Chapter Thirteen
“I'm sorry, Mr Petrica. It really is a random check, you
know.”
Sasha
dragged his attention away from the one-way glass long enough to
smile at the Customs and Border Protection clerk. His rucksack was
open on her desk. She had removed its contents respectfully. “Yes,”
he said. “I work with immigrants in the UK. I know the
difference.”
The door
opened to admit another officer in LAX uniform. If bullying ethnic
minorities had been the order of the day for either of them, they'd
have had to begin with themselves: their ID badges read Hernandez
and Cheung. Officer Cheung frowned back over his shoulder. The door
was still open, and through it there drifted the music of a
well-brought-up Englishman having an elegant fit. Sasha put his
face into his hands.
“Your friend's gonna get himself in trouble if he carries on
like that.”
“I know.” Sasha looked up. Hernandez was now repacking his bag
just as carefully as she'd emptied it. Her dark eyes were
concerned. From the corridor beyond the interview room he heard the
words barbaric and transparent
discrimination. The words joined up into
sentences, as if Laurie were pacing, had reached the far end of the
corridor and started back towards him.
Is it because he was carrying a rucksack? Or was it the
colour of his skin?
Officer
Cheung shut the door. He looked like a nice guy, but he had a
no-nonsense set to his jaw and a holstered Glock on his hip. “A few
years back,” Sasha said with muted urgency, “there was a case in
London where armed police opened fire on a man on the Underground.
He was just an electrician on his way to work. He was Brazilian,
and he was carrying a rucksack like one of the 7/7 bombers. The
police shot him dead.”
Hernandez nodded. “I read about that.”
“My friend out there—Laurie—he was just a kid, but he was very
upset about it. He worries about the way I look. He wanted me to
carry a holdall today, not a rucksack.”
“It would have made no difference. I'm not saying there
isn't discrimination, Mr
Petrica—we're not perfect—but that's not the case here.”
“I know.” Sasha placed his hands on the desk. His palms weren't
sweating yet, but they would soon start. Polite and friendly as
Cheung and Hernandez were, security staff in a massive US airport
would not take much more of what Laurie was dishing out. “What I'm
trying to say is, we had a rough flight, and it is so, so unlike
Laurie to behave like this. If I could just see him for one
minute—if you're finished with your checks, that is...”
The
officers exchanged a glance. “Is he still in primary inspection?”
Hernandez asked.
“If they haven't slung him into a holding cell to cool
off.”
“All right. Yes, Mr Petrica, we're done with you. You're all
clear, and we apologise for any delay to your journey. Welcome to
Los Angeles.”
Sasha
followed Cheung back out of the inspection suite, a
behind-the-scenes maze so close to the cheerful stream of life in
the arrivals halls and yet so divorced from it—a different country,
with sensitive laws of its own. Sasha's work had trained him how to
navigate within this little world. For Laurie it was alien ground,
although Sasha had thought him sufficiently debonair to conduct
himself properly anywhere.
Not
today. The clear, carrying voice rose again, knocked out of its
usual timbre by stress and rage. Quickening his pace, Sasha strode
into the corridor. “Laurie. Laurie, I'm here. You stop that right
now.”
Trust Laurie to find the one LAX employee who
did fit the notion of
bigoted, racist America. He was nose-to-nose with a burly,
shaven-headed cop who looked as if his last nerve had been snapped
and his last line crossed. Sasha spread his hands wide to show
everyone that he was harmless. Laurie turned to meet him. His
pupils were dilated, a wild lostness in them. “Sasha! What did they
do to you?”
“Nothing. A routine, random check. Back down, okay? Come
here.”
Laurie
allowed himself to be towed away. The officer glanced between him
and Cheung, as if at once relieved by this intervention and a
little disappointed. “Good timing, Li. I'm one hair off charging
Lord Fauntleroy here with disturbing the peace.”
“Yeah. Hernandez said to let it go, though. The check on Mr
Petrica was negative, and this guy's just a bit high-strung,
apparently.”
Sasha
pushed Laurie down onto a plastic bench. He knelt in front of him,
took hold of his arms and gave him a shake. “You hear that? You're
acting like a racehorse stuck in the stalls. What's wrong with
you?”
“They pulled you over for nothing.” Laurie could barely speak.
“You were there and then you were... gone.”
“That's how it's done. They're not about to argue it out in
front of hundreds of people at the desk.”
“But you just went with them.”
“The sooner you go, the sooner it's over. Anyway, why should I
make a fuss when I've got you to kick down the walls for me?” Sasha
put a hand to Laurie's cheek, where the angry flush had died to
pallor. “Listen. It's annoying, obtrusive and it makes you miss
your bus. But I'm pretty sure it isn't unfair. Or racist for that
matter—not this time.”
“I've never been so tempted to play the don't-you-know-who-I-am card.”
Sasha chuckled. “That would've been lovely. No offence,
sweetheart, but you've only appeared in a few London theatres,
and Blood Moon hasn't started filming yet. They wouldn't have had a
clue.”
Laurie
smiled unwillingly. “Thanks.”
“You're very welcome. Are you back with me?”
Laurie
sat up. He ran unsteady hands across his hair. “I think so. What
got into me?”
“You were jumpy before we set off. You hit the in-flight drinks
pretty hard, you know.”
“And I was airsick. That's never happened to me
before.”
“Well, the turbulence was bad.”
“I've been a right little bundle of joy, haven't I?”
Sasha
looked up at him in relief. This was his Laurie—sweet,
self-deprecating, bright with amusement at the world's foibles and
his own. That version had vanished from Sasha's view at Mrs G's
wedding, just after Dracinsky had taken Clara home. He hadn't
reappeared during the frantic days of packing that had followed.
Sasha had lived at vast galactic distances from a feverish
stranger. “You were a charming travelling companion, I'll say that
for you.”
“God, I'm so tired. I just want to sleep.”
“I bet you do.” Sasha pulled the dark, troubled head down
toward him. He planted a brotherly kiss to its brow, then an
uninhibited one to the startled mouth. He kept one eye on officers
Cheung and Maguire. He'd cleared them of colour prejudice, but saw
no reason not to check out their tolerance for other civil rights.
“Come on. You've worn yourself out making trouble. Let's get out of
here, if they'll let us.”
“I think I'd better apologise to...”
“Sergeant Maguire?”
“How do you know his name?”
“They have tags. Read them.” Find out,
even if it's just a passing cop, or your father's driver, because
nobody, nobody wants to be ignored. “Okay,
go apologise. But walk slowly, show him your hands, and for God's
sake don't reach into your jacket to give him your
card.”
***
By the
time Laurie emerged into the arrivals hall, he was drained and
absolutely lost. The international terminal was not much bigger
than the one at Heathrow, but he had expended everything that made
him feel human, individual within his skin. He was nothing, wasn’t
he? A temperamental nobody who had almost got himself and Sasha
shipped off to Guantanamo Bay.
He
raised his chin. Up ahead of him, a handsome young man was adroitly
threading the crowd. He was chatting to his family around him. From
his accent and his confidence, Laurie guessed that he was a
returning citizen, not looking at his surroundings because he’d
seen it all a hundred times before. Laurie took him in
carefully—his smile, his demeanour, his calm.
Sasha
glanced up at him. “That's better.”
“What is?” Laurie tightened the arm he'd kept round Sasha’s
waist since they'd escaped. Laurie would be okay now, not homesick
or freaked out or terrified. The young American held himself
just so, walked
with assurance just so...
“You. You just suddenly seemed to chill out.”
Laurie
gave Sasha a squeeze and a grin. “Well, it's about time, isn't it?
We're here now. Everything's fine.”
Sasha
leaned into him. He felt a little different, the pace of his stride
unfamiliar, but Sasha was used to his shifts, and what price a man
who would walk with him into America with an arm around his waist?
If Laurie had decided to let his brush with the CBP go, Sasha could
forget it too. Such amnesias had come easy, in the strange dream
state in which he'd moved and functioned since the wedding, since
his sudden surrender of control. “I'm sure you're right,” he said
agreeably. “There's six billion people in here, and neither of us
has a clue where we're going, but...”
“Wait a second.” Laurie stopped and raised a hand. Underneath
the departure boards, a lean blonde woman was anxiously scanning
the crowd. Suddenly she focussed. She turned to snap something at
her companion, who continued his struggle to extract a can from a
drinks machine until she slapped him and pointed. The two began to
cross the hall, the young man rubbing his arm. Laurie set off to
meet them. “I’m disappointed. I thought she’d be holding up a sign
marked Welcome, helpless
Brits. I recognise the guy with her, don’t
I?”
“I do too, oddly enough.” Sasha knew Libby—enough to thoroughly
dislike her—from their meetings regarding his visa over the past
week or so, but he hadn’t paid much attention to the
Blood Moon cinema
trailers. “Isn't there one sort of sidekick vamp, a trainee who
keeps letting the side down?”
“Because he can't bite humans. That's him.” Laurie smiled at
the approaching pair. “Hi, Libby. And this is Bailey Price, isn't
it?”
The
young man looked surprised. He took Laurie's outstretched hand and