Incompetence

by Rob Grant

  'You think that sounds too cheap?'

  'Way too cheap.'

  'All righty. Let's say... two hundred and fifty.'

  'Wait a minute. What are you doing? You're just making the price up?'

  'Is that bad?'

  'Look, just click on a seat on the screen and see what happens.'

  The kid fiddled with his stylus. He looked up from the screen with real admiration. 'Have you ever worked at Air Europa?'

  'No. I can't say I have.'

  'Another airline then?'

  I shook my head. 'Never worked for any kind of airline.'

  'Then you are some kind of fucking genius, mister. Lookee here. Price: one hundred and twenty euros. Just one little click, and thar she blows.'

  I held out a credit card. 'I'll take it.'

  The kid was still transfixed on his screen, head nodding, his tongue pressed into his cheek, like he'd just found the elixir of youth, the philosopher's stone and an infallible method of turning base metal into gold all in the same moment. I looked up at the departures monitor. Flight AE 599 was flashing 'GO TO GATE'. I leaned further over the desk. 'We'd better get a move on, son. They're practically boarding.'

  'Right, right.' He looked at the card in my hand. 'What's that?'

  'It's... it's a credit card.'

  'Right, right.' He took the card and examined it. 'This is great. Look, it's got like a little hologram here. See?' He held the card up for me to see.

  I tried to sound equally enthused. 'It's amazing, isn't it?'

  'Amazing. You said it.' He twisted the card around twice and gleamed his winningest grin. 'What's it for?'

  'The hologram? I don't know. Prevent fraud, I guess.'

  'No, I mean the card. What's it do?'

  'Like I said, it's a credit card.'

  'Oh, right. I see.' He didn't see, of course. He just stood there swivelling the card over and over, as if the speed of the twist might somehow reveal its arcane secret. 'It doesn't have any, like, instructions or anything.'

  I resisted a very strong urge to invert the kid, debag him and run my MasterCard up and down his rectal chasm till his backside got magnetic. My chances of catching flight AE 599 were starting to look skimpier than a Chinese pudding menu. 'It's like money, sonny.'

  Suspicious: 'Yeah?'

  'You keep the card, I get the plane seat. Understand?'

  'I knew that,' he glimmered. 'What am I? An idiot?'

  He popped the card in his cash drawer, and sparkled: 'Have a nice flight.'

  'The ticket?'

  'The ticket! Of course.' He remained immobile, his mouth set in a 'Go away' twinkle.

  'I need a plane ticket.'

  'A plane ticket. Sure.' Still glimmering. Still no attempt to move.

  'To get on the plane?'

  'Absolutely. I've seen one of those. Let me just dig it out for you.'

  He retired through a doorway at the back of the booth, and, for reasons unclear to me right now, I let him. He was gone for five full minutes before I realised he'd probably found something else to engage his fickle attention. I walked around the counter and ducked my head through the door. There was just an empty office. It was certainly bereft of teenagers with metallic dental work.

  I turned back to the counter with the intent of recovering my credit card and maybe trying to run off a ticket for myself, but a strangely pretty, small woman in a stiff Air Bali uniform and an unreasonably sturdy hair sculpture with a pillbox hat somehow balanced atop it skittered over from her desk and started pounding my back with small, yet painfully bony fists, all the while badgering me in a ribald mixture of squeaky English and some unpleasant, unknowable tongue to kindly leave the ticket enclosure without delay, so I had to forget the notion of running off my own ticket, though the machine looked simple enough for a lotopomised chimp to operate.

  The departures monitor was flashing 'NOW BOARDING' for AE 599, and I had no option but to hightail it down to the gate and pray, beyond reasonable expectation, that I might bluff or even charm my way onto the plane. Abandoning, with equal regret, both my credit card and the tiny, bellicose stewardess, I started towards Departures.

  You know how I feel about having to hurry, but I had to get this plane to stand any chance of getting some kind of a jump on Klingferm's killer. But I wasn't going to run. I don't do running. Let's just say I walked energetically and with vigour.

  NINE

  Even though the clock was against me, I was forced to spend a few minutes lurking around outside Departures check-in, waiting for a suitably large party to mingle with. It was worth it. I managed to breeze through the ticket check amidst an alpine snowboarding team with just my passport, an empty discarded boarding-card holder, and a swagger that suggested I was some kind of bodyguard.

  Getting through Security and Passport Control were simple enough. Just a small delay when my cotton shoelaces managed to set off the metal detector, prompting an all-over body search no more humiliating than undergoing haemorrhoid surgery in public. Though, thankfully, it stopped short of my cavities.

  Actually getting to Gate 15 was more of a challenge.

  Gate 15 was a long way away. I was working up quite a glow by the time I hit the fifth moving walkway, which, like precisely seventy-five per cent of the ones that preceded it, was in fact a static walkway. Misleadingly optimistic signs regularly indicated that I actually was on my way to Gate 15, and not, say, some hitherto uncharted region of Tibet or the dark side of the planet Mercury.

  En route, I passed the lad from the Air Europa ticket desk playing a video game and chomping a sandwich. He caught my eye and looked as if I were someone he kind of half remembered, maybe from some long-ago childhood dream or something. Then a sound from the game machine caught his attention, and he bent back to wreaking his electronic mayhem.

  The tannoy announced the final call for AE 599 to Paris. I seriously considered breaking into a waddle. I began to worry that Gate 15 wasn't in Roma airport after all, but somewhere around the perimeter of Naples airport. Or Verona. Or even Heathrow Terminal Nine.

  I was gravely close to a pulmonary embolism by the time the gates hove into view. For mysterious reasons, Gate 15 was the furthest away from civilisation. Gates 24 to 40 were much, much closer. The relentless pattern on the airport carpets was starting to induce some kind of hallucinogenic episode by the time I was able to stop and catch my breath. Amazing. What sort of planning genius thought it would be a neat idea to make the journey from the check-in to the plane longer than the actual flight? Still, it hadn't worked against me: a lot of passengers were still queuing, most of them wiping away tears of exhaustion.

  I had been so convinced of the non-existence of Gate 15, I arrived without a ticket or a coherent plan to acquire one. No big deal: I'm good at thinking on my feet. I scoped out the two stewardesses checking people through the gate. The senior one had Obergruppenfuhrer written all over her. Impeccable uniform. Starch in her collar and starch in her spine. My guess? She'd rather give a Mexican agave cactus deep throat than allow me to buy a ticket from her desk. The other one was the better bet: a slightly frazzled-looking redhead with a plastic smile that looked close to its use-by date. She wasn't the type to sell me a ticket either, but she might succumb to a little mental torture.

  I needed some props. I'd spotted a print-your-own-busi-ness-card machine just by the coffee counter round the last corner. I put in my money and typed out a message:

  THIS MAN HAS NO SHORT-TERM MEMORY.

  PLEASE TRY NOT TO CONFUSE HIM.

  I added a spurious doctor's name, with some convincingly medical letters after it, and finished with 'BRITISH MEDICAL COUNCIL' in brackets.

  The machine churned out a dozen cards. I signed them all illegibly and stuffed them into my wallet. I adopted a suitably vacant expression and strolled up to the gate.

  Frazzled redhead asked for my ticket and cranked up the plastic smile. I handed her my empty boarding-card packet, and smiled right back.

  'There's no
ticket in here, sir.'

  I m sorry?

  'This is empty, sir. There's no ticket in it.'

  'Didn't I just give you my ticket?'

  'No. You just gave me an empty boarding-card holder.'

  'Wait a minute.' I slapped all my pockets, dug out my wallet and handed her one of the cards. 'I think this will help.'

  She read the card slowly. 'You have no short-term memory,' she repeated, quietly. 'Well, that must be... That must be very trying for you, sir.' She handed the card back to me. 'But I'm afraid I can't let you on the plane without a ticket or a boarding card.'

  I studied the card and looked up sympathetically. 'You have no short-term memory? That must get very confusing.' I handed the card back to her. 'Especially in your line of work.'

  'No, no.' She pushed the card gently into my jacket pocket. 'You're the one with no short-term memory, sir.'

  'I am?'

  'If you can just retrace your steps, sir, I'm sure you'll find your ticket.'

  'Didn't I just give you my ticket?'

  'No, just an empty boarding card. If you can just stand aside while I--'

  'Here it is!' I smiled broadly and handed her the empty boarding-card holder again.

  'No. Look: you've lost your ticket. It's fallen out of here, see? You're going to have to try and find it, or you can't get on the plane.'

  'Wait. Wait.' I hunted through my pockets again and handed her another of the business cards. 'I'm sure this will clear things up.'

  The plastic smile was wearing thinner than the elbows of a geography teacher's jacket. She took a deep breath and tried again. 'I know about your problem, sir. Unfortunately, I still can't let you on the plane. Look...' She placed her hands gently on my shoulders and steered me away from the gate. 'If you just retrace your steps, you'll find where you dropped your ticket.'

  'Retrace my steps?' I looked appropriately bewildered. 'Which way did I come from?'

  'You must have come in this direction. Did you buy anything from the duty-free shops?'

  'I have no idea.'

  'That's probably where you lost your ticket.'

  'Thank you.' I gave her my most genuine smile. 'You've been very helpful.'

  'You're welcome, sir.'

  'Especially considering your mental problem, and all.'

  She smiled and wiggled back to her desk, her eyes doubtless cast up to the ceiling. She really thought she'd seen the last of me, the poor fool. I gave her a minute or two, then rejoined the queue. Commendably, her smile hardly quivered at all when she spotted me. 'So, you found your ticket, then?'

  'Sorry?'

  'You managed to find the ticket you lost?'

  'I lost a ticket?'

  Her smile was shrinking in on itself. 'Can I see your ticket, sir?'

  'Right here.' I handed over the empty boarding-card holder.

  'No.' Strangled dramatic sigh. 'This is still empty.'

  'I'm sorry, I'm confused.' I started patting my pockets again and took out another business card.

  'No, no. I know about your memory problem.' Her smile had now shrivelled into a very tight, puckered circle.

  'What memory problem?'

  She was a patient gal, I'll give her that. It took three more trips up the airport concourse and back to her queue before the smile finally collapsed in on itself like a neutron star, she lost the will to live and decided her life would be infinitely more enjoyable if she let me on the plane.

  Now, you know my general feelings about air travel. Business class is just about almost nearly tolerable, so long as you don't weaken and try reading the in-flight magazine, or succumb to watching a movie with the interesting bits excised and the expletives dubbed, so hardened terrorists who are quite prepared to blow up entire nations suddenly get sheepish about swearing and wind up yelling things like: 'Get down, you melon farmer!' So long as you don't give into the temptation of actually trying the food, get morbid thinking about sudden death from deep vein thrombosis or hijackers, and you can get through the trip without the humiliation of having to squeeze into the toddlers' shoebox they call a toilet, the experience is survivable. Just.

  Economy class?

  Forget about it.

  The original slave ships to America had kinder living conditions below decks. Better service, too.

  Of course, I didn't have a business class ticket. I didn't have any kind of ticket, so I snapped into my guaranteed upgrade ploy. I took two steps down the aisle past the unconvincing welcome grin of the steward, and fainted.

  Now, the aisle was pretty narrow anyway, and I don't like to fall too hard, so it was a fairly slow-motion, theatrical kind of a faint, and I hit the sticky carpet without causing myself too much damage.

  Here's how it works: the stewards want to get everybody in their seats, so they don't lose the plane's take-off slot. They can't have you blocking the way, but you're big, you're a dead weight, and they can't carry you too far without risking a hernia. So they lift you into the nearest seat, which happens to be business class. You tell them you'll be all right in a minute, but act all woozy. They don't want to risk giving you a heart attack by trying to force you back into the cattle truck. Shazam! You've got yourself a free upgrade.

  Well, that's the plan, at least.

  In the beginning, it seemed to be working like a charm. There were two stewards, one blond, one with a flat-top. They immediately snapped into headless chicken mode, shrieking at everyone to stay calm, barking orders at each other and running up and down the plane like the Keystone Kops with firecrackers in their underpants, looking for the non-existent medical kit which is, of course, a compulsory requirement for airworthiness, before blond mop, the slightly more together of the two, mustered the wherewithal to raise my head and check whether or not I was still actually alive. He opened my right eye with his fingers. I rolled it back so only the white was visible and moaned softly.

  Flat-top asked: 'Is he alive?'

  'I think so.'

  'Because I'm trained to administer CPU.'

  'I think we should loosen his clothes.'

  'If it's a heart attack, I can resuscitate him.'

  'We should loosen his clothes and keep him warm.'

  'How can we loosen his clothes and keep him warm, you silly tart?'

  'Well, loosen his tie at least. That's not going to bring on a terminal chill, is it? Unbutton his collar.'

  'Why? Isn't he breathing? If he isn't breathing, I should try cardiac massage.'

  This flat-top guy sounded all too keen to start pounding my chest, which I was in no mood for, let me tell you. Time to stage my recuperation. 'I'm OK,' I croaked weakly. 'I just need to sit...'

  But Blondie the clothes-loosener had grabbed my tie, and in a panicky attempt to unfasten it he'd tugged it tighter than a pygmy's noose. I started choking. I flailed at my neck, trying to slap his hands away.

  'He's going!' he screamed. 'We're losing him!'

  I felt a crushing weight on my chest, followed by a massive bolt of pain in the middle of my ribs. For a terrible second, I really did think I was having a coronary. I strained to raise my head and saw, with bulging eyes, the CPU genius kneeling on me, his hands clenched and raised above his head, poised to administer another dreadful blow.

  'Look at him,' the tie-tightener screamed. 'He's gone all purple.'

  'I'm fine,' I rasped, sounding anything but, through my tightened, mashed windpipe. 'It's not a heart att--'

  Bam! The flat-topped bastard brought down his fists, missing my ribs completely, but hitting my solar plexus dead centre. Simultaneously, I lost three things: all the air in my body, the ability to breathe, and the will to live. My head rolled back involuntarily.

  Somewhere, a long way away, I heard Blondie squealing: 'He's going, Freddie. You're losing him.'

  I began to believe him. I had visions of being CPU-ed to death. A hail of inept blows shattering my ribcage, puncturing my lungs. Breathing my last on a terribly designed Air Europa nylon carpet. My accidental murderer co
ngratulated for trying his best to save me. Maybe even receiving some kind of award or something. And the worst of it was, I couldn't work up the enthusiasm to care.

  Bam! He hammered me again, this time a bullseye in the middle of my ribs. By sheer dumb luck, the blow actually did have the effect of forcing air into my lungs. I grabbed at my tie and tugged the knot loose with demented strength.

  I sucked in the sweet, sweet air.

  'You've done it!' the blond one trilled. 'You've gone and saved his bloody life, you bloody genius.'

  I propped myself up on my elbows and looked around. The entire plane applauded. Passengers started congratulating Freddie Flat-Top, the life-saving genius, shaking his hand, patting him on his back. If there'd been room enough, they'd have raised him on their shoulders and given him a ticker-tape parade.

  'Please, please.' He was grinning. 'It's all part of the training.' He bent over me. 'And how's the patient?'

  I nodded, and grunted: 'I'll live.' I wasn't going to thank the son of a bitch.

  'That's a relief. For one terrible moment there, I thought I'd have to give you mouth-to-mouth,' he grinned again, 'and I've forgotten me lipstick.'

  The entire plane laughed. All except for one of us.

  I moaned, and rubbed my throbbing chest gingerly, wondering just how many wonderful shades of purple and yellow my ribs would be when I eventually worked up the courage to actually look at them, and mumbled weakly: 'Just get me to a chair.'

  Blondie and Freddie hoisted me up and dumped me in the nearest available seat, which, joy of joys, turned out to be business class accommodation.

  So, I got my upgrade, for what it was worth. It seemed like an awful lot of pain and effort for ten centimetres more legroom and a different-coloured seat.

  I put on the Lone Ranger sleeping mask the airline provided and jammed the yellow earplugs home, though I harboured no illusions that I might actually get any sleep.

  I spent the entire flight worrying away at just how far I was behind Klingferm's killer.

  I really would have been better employed worrying just how far Klingferm's killer was behind me.

  TEN