Broken Places (22 page)

‘Well, where do I make one, then?’

‘It’s not my job to give out information.’

‘Thanks a lot. That’s helpful!’

‘If you have enquiries,’ the fellow said, ignoring Eric’s sarcasm, ‘you can speak to the receptionist.’ He pointed to the far side of the foyer. ‘Over there,’ he snapped.

There was a queue to see the receptionist – not the female he’d expected, but a balding guy with a nose-stud and a tattoo.

‘Are you applying for a first-time passport or the renewal of an existing one?’

‘First-time.’

‘In that case, you’ll need an interview.’

The very word was alarming, with its overtones of job-applications and memories from decades back of case-conferences and case-reviews: loads of bossy grownups using words he couldn’t understand, and only asking
his
opinion when it was too late to change decisions already made about his life. ‘When?’ he asked. ‘And where? What sort of interview?’

‘They need to confirm your identity. You can choose the office you go to, but there’s only one in London – Hannibal House, Elephant and Castle.’

‘OK. Can I arrange it right away?’

‘Hold on! First you have to apply by post, to Peterborough. You’ll need this form.’ The man handed over a sizeable white envelope. ‘All the
instructions
are in there, too – how you fill it in; what documents you need to send; the type of photos deemed acceptable. Once they receive your completed form, they’ll write back within two or three weeks and—’

‘Two or three weeks?’ he interrupted. ‘So how long does the whole thing take?’

‘You’ll need to allow six weeks.’

‘I don’t
have
six weeks. This is urgent.’

‘Well, it can be speeded up if it’s a matter of life and death – and I mean that literally.’

‘No, not quite life and death. But I have to fly exactly five weeks from today.’

The man shook his head. ‘That’s cutting it extremely fine. I can’t
guarantee
you’ll get it in time.’

‘But I thought there was a fast-track service?’

‘Only for renewals, not for first-time passports. All I can suggest is that you use the “Check and Send” service offered by the post office. They’ll go through your application, line by line, and send it by Special Delivery. At least it’ll get there quicker then, and won’t be returned because you’ve made mistakes, so you’ll save time, overall. If you want more information, the nearest post office is in Eccleston Place, just up from here, on the right.’

The queue in the post office was twice as long as that in the Passport Office. Eric stood, fuming with impatience, as various doddery pensioners conducted their maddeningly slow business at the counters, or, in one case, dropped the entire contents of a handbag on the floor. He darted over to lend a hand, retrieving various objects, including two half-eaten chocolate bars, a sheaf of lottery tickets, a box of indigestion tablets and a packet of cat-de-fleaing powder. The old crone thanked him profusely, although it did little to lessen his frustration at losing his place in the queue.

Cashier number four, please….

Cashier number two, please….

Would it ever be his turn? Perhaps he should get a prescription for Valium – or something twice as strong – not just to calm him on the flight, but for all these stressful pre-flight chores. No. If he was heavily sedated when the plane crashed, he wouldn’t make it to the emergency exit or be alert enough to propel himself down a chute. Besides, if he arrived in Seattle doped up to the eyeballs, Christine would write him off as a completely unsuitable father.

Cashier number five, please
….

He rushed over to the counter, but within minutes he was totally confused, since the clerk informed him categorically that he didn’t need an interview and didn’t have to go to Hannibal House. All he had to do was apply by post, to Peterborough, and he should receive his passport within two weeks.

‘But they told me at the Passport Office I wouldn’t get it within
five
weeks.’

‘Hey, Adrian!’ The clerk shouted at the guy sitting at the adjoining counter. ‘Know anything about Hannibal House – having to go there for an interview?’

‘Yeah, I think it’s some new thing. But there may be certain exemptions. I suggest your customer returns to the Passport Office and asks them for more info.’

Groaning, Eric walked back the way he’d come, only to take his place in yet another queue. The balding bloke had vanished; replaced now by a younger man, with bedraggled, greasy hair.

‘The post office don’t know what they’re talking about. They’re not trained in this line of work. And, in any case, if you use their “Check and Send” service, they’ll charge you an extra
£
6.85, on top of the standard fee.’

‘What is the fee?’

‘
£
72.’

Eric did more calculations in his head. Any hopes he might have had of saving for the baby, or saving for an engagement ring, were disappearing at the speed of light.

‘Whereas we can check your form for nothing here.’

‘So why didn’t someone tell me that, before I traipsed off to the post office?’

‘No idea.’ A shrug.

‘But are you absolutely sure I need to have an interview?’

The man screwed up his face, as if pondering the question. ‘Probably,’ he said, at last.

Eric suppressed a scream. There were no certainties in life, of course, but one might reasonably expect them in a government department.

‘Anyway, I suggest you get the form off and wait and see what happens.’

It was snowing again as he left the building, so he dived into the nearest café; cold, confused and absolutely ravenous. Not that he could eat. Anxiety affected his stomach, as well as just his bowels. But a shot or two of caffeine would help him concentrate. The instruction-booklet for filling out the form ran to twenty-four pages of fine print.

Every year, 250,000 postal applications are rejected or delayed because of simple mistakes….

He could just imagine Christine’s scorn if he cocked up the procedure. He was already deeply anxious about getting the passport in time, since the booklet stated clearly that new applicants should allow six weeks. And
his
case might take longer, on account of his being a foundling, with an unusual birth certificate. If Dwight and Christine were forced to postpone their wedding, he would be blamed in perpetuity and never live down the disgrace. The booklet also warned that if he missed his interview for any reason including illness, he might have to re-apply; fill in another form and send new photographs. The mere thought sent further spasms shuddering through his gut.

Only the section headed ‘Your Particular Needs at the Interview Office’, gave him any relief, since at least he didn’t need wheelchair access, a hearing-loop, a carer to be present, or a private room in which to remove his niqab. However, there were further problems in that his form needed counter-signing by a professional person who had known him at least two years. Trevor would probably be classed as a professional, but he could hardly go and beg his help when he was meant to be lying in a darkened room, too ill to move a muscle. Besides, he was loath to reveal to anyone the shaming fact that he hadn’t had a passport up till now. The alternative was to make an appointment with a doctor or solicitor, but speed was of the essence – in fact, he ought to post the completed form today.

‘Yeah? What can I get you?’ The waitress had slouched over to his table: a skinny girl, with a mane of hair twice as long as her mini-skirt. Could he bribe
her
to sign the form; pretend she was his lawyer or physician? No, then he’d be done for fraud, which would delay the process longer still while he languished in Wandsworth gaol.

Which reminded him – he was due at the prison book club in just under a month, for an event he’d arranged himself: a talk by the crime-writer, Simon Brett, about his life and work. In fact, he’d promised to ring Simon before ten o’clock this morning, to give him further details, yet had totally forgotten. And since Simon had mentioned an early dental appointment, he’d be in the dentist’s chair by now and would think him rude and offhand, especially as he was doing the talk as a favour and had agreed to waive his usual fee.

The waitress was still waiting for him to answer and gave an exaggerated sigh.

‘Er, sorry. A double espresso. Oh, and is there any chance you could you lend me a Biro?’

She gave him the pen from her order-pad – a blue fibre-tip – which put paid to his filling out the form. Fibre-tips, felt-tips, fountain pens and blue ink were all forbidden; a black ballpoint being the only thing allowed. Instead, he studied the instructions for the photographs, and ‘studied’ was the operative word, since there were seventeen separate headings, mostly prohibitions. Glare, shadows, red-eye, sun-specs – all would invalidate the photo, as would grins, frowns, raised eyebrows or hair across one’s eyes. Well, at least grinning wasn’t a problem. He doubted if he would ever grin again.

Once the waitress brought his espresso, he put the form away. If even a creased photo rendered it null and void (heading number eight), then a
coffee-stained form was bound to be destroyed. He should have brought Simon Brett’s book with him – the one the book club were reading this month, in preparation for the author’s visit. At least it would have distracted him, and he could have jotted down some points of interest, so he could take part in the discussion that would follow Simon’s talk. But, lacking a book of any kind, he reached out for the newspapers abandoned on the adjoining table.  

Every headline seemed to prophesy disaster and, even when he rifled through the Sports section, he found it impossible to concentrate on Tiger Woods’ knee injury, or the traumatic finale of the Third Test in the West Indies. So, when a glossy brochure fell out of the Arts Review -‘Magellan’s Travel Supplies’ – he picked it up, with a certain curiosity. Flicking through it, however, only increased his angst, since, according to Magellan’s, anyone contemplating air-travel required a whole cabin-load of specialist supplies: crease-free clothing; a folding foot-rest; every type of cushion – for necks, backs, bums, shoulders, tailbones; a moulded sleep-mask; tamper-proof and leak-proof bottles; an individual air-supply (a mere
£
119), and a travel-case for medicines and vitamins (a snip at
£
20). Several items were described as ‘travel must-haves’ – for instance, the Slash-Proof, Snatch-Proof Security Bag, complete with Pickpocket-Proof Security Wallet.
New
fears were being added to all his existing ones: fear of knives, thieves, smash-and-grab,
deep-vein
thrombosis (Magellan’s special socks the only remedy); travel sickness (ditto Magellan’s acupressure bands) infections caught
en route
(deadly, or even terminal, unless prevented with Magellan’s Anti-Virus Flight Spray, Carbon-Filter Masks and Push-Pen Water-Sterilizers). Well, if he sent away for that little lot, it would add several thousand pounds to his
fast-escalating
flight-costs.

Suddenly decisive, he slammed the brochure down, gulped his tepid coffee, flung some coins on the table and hared off to Victoria Station to find a photo-machine.

It was already occupied by two teenage girls, who were sitting on each other’s laps, making silly faces in the mirror, applying blusher and eye-gloss and generally larking about. It was obvious that they weren’t actually
taking photographs, and, in any case, they had left the curtain undrawn. However, he hadn’t the heart to hurry them up, since they were little older than Erica and a fond reminder of his daughter. Besides, like her, they might have problems. According to statistics, many adolescents in both England and America were stressed, unhappy or even secretly self-harming, so why deprive this particular pair of a bit of innocent fun?

In fact, as he stood waiting by the booth, listening to their little shrieks and giggles, he suddenly knew he
had
to go to Seattle, however great his fears. He hadn’t seen Erica for almost fourteen months, which reflected on him badly as a father. He owed it to her to make the trip and, even if he arrived more dead than alive, make it he damned well would.

Then, all at once, as if inspired by his decision, he remembered someone he could ask to countersign his passport, and a solicitor, no less. Jeremy Hugh-Jones, a former neighbour in Kingston, had moved to a flat in Wandsworth some nine months ago, and had immediately asked his help, as local librarian, for a project he was involved in, tracing the history of clay pipes. In fact, the fellow had tried his patience, forever seeking him out and taking up his time – and not just in working hours.
He
might be retired and potty about pipes, but that didn’t mean everybody else was. So Jeremy owed him a favour and, although there was a danger of being recruited again as an unpaid research-assistant, it was worth the risk if it meant he’d get his passport.

Just at that moment, the girls pranced out, leaving the photo-booth free. ‘We’ve warmed up the seat for you, Granddad,’ the taller one remarked.

And, as he sat down on the, yes, warm seat, he actually managed the ghost of a smile. ‘Granddad’ was dead right – he had aged at least two decades overnight.

He watched as Jeremy poured the tea from a Victorian silverware teapot, circa 1869. Antique teapots were the fellow’s new obsession – so he had learned to his cost. Research on hallmarks and decoration-styles had been added to his research on clay pipes, and all in return for one rushed and squiggly signature on the passport-application form. They’d been talking teapots for at least the last half-hour, yet the wretched man showed no sign of desisting.

‘Did you notice the snake’s-head finial?’ He pointed to the top of the pot, where a silver serpent extended its tiny tongue. ‘Most finials in Victorian times were screwed onto the lid, but this one’s soldered, which makes it quite unusual.’

‘Really?’ Eric said, resolving to find some way of terminating this far-
from-welcome
relationship. The guy was obviously lonely, since he kept suggesting further meetings and seemed to assume they were now bosom friends.

‘And this octagonal-shaped body’ – Jeremy stroked the teapot lovingly – ‘was introduced in the early eighteenth century but continued to be
fashionable
throughout the Victorian era.’

He passed Eric milk and sugar and cut him a slice of cake, with a further disquisition on the cake-plate, milk-jug and sugar-bowl, all hand-painted Early Worcester and apparently quite rare. Then, having stirred his tea, he settled back in his seat, with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Well, I must say, this is nice, Eric – almost like old times in Kingston. Oh, by the way, what happened about your passport? Did you get it in the end?’

Eric had assumed he would never ask. Clearly, in Jeremy’s estimation, passports were less enthralling than teapots, creamers, slop-bowls and the rest. ‘No,’ he replied, with some vehemence. ‘And I have to say, I’m in quite a stew about it. I’m due to leave eight days from now, which means I’ll have to cancel the flight if it hasn’t come by then.’

‘Well, you know these bureaucrats – they always take their time.’

‘But my interview was a whole nine days ago. And I told them then –
and
when I first applied – that my visit to the States was a family necessity, not a pleasure-trip, so could they please hurry up the process.’ The official conducting the interview hadn’t been exactly sympathetic – a suspicious, sullen type, who had taken a grim delight in nitpicking over everything.

‘Well, I can only wish you luck.’ Jeremy brushed a stray cake-crumb from his lip. ‘And do keep me in the picture, won’t you? In fact, maybe we could meet again, just before you leave.’

‘
If
I leave,’ Eric interrupted, quickly fabricating a raft of reasons why he’d be too busy to socialize, even if he didn’t fly.

‘My own flying days are over,’ Jeremy remarked; proving his thick skin by barely registering the brush-off. ‘Although I must have flown a good million miles in my time.’

Eric gave an involuntary gasp. Shouldn’t the guy have died of terror way before a thousand miles, let alone a million?

‘But, a year ago, on a flight to New Orleans, the plane was struck by lightning just as we approached the airport. We flew into this thick yellow cloud and suddenly there was a terrific bang, and the whole plane
shuddered
and sparks flew off the wing.’

Eric put his plate down. No way could he munch chocolate cake whilst digesting such atrocities.

‘And somehow I just lost my nerve. Now I prefer to stay at home.’

‘Absolutely,’ Eric echoed.

‘Although, one way and another, I’ve survived a good few horrors in my time. I remember one occasion, in 1975, there was a fire in the
undercarriage
as we landed at Heathrow. In those days, inflatable chutes weren’t available, so I had to climb down this sort of ladder-affair, then hold it out, with the help of another passenger, for the others to escape. We were surrounded by dense clouds of smoke, and I was choking so much I could barely breathe. The cabin crew were useless – in fact, more panicked than the rest of us.’

Eric fought an overwhelming instinct to bolt out of the flat before any further disasters could be added to the list.

‘And, the following year, when I was coming back from Athens, we were caught in a violent thunderstorm. The plane was thrown all over the place and everybody yelled blue murder. Mind you, snowstorms can be even worse. I’ll never forget the one in ’83, when I was on my way to Boston.
The turbulence was so horrendous, I assumed we were about to crash, and just sat there with my eyes shut, calling on the Lord for help. And what with engine-failure, which I’ve experienced on three occasions, and—’

No, he
couldn’t
fly – Eric knew that now. Thank God the passport hadn’t come: a blessing in disguise.

‘And, of course, it’s much more dangerous nowadays, with these confounded terrorists. OK, they foiled that plot in 2006 to blow up ten separate aircraft, but the buggers are bound to be planning more carnage – and on just the same grand scale, I bet!’

Eric’s hand was shaking on the cup. He needed a stiff drink – or three – not this watery Earl Grey. But he was due at the prison this evening, for Simon Brett’s visit to the book club and could hardly greet the author
half-cut
.

‘And another thing – standards are much lower now among most airline staff. You won’t believe this, Eric, but the other day I heard of a case where the pilot was actually rogering his co-pilot while they were over the Atlantic. But who was there to care, when most of the stewards are high on cocaine – or worse?’

Eric fought a wave of dizziness. He had been relying on those very staff to help him through the ordeal, but if they were crack-heads or sex-fiends – or even both at once – what chance was there of survival? He longed to rush straight round to Mandy’s flat, bury his head in her breasts, and beg her to kiss his fears away. But how could he even admit to such fears without losing her respect – maybe losing
her
, full-stop? In fact, during the last few weeks, he’d had to invent a string of crises at work, as an excuse to see her less. Much as he craved her company, he couldn’t take the risk of breaking down and confessing his mega-cowardice – when he was off his guard in bed, maybe – and revealing himself as the snivelling wreck he was.

Desperately, he shot up from his chair, strode over to the display-case and indicated one of the clay pipes. The only way to stop this bloke discoursing on catastrophes was to return him to his favourite subject. ‘Is this a new acquisition?’

Needing no second invitation, Jeremy joined him by the case and
reverently
withdrew the pipe: an elaborate specimen, with a decorative stem and a bowl in the shape of a lion’s head. ‘Yes, and what a beauty! See that detail on the mane? The bowl measures a mere inch-and-a-half, yet the carving is exquisite.’

‘Lovely,’ Eric agreed, glancing round the cluttered room, which seemed more museum than home; stuffed as it was with cabinets and
display-shelves
; every inch crowded with collectables. Even when the guy had lived in Kingston, he’d been patently eccentric, and these new retirement passions had only emphasized the trait.

‘Eric, I’ve just had a thought – why don’t you join the Society for Clay Pipe Research, now you’re becoming so involved yourself? We could go to their meetings together, then.’

‘Well, as I said before, I
am
extremely busy, what with—’ All at once, he exploded in a sneeze, followed by another and another. ‘I do beg your pardon,’ he tried to say, only to interrupt himself with yet more resounding ‘
atishoos
’.

‘You should have told me you had a cold,’ Jeremy said, his mood swiftly changing from affable to peevish. ‘And I’d have postponed our little
tea-party
until you were free of germs.’

‘It’s not a cold,’ Eric retorted. ‘I’m just …
atishoo
… allergic …
atishoo
… to …
atishoo-ooooo
.’ He gave up the attempt to explain, as a dozen more successive sneezes rendered it impossible to speak. Little tea-party indeed! He’d had no desire to come here in the first place, especially on his one day off – and not even a complete day off, with his book club
engagement
this evening.

However, at least Jeremy’s concern about catching something lethal provided a convenient escape, since when he said he’d simply have to leave, to avoid whatever allergen was lurking in the flat, the guy put up no
resistance
and ushered him swiftly to the door.

Having said a brief –
atishoo
– goodbye, he wheeled his bike along the street, deciding not to ride it, in case the jolting sneezes rocked him from the saddle. After ten explosive minutes with no let-up, he began to worry that he would trumpet all through Simon’s talk. If only he were
normal
– someone not prone to allergies or panics; a bloke like Trevor, maybe, whose only fears were budget-cuts or failing to meet targets.

Finally, however, the sneezing petered out and, having mounted his bike with a sense of huge relief, he pedalled on to the prison. Reaching it at
half-past
five and thus with time in hand, he decided to go for a walk on the common, not only to calm his nerves, but to give him a chance to do some quick revision on Simon’s latest paperback,
Blood at the Bookies
. In truth, he’d never been a fan of crime fiction but, even were he reading Tolstoy, the weighty issues on his mind would have fatally distracted him: the mix of
hope and angst each day as he checked the post for his passport; the fear of Christine’s fury if he was forced to let her down; the dilemma over Mandy. Would a ‘brave’ façade ensure her lasting love, or should he opt for honesty and make a clean breast of his terrors? And there were lesser concerns, as well. Who would run his reading group, while –
if
– he was away? Would any of his colleagues want to cope with the depressives, who could be unpredictable, if not downright cussed?

With a muttered curse, he yanked his mind back to murder suspects, betting shops and plot-twists; wishing someone would be kind enough to dispatch
him
in a betting shop. Death, however gory, seemed, at present, the only possible way out.

‘So how do you do your research?’ asked Doug – a hulking fellow, with a jowly, pock-marked face.

Eric, sitting next to him, suddenly noticed that his copy of
Blood at the Bookies
itself was stained with blood, and that there were jottings in blue biro scrawled across the pages.

‘Well, my favourite method is taking people out to lunch,’ Simon replied, jocularly. ‘Much more fun than slaving away in a library! I’ll choose someone who knows the subject well and question them over fillet steak and strawberries, with a glass or two of wine, to keep the conversation flowing. For instance, for
Death Under the Drier
, I lunched with the owner of a hair-salon and asked her to dish me all the dirt – you know, what the staff get up to, who are the vainest customers—’

‘And who
are
they?’ Rashid asked.

‘Asian men, I’m afraid to say!’

Everybody laughed, including Rashid.

‘Then, for a novel called
Dead Giveaway
, I took out a TV producer and picked her brains about television talent shows. And she told me they had an “Ugly Wall”, to display photos of contestants who were desperate to appear but just didn’t have the looks.’

‘I’d
be on that wall, then – that’s for sure,’ Doug commented.

More laughter.

Eric dared to relax. Simon’s talk had gone down well and now questions were coming thick and fast. Only one of the men sat silent; a young, anaemic-looking chap, whose arms were crossed tight across his chest and who’d been staring at the floor since he had shuffled in at the start. He seemed to be giving off signals saying, ‘I’m not part of this. Count me out’,
and had even failed, so far, to interact with any of his fellow members. Eric decided to talk to him, in private, at the close of the proceedings, in an attempt to get through his armour, and maybe offer him a book or two, to keep and read in his cell. These prisoners were all trapped, but reading might provide some means of mental escape, however limited. In fact, he’d been heartened to learn from Linda Lewis, when chatting to her before the men arrived, that previous book club choices included not just modern crime novels and thrillers, but authors as demanding as Dickens, Orwell and Scott Fitzgerald. Linda had also told him that although some members, such as Kevin, often failed to finish the book, others made detailed notes about the characters and contents that would put most scholars to shame.

‘I do try to check everything carefully,’ Simon continued, pushing his specs back up on his nose. ‘But mistakes can still get in. For example, in
The Stabbing in the Stables
, there’s an injury to a horse, but it changes midway through the book from the front right knee to the left. I only realized when the book was published, and by then it was too late.’

‘It was corrected in the paperback, though,’ Beverley remarked. As prison library assistant, she was deputizing for Abi tonight; himself too busy to come. ‘I read them both and noticed.’

‘Good for you!’ Simon said, approvingly. ‘I deplore mistakes, but I love attentive readers!’

‘I was wondering, though, why you use amateur detectives, rather than professionals?’

‘Well, there’s a long tradition of amateurs, going back to Sherlock Holmes and Poirot. And, actually, it’s easier for me, as author. My
knowledge
of police procedure is limited, to say the least, but my two amateurs aren’t very genned-up, either. So I hope they and the readers can go on a sort of journey together, finding out things by stages, which makes the
exposition
less plodding – or so I like to think.’

‘I didn’t believe in their friendship, though,’ Xavier objected. ‘They’re so different in basic temperament, would they really have hit it off?’

‘They live in a small village, remember,’ Rashid observed, ‘so presumably there wouldn’t be much choice of friends.’

‘Same as us,’ said Jake. ‘The only company we have is our cell-mate.’