Written by Tina Wyngarde-Hopkins
“Mr. King!”
Jason woke with a start to find himself staring into a pair of beautiful blue eyes belonging to a stewardess. “I’m sorry to wake you,” she whispered almost seductively, “but were due to touchdown in Sydney at any moment. You really must fasten your seat belt.”
Stretching his arms out in front of him, the scribe yarned softly before attempting to locate the belt straps which had rather inconveniently become lodged between the seats. “Do you know,” he replied as he wrestled to find them, “I was just dreaming that a beautiful girl was trying to tether me to a chair, and now I’ve woke up to find it’s true!”
“Your restraint, Mr. King!” she instantly, as she tried in desperation to maintain her polite but frigid stare. Jason on the other hand flashed her his most devastating smile which caused her to melt a little – albeit just around the edges.
“Maybe later we could continue this little scenario,” Jason purred seductively. “But I thought we might have dinner first.” She finally returned his smile.
Reacting to a call from neighbouring passenger, the young woman obligingly turned on her heel just as the aircraft began to bank to make its final approach to the airport. Inhaling deeply, Jason redirected his eyes to the window at his right shoulder and delighted at the breath-taking view of Sydney Harbour, with his famous bridge and Opera House.
After collecting his jacket and hand-luggage from the storage compartment above his seat, he began to threading his way down the crowded gangway and out into the bustling terminal. Meandering casually through the seemingly miles of corridors – all crowded with excited tourists and weary businessmen.
Having picked up his luggage from the carousel and negotiate his way to passport control, Jason took up a position in the queue, where he noticed more than one of his fellow passengers do a double-take, then ask a companion in a whisper, “It is him, isn’t it?”
At last he found himself at the head of the column of travellers, Jason reached into his jacket pocket and produced the required documentation, which he duly handed to the bearded customs officer seated behind a desk. The photograph affixed to the inside cover of the passport was scrutinised, as was Jason with a somewhat suspicious eye. “It was taken before I grew my moustache,” announced the writer in response to the enquiring glare, before suddenly finding himself in the amorous clutches of a large American woman sporting half a market garden around the brim of her hat.
Immediately producing copies of the ‘Russian Roundabout’ and ‘Dead Dames Don’t’ from her handbag, Jason tried desperately to disentangle himself from her octopus-like grip. Frantically signing both of the book, Jason explained that he had a terribly urgent appointment to keep with his Australian publisher, before making his escape in the direction of the Nothing To Declare gate.
As he calmly made his way across the concourse between the Arrivals area and the hurley burly of the city outside, he allowed himself a brief smile and remembered his recent encounter with Rylans’, whose continual blundering had resulted in public humiliation for Sir Brian and the Department, earning Jason a grovelling apology from the Home Secretary himself. The payment of an undisclosed amount courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government had also come in useful.
The sound of a pair of size 10 boots on the tiled floor behind him, however, succeeded in coaxing Jason back to the present and as his eyes rolled ever skywards, he discovered that the owner of the footwear belonged to a mountain of a man, clad in a Border Force uniform; the name badge pinned to his chest identifying him as Superintendent Robert Mercer.
“Mr. King,” he rasped, while running a thumb over the stubble on his chin. Extending a finger in the direction of an office door to Jason’s right, he continued: “I’d like a word with you, if I may.”
Taking a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket, Jason made known his displeasure at this inconvenience in the form of a loud ‘tut’ before, reluctantly, following the officer through the door of the office, which duly slammed behind them.
Jason couldn’t imagine why on earth he’d been brought to this tardy little room. Having been in customs offices around the world from time to time over the years, he’d invariably noted the difference in amenities from one country to another, and yet all at a certain basic similarity. When you’d seen one, Jason had always maintained, you’d seen them all. In this one, an effort had been made to disguise the pungent stench of years of cigarette smoke with Glade magnolia and vanilla fresh air spray which, when mixed together, smelt not unlike a pair of armoured trousers after the Hundred Years War. Regardless of this, Jason wondered why he was there, but realised as Mercer gazed down through the window onto the runway below, it was unlikely that he’d be enlightened any time soon.
Inevitably, it would be Jason who would break the silence: “Do you mind telling me why I here?” When no answer came, and Mercer began systematically cracking each of his 10 knuckles in turn, the author’s eyes suddenly darted to the office door and the thought of making a break for it was already beginning to shape in his mind… ‘That door looks like it’s made from plywood; it would surely splinter if I were to give it a good-old shoulder charge’ he reasoned. He then noticed that pistol resting on the officer’s hip which immediately caused him to reconsider. ‘What are you thinking? Pull yourself together, King!” His thoughts were rudely interrupted when Mercer suddenly turned around and took up residence behind the desk which, if it hadn’t been for Mercer’s own bulk, would’ve dominated the room.
“Oh come on – get on with it,” Jason demanded as he took a cigarette from his jacket pocket and placed it between his lips. “This silent treatment lark went out with the Inquisition!” Mercer smiled in response, but it was not the friendly kind.
Yes, Mercer was a large man; as wide as he was tall in fact. His eyebrows, Jason noticed, were permanently raised, which gave him a look of perpetual surprise. Despite his downbeat appearance, he spoke rather well, with only the occasional word giving away his nationality. He leaned forward menacingly. “You think you’re so bloody smart, don’t you King?”
Jason shrugged casually, sending a puff of smoke spiralling ever skyward. “I try not to fly in the face of public opinion.”
“And amusing too!”
“At least I can be amusing should the mood take me!”
Realising that he could never win a verbal dogfight with Jason King, he quickly turned his attention to a file that had been lying on the desk in front of him. Tapping the leatherette-bound volume with a stubby forefinger, the official began: “Federal Intelligence…”
“Now there’s a contradiction in terms!” Interrupted King.
“….Federal intelligence have advised that, before returning to England a month ago you were in Beirut. Is that correct?”
There was a brief pause while Jason considered his answer. Crossing his left leg over his right, he exhaled another cloud of smoke virus nostrils: “That’s none of your business.”
“Oh, I think you’ll find it is, Mr. King,” Mercer countered. “What was the purpose of your visit there?”
There was another brief pause. “I was on holiday,” the author answered with a certain amount of restrained steadiness.
“In the Sudan?” Mercer inquiredin a mocking tone.
“That’s right,” Jason countered, “I got there every year – last week in July, first week in August. The beaches are delightful at that time of year.”
Jason took out of his pocket watch and noted that it had been over two hours since he brought to that dingy little room, and yet he was no closer to learning why he was there. Straining to suppress a weary yaw, the slowly lilting Englishman listened with increasing impatience to the relentless barrage of questions, and at Mercer’s growing disbelief at his answers.
Mercer left his chair and began to circle the table. Jason shifted in his seat. The telephone interrupted the growing tension with its cheerful tone but with far less harmonious chatter.
Jason’s hands became suddenly restless as Mercer stared at him from across the desk – a scarlet cast started to wash over the officer’s furious features. Returning the receiver to its cradle, the huge man rubbed his meaty hands together: “Open the bag!”
Before Jason could rise from his seat in protest, Mercer had grabbed the black leather case which, until that point, had been lying at the scribe’s feet and flung it onto the desk. “We have reason to believe,” Mercer began, “that you are concealing something illicit in that bag, Mr. King, and I intend to find out exactly what it is!”
Jason leapt to his feet in an almost half-hearted manner, knowing all too well that the game was up. He scrutinised Mercer’s chunky features; the furrowed brow, piercing eyes and thick, powerful neck. He suspected that this man was truly vindictive and that he might pursue his prey even to the grave to reverse a verdict.
Reluctantly, Jason surrendered the key to the bag – sliding across the desk to the waiting officer. Immediately he began to regret the last few months. Once again he began to consider an escape. He would tear up the file that lay in front of him, but then he remembered the heavy wooden door and the twisted knee he’d sustained on a recent skiing holiday. As before, he decided to stay put. Jason shifted uneasily in his seat and awaited Mercer’s next revelation. It didn’t take long. The zip on the bag was snatchedback purposefully and watched in horror as his personal affect spilled out onto the desk: a diary and notebook. Shaving bag. A pair of neatly pressed trousers and a rather loud raw silk shirt.
“Don’t you ever get stared at in this get-up,” Mercer snorted sarcastically.
“Mr. Mercer,” replied Jason, adopting his most bold expression. “I’m man who prefers to be looked over, not overlooked!”
The pause was brief while the big man digested this latest affront, he then he continued his search.
Jason lit another Sobranieand tried to look indifferent, but inside his heart beat so fast he feared Mercer might hear it. The Official uptick Jason, from moment felt he’d underestimated in. But just as he was beginning to resign himself to the fact that the Englishman had no intentions of breaking, he was given this first glimmer of hope: A tiny bead of sweat barely visible below the author’s dark brown mane. He smiled to himself.
Jason sands trust heart around them of the chair and his left knee gave an involved jerk which only the most unobservant might have missed. Mercer could not be counted amongst such those people. The author stared at the window blankly and began to wonder how many more hours he would have to endure that horrid little room. His eyes crave for sleep and some taste of the present. As Mercer continued to forage with faultless efficiency. Jason felt the tug of weariness on his eyelids as his head dropped.
His excursion into sleeps welcoming arms was brief, for no sooner had he begun to drift away that Mercer let out a shriek of triumph. Jason sat bolt upright,
The Border Officer’s face displayed its ultimate in cruelty with an expression verging on that of a madman. But for the first time his gloating smirk would be of secondary importance to Jason whose attention befell the object Mercer was clutching in his right hand. A stark wave of isolation descended upon the Englishman, while the full vacuum of these enclosed hours revealed itself to him. He looked down on his empty hands.
Jason rose and fast is accused of. He began to shake uncontrollably – the thoughts of a ruined career and reputation flashed before his eyes. The effect was claustrophobic. Neither man spoke; only the sound from the busy terminal below them encroached on the otherwise deafening silence. For Jason, the hush felt oppressive. He waited motionless for Mercer to speak – his breath suspended until the object of the big man’s endeavours was waved under his nose.
“SpongeBob Square Pants boxer shorts, Mr. King?” Mercer mocked.
Jason met the floor with a hefty thud!
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