattress and felt around for the envelope I'd put there a month or two earlier. Pulling it out and open, showed a thin stack of twenties which I stuffed in my coat pocket. I reached for a large canvas bag on top of the wardrobe. Looking like the type used by a plumber or handyman, it wasn't the classiest piece of luggage on the market, but then it didn't have to be. I grabbed three T-shirts, a jumper, two pairs of trousers and a handful of clean underwear and squeezed them into the bag, struggling with the non-complying zip until it realised it'd met its match. I emptied my briefcase onto the floor, replacing only the whisky, and walked into the bathroom. Sliding open the mirrored cabinet, I decided what to take by putting the open briefcase to it's lip and sweeping my arm across to the rattle and tap of a dozen plastic bottles. Out of my business clothes and into trainers, loose jeans and a short- sleeved shirt, I sat panting on the bed, pushing junk to the floor to make room. It was just gone nine. Fourteen hours since I'd got up, and a little under twelve since I'd got back down. I picked up the pink slip and smoothed it across my leg. A memento of wasted time. A flashing green LED caught the corner of my eye. Answerphone. Crossing the room and thumbing 'Play' I listened to a beep followed by a ill- matched synthetic voice stating eight-oh-three-pm, it's timing digital and unnatural. "Mike, mate!" crackled a male voice over a muted hum of conversation and the clink of glasses, "If you're there, pick up." Talk about stating the obvious... there was a pause, then the voice continued. "I heard you got canned. That's a bitch, mate. A bitch. I dunno how you're feeling n'all, but, ya know, tonight's still darts night down the G&S. Me and the boys will all be there. If you're feeling up to it, you know where to go, yeah? Keep your pecker up, and if we don't see you, I'll give a shout soon, alright? Cya boy." Dave Davies. A name ranking up there with Neville Neville on the stupidity scale, but a sound bloke all the same. He worked at Cel with me, though he was on the marketing side, not management. We'd gone to the same school and always got on okay, we had a laugh, we got by. As for the Goose + Stilts, that was pretty much my local, if it's a local when the bar-staff call you by name. Every Wednesday I'd go along, and with half a dozen of us, maybe more if people wanted to join in, we'd each chip a fiver into a pool and play best-of-three tournaments in 501. Winner taking all. I half suspected he only wanted me along to boost the kitty, Dave winning often enough to put him far into the plus side of things when it came to money, but I shrugged it off as tiredness and sat back down. I was ready. But now that I could go, I didn't know if I wanted to, I could go where? I could go outside, pay John Sellers off with enough cash to easily get that barcode done and just go to sleep. I could hit the bar and the boys, watch the troubles vanish in clouds of smoke and fizzing pints, to wake up home, safe, hungover and bored. But Laurie... Laurie was what made me choose. Pushing my bag along onto the landing with my foot, I had a last hasty look around my now haphazard flat then locked the door. With everything in place I walked down the stairs and out into the street and my waiting carriage, only just noticing that the rain had stopped, seemingly a good while ago. The pavement was patched in light and dark shapes of dry and drying tar. At the driver side window I reached out my hand. "Mr. Sellers, here is another forty pounds, the rest when we get there." I smiled, genuinely happy. "Nothing personal... You know how it is." There was a pause, then the driver chuckled again, a rich, gravelly sound. One you wouldn't think could have came from such a man. "Of course, Guv. Well we'd better be getting on then, clock's ticking." "The one on my wrist or the one on the dash?" Giving a toothy grin only prize-fighting or chewing rocks can attain, he let me know he meant both. I pushed my things onto the rear parcel shelf and jumped in after them, maybe all that'd happened today really was going to be a good thing after all. My parents always told me that nothing ever happens without a reason, which made a certain kind of sense. As we pulled out into the near-empty street I was still smiling; quietly singing to myself a popular old tune I remembered them listening to, way back. "Ti-i - i-ime is on my side, yes it is......" Exit The doors swept closed, cutting out rain, wind and nature. Sound rang and echoed through the hall, so many feet wearing ceramics to dust. I shivered. First port of call was the check-in, to say I'm here, very much here. I paced the line of shoulder-high desks until TWA, then stood solidly behind an American couple demanding window seats. The affair settled with aisle- seats or arm-bands, I stepped up and swapped my ticket for a boarding pass. Just hand luggage as current companion, my wardrobe had precious little in suitable clothing for Florida unless I drew the chill with me, and I didn't want the ties. The memories or emotional baggage, any of it. When I reached the US shops I planned on buying new kit and junking everything I was wearing now, right down to my watch and jewelry. A clean start, at least for a while. But that would have to wait. "Excuse me, but do you know if there are any free seats on the flight? I have a, friend, who'd like... to come along." "Let me just check." She tapped keys, punched return, tapped some more. "F-D...Theree-Two-Six... There're two seats free at the moment." I breathed again, "Thank-you, could you hold one of them?" "Certainly; there's a deposit of £30. What name please?" "Mike, just Mike. Will you still be here until the flight?" "Yes, Miss." Reaching into my purse I bit into holiday money, if he let me down now, it'd be no-ones fault but my own. "He's about my height, medium build, short-ish dark hair. Probably running. Who else is going to want a ticket? You'll take care of things?" She smiled, "No problem, Miss. I'll know him." I took heart and a left, up stairs to the bar. To a gold ear-ringed cockney swanning up and down behind a dark wooden bar, making his job of serving drinks look a high-risk financial minefield. Buy at ninety, sell at a hundred. He looked rushed off his feet, but the place was only half full. With a folded note between my fingers I caught his eye. "Campari and Coke. No ice." Rushing the optics, he took a glass from an overhead rack and pushed, adding to the mix from a fizzing plastic swirl. "One Eighty." One-track. I took, gave and received, settling down at the glass balcony overlooking a thousand moving souls. Sipped. Ants in their temporary nest. If you looked hard enough you could make out a pattern through the movement. One following another following a group following one, diving into spaces like Cabs following Firetrucks, they shuffled in file from door to extremity. The glossed mahogany mirrored my hand with every sip, wriggling my fingers just to see them move, I had nothing better to think of but the soundtrack of muzak. I'd came here early because... because I just wanted out. Airports be damned, I'd seen enough bottles of perfume and vodka to not loose my voice when I see another few shelves full. Maybe it was the atmosphere, anticipation. I used to love that as a child. My father would take me in a sculking brown Capri along two-lane A-roads to Gatwick, up a hundred piss-soaked steps to the viewing area. We'd watch and giggle as each plane took off and landed, sandwiches in hand, thermos at the ready. Every minute a plane left or landed; red striped, blue finned, yellow-tailed. He used to say that the pointy-nosed planes were special, that they held all manner of pop stars, artists and royalty. I imagined princesses and counts, all there for me to see in silken dresses and tiaras, the fairytale desires of childhood. When my Father died he took Mum with him in a seconds long mistake of swerve and skid, aided and abetted by thick motorway fog. I was waiting with the babysitter when the police finally arrived. More scared than me, she wouldn't get paid. A sullen faced officer holding his hat by his side asked for relatives. And I knew then. I didn't suspect, I knew. The walls crumbled for the first and only time, a wall of innocence that cannot be rebuilt. Life dashed me on the rocks, and seemed to get a taste for it... I remember listening to the radio when some traffic watch slot came on saying there'd been an accident on such and such section of motorway, but the road'll be open again in about thirty minutes. Well, that's alright then. It didn't tell the story, just the outcome. And I felt cheated. Looking up from my empty glass the crowd seemed to pause, the awkward silence of a hundred different conversations converging on silence. Someone pressed play and the background resumed. I got up and walked to departures, sliding gracefully through customs with it's metal detectors, X-ray scanners and surly po-faced guards all twisted by suspicion. Ten yards into tax-free the shopfronts lit with neon depictions of shaped bottles and hampers, I stood beside a polished glass case taking in watches and ear-rings. Enjoying it more than I thought I would. Just the possibility, thinking I could have this, I could have that, I could have you. Curiosity sated, I sat on a grey fabric bench by the departure gates, watching the huge expanse of concrete play host to aircraft of all shapes and sizes. Insects in the distance and gloom, all taking off and landing, loading and unloading in a constant buzz of motion. There were steps out on the field, wheeled boarding ramps with 20 steel levels leading to empty air. I wanted to climb one and just sit on the edge, surreal amongst the commotion. An island of calm in a raging sea. Part of this was because I couldn't; it'd be cold and windy anyhow, and after a minute there'd be a reflective yellow jacket escorting me to airport security. The more idealistic part said it'd be different, and the perspective change would be just that. I stood. I sat. I fell asleep to the lullaby of people in motion. With gummy eyes I fluttered back into the here and now, big station clock showing 11:36. No one had bothered to steal my luggage, and I was grateful. Nothing ever closes here, it's more than twentyfour - seven, it's twentyfour-seven three-six-five. And where was Mike now? I had time still, so I browsed the newsagents, looking at papers of all nationalities. The arabic script was intrigueing, though I could've been looking at it upside down for all it mattered. I perused the top twenty books of the week and this months contravertial novel (voted for by a dozen top executives, no doubt). It was about a Spanish dress designer, so I left it alone, but the magazine rack was formidable, something else. They had the works, and they knew it; golfing, fishing, cycling, skating, ski-ing, gardening, knitting, kneading, reading, dreaming, drilling, drawing, drowning... I left the stand with 10 Embassy and a colouring book that came with six free Crayola's and a packet of balloons. The ciggarettes were an anachronism; I'd given up for almost eight months now, sanity reining me in. It was just because I knew I couldn't have one if I wanted on the flight that made me light up. Beneath distant strip-lights, throwing shapes of blue smoke I waited, thinking "Soon now. Gotta be soon." On my fourth chained fag I saw him, swiftly shoving through people with "Excuses me" 's and "Coming through" 's. Different clothes but everything else the same, or almost everything else. I shouted and he stopped. Catching me, he strolled over, carefree as you like, one hand tucked behind his back. "Mike!", I tried to keep my excitement down. "Yes or no?" With a flourish he pulled half a dozen yellow tulips from behind his back. "Yes. All the way; Yes.". I looked at the flowers. I looked at him. I looked back at the flowers. "Hey, it was short notice," he smiled. I didn't know whether he meant his 'I'm still young' clothes or the heat-waning floriage. And I didn't really care. I took the bouquet, sweet and delicate, "I'm glad you're here. Almost gave up on you for a minute... you took your own time." With a theatrical gesture he bowed "Never give up on The Great Mike. For it is I, and it is sussed. And you just can't get the staff these days..." I smiled, relief and humour radiating "You really do change with your outfit, don't you? Young, free and adventurous once more?" "I never stopped, just scraped pause for a few hours." This was more like it. The doubts had crept in about whether listening to someone whining about how it all isn't fair might enhance my holiday. But it was no longer the case. He looked on top of things. With fifteen minutes to go we took a leisurely stroll to departure gate fourteen, Mike grinning stupidly on the long flat conveyor, briefly miming running on the spot as we slid through the white-walled tunnel. Over zig- zaging carpet the last twenty yards were consumed and another point of no return crossed. We passed gently into the comforting hiss of climate control, and I, for one, was happy. Something Or Other Things were good, as good as they could be given a day like today. Pretty well salvaged. Beside Laurie's seat was a moderately fat loafer in a purple woolen sweater which seemed to be doing it's job admirably. Since the ticket I had was in first-class he got a good deal out of the swap in economy. I don't think he'd ever gone anywhere first class in his life, but then I don't think I had either. And I wanted the companionship, needed it. We were set. A uniformed hostess with long pleated hair began acting out the safety video about what to do should this hundred ton heap of steel come hurtling out of the blackened skies somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. She seemed to be suggesting we do some take on the Y.M.C.A dance routine while dressing as the construction worker in pocketed orange jackets. Most comforting. Everyone knew the chances of dying in a plane crash were roughly equivilent to those of being electrocuted switching off your alarm clock in the morning, but it didn't seem to help. Don't suppose the people who've kicked it turning off their alarm clock were too happy themselves. Meep Meep / Oh, I'll just turn off my alarm clock / Oh, no I won't because I'm fucking dead. Not the ideal way to start the day, especially on a weekend. As we taxi'd slowly along on floodlit tarmac you could feel the apprehension growing palpably. I loved it, every moment. "Check one-two, Mike. This is it." I tried to think of a quick comeback and fell on my face, all I managed was "Cute" as Laurie placed her hand on mine with a nervous smile. I smiled back as re-assuringly as I could, whispering "Fun!", and we were off. The throttle kicked in hard, pushing us back in our seats. Like dropping into second with your foot to the floor, the turbines shouted angrily as we picked up the pace. Going... going... and simply gone. There's something about the sensation of take-off, when your stomach re-arranges into new and unfamiliar configarations while the ground drops away and aerodynamics confound gravity; like no other feeling on Earth. We steadily asccended with popping ears to thirty-three thousand while I was occupied with wondering why if you placed me on a skyscraper, a crane or even a larger than average curb I'd get sudden throbbing vertigo, but a mile or two up all I can think of is "Ooh, pretty...". Probably because it doesn't look real from up here, from this distance the world's a toy model with little plastic cars and painted on fields. I wanted to reach down and pick up Cardiff for a closer look. "That was great, wasn't it?!" I grinned, making kids rising engine noises. "I wanna go again!" "You can, I'm glad it's over. Once I'm in the air or on the ground I'm fine, it's the nightmare transitions I could live without." "Eight hours until the next, you can relax." "So what now?" "Well, Miss Laurie, since I don't even know your last name, what say we play a little game?" She glimmered under lamplight, in a sing-song voice reciting "I spy with my little eye, someth..." "Not that game," I laughed, "This is a game called the truth game. For five minutes we will ask each other questions in turn, and you have to answer with the truth or not at all." "Hey, I think I saw that film. 2010." "One." "Can't be. 2001's the silent one." "What? None of them are silent." "The quiet one then, just a heartbeat and headache-inducing colours." "You sure?" "Very." "You playing?" "Okay. Me first," she took a breath, "Let's start easy; what's your full name?" I played the silence card. "What?!?" "Haha, only kidding. Michael Shernham. And yours?" "Lauren-Marie...Vader," she giggled. "Hey! This is the truth game! You have to tell the truth! It's the lie game otherwise." "Lauren-Marie Hendridge. You have a middle name?" "Yes." Silence. "Sixties or seventies?" "Sixties. Has to be. Stones or Beatles?" "Tough call. Depends on my mood. Daddy or chips?" "What?" I coughed, "Nevermind." "Would I prefer my father to a plate of chips?" "Something like that..." Jokes lose face frighteningly fast in the light of analysis. She looked foward, absently running her nails over the seat cover infront, "My father's dead." "My mum's dead." "So's mine." "My mum's deader than your mum." "Mi-ke!" Making my name two sylables, "You shouldn't joke about these things." "But she is!" "Clown. I know another game." "What's that? And don't say an enjoyable activity with a set of rules." "This is a good game. It's called "Education Top Trumps", you can imagine the concept. Starting at O-levels we go as far as we can matching grades, winner's high, ten for an A, eight for a B and so on down to two. You start. "Okay, English" "B." "A." She grinned, "Ooh, bringing out the big guns..." It went on like this through the list of all the standard subjects forced down every young childs throat, with the occasional bluff, like : "Latin." "Didn't take it." "Me neither. No-score draw." We got to A-levels and were roughly even, but I wasn't fancying my chances. "Computer Science, C." "Biology, C. I win." "What? You're saying Biology is harder than Comp Sci?!?" "Everyone knows it is!" "That's blasphemy!" "Rubbish, I should dissect you where you stand!" " 'Sit'. " "Same difference." "Tell that one at the para-olympics." I took the game as over. Reaching into her bag Laurie brought out some fucking kids book, pulled free an oversized red crayon, and began work on the dark outline of a clown's balloon. Impressive. Why read Tolstoy when there's a shampoo bottle with its own little tale? Why Conrad when there's the back of a cereal box? Why any of these when you can colour Mr. Blonky's hat an attractive shade of green? It was admirable thinking, I had to admit. Intent, with her tongue at the side of her mouth, I tried to shake off the impression it was homework. If I could admit it to myself, I wanted a colouring book too, but something wasn't right. I flagged down a passing hostess and fixed that by ordering two G+Ts and a packet of peanuts, then pleaded for the next page for myself (a cunning work involving two hay-munching cows and a barn). We haggled; I got the sky, one cow and a bush in the lower left hand side. Canny, I was reasonably pleased.