For three days Justin lived in a state of suspended animation that passed for a sort of domestic bliss.
Each night he tucked himself into his moulded plastic row of blue seats and slept deeply, his dog by his side. After the first night he dreamt a new dream. In this dream he was naked, submerged in air so thick and warm it buoyed him up, let him float like a Zeppelin through the fuggy atmosphere of the airport. From his vantage point near the ceiling he could observe the comings and goings of humanity like some lesser god, occasionally lowering his imaginary flaps to swoop down among the people, amused, playful, and all-powerful.
Each morning he awoke loose-limbed, clear-headed and optimistic.
He suddenly realized that what he felt was happy, and the feeling was so dramatically new, so different, he had to tell Agnes.
‘Where are you?’ she squawked down the phone. ‘I’ve been so worried.’
‘Luton Airport?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you coming or going?’
‘Just… staying.’
‘How strange.’ She was quiet for a moment. ‘Is it nice?’
‘Yes. Perfect.’
‘Perfect? How, perfect?’
‘Just perfect. I can’t explain.’
‘Try.’
He paused. ‘It’s peaceful here. Nothing’s familiar. No one knows who I am.’
At the other end of the phone, she said nothing.
‘It’s not even a place, it’s like a place on the way to another place. Like limbo.’
‘I never thought of it that way.’
‘Neither did I. But… there you are.’
‘There you are,’ she said, and he could hear the expression on her face.
Neither of them said anything. Then he heard the pips of his money running out.
‘Agnes –’
‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’
The phone went dead.