by Leigh Barker
believe that, but, in fact, you will find that the technical term for the back of the knees is popliteal fossa, or knee pit. Though some clinicians refer to it simply as the posterior region of the knee.”
Rob squirmed on his chair. “And I’m getting a pain in my posterior region right now.”
“Perineal numbness can be caused by cycling. Do you have a bicycle?” Major Tom asked in a tone of genuine concern.
Maurice snorted as he fought to suppress a laugh and then found something vitally important to look at behind his desk.
Rob gave him a shitty look. “I used to ride, but when I found out that Janet rides a road-racer, it put me right off.”
Shirley’s face creased in a deep frown. Not a spectator sport. “But why would that put you off, for heaven’s sake?”
“Because,” Rob said slowly, “she wears white spandex shorts.” He described a shape with his hands. A description best left undescribed.
Maurice looked up sharply, his face losing its usual pink glow. “Ahhh! God! Oh God! Why did you tell me that? That image is going to haunt me to my grave. Oh God!”
Maurice was saved from any further revelations on their colleague Janet’s sportswear by the arrival of a young boy, maybe twelve years old — but who knows; he was a kid, and a kid can be any age. They’re just a pain, everyone knows that.
This one was standing in front of the desks, crunching cheese puffs from an enormous bag. Noisily.
“Bugger off,” Major Tom said, doing security things, as was his duty.
“You can’t talk to a member of the public like that,” Shirley snapped. “Why if I’d heard any of my people talking like that when I was group manager at BA, I’d have fired them on the spot. On the spot.”
“Thought you worked as a Virgin?” Rob asked, clearly unaware of the Freudian slip.
Shirley studied his face for several seconds, just waiting for the slightest tell. She got none, but she was dealing with a maestro of the poker face here.
“That,” she said in an exasperated tone, “was after BA, as you very well know.”
“You sure it was BA?” Rob asked.
“Yes, of course I’m sure. I was there, wasn’t I?”
He shrugged. “Just thought it might be BS.”
She scowled at him, and she really did do an excellent scowl. “Now that’s the kettle calling the pot black if ever I heard it.” She slid off her stool, careful to avoid her skirt riding up and showing things this person should not see. “I’m going for a break. If any VIP passengers arrive, send for me. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to handle them yourself. God, the thought of it.” She smoothed down her skirt and maintained her dignity as she climbed slowly over the mini bridge to the back of the baggage belt. She looked back just before she disappeared through the staff door from which Major Tom had appeared to start his security sweep of the coffee shops, but no one was watching, so they hadn’t heard the escaping wind as she’d stepped off the belt. No more Mexican food, she swore to herself.
The kid was still munching his puffs — a task he would be doing for a long time. Why would any loving mother buy a kid a sack of regurgitated yellow vomit and yuk? He walked up slowly to Maurice’s desk, took a soggy mess from between his lips, and pointed it at Maurice. “What’s the matter with him?” he asked no one in particular.
“What do you mean?” Rob asked, suddenly intrigued.
The kid put the mess back into his mouth, munched it, and looked Maurice over slowly. “He’s all…” He squinted as he searched for the word. “He’s all shiny.”
He’d found it.
Rob chuckled. “Yeah, he is a bit.”
Maurice scowled at him, but Shirley’s scowl was still hanging in the air, so his ran away and hid.
The kid was still squinting.
“Bugger off,” Major Tom said.
“Nah, hang on a minute,” Rob said. “I like this kid.”
“Are you a perv?” the kid asked, backing off a little.
“Not at work,” Rob said. “Come over later, and we’ll see.”
The kid shrugged as if he’d been propositioned by perverts many times. And who knows? He looked back at Maurice. “Are you a poof?”
Maurice’s jaw was moving, but he wasn’t making any sound.
“Brighter than he looks,” Major Tom said.
Maurice cut him with one of his looks.
“Where are your parents?” Rob asked, looking around the deserted concourse.
“In the bar,” the kid said without taking his eyes off shiny Maurice.
Maurice glanced pointedly at his watch. He frowned. “It’s nine in the morning.”
The kid shrugged. “They’re on holiday. That’s what my dad says.”
“Drink much, does he?” Major Tom asked, not really caring one way or the other.
“Nah—”
“If you say he spills most of it,” Rob said, “I’ll give you a thud.”
The kid gave him a long, slow look, as if measuring his body against his words. He looked away.
Well, there you go; out of the mouths of babes.
“Bugger off,” Major Tom said, more in hope than expectation that repetition would deliver any better result.
The kid blinked at him a couple of times before plunging his hand into the huge bag of puffs. He stuffed a handful of orange yumminess into his mouth. “Dad says,” he said through a small cloud of froth, “they have to do their bit to keep the pubs in business.”
“So he drinks at nine in the morning,” Maurice said, “to keep the pubs in business?” Oh God, did he really care? He closed his eyes and tried to will it all to go away. There had to be more to life than this.
Of course, there isn’t, but we all knew that before his silent, desperate cry.
“It helps him forget about the plane landing,” the kid said.
Rob nodded. “Makes sense. Have a few drinks to steady the nerves before a flight. Lots of people do.”
“When is your flight landing?” Major Tom asked.
“Week on Thursday.”
They looked at each other and frowned.
“No, kid,” Rob said. “He means the one you’re flying on today.”
The kid frowned now. “What’s that got to do with anything? They drink to forget about the plane landing at home.” He shrugged. “They don’t like going back to work.”
“Bugger off,” said Major Tom and Maurice in perfect harmony.
To everyone’s surprise, the kid wandered off. Major Tom looked pleased with himself. The voice of authority prevails in the face of modern youth. Or… the kid was just bored.
That’ll be door number two, then.
The kid stopped and swung back to the desk. He pointed at Major Tom, and they all waited for the accusation.
“What’s your job, then?”
Major Tom was taken aback a little, as it was obvious to him what his job was. Wasn’t he wearing a security guard uniform?
Well, yes.
“He’s the pilot,” Rob said quickly.
“Where’s his plane, then?” the kid asked, his hand resting in the bag of cheese mush.
“Where you going for your holiday?” Rob asked.
“Can come,” the kid said.
“That’s Cancun,” Rob said, showing off his D in geography. “When are you going?”
“Three o’clock.”
“He’s the pilot of the three o’clock flight to Cancun.”
“What’s he doing here, then?”
“Waiting for the plane to get fixed,” Rob said, leaning his elbows on the desk.
“What’s the matter with it?”
“Well,” Rob said with a quick look around to see if they were overheard, “it’s a really old plane, and a piece fell off on the way over.”
The kid’s mouth opened, revealing part-chewed sludge.
“Don’t worry,” Rob said reassuringly. “It was only a small piece.”
The kid looked relieved.
“Nobody hurt.”
“Just a few kids got sucked out through the hole, that’s all,” Rob added with a cheery smile to ease the kid’s fears.
The bag of cheesy goodness fell to the floor, scattering bright orange puffs across the concourse.
“Hey,” Rob said, seeing the child’s distress, “no need to worry. You’ll be okay… as long as he doesn’t fly too high. See, he’s afraid of heights and faints if he goes too high. That’s why his planes keep crashing.”
The kid ran away.
Maurice watched him go and shook his head slowly. “You’ve probably scarred that child for life, you know that?”
Rob shrugged. “That’s life. Why should he get a free ride?”
Maurice stared at him sadly for a moment, then slid off his stool. “I’m going to get some coffee. Can you cope with the pressure?” He stopped as he stepped over the baggage belt and looked back. “What will you do if he brings his father back?”
Rob turned from watching the passengers in the distance passing this deserted space. “I’ll tell him I’m Major Tom’s co-pilot. And fresh out of the nuthouse.”
“Many a true word spoken in jest,” Maurice said as he stepped through the staff door.
Major Tom eased the ache in his back, checked the area for security-type things, and followed Maurice back into the staff room. Another good morning’s work completed to his satisfaction, and time for a well-earned rest.
The GAL staff room was a dump. A converted lost-luggage storeroom that hadn’t been converted, unless you count the addition of a scarred wooden table, a couple of lumpy stuffed chairs, an equally lumpy nearly-leather couch and a kitchenette — that broke all the health and safety rules at a glance.
Still, it was home. And there, in a phrase, is our merry band’s lot.
At the back of the room, a door dared anyone to open it and proclaimed the dare
