“Dah dah dah, dah dah dahhh.”
David couldn’t place the tune that wafted in through the open door. It was both familiar and yet elusive. He was sure he’d heard it before. Hundreds of times before.
“Dah dah dah, dah dah dahhh.” Whistling, the Baggage Handler strolled into the waiting room.
David scanned the black suitcase on the cart the Baggage Handler trailed behind him, searching for confirmation. This time it was the right flash of red: his alumni baggage tags, the mighty Rams.
“Finally.” David rose from the sofa. This mix-up had cost him an hour of his precious two-hour extension. “You will be hearing from my lawyer.”
The Baggage Handler shrugged as he spun the cart and placed the baggage in front of David. He tipped his Baggage Services cap and stood, maddeningly silent.
David exhaled his frustration. “Would you like to help me get out of this place?”
“I’d love to.” The Baggage Handler stood back with a sweep of his arm toward the door. “After you.”
David strode forward and grabbed the handle of his suitcase—and almost pulled his arm out of its socket as the baggage remained stuck to the floor. He rubbed his throbbing shoulder and then looked at his suitcase, at the Baggage Handler, and at the suitcase again. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and again tried to lift it, but it wasn’t moving. It was glued to the ground. His pulse thumped in his ears, and his stomach grumbled under the stress of yet another delay.
“What is going on here? What have you done to my suitcase?”
The Baggage Handler checked his clipboard. “Nothing. You can check the baggage tags if you like.”
“I know it’s mine! Those are my baggage tags! What have you people done? Why can’t I lift it?”
The Baggage Handler shrugged. “You saw me lift it with no problem. And it’s locked.”
David tried again to lift his suitcase, but it still wasn’t moving. He closed his eyes and breathed hard. Then the reason for this entire shambles of a trip dawned on him. It was the only rational explanation. No car at the airport. A sweaty, incense-infused cab ride. Someone else’s bag. Now this.
The smallest laugh escaped his lips. He knew what was going on.
“Okay, enough already! If this is some kind of prank for a TV show . . .” He shot glances into every corner of the room, looking for hidden cameras in the ceiling, in the fruit bowl, anywhere. “You’ve got hidden cameras somewhere. Congratulations, you got me.” He bowed to the fruit bowl, where he was sure the hidden camera was. “Whoever has put up this prank, you can come out now. Julian? I presume it’s you.”
It was the only explanation that made sense.
But the Baggage Handler hadn’t moved. “What are you talking about, David?”
“Well, it’s obvious this is a prank. That explains everything. I fly into the city for a meeting, but somehow my suitcase is mixed up. There isn’t a limousine waiting for me. Head office treats me like some kind of leper. I go to a strange depot in the middle of nowhere instead of to the airport, and then I’m left here in a waiting room for an hour. I head out to the corridor to find someone, and it’s like I’m stuck in the Matrix or something. And then when you bring my suitcase back, it’s impossible to pick up.”
David leaned across to the Baggage Handler in a whisper. “You were pretty impressive, by the way. Mysterious, talking like a karate master and appearing at both the airport and the depot. Well done!”
The Baggage Handler looked at David with piercing blue eyes that bored into his soul. “This isn’t a prank.”
David folded his arms. “Well, what’s going on, then?”
“Why do you think you can’t pick up your baggage?”
David threw his hands into the air. “And stop calling it baggage. It’s a suitcase! Anyway, why can’t I lift it? It wasn’t heavy when I checked it at the airport.”
“I think you’ll find your baggage has always been heavy. That’s why it weighs you down.”
David again exhaled heavily. “Will you stop talking as if you’re Confucius or a Facebook meme or whatever? You’ve obviously put something in there. What’s going on here?”
The Baggage Handler spoke in a near-whisper, a counterpoint to David’s simmering anger. “Why are you asking me? You’re a man of action. Why don’t you look for yourself?”
David stood back and folded his arms again. “No. If I open it, it will explode in my face or something. I don’t trust you. You open it.”
But the Baggage Handler sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs. “I can’t. I’m also not the one in a hurry, David. It’s your baggage.”
“Okay, fine, whatever. Anything to get out of this place.” David toed the suitcase, and it sat solid on the floor. Immovable. He shoved it again, and it gave a gentle rock before settling back into position. With one almighty push, it rocked past the point of no return and slammed onto the floor.
David bent over and thumbed in the lock’s combination. As he unzipped the bag, his gaze never left the Baggage Handler. “Well, let’s see what we’ve got in here, shall we?” He eased open the lid with a careful eye and breathed again. His much-needed financial reports sat on top of his few overnight clothes. But his eye was caught by something on top of the reports. Something unexpected. Two ferry tickets, a few restaurant receipts, and a man’s polo shirt, which wasn’t his. He picked it up. “This isn’t—”
“Just look at it.”
On the collar was a mark: bright-pink lipstick. David looked back at the Baggage Handler, who gestured toward David’s suitcase with his head. “Have a closer look.”
One more extra thing was there. A printed photograph—a selfie of two people kissing while sitting in the sun on the back of a ferry, the wind in their hair, sea spray on their faces.
Two people enjoying the sun and the scenery. Two people enjoying each other.
His wife was one of them, but he wasn’t the other.
It was Jerry, his former best friend.
The exact photo he’d found on Sharon’s phone six months ago.