You have a bomb in your bag.
You wonder how no one else realises that you have a bomb. Right here, in your bag. It seems a white face and a battered bookshop tote are camouflage enough. But you know. Nestled between your trusty water bottle and a pair of old fashioned wired earphones, probably all tangled up, is a tiny bomb.
You flinch every time the bag taps against your hip, wonder if anyone notices that you’re leaning to one side. Wonder if it will give you away.
The fluorescent lights in the low ceiling cast off-colour shadows across the walkway. To your left, people are walking on a travelator, probably to avoid the clusters camped out on the carpet. Families, couples, children.
But not you. You refuse to look away, even when they stare up at you as you walk by. I’m doing this for you, you think.
The walkway opens out into a vast room. The crowd thickens. Guards carrying automatic rifles are stationed in the corners, elevated on perspex pedestals. You melt easily into the line that disembarks from the travelator, dressed to blend in - straight cut jeans, off-white tank top, sunglasses on your head. The new December norm for your average 20-something.
Movement slows this close to the border. You knew it was going to be a crush. You look around, wonder if you should use the toilet one more time, decide that’s ridiculous given the circumstances.
At the other end of the hall, you can just make out the tops of the perspex screens that divide the immigration officers’ cubicles. You count the gaps between them. Fifteen officers in total. There must be hundreds, thousands of people in the room.
You jostle to find a spot in a queue, holding your bag close to your body. You try not to cringe as people push past.
The hall is loud. Its walls and floors are lined with more people who’ve settled in to stay. Most have probably been rejected already, but where else is there to go? You imagine what their stories might be. Perhaps this child’s parents died working out in the heat, perhaps that man’s country is underwater now. An old woman wearing a headscarf sees you looking. She’s surrounded by children, her grandchildren? Perhaps her country was bombed by yours. You lock eyes with her and smile, she makes a spitting motion in your direction.
Ah. Your face burns. You tuck your bag in closer and keep your eyes on the ground. It’s ok, you think, she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know I’m on her side.
The queue moves slowly. You frown as you watch a man push his way ahead. Queue jumper. There’s a large clock on the wall beneath the lion and unicorn insignia, tick tick ticking away the minutes. Underneath, the words BLOOD BORDER have been graffitied like a brand in faded capital letters. Someone must have had a ladder.
‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ The voice startles you and you clutch your bag closer. A young man in uniform is looking at you. Everyone is looking at you.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Yes?’
‘I asked if I could see your documents.’
‘Oh, of course.’ You hand over the folder. He rifles through the papers.
‘Would you like to come with me?’ He’s gesturing towards the front of the room.
‘What for?’ You ask, too quickly. Idiot.
‘Uhhh-’ The young man glances around then steps closer. You tense up.
‘I just mean I can get you through a little quicker. There’s no need for you to wait like this.’
Tuts sound around you. Your face burns as you catch his meaning.
‘Oh no, I’m fine here thank you. I can wait.’ He frowns at you.
‘If you’re sure.’ he says.
‘I’ll wait my turn.’
‘Alright, then.’ He leaves to resume his search.
You look around, seeking smiles and nods of approval. No one is interested. You return your gaze to the ground.
A few minutes later, a commotion up ahead draws all the eyes in the room. People jostle behind you as you crane to see what’s going on. One of the perspex screens is doused in red. Acid burns in your throat. The crowd in front of you is hushed, trying to hear. The crowd behind is asking what happened over and over. Many have waited months or years to be here.
You need to see the bigger picture, you think. Your heart is pounding.
There’s a collective gasp up ahead and then the crowd ripples open. A clot of people push past you; a brown-skinned young man flanked by six guards.
‘There’s blood on your hands!’ The young man screams over and over. The stench of wet paint follows in their wake. You remember, then. The bomb in your bag. You feel for it from the outside. Confirm its presence. Your hand is hot where you touch it through the canvas.
The crowd absorbs the space where the young man had been. You look back and see that the guards have reached the walkway. They’re dragging him behind them now. He’s no longer screaming. You look ahead. The acid in your throat slithers down into your stomach and coils into place. You swallow a few times.
The incident with the paint has reminded people they’re not alone. They begin to talk to one another. You turn to the man behind you and smile, he meets your gaze and strikes up a conversation with the woman in the adjacent queue. You turn away. You overhear as they swap stories and commiserate about the application process, how they managed to scrounge up the cash for the processing fees.
‘Well, here’s hoping.’ The man says in accented but well-articulated English. They settle back into weighted silence.
As you approach the front of the queue, you begin to see decisions being made. The young officer from before reappears and delivers a tall white man in a clean white shirt to the window. They shake hands and then the tall man turns his smile to the officer behind the perspex. A rumble of disapproval shudders down the line but no one says a thing. You want to shout about how unfair it is, but you can’t draw attention. Not yet.
You see a green glow reflecting off the perspex, a telltale sign. The man passes through the barrier and disappears through the far door. That’s it, run away.
The queue inches forward. A series of hopefuls are turned away and fight their way back into the crowds blank-faced, clutching papers wrapped in protective film, ultimately useless.
Your throat goes dry as you near the front. You’ve always felt nervous at borders. Or talking to policemen. Or giving your coffee order. Even when you’d done nothing wrong. Even when there wasn’t a bomb in your bag. You remind yourself that no one’s thinking about you. It’s a good thing. Everyone’s preoccupied with their own lives. No one’s thinking about you.
Then the man in front of you steps up to the window. He doesn’t seem nervous, despite the colour of his skin. Perhaps he’s rich. He hands a leather folder to the officer behind the perspex. Definitely rich.
The immigration officer removes the man’s paperwork from its sheath. The bundle is thick. He feeds the pages through a machine, never looking at the man’s face. He hands the papers back and taps the two-way tray between them, indicating that the man should present his hand. He does. The immigration officer reaches into a plastic bin and withdraws a single-use DNA reader. He unwraps it with practiced finesse and jabs it into the man’s thumb. You watch him tense at the sting. Then the officer replaces the cap and sets the device on a wireless scanner. The applicant’s leg bounces in place.
‘Has it come through?’
‘It’s calculating.’
‘Ah. Crazy that we have to do all this now, eh?’ The officer doesn’t respond. The man picks at his nails.
‘68.’ The officer says and presses a button on his monitor. The applicant’s shoulders relax and he grins.
‘Worth the wait!’ He laughs. The barriers remain closed.
‘Please make your way out of the queue.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Please make your way out of the queue. There are people waiting behind you.’ The man looks down at the panel, double digits pulsing red.
‘You said 68, right? 68’s fine’
‘New policy rolled out this morning,’ the immigration officer says in a monotone, ‘70 and up.’ For a moment the man doesn’t move. Then papers are flying everywhere, some falling to the floor.
‘There’s been a mistake, I was born here,’ he jabs a finger at his birth certificate, ‘May 18th, Royal London Hospital. And my parents,’ he slams two more documents onto the tray, ‘London and Birmingham. They were born here.’ The immigration officer finally looks at him.
‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘but your results drag down the score,’ he points to his monitor. ‘60% West African. And like I said, the policy just changed this morning. Please move along.’ You watch realisation dawn on the man’s face. And desperation.
‘Come on, this can’t be right, I only left a few days ago. It was just a quick trip, for business, I-’
‘Move along or I’ll have to call security.’
The man’s eyes grow wider. He’s frozen, gripping the display panel. It bathes his hand red from the inside. Then he bends slowly to collect his documents and turns his back on the cubicle. Everyone is looking at him. You offer a consoling smile. It’s ok, you think, it’s actually for the best this time. He meets your gaze and scowls.
‘Fuck you,’ he says, as he pushes back into the crowd. His vitriol startles you, you wonder what you did wrong. Disquiet shivers down the queue at the news. People flip through their documents, recalculating.
‘Next!’
You shuffle forward on shaking legs and hand over your folder. You’ve been rehearsing what you’ll say, when it happens. You run through it now as the officer scans your documents. Borders are murder! You are complicit! Climate justice now! You’ve imagined how it will all play out over and over again. Imagined the unwavering expression of defiance on your face. You think of the man who was dragged away, he’s probably been deposited among the aimless masses by the travelator by now. No, you remind yourself, that’s so naive. The officer says your name.
‘Did you have a nice trip?’ You remember the reason you wrote down on the forms.
‘Yes, we got a lot done.’ The officer smiles at you.
‘Do-gooder, huh?’ The instinct to deflect kicks in, even in the face of false praise.
‘Oh, no, just- doing what I can.’ This is why it had to be you. Who would suspect? You feel a little thrill as the documents pass muster, stacked back into a neat pile. You put your hand on the two-way tray, upturned.
‘This might sting a bit. Bear with me.’ The officer pricks your thumb. A drop of blood pools to the surface, stark against your skin.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Crazy that we have to do all this now, eh? But so it goes.’ You smile at him and rub your thumb. It hurts. The officer looks at your results and whistles. Your score appears in green on the monitor and you imagine the people behind you craning to see and looking away in disgust. You flush red.
‘Nice.’ The officer says. The acid roils in your stomach. You look at him, unsure what to say. He looks a bit like your dad. Or maybe you’re imagining it. Maybe it’s just that in this room if anyone was going to look like your dad, it would be him. He taps his monitor and you notice his wedding ring. You feel dizzy, grip the panel for support. Green light sprouts from your hands. How hasn’t he clocked you? Surely you’re sweating? Surely your darting eyes are suspicious? The open gates yawn before you like a gaping jaw. He’s holding out your documents.
‘Is that it?’ you say, almost a whisper.
‘That’s it’ he says, ‘you can go through.’ You don’t move. He looks at you, still holding out your documents. The acid erupts in your stomach.
‘Thank you,’ you say and take the papers from him. You step through the barrier on shaking legs and fondle the contents of your tote bag from the outside. His attention moves to the next in line. You look back. A line of officers and none of them give you a second glance. They’re all looking outwards. Beyond, you see the masses of people still waiting in line. In front of you is the final gateway. Through that door, one path leads to a hotel, another to the underground. The overground train. The car park.
You stay rooted in place, your fingers fondling the tiny bundle. Your neck grows hot. And your scalp. Your heart pounds. A memory unfolds of the trips you used to take as a kid, walking through airports, whinging and overtired.
Hey, kid. There’s a bomb in your bag.
You’ve been here too long. Still and shaking. A camera above the exit is staring at you; you stare back into its purple-black pupil. Timing is crucial, you remember, you’ll know when the moment is right. Maybe you missed it. Maybe the moment’s been and gone.
‘Ma’am?’ You turn around. The immigration officer is looking right at you. Brow furrowed. Eyes blue.
‘Is everything alright?’ You reach into your bag and clutch the tiny bundle. Your mouth is dry. Acid in your throat. The officer looks concerned now. The man who was behind you in the queue is staring. This is the moment, you know it.
There’s a bomb in your hand. You pull it out slowly, closed fist drawn up to your shoulder. It’s shaking like crazy. You open your mouth.
Borders are murder! Nothing comes out.
You are complicit! The officer’s eyes are wide and on you, unblinking. He slowly reaches beneath his desk.
Justice! His hand disappears. The acid erupts in your chest, in your blood, everywhere. You can’t breathe.
Now!
‘I’m fine!’ you gasp. He freezes. You drag a breath through your lips. ‘All good. I- I thought I’d lost my keys for a second.’ Your laughter is hollow, your voice ragged. He’s still looking at you. At your closed fist. You stuff your hand back into your bag.
‘Sorry,’ you say.
You turn towards the exit. You walk onto English soil, numb. Your legs keep moving, puppeting you towards the underground. Your hand grips the strap of your bag at your shoulder. It’s less crowded now you’re through; people smile and nod at you, welcoming you home. You think you smile back. It’s automatic. Your mind is catching up with your feet - what are you doing! You keep on walking.
You get on a train, change at King’s Cross, get off at Highbury and Islington. You stare straight ahead all the while. When you get to your mother’s house, you reach into your bag for your keys and flinch as your fingers brush against a small bomb. You unlock the door with shaking hands and your mum calls to you from the kitchen.
‘Celia?’ Who else would it be? ‘You’re back sooner than I’d thought!’ She steps out into the hall, smiling, and wipes her hands on a tea towel. Then she reaches for you.
‘Oh, look at you. Sweetheart, you must be exhausted.’ She strokes your hair and you feel far away. She ushers you into the living room and guides you onto the faded paisley sofa. She switches on the television and kisses the top of your head before returning to the kitchen. You stare straight ahead until screams erupt in your ears.
You spring into action, grabbing for your tote. You pull it illogically closer. It takes you a moment to realise the screams are far away. The television set swims into focus. A familiar news anchor warns that the coming footage may be disturbing for some viewers. The screen switches from pristine studio to shaky hand-held smartphone. The view is filled with grey dust, and staticky booms overwhelm the inferior in-built microphone. A disembodied voice - the cameraman? - shouts, ‘he’s coming down! Nelson’s coming down!’ Then the voice is muffled by background noise. Explosions, screams. The image flickers back to the studio and the two stony-faced presenters resume their script.
‘This morning’s terrorist incident at Trafalgar Square has shaken the nation. We can now confirm that three people have been identified in connection with the incident.’ Their images appear on screen in a Brown rainbow, followed by the known casualties. The familiar routine continues. A radical commentator is brought on, regurgitates statistics about dangerous crossings and climate casualties. The presenters perform disgust and invoke Churchill in unison. Your mum brings you a cup of tea and stays, standing, to watch.
‘Terrible, isn’t it?’ she says and sips her darjeeling.
‘Yeah’ you say, and hold your mug closer.