Security
I saw his hat first. All cowboy-y and black. He sat with his back to us, just before the metal detectors.
I grabbed Jennifer before doing any further thinking. She was always good with plans. She stopped, forehead collapsing in wrinkles.
‘What?’
I pointed. She saw.
‘It’s only …’ she began. But she couldn’t explain it away as only another hat. This was the hat. And that same ice-white hair cut round BFG ears.
He’d found us again.
(But how come he wasn’t doing anything? It was creepy. Maybe he’d had a heart attack? Maybe he’d fallen asleep? Grandad was always drifting off in the afternoon.)
Up ahead, at security, a pair of uniforms looked scarily like cops. One stood behind a conveyor, waiting to pass trays through the scanner. The other stood past the grey plastic of the metal detector. Neither looked particularly scary, but still – we were fugitives from the law. And the two security officials were looking straight at us. But that was because it was late and there was hardly anyone else around, right? Dealing with us would probably make their evening less boring. Something to do to stay awake.
‘Hey, what about the ashes?’ I said. ‘Will they let them through?’
‘Why wouldn’t they?’
‘Because it’s a dead person. No offence.’
But Jennifer was looking over her shoulder and Jennifer was swearing. If I ever introduced her to my parents, I’d have to warn them about her language. I could say it was an American thing and that she was older, like pretty much an adult.
What she’d seen, behind us and clear in the centre of the corridor, were two actual police officers. They stood. The odd tired family of tourists dribbled past them like a summer stream round a rock. The police were doing a bad job of acting naturally, especially since their uniform looked more like something a soldier would wear – all black with old-style caps and loads of gold detail. Whoever designed the clothes didn’t want you mistaking these cops for the type that rescue kittens from trees.
And then I saw it: an emergency exit. A possible window (door) of opportunity. Illuminated by a spotlight straight from heaven pretty much. It was past security, okay. But if we sprinted through the metal detectors, I’m sure we could reach it before the yawning guards could react.
It opened with a push bar and there was a red exit sign above it. There was also a yellow poster, stuck underneath the push bar, with the words EMERGENCY EXIT. Across the door were two red fabric strips, the same sort used to organise queues. On the strips was written FIRE EXIT ONLY.
In short, it wasn’t a door designed to be casually walked through.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Jennifer. ‘Maybe the Cowboy’s going home. Maybe the police are patrolling. LA’s so close, I can smell the smog. Don’t let Miss Gonzalez’s sacrifice be for nothing, Jay.’
She continued forward. We arrived at a stack of plastic trays. At no point did anyone stop us. Maybe Jennifer was right. Maybe it was all coincidence. Because, thinking about it, there was nothing surprising about cops being in an airport.
Somewhere a child cried.
‘Hold this,’ said Jennifer and handed over the plastic bag.
She pulled our boarding passes from her back pocket and checked the details. As she did so, her hand trembled. I asked if she was all right.
‘Fine,’ she said, adding, ‘I don’t like flying and our seats aren’t together.’
I was about to do a ‘well, actually’ about how statistically flying was safer than driving but an amplified voice bounced around the space like a toddler in a shopping trolley.
‘Would Miss Gonzalez please make herself known to the closest official? We have some news regarding your ticket.’
Jennifer rolled her eyes.
‘Maybe it’s an upgrade?’ I said.
‘Yeah. Like that’s going to happen.’
As she spoke, an avalanche of action kicked off:
- The Cowboy yells, ‘Grab the bag’.
- Four more police officers rise around the X-Ray machine as if they’d been hiding underneath it.
- Jennifer hisses, ‘No!’ like she has a puncture.
- The child stops crying.
I’d learnt my lesson, however. I’d identified an escape route. And as long as I was never arrested, I could never get in trouble.
I spun Jennifer away as the cops dived at the space where she’d been standing. They missed like disorientated wrestlers. We darted through the metal detector. It didn’t go off. Its guard grabbed at Jennifer’s braids, but caught only air.
I heard shouted threats, as I pushed the emergency exit. The alarm was instant and teeth-shatteringly loud. I held the door as Jennifer ducked under the top tape and stepped over the bottom. With the police so close that we could smell their sweat, I followed her through, the door swinging shut behind us.
‘Gulp,’ I said, actually articulating the word.
At the top of a gloomy stairwell, steel steps like graph-paper lines zig-zagged down from our feet. Trouble rumbled behind us.
‘Here goes nothing,’ said Jennifer, descending, with me close behind.
Jennifer slammed through another door at the bottom and, although it was pretty much midnight, white light flooded the space.
We weren’t on a runway. But immediately ahead was a plane. Probably ours and probably scheduled to shortly fly to LA, the front wheels bigger than a family car. Towering up high, the pilot sat flicking switches above his head. The engines roared warning. We took a sharp turn and ran round the thick supporting pillar that housed the stairs. In the shadows there was nothing to trip over but I still somehow managed to fall. And a proper dive too, like a striker on the losing team in the last minute of injury time.
I flew through the air, a tiny glider, instinctively letting go of the bag. As my palms met the American ground, scraping off British skin, the box hit the tarmac and broke free from the plastic. It bounced once, twice, and its lid came undone. Out soared the urn. This struck the ground and cracked open like a split peanut.
‘Mom!’ said Jennifer
But what spilt weren’t ashes.