That will Teach You

When there’s a big date in your diary you kind of think the day will never come. You bury your head in the sand and pretend nothing is happening. That is why I was kind of surprised to find myself on a plane between Prague and Heathrow on the latest of my big adventures. Yes, I was coming back to Britain for 6 months, moving home, leaving one life in limbo and starting a new one. Was I scared, excited, happy, sad, nervous, unsure? I didn’t know. I tried to smile although the butterflies in my stomach were dancing a merry dance and making me feel decidedly sick.

As I got off the plane I saw two men in blue uniform coming towards me, they had border patrol on their lapels. I smiled and carried on walking but they had eyes for me.

‘Can you come with us please sir?’ The one in the turban said. I looked at him making sure he was speaking to me.

‘This way,’ he said and stretched out a hand guiding me away from the crowds and through a door marked ‘private’.

‘What’s this about?’  I said, I wasn’t too worried I hadn’t done anything wrong. But the two men ignored my question.

‘Charmin’’ I muttered under my breath.

‘Wait in here sir,’ the other man opened a door to a room that was hardly big enough to call a cupboard. ‘We’ll take that,’ he said, taking my laptop bag from my hand. I went in and heard the door lock behind me. There were two chairs and a table squeezed in and a fierce, artificial light burned overhead. This was getting odder by the minute.

I sat down on one of the chairs and leant back. I was sure this was just a silly misunderstanding; I would be out in no time at all. I closed my eyes and listened to the constant hum of a busy airport. Even backstage I could hear the muffled announcements and the roar of the jet planes; it must be a terrible place to work.

The clock on the wall rattled as the minute hand sprang to mark another minute gone. I was glad I had gone to the toilet just before the seatbelt signs were switched on, otherwise I would be busting now.

The minute hand continued to rattle its count, the room felt small and stuffy. I was hot under the collar and getting more than a little perturbed.

Had they forgotten me? I wanted to get up and try the door handle but I knew it was locked, I’d heard the key. In films the prisoner would bang on the door and rattle the handle before slumping on the table in despair, but this wasn’t a film so I resisted the urge.

Three minutes later I was banging on the door before slumping on the table in despair, this was ridiculous. What on earth was going on? I’d been here nearly an hour, locked in this tiny broom cupboard for no good reason I could see.

The woman who unlocked the door was as scary as she was beautiful. She was sharp. She looked at me with a degree of contempt and then sat down opposite me.

‘Who are you?’ She said.

‘Gareth Davies,’ I replied.

‘That’s what your passport says, but who are you?’

I shrugged.

‘If you are who you say you are, why are you traveling on a fake passport,’ she stared at me so intently I thought I might burst into flames.

‘I’m not.’ I squeaked. 

‘Where did you get this?’ She waved my passport.

‘Newport passport office,’ I said.

‘Try again,’ she said.  ‘Look “Mr Davies” we know this is fake, you know this is fake, so start talking and maybe, just maybe you won’t be in as much trouble as you are in now.’

I had no idea what was going on, my passport was genuine, I’d picked it up myself.

She stood up, turned and left but this time the door was left unlocked.

Two minutes later the man with the turban came in with my bag and announced I could go. I stood up and left, a little bemused but pleased to be free to continue my journey to my new life.

On my way out I heard laughing, I peered into the room where it was coming from. The sharp woman was talking to her friend.

‘That’ll teach him to write sarcastic letters,’ she said.

‘Too right it will Siobhan,’ came the reply.

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