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My flight to Heathrow boards on time. As I enter the plane my heart skips more than a few beats as I see a stack of complementary Daily Telegraphs in the arms of the attendant in the doorway. I take a copy, a futile act, but at least there’s one less in the hands of a potential whistleblower. Almost as soon as we’re airborne the plane levels off, and shortly after we begin the descent into Heathrow. I don’t want to leave the plane. Somehow I feel safer in the air as I remember all those days on Kinder Scout looking skyward, watching as the planes flew overhead and imagining their destinations. The plane lands and I make the journey between terminals on a cramped shuttle bus. I have a little over an hour to kill and spend the time hidden away in a toilet cubicle, only exiting when a tannoy announces the boarding of my flight. I follow a moving walkway and then come to another security check. I hand over my passport and boarding pass, but the officer barely glances at the photograph before handing it back.
I can now see the gate, fifty metres or so in the distance. There’s already a large group of people waiting, almost blocking the entire concourse. Getting closer, my heart begins to pound and the nausea quickly returns as I see at least a handful of figures wearing yellow fluorescent jackets within the mass of passengers. As they turn, the word “Security” emblazoned across their backs yells out at me. I continue walking, but slow my pace as they turn to face me and begin to approach. Now closer still, amongst the crowd I can see a heavy police presence, probably at least five or six, many of them armed. I glance over my shoulder as my world begins to fall apart; just twenty metres or so behind, more police and security are converging on me in a huge pack. I turn around to find an escape route, but other than jumping the barrier of a gate and taking my chances running across the tarmac, there is no obvious place to run. I’m surrounded.
“Passenger Mr James Bosworth … Mr James Andrew Bosworth … Please approach the desk at Gate 47,” the public address system blasts out. After six months of waiting, and close to a year of preparation, my plan is falling apart. I smile to myself, and then laugh out loud. Accepting the inevitable, my anxiety dissipates. There’s nothing more I can do. Of course, I’m not happy, but I suppose my principle emotion is a kind of satisfaction and pride that I’ve come so far. I haven’t let myself down, and more importantly I haven’t let Helen and the boys down.
I wait for a command from the police to stop, but instead I feel a vicious blow in the middle of my back as a uniformed officer hits me hard with his shoulder. The breath taken from me, I stumble forward, only just managing to stay upright. Waiting for the next blow, I tense my muscles, knowing that to run is futile, and I turn halfway to face my pursuers in a final act of defiance. “I’m sorry, sir,” the officer responds, almost meekly, stunning me by his reaction, before screaming “Back off!” to the photographer next to him and roughly pushing him to one side.
Still struggling for breath, I stand aside and let the mass of police, security and accompanying photographers pass through. In the middle of the scrum is the diminutive figure of a young woman in dark sunglasses. It takes me a second before I recognise her from the front cover of the Telegraph supplement: some American pop princess, I forget her name, on tour in the UK.
Shell-shocked and about to take a seat opposite Gate 47, there’s another call on the p.a., this time with more urgency than the earlier request. “Mr James Bosworth, Mr James Bosworth on flight BA207 to Rio de Janeiro, please come immediately to the desk at Gate 47.” I look around me; the police and security are now someway down the long concourse, and I approach the desk. The attendant looks at me. “Mr James Bosworth?”
“Yes”, I respond, placing my passport and ticket in her extended hand.
She scans the ticket and passport before looking back at me. “Sir, economy has been overbooked, so we’ve upgraded you to business class.” I stare back at her in silence, my nerves shattered. “Obviously at no extra charge,” she adds.
I smile back at her mumbling, “Thank you”, and take the passport and new boarding pass.
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With my upgraded ticket in hand, I climb the luxuriously carpeted steps of the Boeing 747. I’m greeted at the top by a pretty flight attendant with an enthusiastic smile. “Good morning, sir, can I take your boarding pass.” I hand it to her and she takes me to my seat. About to sit down, for the first time I realise the significance of the seat – 17b, the number of the flat in Rawlton. I smile to myself at the irony as I sink back into the plush leather, stretching out my aching legs into the generous leg-room.
After a few minutes I glance around the cabin. Still only half the seats occupied with just five minutes to the scheduled departure time. After showing several other passengers to their seats, the flight attendant returns. “Champagne before we depart, sir?”
“Yes, that would be great – thank you.” I take a glass from the silver tray she’s holding. About to have a sip, it crosses my mind that I’m tempting fate: the plane is still on the ground and in home jurisdiction; the police could board at any minute. But with the attendant smiling sweetly on, I relax a little; in any case, if the strong arm of the law were to appear now it would all be over. There’s nothing I can do about it, so why worry. I indulge myself.
Within ten minutes the plane leaves the stand and begins to taxi across the apron. Out of the corner of my eye, I keep checking the top of the staircase, alert to a visit from police or security, but there are to be no final unpleasant surprises. A few minutes later the plane roars down the runway and there’s the distinctive hum as the wheels leave the tarmac and we’re airborne. I’m not quite sure what to feel; should I feel pleased? Yes, I’ve made it out, but I still don’t have my family back, and what does the future hold? I suppose part of me worries that my plan has been my raison d’être and that now, with its successful completion within touching distance, where will I go?, what will I do from here?
After the meal and a second glass of champagne, tiredness overwhelms the waves of melancholy. I study the myriad of buttons on the seat arm, press a few randomly, and after some trial and error the foot-rest elevates and the back-rest reclines. I snuggle down under the thick woollen blanket on the newly created bed, separated from the neighbouring seat by a full-length privacy shield. In my last few seconds of wakefulness, the pretty stewardess comes over. “Are you comfortable there, sir?”
“Yes … Thank you,” I respond, looking round my cosy retreat. “It’s quite a little bolt-hole, isn’t it?”
Epilogue
Six weeks later.
“... and now The World at One on BBC Radio 4.
South Yorkshire police have confirmed that the body found in an apartment block in Rio de Janeiro is that of British fugitive Dr Julian Scott. Although few details have been released, it is believed that thirty-eight-year-old Scott committed suicide. In a statement from local detectives in Brazil, released by South Yorkshire Police, it has been confirmed that investigators are not treating the death as suspicious and are not looking for anyone else in connection with the matter. In other news ...”