Sarah Scott Journalist

7 days before the meet

We haven’t left the safety of the airport all day. Although we are running away from danger here, I have actually had a good day with Aimee just sitting and talking like we used to.

Only three more hours till we leave. Only two more hours till we can board. Only one more hour or so till we can go through security.

Aimee’s five dollars didn’t go far. I’m starving. I can’t complain though. We are leaving tonight and will be back home in less than twenty-four hours. Back to the children’s home for Aimee and back to my crappy flat. I know Aimee is wondering why I haven’t opted to become her official guardian yet. The truth is, she will have a better life living in that place. They do care for her. I do too but I can’t be fully responsible for someone else’s life yet. I have been so close to ringing the care home, but I have never actually dialled the number. Aimee never speaks about it but I know she thinks about it. Whenever she visits my flat I always feel like she is waiting for me to tell her ‘you live here now. You’re never going back there again’ and then embrace in a hug and live happily ever after.

Another hour passes and we watch as our flight desk is opened so we eagerly spring to the front. The lady behind the desk is suspicious as to why we have no suitcase to check in but I reassure her that we were only here visiting family so didn’t need any luggage. She seems satisfied with that and allows us to go through to passport checks.

When I picture passport control I don’t imagine an underpaid, uninterested Mexican directing us to a machine that looks like it could explode at any moment. I walk through it while my rucksack is scanned. No beeps. Aimee walks through only seconds after me. BEEP!

They tell me it’s a random check and I have to stand and watch as she gets patted down. I seem more bothered than her. After what she has been through the past few days, this is not what should be happening.

They finish and let us move on. I resist the urge to punch the guy in the face for even thinking my sister is a threat but this means we can board and we won’t be found by them.

We sit down in the waiting area on an interesting sofa. Something flies out of it when I do sit down but it’s a relief to sit here instead of the airport floor.

Aimee is tired. She has no energy from only half a sandwich and the last few days have drained her. I know the feeling but I can’t fall asleep. I’m on alert because we’re not safe yet.

She eventually curls up and drifts off to sleep, her head on my knee. I hope the sound of my stomach rumbling doesn’t wake her. She looks so peaceful.

Many people come and go, as do the planes. It’s almost time to board I’m sure which is good because I can feel my eyes getting heavier.

I know I’m drifting in and out of sleep when I wake screaming. A siren louder than my thoughts is cutting through the building. People are darting everywhere, frantic. Aimee looks to me as confused and panicked as I am. I grab her hand and our bags and head towards the crowds. There must a fire or something.

A security guard is pacing around, herding us towards an exit. I try to ask people what is going on but I am only met with equal confusion. By the looks of everyone who is out here, it is the whole building that has been evacuated, with everyone left waiting in the unknown.

It makes me think back to the night our parents died. Aimee doesn’t remember it. No one would tell me anything. I knew our house had burned down with my parents inside. I was taken to the hospital, my sister holding my hand. I don’t remember who took us there, all I remember is being told my mother and father were dead after waiting for hours in the dark, not knowing anything. I just sat and cried, tears dripping on my sister’s face. My Auntie Susie, a horrible woman, turned up and took us away. She tried to look after us, thinking there would be some way she could inherit what our parents left us, but she couldn’t handle the ‘stress’ of two orphans so called some social workers. We were only with her for four weeks.

“Ladies and gentlemen. We are sorry for the inconvenience but this is a protocol we take when a matter like this arises. We don’t want to panic you but we will need you to stay here so the police can ask you some questions.”

There are some concerned whispers in the crowd. The man speaking goes on to say it again in a different language. When he has finished he begins again in English.

“We don’t want to alarm anyone because the situation is contained. We have discovered a bomb and some small fire arms trying to be loaded onto flight 487. The building is safe to re enter as there is no threat now but the police need your help so please answer all the questions they ask you. Again, sorry for the inconvenience but your safety is our top priority.”

Flight 487, that’s our flight! I feel sweat run down my face and back making me shiver even in this heat. This can’t be a coincidence. Who are we dealing with? What people would blow up a whole plane just to kill two people? How did they even find out which flight we were on?

The police spend hours asking questions and seeing as we have nowhere else to be, we answer them. Questions like: have you seen anything suspicious? And what luggage did you check in? They reassure me I’m not a suspect which makes me wonder if they have one in mind. They are guessing the culprit won’t have stuck around.

Everyone – myself included – is pissed off because we won’t be getting a refund for a while. We have no money and are only given some in compensation for the inconvenience to put us up in a hotel for a few days till they can put us on a different flight.

I think it’s time to tell the police everything about what has happened, about what I’ve done. We are told we can leave but we have to leave some contact information so we can get a refund and if they have any further questions. I leave my mobile number.

I see an officer outside and start walking towards him. The automatic doors surprisingly open when we walk close, exposing us to the outside, unbreathed air. The officer starts to walk away and I immediately follow but freeze in my tracks when a graffiti mark is revealed on the wall behind him. The paint is still running, which means it’s freshly done.

I swallow. It’s the same sign as the tattoo. The same sign as the one in our apartment.

They’re playing with me. That bomb was meant to be found! They want me to know I’m being watched constantly and that they could kill me if they wanted to.

I grab Aimee’s hand hard and lead her away from the officer. They can’t help! No one can! We’re on our own against a force not showing its face.

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Catch Chp.8 – Belle, next week!