Page 1 of Kept 2
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I wipe my shirt-front self-consciously, noting the milk stains with a grimace, as I stand at the ticket counter and wait for the woman to tell me what my options are.
As far as I can see I only have one; get as far away from Boston as I possibly can, as fast as I possibly can – like now.
Even as I wait, I’m conscious of the fact that night has fallen outside, and I am being hunted by a bloodthirsty vampire who plans to dispose of me in any number of terrifying ways. At least I think he’s a vampire; that or a psychotic maniac whobelieveshe’s a vampire, although, he does rip people’s heads off with his bare hands, so I’m leaning towards real vampire. Either way, a man who kills for fun is planning to kill me. And I don’t even want to contemplate the kinds of methods he could devise.
I’m so frightened. I can’t even think of a destination.
“Uh, can you hurry it up a little, please?” I add the last word in a polite voice to the stern-looking woman behind the counter. I estimate she is mid-fifties and has had a gutful of rude travellers because she has a face that reads: ‘Barbara-stone-faced-bitch – fuck with me at your peril.’
I guess I should have noticed that sooner.
“What seems to be the rush?” she looks up, scrutinising me as though I’m a terrorist just waiting to board the plane and blow it to shit, or a drug mule; my arse packed with coke.
“I just really need to leave,” I say apologetically, aware that my hair is awry, my face flushed, my shirt stained, and that I have no baggage.
‘Shit, I do look like a drug mule,’
“I uh,” I allow a few tears to just creep out of the corners of my eyes, which frankly, isn’t a stretch of my acting skills at this point, given that my fear is now off the Richter scale. “I’ve just left my boyfriend. He’s, well, he will kill me if he catches me. I know a woman like you can’t possibly understand my position or how I’m feeling, but if I don’t get out of here now, as far away as I possibly can, I know he will find me - and I’m almost wetting my pants, I’m so scared.”
She places her pen down on the counter carefully and leans towards me.
“You don’t need to be scared,” she whispers conspiratorially, “I’ll get you on a plane. Just wait for the screen to load, and I’ll priority board you.”
“Thank you,” I breathe, “thank you so much.”
“We women need to stick together,” she says, her mouth a grim line.
After a few moments, me still hopping from foot to foot in nervous agitation, she looks up and smiles.
“Is London far enough?”
“It’s a start.”
She nods, and I bring out my wad of cash.
If she still has any concerns that I am running drugs, I know this will surely set off a chain of events that will see me bending over and getting friendly with a rubber glove – but she obviously hasn’t. She takes my money, issues me a ticket and directs me to a private waiting lounge.
“It’s for first-class, so just duck down in there, you have 30 minutes before your flight. When it’s due I’ll send someone for you, and you can slip straight on.”
“Thank you,” I smile and turn to go, but she calls out after me.
“Oh, and honey.”
I turn slowly.
‘Now what?’
“You enjoy yourself down there and have a couple of stiff drinks, OK? Everything is going to be alright.”
I smile my gratitude and, clutching my bag of books, my entire worldly possessions now, I scuttle off in the direction of the lounge.
As soon as I enter, I feel more relaxed.
The people around me are well-dressed, quiet, heads down in laptops or newspapers. If Margarita were here she would have said ‘whoo-eee, fancy,’ but she isn’t, she is dead. And since there is a chance I am going to wind up the same way very soon, I don’t have time to appreciate the sophisticated elegance of my surroundings – I need a drink.
I walk straight to the bar and do as the check-in lady commanded, order a stiff drink; whisky on the rocks. Downing that in two quick, hot swallows, I order another and, nursing it, head to a quiet, dimly lit corner where a squishy tan leather lounge is nestled near a potted palm and a small coffee table.
