SF(a)ADL - The Sausage Roll boy

On August 1 2013 I published Scenes from an Airport Departure Lounge. Descriptions of people at Heathrow. This week I am expanding on those descriptions a little with some imagined elaborations. 

He greedily bit in to the sausage roll, taking a good third into his mouth, three or four chews and he went for a second bite revealing a mouthful of half chewed pastry, meat and gristle. Two more bites and the thing was gone; the only clue to its existence were crumbs on his shirt and a screwed up package on the seat next to him. He was only a young lad but it looked like he enjoyed his food and the extra weight on his face aged him considerably. Not that he cared,  he looked pleased with himself as if he’d just beaten his personal best for eating a sausage roll. He sat back folding his arms across his chest looking satisfied. I turned my eyes away to look at the woman with pink nail varnish. The noise reverberated around the departure gate, it sounded like the shot of a rifle, or a backfire from a Vauxhall Velux; a loud single blast that made the check-in woman jump and let out a little yelp. She wasn't the only one; just about everyone looked up from what they’d been doing to see where the noise had come from. Heartbeats had increased, brains were ticking, eyes flitting for places to take cover. The little girl who had lost her battle with sleep was sitting up, rubbing her eyes searching for what had caused her impromptu alarm call. Was this it? Was this the terrorist attack that we'd been so often  warned about but had never thought would happen to us? I looked around, there were no signs of terrorists, no people in balaclavas or men with guns, no armed police response units hurrying noisily into position like soldiers do.

The smell of half digested meat and spices that wafted through the room gave it away, eyes fell on sausage roll boy who was blushing ever so slightly. Our impending death at the hands of terrorists had actually been one hell of a burp from our greedy friend. 

SF(a)ADL - Pink Nail Varnish

On August 1 2013 I published Scenes from an Airport Departure Lounge. Descriptions of people at Heathrow. This week I am expanding on those descriptions a little with some imagined elaborations. 

I watched as her high heeled shoe dangled from her stockinged (or tighted) foot. She lazily swung the shoe with her toes unaware of the mesmerising affect it was having on me. Eventually it fell off revealing pink nail varnish beneath the black material. She had nice feet and nice calves, strong looking, like she worked out. My eyes traced their way up her body.  She was blonde but out of a bottle, not that that mattered it suited her just fine.  Her face was showing signs of ageing, but then again so was mine and she was doing it a lot more gracefully than I was. She wasn't Barbie doll pretty although she may have been in her prime but she was fascinatingly attractive, her face told stories and I could be a willing listener.
There was no ring on her finger but I guessed there had been once or maybe twice and I imagined a woman of that elegance and beauty had an array of men forming an orderly queue, one for every day of the week. I’d stand in line for her I thought, I’d be her Saturday boy.  I caught her eye and smiled before immediately blushing and looking away. I never knew how to react when women smiled back.  I could sense her looking at me or maybe not, maybe I was just imagining it, maybe I shouldn’t flatter myself. I longed to look back but my eyes were drawn to the guy with the sausage roll. Eventually I looked back towards the woman with pink nail varnish. She was looking at me, examining me in the way I had been her, her thumb moving quickly over the keyboard of her smart phone, was she doing to me what I’d been doing to her?

SF(a)ADL Mr Windmill

On August 1 2013 I published Scenes from an Airport Departure Lounge. Descriptions of people at Heathrow. This week I am expanding on those descriptions a little with some imagined elaborations. 

I could see his words before I could hear them, his arms whirled as he talked. Most people with hands-free phones are posers, for him it was essential. If he were in a disco, you could believe he was doing some kind of fancy dance routine that he’d spent hours dreaming up in his bedroom. There was a rhythm to his movement, a logical pattern, progression and repetition. But there was frustration in his voice, like the world was ganging up on him and a delayed flight was the last straw. He looked tired too, no wonder if he expends so much energy over one conversation I thought. He was talking to a wife or husband or lover and their relationship had obviously outlived the myth of trust. 
‘Honestly darling the plane is delayed... I dunno they haven’t said.’ 
His arm redundantly pointed to the woman who was making the announcement - as if his partner could see down the line. 
‘Check the internet if you don't believe me.’  
His hands mimed typing on a keyboard as he spoke. 
‘No, I’m not with anyone else, it’s just me.’
You could almost hear the number of times he’d made that same denial by the tone in his voice, you could almost touch the anger and resentment of having to repeat the same line again and again. 
‘Okay look I'll phone you again when there’s more news.’ 
With that his hands went quiet. But now it was his eyes that were busy, dancing around the departure gate before settling on a blonde woman in a black business suit. He made his way through the throng to join her.
‘Everything okay?' she asked.
He sighed, ‘same old same old’ he said with sad eyes, I noticed his arms were less windmilly when talking face to face.
Never mind she said before planting a much more than ‘just good friends’ kiss on his cheek. 

‘At least this delay gives us some extra time together.’
Windmill man smiled but I was not fully convinced he thought that  was necessarily good news.

The Furtive Glance

apologies for the terrible accent on this recording, I felt the story needed a certain accent but I think I’ve become the British Dick van Dyke.

She shot me a furtive glance from across the bar. I could tell it was for me the way the eyes searched for contact and then flitted away the second it was made. It had been a long day and all I wanted was a drink before heading home but when a broad looks at you like that, it's difficult not to be interested. She was short and slim, easy to mistake for a 12 year old boy at first glance but second or third glance revealed she was all woman with gentle curves in all the right places. Her eyes had made contact, now I wondered what the rest of her body wanted. She was sitting at the back end of Parker's bar, a small one bar joint under my office. Parker told me she'd been there for an hour, nursing her bourbon like it was from the last bottle on the planet. Apart from me and her and our host the were 4 or 5 other people in the bar, the usual array of familiar faces, city workers having one last ‘ eeting' before heading home to their families. Parker mixed my drink and a fresh one for the dame and I ambled over to her. I put the glasses on the table and sat down opposite.
‘It’s rude to sit down without being invited’ she said, her voice like honey; warm and soft, but any deeper it would have sounded ridiculous on a woman her size.
‘I was’ I replied
‘By whom?’ I noted her correct grammar
‘By your eyes’ I said enjoying the stand off.
She picked up her new drink and raised it to her lips but before she could drink I spoke.
‘It’s rude not to say thank you?’ I said, half a smile in my voice.
She deliberately took a long sip then replaced the glass on the table complete with lipstick smudge. All while she kept eye contact I found myself falling into her baby greens, but managed to save myself just in time.
‘So what do you want lady?’ I asked, time was money.
‘Who says I want anything?’ Why do dames always have to play the games?
‘Hey lady’ I said the smile in my voice replaced with impatience, ‘Parker there says you've been asking after me and your eyes were searching for me when I came in here, so don't play games.’
She took another sip, her eyes exploring me, trying to decide if I was the tough guy I was playing or if it was just an act.
‘I want you to find my son.’ She said finally, slipping a photo of a young boy across the table.
He was handsome, darker skin than hers, about 4 or 5 years old at a guess. Kidnapped by his own father I thought.
‘Kidnapped by his own father’ she said echoing the words in my mind. ‘Took him - then went to ground,’ she continued, vanished completely.’ Her voice was still soft, strong, no hint of upset.
‘Why haven't you gone to the police?’ It was the obvious question but it needed answering.
‘I did,’ she said ‘but they do nothing.’
‘Gone abroad?’ I asked. The kids skin was darker I was guessing his dad was not from these shores.
She shook her head. ‘Police don't think so.’
We talked some more, her filling me in on the details, me trying to stop myself falling into her beautiful green eyes. She showed me a mpicture of his father, a handsome man, well-to-do, nice threads, good teeth.  She spoke as I looked a the picture, it was a typical tale of mixed marriage, divorce and  custody battle; father from Bulgarian wanting to take the child home, mother wanting to keep the child here. Such a cliché but that didn’t take away from the heartbreak and pain in her eyes.  But I felt there was some she was not telling me, an important detail, something she’d forgotten to add.
‘So why come to me?’ that question often flushed out the extra info but she played a straight bat.
‘I'm desperate Mr Stanley. and you’re the best there is.’

‘Who says?’ I asked, but she didn’t answer.
‘Ok so why not come to the office?’ It had struck me as strange that she lingered down here hoping to find me rather than come up two flights of stairs where she’d be sure to see me.
‘I think I’m being followed Mr Stanley, if I’d I come to your office he would have known I’ve come to speak to you, but he didn't come in here so he knows I'm here but doesn't know who I am talking to.’
It was logical but why was she being followed? Again there was the nagging suspicion that there was something missing and that something would be key to everything.
‘Can you help me?’ I should have said no, that missing link was nagging away at my brain. But instead I said.
‘It'll cost you.’
She pushed an envelope across the table I didn't need to look to know it was cash.
‘This should cover your expenses’ she said ‘return my boy and I'll double it’.
‘Hey I don't do kidnapping Miss ...’ I left a gap for her to fill in her name but she remained silent. Again missing details.
‘Locate him, let me know where he is, I'll take care of the rest’ she said eventually.
With that she finished her drink and got up to leave.
‘How do I contact you?’ I said as she was nearly at the door.
‘I'll find you’ she replied.
I sat in silence for a few moments before deciding to follow her.  I grabbed my coat and nodded at Parker to let him know I'd cover my bill later, he knew I was good for it. Then I stepped out into the street and looked around. It was hard to locate a short woman in a land off giants but I eventually saw her about 60 yards away.
I kept my distance watching not only her but for signs that someone else was on her trail.

This is partone of the Furtive Glance for  part two click here