(Or three at least, so far.)
And so it came to pass, that on the day specified by Julie, minion of Thomas the Cook, the Pale Man did leave his abode and made way, via underground tunnels, to the holy waiting area. It was here that people came to wait. In their hundreds they came and tarried for hours with their families, their lovers, their colleagues, or alone. They waited with expectation, anticipating the journey ahead with excitement and hinted fear. They noticed not the arrival of the Pale Man.
He was given access to the holy waiting area by showing an embarrassing likeness of himself, and producing the parchment that Julie had given him as she chatted Kentishly.
To enter the sanctity of the holy waiting area, he had to give up most of his possessions in an act of piety. He handed to the greeter at the altar of 'BA' a large bag of glaring shirts and other clothes he would only feel comfortable in, seventy-five lots of forty-miles away from his home. She said they would return them once he had completed his journey. The promise rang hollow in the ears of the experienced traveller.
He kept with him only those possessions he would need to sustain him on the journey. Audio cassettes of enchanted music, by the Killdozer choir and other hallowed ensembles; Scriptures making light of all that was unholy in the world; and a secret supply of food to keep him going between the meagre offerings of the journey supervisors.
He remembered only one journey where there had been enough food. A young steward had brought round copious amounts of bread and fish, when previously the captain had announced that there was not enough food to go round. The Pale Man had known then that the steward was destined for great things, and sure enough it was not long before he did own a string of restaurants.
The Pale One waited with the others. Feeling much a part of the throng, and yet isolated from it. He sat and penned a fantastical version of all that had happened to him that morning, whilst the sands of time, in the form of minute particles of quartz, ran on unabated, and yet, somehow much, much slower.
The Pale Man looked round. No one seemed to be looking at him. But he knew that one or two of them would be keeping him in their peripheral vision, hiding their faces behind broad-sheet newspapers.
A delegation of Chinese men in suits stood talking beneath the information screen. Maybe the triads had caught up with him too. His plane was now boarding and he stood up, looking to see who would respond to this. They were playing it cool.
He strode to the customs area where a formidable woman, who had once done a short course in "being friendly", took it upon herself to strew the contents of his bag all over the place. What would she make of the small electrical device for removing stubble? How would she react to the neatly wrapped parcel labelled "To the Gride and Broom"? Was that too obviously not what it seemed? Was the far from the distraction it was intended, and was actually drawing attention to it? And what would be made of the three hundred gram bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut? His alibi that the product was inferior when he was going occurring to his 'friend' who had requested it, seemed so flimsy now that he may have to use it.
The woman eyed them all with well-trained suspicion She put the razor and present through the floppy-disk blanking machine, just to show him she trusted him about as much as she would a rattle-snake with her pet rodent.
With minimal concern, she placed the articles back in the bag as sloppily as he himself had packed them, and thanked him cursorily. Her parting look was of pure unproved suspicion. It said, "Next time!"
The Pale Man found a trolley. It leaned slightly to the left, which reassured him it had not been tampered with. He noticed that some of the people had followed him through customs. But no one else had had their bags searched. They were on to him, he needed no further evidence.
He made straight for the departure gate - once he was on the plane he was safe. They wouldn't risk a scene there.
As he approached it, he saw that the plane was already being loaded with passengers. He ditched the trolley, and walked forward, observing that there were people sitting around the gate and not joining the queue, despite it being so short. Why? Why weren't they in the queue? He joined the queue, which was down to only a few people. Slowly, those still sitting began to rise - one at a time, and with practised randomness - and joined the end of the queue. They stood behind him. Close behind him. Too close.
He edged forward and readied his ticket... the crunch time approached.
Quite astoundingly, I found myself sitting next to Lord Ffobbington-Grimesby, or 'Pewterface' as he had been monickered when we were but lambkins under the watchful eyes of the Prefects and Masters of Swaythbourne's School for the Children of the Elite. Pewterface and I had united in our unanimous and unequivocal dislike of any form of outdoor sport. "If God had meant us to exist outside," we'd say, with alarming regularity, "He wouldn't have put us in such a cold and damp place."
Time had not been kind to Lord Ffobbington-Grimesby, although it had undoubtedly been fair. It generally is.
"I say, Paley, do you remember what we used to say about sports, what?" asked Ffobbington-Grimesby when the conversation had pleasantly subdued. "How it was the will of God no to, what?"
"It is only when one is young that one dares or bothers to guess at the logic of the Almighty. After one has seen enough of it, one generally realises that unless one devotes one's entire life to the study of it all, one is never going to get anywhere."
"You think he's all too clever for us then?"
"People are seldom too clever, as much as they are good at not appearing too stupid. Any God worth his pillar of salt would be able to hide any short-comings, with deitical ease."
"You think God's stupid? Is that it? Why that's blasphemy!"
"My dear sir, a person, or indeed a deity, is only as clever as the things he makes. To say otherwise is to fly in the face of logic."
"Continue."
"Well, if God's highest achievement is man, and man's highest achievement is the Gin and Tonic, it rather takes the magic out of it."
"I rather think you underestimate the wonders of that drink," he said pouring himself one from an inlaid hip-flask.
"My dear sir, I never underestimate a drink, that's the surest way to losing friends."
"Anyway, I think God's greatest achievement is not man, it's woman," he said with a sly grin.
"An interesting theory. One to which many men have subscribed to before now, and one which will be the subject of dispute for many centuries to come."
"You don't subscribe to it?" The glass empty, he cordially poured himself another.
"I never subscribe to anything that has an issue at such regular intervals."
"I fear sir, you are being crude."
"Sir, crudities are my whored oeuvre."
With a gasp, Lord Ffobbington-Grimesby adjourned to the smoking room, and remained there for the entire flight.
© 1995 and 1997, Peter More.