The Real World- the Point of Death

by Laurence Todd

  “Happy?” I whispered.

  “Oh God, yes.” She sighed and buried her head deeper into my shoulder.

  I forgot everyone was looking at us and focused on her instead.

  The song finished to applause; mainly, I suspect, because everyone was delighted to see my risible attempt to emulate the Terpsichorean muse concluded.

  *

  The next couple of hours passed me by in a pleasant haze. I seem to remember having my hand shaken, being congratulated and patted on the back by what felt like a thousand different people, many of whom I didn’t recognise, and being kissed on both cheeks by aunts, family friends, female cousins and other people at the reception I didn’t even know. Mickey Corsley, who’d been the best man, was ready to drive us to our hotel, next to Gatwick airport as, tomorrow, we were on the 2 pm flight to Boston, Massachusetts, to spend our week’s honeymoon. He’d also arranged my stag night, which I’d been told had been a great evening, though my memories were somewhat fuzzy . . . had I really seen a stripper in full Tottenham Hotspur kit disrobing to the sound of AC/DC’s ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’, or had I imagined it? I was too scared to ask.

  After all the single ladies had been assembled and Taylor had thrown the bouquet over her head towards them, to be caught by an excited twelve-year-old girl, we changed from our wedding apparel and, much more suitably attired, were waved farewell and set off, leaving behind many people already rat-arsed drunk and well on the way to increasing the intensity of tomorrow’s hangover. Taylor’s father had made it an open bar, so I was just pleased I wasn’t picking up the tab.

  Once settled in at the hotel, we sat in the bar for a while, unwinding and just chilling.

  “Oh, dear God, Taylor, what the hell’ve we just done?” I wailed jokingly, burying my head in my hands, which induced intense giggling from her.

  We spent the next hour or so just talking about the day, telling each other what we’d liked about everything that’d happened during the last few hours. It’d been an amazing day and we were both ecstatic about how things had turned out.

  “How you feeling?” She smiled at me.

  “Pretty damn good.” I touched her hand. “What about you?”

  “This is the start of our new life, McGraw. What’s not to be happy about?”

  McGraw and Taylor’s excellent adventure had now truly begun.

  T WO

  Sunday

  We were sitting in the first-class section of a Norwegian Airlines flight to Boston, about to cross the Atlantic. Our respective parents had decided between them, as there was nothing we particularly needed for our flat, they’d finance a week’s honeymoon and, within reason, we could choose the destination. We’d both visited the USA before; Taylor had been to Florida with her family, and I’d been to Washington on a student exchange when I’d been at King’s, but neither of us had ever been to Boston. We’d chosen there rather than New York, so our families had paid for two first-class flights as well as booking us into the Marriott hotel in Downtown Boston. It was a beautiful gift.

  After a smooth flight we landed seven hours later at Logan airport, just after 4.15 pm local time. We eventually disembarked and casually strolled along the gleaming sunlit corridors towards immigration control, neither of us in any hurry, excited to be in the USA again and anticipating a great honeymoon. We followed the lines of returning Americans and tourists into the main passport control hall and were looking around to see which lengthy queue to join when a disembodied female American voice boomed over the airport PA system.

  “Would passengers Robert McGraw and Sally Taylor, recently arrived on Norwegian Airlines flight NO48 from London Gatwick, please make themselves known to any member of Homeland Security? That’s passengers Robert McGraw and Sally Taylor. Thank you.”

  I was immediately curious. Why would Homeland Security want to talk to me? I suspected it wasn’t because they were planning on offering me a job.

  “Why would they wanna see us, McGraw?” Taylor sounded mildly concerned.

  “It’s probably nothing.” I shrugged. I wasn’t worried.

  I could see a man and woman nearby, both wearing dark suits and Homeland Security name tags, scanning the passing crowds heading for passport control, so we wandered across to them and identified ourselves.

  “Oh yes, Mr McGraw,” the woman said. Evidently she’d been expecting me. “Can I see your and the lady’s passports, please?”

  We handed our passports to her. She flicked through them, occasionally looking at the man standing alongside her.

  “I think there might be a problem here,” she said, looking concerned at her partner.

  “What do you mean, a problem?” I asked. I’d not expected to hear this.

  “We can talk about this in the office. Would you come with us, please?” The man said this pleasantly but a touch too firmly.

  We walked with the two Homeland Security operatives across the immigration area, aware we were being stared at by the other passengers from the flight, who were probably thinking we were drug couriers. It was noticeable that the woman led the way and the man walked slightly behind us. Did they really think we were going to run away?

  Taylor looked at me, mouthing, What’s this about?

  I shrugged. I don’t know.

  We were taken to the far side of the hall. They stopped at a door marked Homeland Security, where the woman punched a code into the keypad. We were ushered in and led along a brightly lit corridor, up a flight of stairs, along another corridor and into a small windowless room, maybe twenty-five feet square, with walls painted the colour of gunmetal.

  A pair of laptops and several phones sat on a desk, behind which sat a guy built like a front-row forward, aged around forty and sporting a marine buzz-cut, high and tight whitewall hairstyle. One look at his eyes told me he was almost certainly ex-Special Forces. I’d met Special Forces guys before and he had the look. On the wall behind him was a large Homeland Security emblem and the American flag; the opposite wall had a picture of the President and what I was certain was a two-way mirror. There was probably CCTV and a recording device in the room as well, but I couldn’t see where.

  The two operatives who’d escorted us fanned out against opposite walls just as another operative came in through the door at the side of the room and took up a position behind us. All three stood rigidly, hands crossed in front of themselves, feet evenly spaced apart, keeping us in their line of sight. I didn’t doubt all three were armed.

  “Please, take a seat,” the man behind the desk said. He sounded like a Deep South boy.

  We sat. I could see the two operatives against the walls staring intently at us as he put our passports on the desk.

  “You’re probably wondering why you’re in here, aren’t you?” he began. He had a stern look on his face.

  “Yeah, thought had crossed my mind. If there’s a problem with our passports, why wasn’t this picked up in London?”

  “I’m afraid it’s a little more than that.” He looked directly at me, with eyes that shone with the thousand-yard stare. “You see, according to our records, you, Mr McGraw, are on a Homeland Security terrorist watch list. Our most recent intelligence update suggests you represent a direct threat to this country’s national security interests. I’m afraid you cannot be permitted to enter the United States at this time, so you’re going to be put on the first available flight and returned to London. The lady’s name isn’t on any list, but, as she’s travelling with you, we won’t be taking any chances with her, so she’ll be returned to London with you.”

  I sat in stunned silence for a few seconds.

  “What?” I was astounded. I almost laughed out loud, but I kept my voice in check. Taylor was looking very worried.

  “Terrorist watch list? What the hell are you talking about?” I tried to keep my tone even. “I’m a police officer, a detective sergeant in Special Branch, in London.” I put my hand inside my leather jacket to retrieve my ID. The agents against the walls move
d to pull out their weapons.

  “Hands where I can see them, Mr McGraw,” the man behind the desk ordered.

  “That’s Detective Sergeant McGraw to you,” I snapped at him. “I’m part of a UK police department which is something equivalent to the FBI. I’ve ID here which can prove it.” I patted my pocket. “You seriously believe I’d be working there if I were a terrorist suspect? You really think we don’t have screening or vetting in London?”

  “I can’t speak for what happens in London, sir,” he replied formally. “I’m just informing you of what our records say about you. You’ve been flagged up as a credible threat to US security, so I’m afraid we can’t allow you or the lady to enter our country at this time.”

  I was half-smiling, shaking my head and trying to maintain my composure. “What, you think I’m here to commit some kind of terrorist atrocity, is that it? Well, I’m afraid you’re out of luck, pal. I didn’t bring anything with me and I don’t know anyone over here I can ask.” I was hoping I’d be able to get away with a little flippancy.

  “There’s nothing funny about why you’re being denied entry into the United States, Detective McGraw.” He hadn’t looked away from me once.

  “You sure? This whole situation’s a joke, come on.” I was trying not to laugh. I looked around the room and saw all three Homeland Security personnel looking impassive.

  “No joke, sir. We don’t ever joke about security, not anymore, not since 9/11.” He nodded towards a large picture of the Twin Towers exploding into flames. The raison d’être of Homeland Security. His face showed no sign of humour. “That’s why we take security very seriously indeed. That’s why you’re in this room.”

  So many questions were swirling around in my head, it was difficult to think straight. After a few moments, the thoughts in my head assembled themselves.

  “Why am I not under arrest if I’m a terrorist suspect?” I asked. “That’s normal procedure, isn’t it? That’s what’d be happening in London.”

  “I can’t answer that,” he replied. “We were just instructed to bring you in and inform you you’re being returned to London on national security grounds.”

  “On what evidence? What are you basing this claim on? What am I supposed to have done, or be planning to do, or be associated with, to earn myself an honoured place on your watch list?” I asked slowly, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

  “If, as you say, you’re a police officer and you work in Special Branch, you’ll know we can’t reveal our sources of information.”

  Had the situation been reversed, this was the answer I would have given. I took a moment to gather my thoughts. There had to have been a mistake. Somewhere in the system my name had been confused with someone else’s. I needed to talk to someone who knew what was going on. I took a deep breath and gradually located my inner Zen.

  “There’s obviously been a grievous mistake made somewhere,” I said slowly and calmly. “Your records’ve clearly confused me with someone else, and I’m sure this can be cleared up pretty quickly. Can I make a call, talk to someone at the British Consulate?” I nodded at the phone on his desk. “Maybe they know something about this.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t, sir. Homeland Security rules state no contact’s allowed to be made with anyone once we have a suspect in custody. We can’t take the risk of you tipping off any accomplices you may have. You’ll have to take this up in London when you return.”

  “Accomplices,” I said quietly whilst nodding slowly.

  I took a couple of deep breaths, maintaining my inner Zen. I was going to have to roll with the situation and hope the error was discovered when we returned to London. This was almost Kafkaesque in perplexity and I was now worrying slightly. I sighed. “So what happens when we get back to London?”

  “You’ll be met by someone from our embassy there and you’ll then be officially declared persona non grata, meaning not only will you be denied future entry into the USA; if you make any further attempts to enter our country, you’ll be arrested and charged under the requisite laws in your country relating to terrorism. You understand what I’ve just said?”

  I nodded. My head was reeling. What was going on here?

  “I’m just surprised they even allowed you to board the plane in London. They have the same information we have. Your name should have been flagged up.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel so much better, knowing we could have been saved the flight.” My inner Zen had now disappeared and my voice dripped sarcasm.

  “What about our bags?” Sally asked.

  “We have your bags already, ma’am. They’ll be returned to you after they’ve been searched and you’ve been put on the flight back to London.”

  I sat back in the chair, utterly bewildered and trying to make some kind of sense of it all. How could I be on any terrorist watch list as an operative in Special Branch? I looked at Taylor, who was trying to remain in control, but I could see she was dejected. This wasn’t how our honeymoon was supposed to begin. I gave her hand a light squeeze and mouthed, Sorry about this.

  She recovered her poise, smiled at me, mouthing, You didn’t tell me you were a terrorist. A small moment of light relief.

  “Let me just phone my supervisor to confirm everything I’ve said is correct,” the man behind the desk said. “We don’t want you being deported unnecessarily.”

  Oh, Heaven forbid, I barely refrained from saying.

  He picked up the phone and said, “We have McGraw here.”He listened for a moment.

  “Supervisor’s on his way. He’d like to say something.”

  We sat for about five minutes. Nobody said anything and nobody moved. The silence was almost tangible and the five minutes felt as long as the flight. Despite her disappointment, knowing Taylor, I suspected she’d calmed herself down by going into full-on journo mode and was already formulating a human-interest story for the Evening Standard back in London, about what happens to innocent tourists when they’re caught up in American security paranoia.

  Suddenly I heard the door behind me open, and then an English voice.

  “Oh Christ, McGraw, you should’ve seen your face just then.” The voice’s owner was trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. “I’m with Special Branch in London, your FBI,” he said in a mocking imitation of me.

  I turned to see who was speaking and I didn’t believe who I saw. I realised immediately what was going on.

  “I’m sorry, Rob, I just couldn’t resist this.” He was now laughing full-on. He walked over to me, extending his hand. “How you doing?”

  “Byfield, you bastard.” I stood up, grinning, and shook his hand. “Are you behind this?”

  I looked around. The serious expressions of everyone in the room had suddenly changed, and they were now either smiling or laughing. I started laughing myself. Taylor, initially bemused, then caught on and smiled.

  “Has this all been an elaborate wind-up?” she exclaimed.

  “Yeah, I’m afraid so,” Byfield said, still laughing. “I know Rob. I’m a senior Border Control officer in London. Me and a few others are over here for two months on an exchange trip, learning how they do things here in the States, and some US Homeland Security boys are over in London doing the same thing. You remember Eddie?” He looked at me.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. Eddie was an HEO in Border Control whom Byfield and I had worked with.

  “I’m still in touch with him. When he told me you and a lady friend were booked to fly into Boston today, I couldn’t resist a little wind-up welcome to America for you, and these guys agreed to be in on the joke.” He paused, looking around the room. The marine behind the desk was still laughing.

  “Oh yeah, did I hear right?” Byfield asked, looking back at me. “You just got married?”

  “Yesterday; this is the start of our honeymoon.” I introduced him to Taylor.

  “Oh, congrats, mate. I didn’t know.”

  Everyone in the room shook my hand. The female operative hugged Taylor warmly a
nd said, “Oh, you just got married? Congratulations, honey.”

  “Very sorry for any distress, sir,” the big guy behind the desk said, grinning heartily. We shook hands. His hands were huge and he could probably have strangled me with just one of them.

  “You were all in on this?” I looked around the room.

  A chorus of yeses and nods, everyone smiling and au fait with the situation.

  “Your bags are outside, Rob,” Byfield said. “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

  “Welcome to America, Detective McGraw, and you, ma’am,” the marine behind the desk said, and everyone in the room nodded their agreement.

  We went out of the office, leaving behind a roomful of grinning Homeland Security operatives. A Logan porter was waiting outside for us with our bags. We took them and followed Byfield. He and I spoke briefly about work and London, and he also suggested a few bars in Downtown Boston we should avoid as they were extortionately priced tourist traps. He gave us back our passports, all stamped and above board; we swapped numbers and agreed that a drink before we flew home, if his schedule allowed, would be a good idea.

  Outside the terminal I asked him where to get a taxi from.

  “Taxi? You know what they charge? Follow me.”

  He gestured to a state trooper leaning against his car and had a word with him.

  “Vincenzo’s gonna drive you to your hotel. After that welcome” – he nodded towards the main building – “it’s the least I can do. No hard feelings, Rob?”

  “Nah, ’course not.” I congratulated him on a brilliant scam. Bastard.

  “Sorry, lady,” he said to Taylor.

  “That’s alright.”

  *

  We were driven to the Marriott in Downtown Boston, with Vincenzo pointing out various places we should visit while we were in what he referred to as this great city. We checked in, went to our spacious room, dumped our bags and, after a quick shower, went back down to the bar. After that welcome, we both needed a drink.