The passport control area was teeming with armed police and huge Alsatians straining at leather leads. Peter’s heart raced. There’d obviously been some sort of security scare – had it involved him? Maybe someone at home had raised the alarm on his credit card fraud. Maybe the bank had spotted something dodgy in the way he’d typed in his dad’s password on the computer. Were they able to do that? He knew his father would find out soon enough that he was gone, and how he’d paid for the ticket. But that wouldn’t be for days, would it?
The queue moved slowly. When it was Peter’s turn he shuffled up to a burly woman in a tight-fitting blue uniform, who forced out a smile. He expected a barrage of questioning and had spent much of the flight time rehearsing his answers. He was visiting his uncle, he’d tell them. That wasn’t exactly a lie. He was travelling alone because his mother had just died and his father, well, his father wasn’t really up to much. Yes, it was cancer. Yes, she was tragically young. His throat had tightened when he’d thought up that line, and he’d imagined a kindly immigration officer wiping away a tear. No, of course he hadn’t used his dad’s credit card in a fraudulent manner to obtain any financial goods or services. What did they take him for, a thief? Why, he was just a poor, nearly-orphaned fifteen-year-old.
The burly woman stamped his passport and ordered him to have a nice day. There would be no interrogation, no cavity search, no phone calls to Interpol, no deportation. Not yet, anyway.
Peter picked up his holdall and passed through the doors to the main terminal. He scanned the anxious, waiting crowd, but where was his uncle? It didn’t help that every man seemed to be dressed in a sort of uniform – baseball caps and white trainers, brightly-coloured T-shirts or polo shirts, new-looking blue jeans or khaki shorts.
‘Hey, Pete.’
Uncle Ken lumbered over like a big bear and hugged Peter until he couldn’t breathe.
‘Great to see you, kid.’
Ken finally let go, thumping Peter’s back as if he wanted to expel any tiny air pockets that might still be left in his lungs. Then he took the holdall and guided Peter through the tangle of luggage trolleys, pushchairs, stressed-out passengers, crying children.
When they got to the main concourse, Peter noticed a small old-fashioned aeroplane suspended from the ceiling. On the side of the fuselage was written ‘Spirit of St Louis’. Peter had seen this before when he was little, with Mum. He recognised the dull metal body, covered in tiny dents, as if it had been buffeted by rocks and debris.
‘That’s a replica of Charles Lindbergh’s plane.’ Ken stopped so Peter could take a long look. ‘Kids your age pro’ly don’t know who he was, but he was the first guy to fly solo across the Atlantic.’
‘Amazing,’ Peter said, blankly. He was trying his best to listen, but the terminal building was still packed with security officers and policemen. There were at least a dozen of them, strolling up and down in twos and threes. Was this normal?
‘He’s still famous around here because he was from Minnesota. Charles Lindbergh. The Lone Eagle, they called him. A real American hero.’
Ken moved on, thankfully, whisking Peter through the airport, past the souvenir shops, the fast food joints, the dark, crowded bars. They rushed by the door to a gents’ toilet. Peter was bursting for a pee, but there was no way he was going to stop now. Finally, they reached the end of the long concourse. A set of escalators led down to the car park. Beyond that, there was outside – safety, freedom.
Ken stepped off the escalator and stopped again. Peter nearly tumbled into him. Now what?
‘You fixed OK for dollars, Pete?’ Ken nodded at a cash machine in the corner.
Dollars? Peter felt sick again.
‘We can stop somewhere else, if you want. I just figured, since we’re here.’
Money. Jesus. Quick. Lie.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he squeaked, tapping the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. Inside were two crumpled twenty dollar bills and a handful of quarters.
The automatic doors opened and Peter breathed in the warm exhaust fumes from hundreds of cars.
‘Welcome home,’ Ken said.
Forty dollars and a bit of change. That would be more than enough, wouldn’t it?