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.

 

 

 

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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.