Eight hours spent stretched out along an undulating row of plastic seats is not everyone’s idea of a good night’s sleep. But with legs slotted under metal armrests, ten thousand watts of fluorescent light glaring directly overhead, hundreds of disgruntled travellers for company, an abandoned acrylic airline blanket for a cover and his loyal dog at his feet, Justin slept like a baby.
He felt almost serene.
The rattle of the cleaner’s trolley lulled him into the gentlest unconsciousness he had experienced in years. The intense artificial light gave him a powerful sense of well-being; it occurred to him that he’d spent most of his life afraid of the dark.
He slept through the early morning arrivals and departures, waking refreshed and cheerful at 8 a.m.
The first day of his new life began with a full English breakfast at the café across from the first-class lounge. Except for the mushrooms, which tasted strongly of plastic, the meal was adequate: microwave hot and plentiful. When he asked for more toast, the middle-aged woman behind the counter waved his money away.
‘You save that money for your journey,’ she said, handing him a plate heaped with slices of cold, singed white toast, a handful of individually wrapped butter pats, and five tiny tubs of strawberry jam.
He smiled at her.
Working his way through the pile of toast, Justin felt there was no pressure to do anything. His pace slowed accordingly, and it was nearly ten by the time he’d finished his food and read all the newspapers abandoned on surrounding tables.
He wiped his mouth and stacked his rubbish for the cleaners, left Boy to look after his belongings, followed the picture signs to the Comfort Zone, pushed a pound into the slot of a tall turnstile, stripped off his clothes and stepped gratefully into the steamy blast of the airport shower. The thick stream of hot water felt like a miracle; he stood under it motionless, letting it pour through his hair, down his neck and back, over the narrow smooth planes of his hips, down his legs, and off his ankles, swirling around the soles of his feet before disappearing down the plughole. For ten minutes he stood, allowing the warmth to penetrate his muscles and soak through to his bones. It brought with it a realization of how lucky he was, how privileged to be alive and well and living at Luton Airport.
He spent so long in the steamy cubicle that the attendant had to bang on the door to move him along, but he didn’t care. He felt peaceful, warmed through to the very core of his being. He turned off the water and at first the silence confused him. It was ages before he realized that the soundtrack that had accompanied his recent life – the constant buzzing white noise of anxiety – was gone.
He felt like singing, crying, shouting with relief.
He stared hard at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, noticing that the face that stared back at him looked different. The haunted expression was gone. He looked less like a nervous child, more like a person.
The attendant pounded on the door, more loudly this time.
Justin dried his neck and ruffled his damp hair with a tear-off paper towel. He felt cleaner than he’d felt in his entire life. A pound’s worth of soap and hot water was all it took to cleanse the grime from his soul, remove the sludge from his brain and reveal the face behind the mask.
He held his hand out in front of him. No trace of a tremor. He was strong. Invincible.
Bring on your worst, he said to fate.
Indeed.