by Claire North
It was the first time I’d been inside a passport control booth, having never before felt the need. An uncomfortable high stool, foolproof equipment that I was too foolish to fully comprehend, a holstered gun tucked beneath the counter.
“Give it a few moments,” I said, “then move on as if I’ve cleared you. I’ll be a couple of bodies behind.”
He nodded, and at my smile and cheery “Have a good flight!” shuffled like one half-asleep down through the line.
I scanned a few more passports, inspected a few more faces, just for the hell of it, wondering which might be criminal, which a smuggler. A bar code scanner beeped appreciatively when I waved a couple of passports at it, and up popped names and numbers on my screen which I made a show of studying while chubby tourists and harassed businessmen waited for me to clear them through. When one came along whose build seemed close enough to Coyle’s, his hair of the same colour and a similar cut, I smiled especially brightly, reached out for his passport and, as his fingers brushed mine,
my fingers brushed back.
Nine bodies later, as Coyle stepped up to the metal detectors at border control, laying his bag down on the X-ray conveyor, I said, “You carrying anything dodgy, sir?” His eyes flashed to mine, for “dodgy” was not a word commonly expected of customs officers. I smiled and added, “Strip-search, sir?”
“Do we have the time?”
“Oh, sir,” I chided, pushing his bag on to the conveyor belt, “don’t you know how much more exciting it is to be touched by another’s skin, instead of your own? But I can see you’re not in the mood, and I’ve got an ingrown toenail; you go straight on through.”
Then I was
businessman with horrific teeth, fillings that needed repair, heat in my gums, did he think this was normal?
sitting down beside Coyle in the international departures lounge, briefcase in one hand, paper cup in the other. “Tea?”
Coyle examined the cup, examined me, and without another word took the tea from my unresisting fingers. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I brought some sugar too, in case you like it sweet.”
“I don’t.”
“Never mind. Better for your teeth anyway.”
He slurped tea; I leaned back, tucking my briefcase between my knees, rolling my tongue nervously around the ravaged inside of my mouth. Charles de Gaulle airport was like any airport in the world: there the duty free, here the chemist for those unsuspecting travellers whose hundred-millilitre bottles of shampoo were one millilitre too dangerous for airport security. There the smart-suited men trying to sell indulged strangers the latest sports car, here the bookshop of last month’s greatest hits, tales of American lawyers with perfect teeth, American lovers with perfect lives, American killers who refuse to lie down and die.
Women in headscarves held their infant children by the hand and studied the departures board for the next plane to wherever. Tired travellers, stopping over on the way to something better, slumbered, heads back, tongues lolling, their boarding passes gripped tight against their slowly deflating chests. I fumbled in my pocket for my ticket, checked the flight, the time, the board overhead. “Can’t even see where I’m supposed to go.”
Coyle glanced down at the stub in my hand. “I think yours is delayed.”
“Typical. Yours?”
“‘Wait for announcements’.”
“That could mean anything.”
“I think it’s a good thing.”
“Are you sure?”
He glanced over at me, surprised. “You… don’t like flying?”
“First time I crossed the Atlantic, it was in a Dutch race-built frigate called the Nessy Reach. Bloody dangerous business.”
“But planes…?”
“I dislike the universality of the threat with flying. First-class fat-cat or economy class with your knees pressed to your chin; if a plane falls, you’re dead no matter who you are.”
“My God,” he exclaimed. “You’re a coward.”
“Am I? I suppose bravery must be defined relative to the deeds habitually available to he who faces it. I have been hired to do many of the things that brave man can’t: leave a lover, attend a job interview, march to war. I grant you I had none of the emotional involvement in these acts that might have rendered them tricky, but still I have to ask… am I really a coward? I think the case could be argued both ways.”
“All right – you’re not a coward. You’re merely operating by a different set of rules.”
I smiled and said, “Want another cup of tea?”
“No. Thank you.”
“I should let this body go. Flight delayed or not, the mind can only lose so much time.”
“I know.” He held out his hand, not looking, the fingers hanging loose like those of a queen waiting to be kissed.
“You’re very brave,” I said, resting my fingers in his skin.
Then there was the slow crawl to the runway.
Safety demonstrations. Chin to knees, oxygen from above, be sure to save yourself before you save a child or your friend.
A push of acceleration as we headed for the sky. I let my skull press back into the headrest of my seat, felt the chemically numbed throbbing in my shoulder and arm, resisted the urge to prod at the wound, watched the landscape turn from a thing of solid nature into a map of straight lines, roads and paths carved by a human hand, ordered the vegetarian meal and a bottle of water and, finding that the in-flight movies had even less merit than commonly supposed, played chess instead with an unknown passenger in seat D12, who lost quickly and didn’t return for a rematch.
Then there was ocean beneath us and tiny clouds far below, and I was tired, and my shoulder ached, and my eyes hurt, and in a moment of temptation I became
round-faced man, too fat for my economy-class seat, belt chafing across my middle, my knees pressed up awkwardly, elbows jammed in, and as I shifted uncomfortably and the engines hummed and the drinks trolley clattered up and down the aisle, Coyle turned blearily to me and said:
“Brave?”
“What?”
“You called me brave.”
“Did I?”
“A second ago.”
“A few hours ago.”
“Where are we now?”
“Somewhere over the Atlantic.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Matter?”
“Why are you… you?” he asked, gesturing at my more abundant flesh.
“I was… uncomfortable. Wanted to stretch my legs. This gentleman was in the way, so I thought I’d stretch his.”
“I can believe that. You called me brave.”
“Must have imagined it.”
“A moment ago.”
“I also called you a murderer, a blind fool and the killer of a woman I loved. All of which is true. Yet here we are, knuckling down and carrying on. I wouldn’t be too worried about it.”
“Are you going to be him long?”
I shifted awkwardly in my seat. “No,” I said at last. “I’m too wide for the armrests – they’re compressing my belly – and my knees hurt, and my feet feel splayed and flat, and I’ve got an aftertaste of ginger ale in my mouth, and even if all this were not the case, I still think I’m a coronary risk. But if you want to watch a movie or something, I could take a wander round the plane? Upgrade to first class, perhaps.”
“What are the movie choices like?”
“Appalling. Do you play chess?”
“What?”
“Do you play chess?”
“No. I mean yes, I play.”
“Want a game?”
“With you?”
“Sure. Or challenge seat D12, but they won’t give you much trouble.”
“I’m not sure…”
“You let me wear your body, but you won’t play me at chess?”
“One is grim necessity, the other feels like socialising.”
“Suit yourself.”
Silence a while. Then, “I’m
not your friend. You understand that.”
“Of course.”
“In Berlin, in Istanbul, I meant everything I said. I believe everything that I believe. A few minutes here or there, a game of chess… it doesn’t change what you are. What you represent. I let you… touch me… because I must, and it repulses me. I don’t know why I’m explaining this to you.”
“It’s OK,” I replied. “It’ll be OK.”
Silence.
As much as there is ever silence in the roar of a plane.
“So… do you want to sleep?” I asked, shifting awkwardly in my seat.
“Won’t your body notice if you stay in too long?”
I shrugged. “Planes are boring. Most people are relieved to find that the hours have flown by, so to speak.”
“I could do with some time.”
“Fine.”
“By myself.”
I half-nodded at nothing in particular. “That’s not a problem,” I murmured, reaching out to touch my neighbour’s hand. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
I am a first-class businesswoman.
At home I probably do yoga.
I eat prawns and drink champagne.
Coyle sits alone, and so do I.
Chapter 81
Then there was…
“Passport, please.”
I beamed at the man behind the counter. Newark airport specialised in immigration officers whose every scowl seemed to say that, even if they couldn’t stop you entering the United States, they sure as hell weren’t going to make it easy.
I pushed the wallet that contained my tickets across the counter towards him, and as he reached down, lips already narrowing in the expectation of disappointment, I caught his wrist
and said, “Welcome to New York.”
Coyle caught his balance on the counter before him while I made a show of flicking through the little pouch of documents on the desk. “The Americans have a poker up their arse with security. Do you have a communicable disease?”
Coyle pressed his forehead against the palms of his hands, steadying himself in body and mind. “What?”
“I’m supposed to ask questions. Do you have a communicable disease?”
“Only you.”
“Harsh. Have you ever been arrested for a crime of moral turpitude? You know, I’m not sure I know what moral turpitude is, and I’ve been around.”
“I’ve never been arrested,” he replied carefully. “Is that your American accent?”
“I’m aiming for New Jersey.”
“It’s bad.”
“I’m still warming up. It’s as much about syntax as it is inflection. I’m on duty right now, so I probably won’t be calling you dude or asking about the game because I’m the kind of man who takes pride in my uniform. Have you ever been or are you now involved in espionage or sabotage, or in terrorist activities, or in genocide? I think we can put a big yes down for all of the above.”
“You planning on ratting me out to the US authorities?”
“I thought about it for a fanciful moment,” I replied, pushing the travel documents back across the desk. “I also thought about walking you through the ‘something to declare’ aisle singing the North Korean national anthem, but I doubted anyone would find it funny. Here. You’re nearly through.”
For a few minutes a hot flush of panic overcame me as, prowling the conveyor belts, I sought but could not find Coyle.
Then I saw him, sitting with his back pressed against the wall, legs splayed across the floor, his hand pressed tightly against the place in his shoulder where the bandages were growing old, his face grey, his breathing steady. I squatted down beside him, wobbling in my high heels, and said, “You all right?”
He half-turned to look at me and saw, for a second, not me but my stewardess uniform, my little hat, my painted lips, and said, “I’m fine, I’m…” then he hesitated, his eyes narrowing. “Are you you?” I held out a long-nailed hand to pull him to his feet. “I think you should know,” he breathed, “that I’ve felt better.”
“It’s OK. I’ll get you somewhere safe.”
“Why can’t you just get yourself there?”
“The fewer bodies I take off course, the fewer alarms I’ll set ringing, the better I can protect you.”
“You’re doing this to protect me?”
“God knows,” I replied, my fingers tightening around his cold arm, “I’m not doing it for your silky flesh.”
Coyle had not lied.
I’d felt much, much better.
My fingers were icy cold as I shuffled into my seat on the train.
My stomach felt hot and empty, my shoulder throbbed with a dull heartbeat of its own. I staggered into the stainless-steel toilet on the stained steel train and as we bounced and rattled our way north pulled back my shirt to inspect the bandages. They seemed clean enough, but when I prodded around the area of the wound, pain shimmered down my spine, and I prodded no more.
Then I was
“Hi.” As Coyle swayed before me I pushed the room key into his hand and said, “You’re on the top floor. Take the lift. I’ve booked us in for one night.”
He blinked up at me as I beamed from behind the reception desk, looked down at the room key pressed into his hand and, without a word, turned and began the shuffle towards the bank of brass-doored lifts. I waited until he was gone, called a porter over and followed.
The hotel was grand – more so than I’d grown accustomed to. The room came with a leather-clad bed, armchairs, en-suite bathroom of polished chrome, three layers of unwieldy curtain and a TV larger than a slumbering hippo. By the time I arrived, no luggage in hand, Coyle was already lying on the bed, feet hanging off the end, arms wrapped round his middle.
“Coyle?” He half-opened an eye to peer up at me. “You’re going to be OK,” I said. “I’ll go out, find someone rich, get you more painkillers, more dressings.”
“Who are you now?”
“I don’t know. I’ll get you what you need.”
“I’ve never been shot before.”
“I have. I know how you feel. You’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know that. You never stick around long enough to find out.”
“I’ll be back in a bit.”
“And who will you be when you come back?”
“Someone else. Someone new. Me.”
I took the key to the room, stuffed it into the soil of a potted plant by the elevator, rode to the ground floor.
I shook the hand of the first man I saw emerge from the hotel restaurant, and as the porter blinked blearily before me slipped him a ten-dollar tip, thanked him politely and headed out into the New York streets.
The cold comes with bone-cracking intensity. Without pausing to let the skin register its distress, the Manhattan winter drives straight through to the heart, seeming to the unprotected wanderer that they are freezing from the inside out, though this cannot be the case. The wind off the water rushes up the streets, racing the yellow cab driver to his destination, swirls round the tower blocks, blasts you sideways at the crossroads, picks up newspaper and claws at your hair. Pharmacies in New York are as far removed from their French counterparts as frozen Alaska from Hawaiian beaches. Gone are the clinical whiteness, long counters and careful shelves; instead arise walls of advertisements and pledges, price slashes and guarantees that this cream can make your hair grow or this spray-on tan is the only path to sexual satisfaction. Squeeze through the laden shelves of shampoo and razors, emery boards and nail paint, and stand before a tiny desk where the clerk’s eyes seem to say, if you cannot buy yourself a cure, then you are incurable.
I bought bandages, painkillers, the necessaries of first aid. I toyed with hopping into the clerk and grabbing an armful of antibiotics, just in case – but no. Unlike Coyle, my body would not stay put while I ransacked the shelves, so I would be patient until needs must.
I tried jogging through the streets of Manhattan, but my portly frame and aching knees were h
aving none of it, so I waddled as fast as I could, face flushed and lungs heavy, back to the hotel.
The key to Coyle’s room was still buried in the potted plant by the elevator door. I dug it out, shook the dirt off, let myself in.
Coyle lay where I had left him, blanket pulled up to his chin, shivering on the bed. I shook him gently by the leg, whispered, “Coyle.”
His eyes opened slowly – dizziness giving way to startled fear at the sight of a stranger’s face. “Kepler?” His voice was dry, tongue slow.
“I’ve got more meds. Do you need water?”
“Yes… please.”
I fetched a plastic cup from the bathroom, held his head as he levered up to drink, murmured, sip – small sips. Not too fast.
When he was done, I said, I need to look at your dressing now.
Do what you have to, he replied.
A restless night.
Coyle slept, buried beneath the many sheets of the hotel bed.
I sat on the armchair opposite and didn’t sleep a wink. Watching. Sometimes he woke, and I gave him water and painkillers, and pulled the blanket back about his chin and waited for him to sleep again. Sometimes he murmured half-heard whispers of deeds done and regrets remembered. I sat with my head in my hands and didn’t watch the TV, didn’t read a book, but listened and waited.
I found it hard to remember when I had last slept.
Struggled to recall where I was, how I had come to be there. The room was Bratislava or Belgrade or Berlin, and I was…
a man who loved…
a woman who said…
something.
I looked in my wallet, found a name, found I didn’t care. I had no interest in my face or my nature. I was someone, from somewhere, who happened to be myself. For whatever that was worth.
Dawn was a grey tinge around the edge of the curtains, a sucking out of colour from the room.
