Scully sat a moment beside a coin-operated fire engine and saw a man cross himself — spectacles, testicles, wallet and keys — on his way up the escalator to Departures. Go well, old fella, he thought.
The flickering monitor said the Aer Lingus flight from London would land in a minute or two. What timing! They’d be tired after the twenty Qantas hours from Perth and the wait at Heathrow. He’d cook them lunch, stoke the fire and put them to bed with the wind rattling outside. Hell, he’d climb in with them, sleep or no sleep. He wondered if he could find a decent bottle of wine somewhere in this country before dark. Not on a Sunday. Now he needed a leak. He was like a kid, jiggling and fidgeting.
Down the hall he found the Men’s. At the mirror he stared at himself a moment. His curls were ragged and upstanding, and his dodgy eye and flushed complexion gave him a desperate look. He was lucky the Gardai at the terminal entrance hadn’t pulled him aside to search him for a Semtex suppository. He grinned slackly, straightened himself up best he could, pushed his hair down with the sweat of his palms and went out to meet them.
The monitor flashed LANDED. A wall of people curved around the electric doors of the customs exit. Scully wormed his way in and with a bit of foul play he found himself at the front rail itself.
The briefcase jobs appeared first, snapping their trenchcoats about them, hardly looking up at the press of other people’s relatives at the chrome barrier. Then came the trolleys with their teetering stacks of suitcases pushed by the bleary and the weeping. Shouts of recognition commenced. Families grappled and sobbed at the rail. Babies were passed head-high to the front. Scully could barely stand the guffaws and shrieks of other people’s happiness. He was crushed sideways and shunted from behind and he began hopping from foot to foot, straining to catch some familiar feature in the oncoming stream of faces.
And then, waist high, he saw the blonde curls.
‘Billie!’
She disappeared behind someone else’s trolley.
‘Billeee!’
When she emerged he saw the small tartan suitcase in her hand, the fluorescent green backpack on her shoulders and the female flight attendant beside her. Billie’s eyes found him and blinked recognition. The poor kid looked pale and tired, completely wrung out. Scully looked for the trolley behind, that Jennifer must be pushing. He couldn’t imagine the excess baggage they must have forked out for. But the trolleys behind were all pushed by men. Scully saw the green sticker on Billie’s jacket. Saw her small hand holding the hand of the woman in uniform. Saw the clipboard and the brittle, cosmetic smile. He leapt the rail.
‘Billie, you should have waited for Mum.’
He grabbed her up, case and all, and felt her clinch him like a boxer. My God, but it felt good. She smelled of raspberry and of Jennifer. Through the haze of Billie’s hair he saw the trolleys coming on in small batches, then petering out altogether.
‘Mr Scully?’
He turned. The Aer Lingus woman smiled.
‘I’m afraid we need some identification, sir. The regulations, you know. She’s such a quiet girl.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I… she’s got her passport, hasn’t she?’
‘Oh, yes, I have it here.’
Billie pressed into his neck so that he felt his blood beating against her forehead.
‘Well, what identification? Have they lost the bags?’
‘No, sir, this is all there was.’
‘It’s okay, we’ll wait,’ he said, smelling Billie’s hair; he was delirious.
‘Just a driver’s licence, Mr Scully, and a signature. All unaccompanied child passengers need —’
‘What did you say?’
He lifted Billie and saw the Junior Flyer badge. He put the child down and took the proffered clipboard as though it was a bloodied weapon. Unaccompanied Child Passenger B. Scully, female, seven years old. Scully held the little pen in his hand and let it shake above the paper and then looked back at the Aer Lingus woman.
‘Right there where it’s marked, sir.’
Scully signed, and his name was barely recognizable. The arrival doors closed now. There was no one else coming. He looked back at the form. London Heathrow-Shannon, December 13. Jennifer’s signature.
‘The ID, sir?’ The woman’s smile had begun to fade.
Scully looked down at his daughter. She was white, stiff as a monument.
‘What’s happening? Weren’t there enough seats? Is she bringing the bags on the next flight, then? You probably left the note in your pocket, eh, Bill?’
Billie stared at him with the gaze of a sleepwalker. Christ, he suddenly needed to shit.
‘Mr Scully, please —’
He dug in his back pocket for the thin wallet, flicked it open without even looking at her. His International Driver’s Licence, the American Express card, an old photograph of the three of them on the beach. The woman scribbled down details and snapped her clipboard shut.
‘Goodbye, Billie,’ she murmured, and left.
Billie looked at people passing.
‘What the hell’s going on, love? Why isn’t she here? Where’s all our stuff? She shouldn’t have made you come ahead on your own.’
He stooped and went through the many pockets of Billie’s denim jacket. Wrappers, a packet of raspberry gum, a plastic Darth Vader, ten English pounds, but no note from Jennifer. Right there on the floor he unzipped her little tartan case, and to the great amusement of the next shift of meeters and greeters, he went through it with unmistakeable desperation. Gay coloured clothes, an ancient comic book, toiletries, a folder full of documents, for Godsake, and some photographs. Toys, more clothes. His mouth went gluey. His bowels turned. He glanced up at the monitor. The next flight from London was a British Airways in twenty minutes, and there was another Aer Lingus at noon, a Ryanair in the middle of the afternoon and nothing much else till six.
‘Come sit over here a minute, mate,’ he said shakily, ‘I have to go to the toilet.’
He got her to a vinyl bench, put her suitcase beside her.
‘Now don’t move, okay? Don’t talk to anyone, just stay there. And while I’m gone,’ he said, trying to get his voice down from panic pitch, ‘think hard so you can tell me what happened at London, orright?’
Billie blinked. He just couldn’t stay.
In the bright, horrid cubicle he shook. He was shitting battery acid. His toes curled in his boots. What? What? What? She’s too responsible to break a plan. She’s too solid, too bloody Public Service to deviate without a hell of a reason. His mind boiled. Qantas to Heathrow, Lingus to Shannon. Any delay and she’d telegram and wait, keep everything together. Sunday, Scully, no telegrams. Okay, but she’s a bureaucrat, for Godsake, she knows about order and the evils of surprise. She’d think of something. She’d send a message with Billie. No, something’s happened. Call the cops, Scully. Which bloody cops? No, no, just slow down, you’re panicking. Just settle down and get it clear and straight. Clear and straight — Jesus.
• • •
SCULLY PUT THE BUCKET OF chips and the orange juice in front of his daughter and tried to think calmly. She’d said not a word since arriving and it compounded his anxiety. They sat across the white laminex table from one another, and to strangers they looked equally pasty and stunned. Billie ate her chips without expression.
‘Can you tell me?’