Then I was

businessman with horrific teeth, fillings that needed repair, heat in my gums, did he think this was normal?

sitting down beside Coyle in the international departures lounge, briefcase in one hand, paper cup in the other. “Tea?”

Coyle examined the cup, examined me, and without another word took the tea from my unresisting fingers. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I brought some sugar too, in case you like it sweet.”

“I don’t.”

“Never mind. Better for your teeth anyway.”

He slurped tea; I leaned back, tucking my briefcase between my knees, rolling my tongue nervously around the ravaged inside of my mouth. Charles de Gaulle airport was like any airport in the world: there the duty free, here the chemist for those unsuspecting travellers whose hundred-millilitre bottles of shampoo were one millilitre too dangerous for airport security. There the smart-suited men trying to sell indulged strangers the latest sports car, here the bookshop of last month’s greatest hits, tales of American lawyers with perfect teeth, American lovers with perfect lives, American killers who refuse to lie down and die.

Women in headscarves held their infant children by the hand and studied the departures board for the next plane to wherever. Tired travellers, stopping over on the way to something better, slumbered, heads back, tongues lolling, their boarding passes gripped tight against their slowly deflating chests. I fumbled in my pocket for my ticket, checked the flight, the time, the board overhead. “Can’t even see where I’m supposed to go.”

Coyle glanced down at the stub in my hand. “I think yours is delayed.”

“Typical. Yours?”

“ ‘Wait for announcements’.”

“That could mean anything.”

“I think it’s a good thing.”

“Are you sure?”

He glanced over at me, surprised. “You… don’t like flying?”

“First time I crossed the Atlantic, it was in a Dutch race-built frigate called the Nessy Reach. Bloody dangerous business.”

“But planes…?”

“I dislike the universality of the threat with flying. First-class fat-cat or economy class with your knees pressed to your chin; if a plane falls, you’re dead no matter who you are.”

“My God,” he exclaimed. “You’re a coward.”

“Am I? I suppose bravery must be defined relative to the deeds habitually available to he who faces it. I have been hired to do many of the things that brave man can’t: leave a lover, attend a job interview, march to war. I grant you I had none of the emotional involvement in these acts that might have rendered them tricky, but still I have to ask… am I really a coward? I think the case could be argued both ways.”

“All right–you’re not a coward. You’re merely operating by a different set of rules.”

I smiled and said, “Want another cup of tea?”

“No. Thank you.”

“I should let this body go. Flight delayed or not, the mind can only lose so much time.”

“I know.” He held out his hand, not looking, the fingers hanging loose like those of a queen waiting to be kissed.

“You’re very brave,” I said, resting my fingers in his skin.

Then there was the slow crawl to the runway.

Safety demonstrations. Chin to knees, oxygen from above, be sure to save yourself before you save a child or your friend.

A push of acceleration as we headed for the sky. I let my skull press back into the headrest of my seat, felt the chemically numbed throbbing in my shoulder and arm, resisted the urge to prod at the wound, watched the landscape turn from a thing of solid nature into a map of straight lines, roads and paths carved by a human hand, ordered the vegetarian meal and a bottle of water and, finding that the in-flight movies had even less merit than commonly supposed, played chess instead with an unknown passenger in seat D12, who lost quickly and didn’t return for a rematch.

Then there was ocean beneath us and tiny clouds far below, and I was tired, and my shoulder ached, and my eyes hurt, and in a moment of temptation I became

round-faced man, too fat for my economy-class seat, belt chafing across my middle, my knees pressed up awkwardly, elbows jammed in, and as I shifted uncomfortably and the engines hummed and the drinks trolley clattered up and down the aisle, Coyle turned blearily to me and said:

“Brave?”

“What?”

“You called me brave.”

“Did I?”

“A second ago.”

“A few hours ago.”

“Where are we now?”

“Somewhere over the Atlantic.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Matter?”

“Why are you… you?” he asked, gesturing at my more abundant flesh.

“I was… uncomfortable. Wanted to stretch my legs. This gentleman was in the way, so I thought I’d stretch his.”

“I can believe that. You called me brave.”

“Must have imagined it.”

“A moment ago.”

“I also called you a murderer, a blind fool and the killer of a woman I loved. All of which is true. Yet here we are, knuckling down and carrying on. I wouldn’t be too worried about it.”

“Are you going to be him long?”

I shifted awkwardly in my seat. “No,” I said at last. “I’m too wide for the armrests–they’re compressing my belly–and my knees hurt, and my feet feel splayed and flat, and I’ve got an aftertaste of ginger ale in my mouth, and even if all this were not the case, I still think I’m a coronary risk. But if you want to watch a movie or something, I could take a wander round the plane? Upgrade to first class, perhaps.”

“What are the movie choices like?”

“Appalling. Do you play chess?”

“What?”

“Do you play chess?”

“No. I mean yes, I play.”

“Want a game?”

“With you?”

“Sure. Or challenge seat D12, but they won’t give you much trouble.”

“I’m not sure…”

“You let me wear your body, but you won’t play me at chess?”

“One is grim necessity, the other feels like socialising.”

“Suit yourself.”

Silence a while. Then, “I’m not your friend. You understand that.”

“Of course.”

“In Berlin, in Istanbul, I meant everything I said. I believe everything that I believe. A few minutes here or there, a game of chess… it doesn’t change what you are. What you represent. I let you… touch me… because I must, and it repulses me. I don’t know why I’m explaining this to you.”

“It’s OK,” I replied. “It’ll be OK.”

Silence.

As much as there is ever silence in the roar of a plane.

“So… do you want to sleep?” I asked, shifting awkwardly in my seat.

“Won’t your body notice if you stay in too long?”

I shrugged. “Planes are boring. Most people are relieved to find that the hours have flown by, so to speak.”

“I could do with some time.”

“Fine.”

“By myself.”

I half-nodded at nothing in particular. “That’s not a problem,” I murmured, reaching out to touch my neighbour’s hand. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

I am a first-class businesswoman.

At home I probably do yoga.

I eat prawns and drink champagne.

Coyle sits alone, and so do I.

Chapter 81

Then there was…

“Passport, please.”

I beamed at the man behind the counter. Newark airport specialised in immigration officers whose every scowl seemed to say that, even if they couldn’t stop you entering the United States, they sure as hell weren’t going to make it easy.

I pushed the wallet that contained my tickets across the counter towards him, and as he reached down, lips already narrowing in the expectation of disappointment, I caught his wrist

and said, “Welcome to New York.”

Coyle caught his balance on the counter before him while I made a show of flicking through the little pouch of documents on the desk. “The Americans have a poker up their arse with security. Do you have a communicable disease?”