The enclosed ramp to the plane was narrow. The aisle of the plane was narrower, and blocked by shuffling passengers, yet all at once Alan was easier in his mind. It was absurd, but somehow the British Airways plane felt like British territory. He hadn't realized how secretly vulnerable he felt in foreign places. As soon as the plane lifted off and rainclouds wiped out the landscape, he forgot about the package in his suitcase, and the man, who surely hadn't been watching him after all. Perhaps he would call them to mind if he needed them. Writing had that advantage – you could always use your experiences eventually, however unpleasant they seemed at the time.
In the cramped toilet he splashed cold water on his face. When he raised the plug the water was sucked down the plughole with a shrill rush of air. He resumed his seat as the stewardesses came round with meals on moulded plastic trays. Alan ate ravenously, though his red-faced neighbour was bending forward over a sick bag and staring lugubriously into its depths. Hangman's Dance, To Visit The Queen, The Sunday Assassin: he was pretty good with titles as a rule – why couldn't he think of one now? It reminded him of his early days of struggle, of going to his desk in the corner of the London flat without a thought in his head. He remembered sitting beneath the patch of damp that looked like a sneering face and grinding out paragraphs purely in order to get the story over with, the story that had excited him so much – until he'd actually sat down to write it. He had never felt the least involvement with the characters as he'd struggled to make them seem real. His pen and his brain had felt scratchy, Liz had been pregnant with Anna, the damp had crept over the walls, he'd been desperate to buy a house before she had the child – and he'd finished the book with no sense of achievement at all, without ever reaching that magical point where the characters take over and dictate their story to the writer. He'd already had two novels stuck in a drawer with bunches of rejection slips, and when he'd started he'd been convinced that this was the one that would sell. The end-product had depressed him so much that he hadn't even let Liz read the typescript before he sent it away. Yet that book The Sunday Assassin had been his first major success – 'all plot, and not a wasted word,' one review had said.
Now the days of struggle were over, more or less; now he only had to struggle for a tide.
How about Out of the Past? It sounded like a film, but he didn't think it was; perhaps it sounded like the film it might be made into. He couldn't resist it; it seemed too good an omen. He lay back in his seat, relaxing at last, and closed his eyes. The plane was bumping gently, rhythmically. He thought a hammock might feel like that, rocking in a breeze.
The hammock was in Africa, and so was he, trying to run home. He had been running for a very long time. Now the looming vegetation was too vague for him to make out where he was. He was trying to catch up with someone in the foggy dark, while something red loped alongside him, urging him on. He managed to turn aside at the last moment, into a clearing. A thin old figure leapt to its feet as it saw him, and Alan was stumbling, unable to keep his balance, falling into the restless arms of the figure, which had the smallest eyes and the longest nails he had ever seen. The ground had thrown him forward into its arms, because the ground was tilting, the plane was. He woke to find that the plane was landing at Heathrow.
He was bewildered to find he'd slept so long, and he was still trying to blink himself awake as he shuffled forward with the rest of the passengers, past the captain standing by the exit like a priest after a mass. What was it that he couldn't quite remember? Perhaps he would know when he woke up fully.
Chimes rang, amplified voices boomed high up in the airport hall. Suitcases appeared at the top of a ramp, slid down to the roundabout where their owners were waiting. It all had the unresolved quality of a dream; in a moment the scene might be transformed into parents watching their children on slides and roundabouts, invisible giants ringing bells overhead. He was nearly awake now. He grabbed his suitcase as it sailed by and staggered with it toward the Customs area, something to declare, nothing to declare. 'Nothing' seemed easier, and the sign was green for go.
As soon as he reached the counter he knew that he'd made a mistake. The officer behind the desk was young, and eager to show he was doing his job. You could tell he would relish body searches, even though he would never have admitted it, even to himself. He stood straight-backed as a dummy, eyes gleaming impersonally in the smooth scrubbed face, his hair and moustache clipped short, his manner precise. 'Have you read the notice?' he said, like a policeman cautioning a criminal.
'Yes, I have.' Alan was sure he had nothing on the list: jewellery, wines, spirits.. -. Nevertheless the Customs officer read out the items one by one. 'You're quite sure you're not carrying anything on that list?' he said.
'Yes, I am.'
A determined blankness spread over the officer's face. 'Will you open your case, please?'
Alan opened it readily enough. It wasn't even locked -that would only have risked someone breaking into it while it was behind the scenes. He should have felt smug, because he knew that the Customs man would find nothing, except that he could almost hear a warning deep in his mind. The young man was turning over shirts and underwear like an overseer in a laundry, searching primly for stains. Suddenly he poked a rectangular bulge under the towels. 'What's this?' he said.
It was the package that Marlowe had given him. How could he have forgotten? He must still be half asleep. 'It's a parcel for these people,' he said, pointing to the address. 'They need it urgently, and so I said I'd bring it over.'
'That's against regulations.' The Customs man's face was blanker than ever. 'Please open it,' he said.
As Alan fumbled with the wrapping, almost breaking one of his nails, sweat stung his palms, as if the package were covered with cinders. Christ, why hadn't he refused to hide it in his luggage, to bring it at all? He hardly even knew Marlowe…
At last the heavy tape came away, tearing the wrapper. Inside was a cardboard box which proved, when he parted the halves of the lid, to be stuffed with cotton wool. The packing squeaked beneath his nails as he began to push it apart – but the Customs officer took the box from him and lifted out the top layer of packing. He stared into the box, then he lowered it slowly so that Alan could see within. 'I think you've got some explaining to do,' he said.
Three
Liz and Anna were waiting at Norwich. Liz was at the barrier as the train rolled in. When she saw Alan, picking his way through the Saturday shoppers back from London and the families of holidaymakers searching for luggage trolleys, she waved, and Anna came running over from the station bookstall. 'Look, daddy,' Anna cried, as he fumbled with his ticket and his luggage at the barrier, 'they've got some of your books.'
'Have they? Well, good for them.' He hugged Liz and Anna until he realized he was holding up the queue at the barrier. A man with a briefcase glanced at them as he squeezed by, and Alan could see he thought they were as beautiful as he did himself. Anna looked more and more like her mother: the same red hair and blue eyes, oval face, small pert nose, and long slim limbs. She was tall and lithe for her age – there again she took after Liz – and the pair of them had grown as tanned in Norfolk as Alan had in Nigeria. No wonder the man with the briefcase looked envious.
The car was parked on the station forecourt. They emerged beneath a bright July sky patched with dazzling clouds, into a light shower. The warm rain was refreshing, just what he needed right now. Anna danced along beside him 5 clutching his hand. 'Was Africa lovely? Did you see any native dancers? Did you meet a tiger? I'd love to meet one
…'
'Now, Anna, leave daddy alone for a few minutes. You know he likes to unwind after he's been away.'
'It's all right,' Alan said. 'I don't mind.' He put an arm round each of them as they reached the car, and felt secure.
He hadn't realized how much he needed this – to feel that some things could be trusted not to change.
As they drove out of Norwich toward the coast, the clouds drew back to the edge of the sky, an iris as wide as the horizon. The rain had stopped, leaving the gentle landscape even greener. They passed villages among the sparkling fields, a few streets of houses white as sugar cubes, gone almost as soon as they appeared. Waterways glittered beside the roads, leading cruisers into the network of the Broads. Once Alan glimpsed the towers of Liquid Gases, where he'd researched The Cold Cold War.
