Now Ben was standing well beyond the line of passport desks and he did not know what to do next. He had been told there would be someone there looking out for him, Johnston’s friend, and yes, there he was, a young man was hurrying forward, scared eyes on Ben’s face.
It was at this point that something happened that had not been foreseen. Johnston – had he been watching – would have said, ‘That’s it! I’ve done it!’ Barring some really unfair bad luck he would shortly be the owner of several million pounds sterling.
The young man, Ben’s minder, was – literally – shaking with relief, and from the reaction. He arrived directly in front of Ben, trying to smile, saying hurriedly, ‘I’m Johnston’s friend, I’m Richard.’
Ben said, ‘I’m cold. I want my jersey.’ He put down the holdall, and tried to unzip it, not seeing at first the tiny lock. He said, ‘Where is the key? Why is it locked up?’
Richard Gaston (but he had many names in his life) had arrived in London yesterday on the ferry from Calais, and had spent hours with Johnston being given instructions for this day’s events, and for afterwards, in Nice. He travelled out to Heathrow on the Underground, stood at a distance watching the scene with the minicab driver and Ben at check-in, had gone separately through passport control and customs, with the economy travellers, had waited for Ben to emerge, all the time enlarging his ideas of himself with reflected glory from Johnston, who was so clever. He had had many doubts about this scene, just like Rita, but look, it had succeeded.
And here was Ben, bending down, tugging at the zip, pulling at the lock. It was evident that those hands could tear the holdall apart, if Ben decided to do it that way. Richard imagined those packets scattered everywhere, the security people coming up…
‘I’m cold,’ said Ben.
It was a warm afternoon and Ben already had a jerkin on over his shirt – a very posh shirt, as Richard noted.
‘You can’t be cold,’ was Richard’s injudicious order to Ben. ‘Now, come on. We’ve cut it a bit fine. They’re boarding. Don’t be difficult, now.’
These words had an effect which caused Richard to jump back and away from Ben, who was apparently about to grip him by the arms and then… Ben was seething with rage.
‘I want my jersey!’ shouted Ben. ‘I’ve got to have my jersey!’
Richard was scared, but not numbed by it. He was rallying himself. He had been told that Ben was a bit funny… he had moods… he had to be humoured… he was a bit simple. ‘But he’s all there, so don’t treat him like a dummy.’
These descriptions of Ben, scattered through the hours of discussion with Johnston, seemed to Richard all off the point. Johnston would call this ‘a mood’, would he? Richard was sending nervous glances all around. Was anyone watching? Well, they soon would, if Ben went on shouting.
If that zip broke, if that little lock sprang open…
Richard said, gasping, ‘Listen, Ben, listen, mate. We’re going to miss the plane. You’ll be OK in the plane. They’ll give you a blanket.’
Ben stood up, letting the holdall fall. Richard couldn’t know it, but it was the word ‘blanket’ that reached him. The old woman had used to say, ‘Take this blanket, Ben, wrap yourself up a bit. The heating’s a bit low tonight.’
Richard saw that things had changed: Ben was no longer breathing pure murder. Now, unwittingly, he added to his advantage, ‘Johnston wouldn’t want you to spoil it now. You’ve done good, Ben. You’re right on. You’re a bit of a wonder, Ben.’
It was the word good.
Ben picked up the holdall, went with Richard along the corridors, the moving pavements, to the right places. It had all been nicely judged: they would be in the middle of the crowd of people boarding. At the desk Ben found his passport and boarding card in his hand, put there by this new friend, who had taken them from him, it seemed, while they argued – Ben had let them fall as he wrestled with the zip and the lock – and then on they walked, along and down and around and down, and then there was a door and by it a smiling female, who directed the two to club class. Ben stood helpless in the aisle, and Richard took the case from him and slid it up into the bin, feeling as if he were handling a snake. He had told Johnston that on no account would he touch that case, so that he could tell any interrogator that he knew nothing about it, but now he saw how foolish that had been. Ben was in his seat, the seatbelt was fastened across him, and Richard was about to ask for a blanket, and then explain to Ben about the take-off, the flight – there would be clouds underneath them and then… But Ben had fallen asleep.
What a good thing, thought Richard. What a relief.
Ben slept until they landed and people were getting off. Ben was dazed and it seemed he hardly knew who Richard was. He forgot the precious case when the time came to stand up and pull it down. Richard hauled it down for him, and carried it all the way to the luggage carousel. Almost at once the great black bag appeared – the dangerous one – and then the red one, with Ben’s things in it.
‘When are we going on the plane?’ asked Ben. He had expected something like the trip he had made with Johnston over London in the little plane.
Richard did not answer: ahead was the last hazard, Customs, but they were not bothering. In a moment the two were out in the sunshine, and then, with the bags, in a taxi. Richard was sitting back in his seat, eyes closed, still shaking with the terror of it all. He knew very well that it was only luck that had saved them even while he thought admiringly of Johnston. He wanted badly to sleep: he understood why Ben had gone to sleep, from strain, on the plane. During that ride, Ben was silent. For one thing, his eyes hurt, because of the glitter of the sun on the sea – he did not at first understand that great scoop of shining blue, which was nothing like the seaside at home. He felt sick, too: he hated cars, he always had. Then they were on a pavement, with people everywhere, and Richard led Ben to a table where he sat, pushing a chair towards him. Ben sat, as if this might be a trap, and the chair could close around him like jaws. It was mid-afternoon. They were under a little umbrella but the tiny patch of shade did not do much for Ben’s painful eyes. He sat with them half-closed. The waiter came: coffee for Richard, but Ben wanted orange juice, he hated coffee. Cakes came, but Ben never did like cake much, so Richard ate them. And there they sat, hardly talking, Ben trying to take in what he could of the glitter and clamour of the scene around him through half-closed eyes. It was a busy street, and a busy cafe, and no one was taking any notice of them. Then, suddenly, a man appeared by the table, and Richard said to him, ‘The black one and the blue one.’ Ben watched as this person, an apparition composed of bright light and noise, disappeared towards a taxi with the two cases. Only Ben and Richard watched. No one else, whether idling on the pavement, or sitting at the cafe tables, or driving past, so much as glanced at the two cases, one very large, one of an ordinary size, whose