He disappears, leaving me alone. I look around the stark white walls, my eyes coming to rest on the poster of a man behind bars. Underneath, in bold lettering are the following words …
HM CUSTOMS AND EXCISE
DRUG SMUGGLING ZERO TOLERANCE
I scream inwardly. Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. I have absolutely no reason to feel guilty, so how comethose words strike raw terror in me?
The flickering strip lighting is starting to make my head spin. Small beads of sweat are forming on my neck. I glug a cup of water from the machine.
Scenes from the filmBangkok Hiltonare flashing through my mind. You know the one, where Nicole Kidman’s boyfriend hides heroin in his camera case and gives it to her to carry, then she’s banged up abroadin a filthy jail until she eventually has to dig her way out? A knot of fear grips my throat.
The customs man reappears, accompanied by a formidable female (at least, I think she’s female) officer, wearing latex gloves. She looks like she’s been flown in especially fromPrisoner: Cell Block H – not someone you’d like to bump into on a dark night, let alone be body-searched by.
The chairsscreech harshly as they are pulled out from under the table.
Several plastic bags containing a white substance are shoved under my nose. Two sets of eyes glue themselves to my startled face.
‘Can you explain to me what this is, and what it was doing in your suitcase?’
I look from one to the other in disbelief. ‘I … what … erm …’ I bury my head in my hands. How idiotic of me. I shouldhave left them behind. They were bound to cause suspicion.
Expelling a long breath, I look up and humbly confess. ‘It’s bath salts.’
The customs officer pauses for thought, brow furrowing. ‘Bath salts? Hah! That’s a good one.’
Reading the scepticism in his face, I do what I always do when I’m nervous or scared: PRATTLE. ‘Really. It’s salt, mined in the Austrian mountains. This guy,Gerhard, he’s the director of the play I’ve just finished doing in Vienna, well, and oh, he’s an Elvis impersonator too, anyway, he makes all these spa remedies from purely natural things, and … I’ve got loads. You’d be welcome to take …’
He bursts the bag open and tentatively puts a little on his tongue, then passes some to Scary Mary.
Shaking his head, he pushes the bag and my passporttowards me and deadpans, ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m more of a Radox man myself.’
With that they both stand up, indicating that it’s okay for me to leave.
‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice diminished to a wobbly whisper. ‘Sorry, I should have … sorry.’
I click my case shut and exit hastily through the sliding doors to freedom.
Francesco is pacing up and down by the barrier, lookingoverwrought and confused.
‘C’è un problema? Your friends, they tell me you were stopped by customs …’
‘No, no problem.’ I smile, wearily holding up a mollifying hand, then pecking his cheek. ‘Just a silly misunderstanding. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you in the car.’
Hmm. Not quite the cinematic, running-towards-each-other-in-slow-motion reunion I’ve been dreaming of.
