In Stone (11 page)

“Everything okay?” he asks, standing up close. His eyes flit briefly toward my ankle.

“If you ask me that again I’m going home,” I reply with a grin.

Since I climbed into his car this morning, he’s asked me the same question eighteen times. On the way to the airport he’d made his car blow hot and cold to keep me at a comfortable temperature. He’s carrying my bags, opening doors; he even unscrewed the cap off my bottle of water before handing it to me. I get that he’s trying to make me comfy, and on some level I’m registering his attentiveness as sweet. But at the same time, all the fiddling and fussing is making me more nervous. He returns the grin.

We make our way through the airport. It’s a slalom through hordes of people, an obstacle course of luggage trolleys and statuesque folks, staring at information boards with blank eyes and gapping mouths. I start to fall behind. My view of Jack keeps vanishing. In a moment of panic, I push forward and lace my fingers with his.

“Are you…” he stops abruptly. “Never mind,” he corrects, squeezing my fingers..

It’s time to face passport control. Stage two of the predetermined plan is simple; stroll through customs as casually as humanly possible, without drawing attention to myself. I try not to focus on the big, grey arches, designed to catch smugglers like me. The place is crawling with armed security guards and dogs. I blink away the image of these dogs attacking me, tearing huge chunks out of my skin as the siren sounds. “It’s bone,” Jack had said when I’d first expressed my concerns about this stage of the plan. “The metal detectors won’t pick up on it. It’ll be a breeze.”

My top lip is suddenly slick with a layer of sweat, and my palms are collecting a lake. Jack must feel it, too. I can practically hear the squelching between our sealed skin. I know he’s watching me. The weight of his silver stare sits upon my cheek.

“I have an idea,” he announces, releasing my hand and slipping off his watch.

“What kind of idea?”

“A failsafe. Trust me,” he says then shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls out a small, crumpled piece of paper, a receipt I think. “That’ll work,” he mumbles to himself as he rushes on in front. I gnaw on the sleeve of my jacket, keeping my head low, but eyes fixed on Jack as he taps an old guy on the shoulder. Intrigue rapidly replaces nerves.

A conversation begins between them. I can’t hear what’s being said. They’re too far away, and there’s too much noise. It looks like Jack is claiming that the receipt belongs to the old guy, something he’s dropped. A distraction, I quickly realize, as I spot Jack’s hand snaking up toward the old guys jacket pocket. He’s holding the watch. Then it’s gone; dropped unsuspectingly into the old guys pocket.

Jack falls back as the old man hobbles onward toward passport control. He links my arm when he reaches my side. We scurry forward toward the old guy, or rather Jack scurries, I am pulled.

“Make sure you follow him through the gate. Stay right behind him,” he instructs in a whisper.

The line is separating into two slow streams. Jack leaves me and slots into the line forking off to the left. As instructed, I stay hot on the old guy’s heels. I’m still third in my queue as Jack casually strolls underneath the metal-detecting arch. He flashes his pearly whites at the guard as he’s picked out and patted down. That’s going to be me. I know it. They’re going to see my sweaty face, notice the tremor of my hands, and call me out for a random pat down, for sure.

Jack is excused. He stands in wait, fixing a strong stare full of encouragement on me. I can feel it pressed up against my back, pushing me forward. I feel something else too – a ripple in my stomach, a warm rush that makes every inch of my skin buzz. It lasts a second before it evaporates, and I am forced to focus back on the arch. 

A women walks under. She’s clean, no pat down. Her kid follows; he’s clean too. Then it’s the old man’s turn. My shirt is clinging to the sweat under my armpits.

Think calm, th
ink calm, think…

A shrill hark slices through the air. My arch lights up like a Christmas tree, flashing orange and yellow lights, pulsing to the rhythm of a wailing siren. Failsafe. The old man is escorted to one side, and a heavyset guard handling a dog is heading over. The guard  throws half a glance in my direction and waves me through.

I don’t believe it. Just like that. I am completely insignificant, scot-free, and casually strolling under and away from the arch.

“Who’s the man with the plan?” Jack chirps, playfully nudging my shoulder as we make our way onto the plane.

“I had it under control,” I reply. There’s an inflection in my tone, playful like his shoulder bump.

“Sure you did. Would you like me to get you a towel to wipe that sweat off your face?” He chuckles.

I slap him on the arm, not hard--it’s more of a pat than a slap--but still he shies away, feigning pain, but laughing as we take our seats.

The plane is filling fast. I buckle my seatbelt.

“Okay?” Jack smiles at me. I nod. He sits back and closes his eyes. I watch him work his body into the seat, trying to find comfort in clapped-out foam and cheap polyester. I can feel someone’s eyes on me. I look up, and a redhead across the aisle gives me a coy smile and raises an eyebrow of approval. She thinks I was checking Jack out. I want to correct her, shake my head, and tell her she’s got the wrong idea. But I’m too embarrassed. Instead, I turn toward the window and wait for the plane to start crawling up the runway.

LONG HAUL SUCKS. LONG
haul in silence, while we “try and get some sleep for the long trek ahead” as Jack put it, beyond sucks. Jack dozes at my side. I sit forward, try to focus on the in-flight movie, but all I see is blobs moving around a TV screen. The lights in the cabin have been lowered. A hazy orange glow gives the space a seedy look. Cheap, like the roadside motels in movies.

As the hours roll on, I’m getting hot, itchy, and agitated. At first I think it’s because I’ve never had to sit still for so long. I can’t stretch my legs because the passenger in front of me opted to recline his seat at the beginning of the flight and hasn’t let it back up since. My knees ache, and every time I try to turn my head to the left I’m met with an angry tug in my neck. My ankle feels heavy. The cold of the knife has started to seep through the layers of sock and toilet paper padding. It stings, like a wet scrape to the knee.

Hotter. Itchier. More agitated.

“Bad dreams?” Jack asks when I sit forward with a start. My sweater is trying to choke me. I swear the cotton is shrinking.

“I wasn’t sleeping.” I press the side of my temples to try and calm the sudden throb in my head.

“Beau, you’re bleeding.” The second he says it something warm and wet trickles down my nostril and drips on to my lips. I quickly wipe it away. The back of my hand is colored with streaks of scarlet. A second stream slithers down my face. Jack begins frantically searching for something to mop up the blood, but he keeps coming up empty. I can’t sit here and bleed all over myself. People are starting to stare. Scrambling to my feet, I clamber past him. I trip up the aisle, and throw myself into the nearest bathroom.

After several seconds of bridge pinching and spitting stray blood, I manage to staunch the bleed. Do I suffer from altitude sickness? I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just tired or stressed. This wouldn’t be the first nosebleed or hot flush I’ve had since I started fooling around with the immortals.

The bathroom smells like urinal cakes, zesty, clinical-lemon. It’s a couple of degrees cooler in here than it is in the main cabin. A breeze is seeping through an open air vent. It cools my flushed cheeks but does nothing to
extinguish the external fire.

Hell fire, I’m hot.

Heat is radiating from underneath my skin; it’s in my blood. White-hot fire coursing through me, making my vision blur at the edges. I need water, a big bath of ice-cold water, but all I’ve got is a lukewarm trickle and a metal sink the size of a soccer ball. A haggard reflection stares back at me from the mirror; a complexion that is chalky and shiny with sweat. Clumps of white have collected at the corners of my mouth, and I’ve got blood crusting around my nostrils. I’ve seen cadavers look more alive. I throw a couple of handfuls of water at my face, hoping it’ll cool me and wash the grossness right off, but when I see myself for a second time, my breath catches.

This isn’t me. This face is monstrous, demonic.

My eyes! They’re not mine. The dark brown and white that was there less than a second ago has gone and been replaced by two terrifying pools  of jet black. I lift my fingers to my face, but I daren’t touch. It’s not real.

“Beau?” There’s a knock on the door.

My whole body jumps back, and thwack, my head smacks against the fire extinguisher hanging on the back wall. My brain shoots forward and slaps the back of my eyeballs. My legs turn soggy; a mist descends over everything. I feel grimmer than the reaper as I open the door.

“Beau. Beau.” Jack keeps saying my name as my body powers down.

A COLD SENSATION, SWEEPING
across my forehead, wakes me. An ice pack. Bliss. My mouth is dry. I move my lips, but they stick to my teeth. A groan slips from my throat.

“Beau?” Jack whispers from above. The world is leaning to one side, or maybe I am. The back of my head throbs; it brings on a more aggressive groan. I don’t know where I am.

“Don’t try to sit up.”

“Ugh,” I croak.

I can feel a warm, wet patch pressed up against my cheek. My eyes wander back and forth, taking in the sights of tilted, mini-television screens and topsy-turvy magazines, a sick bag, an ‘in case of in-flight emergences’ leaflet -- that’s right, I’m on a plane. More specifically, I’m laid across airplane seats on Jack’s knee, and the wet patch under my cheek is a pool of my own dribble. Nice. Thankfully he’s wearing dark jeans. The wet patch will be barely noticeable…I hope.

“How’s your head?”

“Feels like I’ve been slugged with a sledge hammer,” I reply, sucking back a pool of spit that’s been collecting in the side of my mouth.

“What happened?” he asks. Very slowly, I sit up and wipe the remaining drool off my cheek. For a second, Jack’s face is a wobble, a swirl of peachy-colored patterns that make me rock. But as my equilibrium settles, and he comes into focus, I can see that his expression is taught with concern.

I don’t know what happened. My memory is blank, an empty cinema screen, bare pages of a book. The only thing I’m certain of is why we’re on this flight.

The knife! My hand rushes to my ankle. My fingers run over the lumps and bumps of the immortal slayer. Relief. And then water because I’m parched. I snatch the bottle from the net tidy and drain it without taking a breath.

“Beau, what happened?” Jack repeats.

“I don’t remember,” I say, pushing the hardboiled egg on my cranium. Slumping back in my seat, I try to force the memories, but the headrest pushes hard against the soft and sore parts of my skull. I’m forced to slump back down onto Jack’s lap. His hand hovers awkwardly above my waist for a few seconds until he lays it to rest on the curve of my stomach.

“How’s she feeling, Jack?” A voice dripping with a Texan twang enquires from above. I look up and a girl is peering down on me. A head of long, ginger hair frames her snow-white face. She has doe-eyes, and bright red lips sit slightly apart as if a constant curiosity stops them from closing. She smells like citrus. I know this girl; I don’t remember her being so beautiful, but I was very focused on my own embarrassment at the time. She’s the girl from across the aisle -- the one that thought I was checking out Jack. Jack stares up at her. From this angle his jaw is an arrow pointing at her. He’s smiling that smile. I can taste the sugar of it. You’ve got to be kidding me. I can’t take him anywhere.

“Better. Thank you,” he replies, his words all jingly and light. “Beau this is Lisa,” Jack introduces. I lift my hand and give her a wave. I couldn’t be less interested in Lisa. I mean, for all she knows, I could be his girlfriend. And who does that? What kind of girl gets all chummy with a dude, when his possibly-maybe-girlfriend is laid out unconsciousness on his lap? Not the kind of girl I want to get to know, that’s for sure. Which I guess is why I say -- in my most fragile of tones,

“Actually, I’m still feeling really light-headed. Do you think we could turn off the light?”

“Of course,” he says. I knew he would. I am unashamedly manipulating him. But he needs to have his head in the game. Gorgeous girls make for gigantic distractions. Still, guilt simmers in the pit of my stomach.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Lisa smiles. All dimples. I bury my face in his jeans and wait for the flight to end.

* * * *

Seven hours, three movies, and one chicken -- or possibly pork -- dinner later, and we’re deboarding.

“Are we still talking about this?” Jack asks, folding his arms and lifting his chin high in protest.

“I’m talking. You, on the other hand, are being suspiciously quiet about the whole thing.”

“There is no ‘thing’. You’re being ridiculous,” he replies sternly. “Do you know what I think,” he says turning to me, his lips twisting. “I think you’re jealous.”