Bolt-hole (20 page)

The train doors open and I join the mass of humanity boarding.  It’s standing room only and I lean against the window and turn to face the outside to obscure my identity from my fellow travellers. Within thirty minutes we arrive at the airport.  I wait for half the carriage to empty, and then, keeping my head down, I join the middle of the pack.  As I step off the train, the crowd of people in front of me parts, and when I look up I find myself faced by two policemen with automatic weapons strapped to their chest.  I slow my step –
have they come for me?
  As I work out my next move I get nudged in the back by an impatient passenger, and I reluctantly walk towards the police as they stare straight at me.  I hold my breath, waiting for some sort of response, but amazingly they seem totally unaware and simply turn away.  Barely reassured, I walk past them, my knees almost buckling as I follow the signs for Terminal 2. 

Passing via an overhead glass-walled walkway, I reach the terminal within five minutes and head straight for the privacy of the toilets.  As I walk through the door of the Gents, I view my reflection in the full-length mirror.  Again I’m satisfied: hair neatly trimmed, clean-shaven, smart clothes with not too many creases, my skin is a little pale after the weeks of subterranean living but not to the degree that would attract attention.  I wash my hands, rinse my face in the basin, and lock myself in the end cubical.  I sit on the toilet lid and open the top of the rucksack, removing the rolled up fabric hand-luggage.  After again checking the contents, I put the two envelopes of cash in my trouser pockets, leaving just the passport and plane ticket in the small bag, and then head back to the main check-in area. 

Still three hours before the flight, the check-in desk has yet to open but already there’s a queue of ten or so people.  I join the back of the line and take slow deep breaths, ever conscious of the numerous CCTV cameras in the rafters of the huge building.  Within a few minutes the desk opens, and then shortly after I’m ushered to the front by an officious woman coordinating matters.  I place the rucksack on the conveyor belt and give my ticket and passport to the young man behind the desk.  He carefully studies the ticket and passport but barely acknowledges me.  Normally his indifference would irritate me, but today I’m more than a little grateful.  After the usual questions – “Did you pack the bag yourself?” et cetera – he gives me two boarding passes: Manchester-Heathrow and Heathrow-Rio de Janeiro. 

With boarding passes in hand I’m on my way.  I follow the arrows for the departure lounge, which first takes me via the security checkpoint.  Walking past two more armed policemen, my gait feels unnatural and awkward, almost as if I’m concentrating too hard to appear normal.  In front of me are four parallel rows of metal detectors and X-ray machines, and then, immediately beyond them, two small stands with security officers checking passports.  There are no other passengers waiting, and I feel the eyes of the numerous security officers fixed on me.  With my hand shaking, I place my wallet, watch and bag in the black tray on the rollers of the X-ray machine and then walk towards the metal detector.  I say a silent prayer that the buzzer stays quiet.  I know I don’t have anything that can be construed as a weapon, but I can’t help worrying that if something innocuous, even a zip or a metal button, triggers the alarm they’ll want to search me.  Then they’ll almost certainly find the $25,000 stuffed in my trousers, which will doubtless lead to unwanted questions and scrutiny.  My heart is pounding and I feel light headed as my anxiety begins to escalate.
Jesus … Julian, calm down, calm down,
I urge.  I slowly step through the detector, all the time waiting for the buzzer to sound, but miraculously all remains quiet.  Stunned that I’ve made it through to the promised land, I pause for a split second before a bored-looking security woman gestures with her hand-held metal detector for me to collect my stuff from the tray that had been spewed out of the X-ray machine.

I head for Passport Control and an unsmiling security man perched behind a small podium.  The man acknowledges me with a nod and takes my passport before staring intently at me and then at the photograph.  More beads of sweat form on my brow and quickly begin to drip off the end of my nose and chin.  “That’s fine, sir, have a good flight.”  I try to respond, knowing a simple
thank you
will be sufficient, but I suspect that if I open my mouth I’ll be sick.  Instead I just nod and turn to follow the directions to the flight gates.  I cover no more than a few steps, when from behind me, a voice punctuates the silence. “Sir, sir, wait, please.” 

Unsure what to do, I continue walking.  Again the voice, now louder and more forceful, “Sir … sir … wait.”  Panic begins to set in as I feel the other passengers staring in my direction.  For better or worse my brain says to run, but I just stop, frozen to the spot.  Again
from behind me, and louder still: “SIR, SIR … wait … wait … your passport, you’ve left your passport.” 

Slowly I turn to face him and force a smile of sorts, raising my eyebrows as if to acknowledge my stupidity. “Sorry, sorry, I’m distracted, a bit nervous of flying.”  He nods back at me. “No problem.”  As I extend my hand to take the passport I spot a collection of photographs pinned to the back of the high desk behind him.  Normally obscured from the view of passengers as they pass through, my eyes are immediately drawn to the picture top right.  Stunned, it takes a second for me to take in what’s in front of me … taken from my university ID badge, my now ubiquitous photograph seems to be everywhere.  I attempt another smile, take the passport from his outstretched hand, and turn away.  I hurriedly leave the security area and head for nearest toilet and the first empty cubicle, where I’m promptly sick into the bowl. 

I sit on the closed toilet lid wondering how much longer I can keep going.  It crosses my mind to give up, hand myself in, anything to put an end to my suffering.  But the second I picture Musgrove’s face, I dismiss the idea.  Even from the grave and presumably his hell, there’s no way I can give him the satisfaction of my failure. 

After thirty minutes, and feeling more composed, I leave the cubicle and head over to the washbasin.  My face is flushed with anxiety and exhaustion, but at least it gives some colour to my otherwise sallow complexion.  I splash my face with water, icy cold against my hot skin, dry myself off with a paper towel, and then reluctantly leave to face the world again. 

----

My flight to Heathrow boards on time.  As I enter the plane my heart skips more than a few beats as I see a stack of complementary
Daily Telegraphs
in the arms of the attendant in the doorway.  I take a copy, a futile act, but at least there’s one less in the hands of a potential whistleblower.  Almost as soon as we’re airborne the plane levels off, and shortly after we begin the descent into Heathrow.  I don’t want to leave the plane.  Somehow I feel safer in the air as I remember all those days on Kinder Scout looking skyward, watching as the planes flew overhead and imagining their destinations.  The plane lands and I make the journey between terminals on a cramped shuttle bus.  I have a little over an hour to kill and spend the time hidden away in a toilet cubicle, only exiting when a tannoy announces the boarding of my flight.  I follow a moving walkway and then come to another security check.  I hand over my passport and boarding pass, but the officer barely glances at the photograph before handing it back. 

I can now see the gate, fifty metres or so in the distance.  There’s already a large group of people waiting, almost blocking the entire concourse.  Getting closer, my heart begins to pound and the nausea quickly returns as I see at least a handful of figures wearing yellow fluorescent jackets within the mass of passengers.  As they turn, the word “Security” emblazoned across their backs yells out at me.  I continue walking, but slow my pace as they turn to face me and begin to approach.  Now closer still, amongst the crowd I can see a heavy police presence, probably at least five or six, many of them armed.  I glance over my shoulder as my world begins to fall apart; just twenty metres or so behind, more police and security are converging on me in a huge pack.  I turn around to find an escape route, but other than jumping the barrier of a gate and taking my chances running across the tarmac, there is no obvious place to run.  I’m surrounded.

“Passenger Mr James Bosworth … Mr James Andrew Bosworth … Please approach the desk at Gate 47,” the public address system blasts out.  After six months of waiting, and close to a year of preparation, my plan is falling apart.  I smile to myself, and then laugh out loud.  Accepting the inevitable, my anxiety dissipates.  There’s nothing more I can do.  Of course, I’m not happy, but I suppose my principle emotion is a kind of satisfaction and pride that I’ve come so far. I haven’t let myself down, and more importantly I haven’t let Helen and the boys down.

I wait for a command from the police to stop, but instead I feel a vicious blow in the middle of my back as a uniformed officer hits me hard with his shoulder.  The breath taken from me, I stumble forward, only just managing to stay upright.  Waiting for the next blow, I tense my muscles, knowing that to run is futile, and I turn halfway to face my pursuers in a final act of defiance.  “I’m sorry, sir,” the officer responds, almost meekly, stunning me by his reaction, before screaming “Back off!” to the photographer next to him and roughly pushing him to one side.  

Still struggling for breath, I stand aside and let the mass of police, security and accompanying photographers pass through.  In the middle of the scrum is the diminutive figure of a young woman in dark sunglasses.  It takes me a second before I recognise her from the front cover of the
Telegraph
supplement: some American pop princess, I forget her name, on tour in the UK.

Shell-shocked and about to take a seat opposite Gate 47, there’s another call on the p.a., this time with more urgency than the earlier request.  “Mr James Bosworth, Mr James Bosworth on flight BA207 to Rio de Janeiro, please come immediately to the desk at Gate 47.”  I look around me; the police and security are now someway down the long concourse, and I approach the desk.  The attendant looks at me. “Mr James Bosworth?” 

“Yes”, I respond, placing my passport and ticket in her extended hand. 

She scans the ticket and passport before looking back at me. “Sir, economy has been overbooked, so we’ve upgraded you to business class.”  I stare back at her in silence, my nerves shattered. “Obviously at no extra charge,” she adds. 

I smile back at her mumbling, “Thank you”, and take the passport and new boarding pass.

----

With my upgraded ticket in hand, I climb the luxuriously carpeted steps of the Boeing 747.  I’m greeted at the top by a pretty flight attendant with an enthusiastic smile. “Good morning, sir, can I take your boarding pass.”  I hand it to her and she takes me to my seat.  About to sit down, for the first time I realise the significance of the seat – 17b, the number of the flat in Rawlton.  I smile to myself at the irony as I sink back into the plush leather, stretching out my aching legs into the generous leg-room. 

After a few minutes I glance around the cabin. Still only half the seats occupied with just five minutes to the scheduled departure time.  After showing several other passengers to their seats, the flight attendant returns. “Champagne before we depart, sir?” 

“Yes, that would be great – thank you.” I take a glass from the silver tray she’s holding.  About to have a sip, it crosses my mind that I’m tempting fate: the plane is still on the ground and in home jurisdiction; the police could board at any minute.  But with the attendant smiling sweetly on, I relax a little; in any case, if the strong arm of the law were to appear now it would all be over. There’s nothing I can do about it, so why worry.  I indulge myself. 

Within ten minutes the plane leaves the stand and begins to taxi across the apron.  Out of the corner of my eye, I keep checking the top of the staircase, alert to a visit from police or security, but there are to be no final unpleasant surprises.  A few minutes later the plane roars down the runway and there’s the distinctive hum as the wheels leave the tarmac and we’re airborne.  I’m not quite sure what to feel;
should I feel pleased
?  Yes, I’ve made it out, but I still don’t have my family back,
and what does the future hold?
I suppose part of me worries that my plan has been my raison d’être and that now, with its successful completion within touching distance,
where will I go?, what will I do from here?

After the meal and a second glass of champagne, tiredness overwhelms the waves of melancholy.  I study the myriad of buttons on the seat arm, press a few randomly, and after some trial and error the foot-rest elevates and the back-rest reclines.  I snuggle down under the thick woollen blanket on the newly created bed, separated from the neighbouring seat by a full-length privacy shield.  In my last few seconds of wakefulness, the pretty stewardess comes over. “Are you comfortable there, sir?”