Heartburn, or whatever the hell it was, had a way of creeping up at the most inconvenient of times – at least that’s what Huck Barrington Jnr. liked to tell himself the burning sensation and fluctuating pain was.

Letting his symptoms occupy such a bromidic term was certainly easier to digest than acknowledging the pre-cursor warning signs of the heart attack his cardiologist liked to tell him – on a depressingly regular basis – was waiting round some proverbial corner for him. And, if scaring the hell out him wasn’t enough, his physician sanctimoniously backed it up by talking figures, like some smart-ass Wall Street statistician. Figures of the millions of Americans killed each year by ventricular fibrillation. The number one killer in the US. Jeez, the guy made it sound like a sniper was on the loose.

Aggravated, Huck sighed. Rubbed his chest.

Knew it only served as a purely psychological curative, and decided to convince himself for the third time in the same amount of minutes that it was just acid reflux, caused by the extra portion of eggs over easy and red sliced onion he’d had at the grill bar in the entrance of the airport. Despite being a married man – twelve long years married – Huck had to accept the pretty waitress with the honey blond hair, size eight waist, and showgirl bust had featured in his decision to stay to feed his unsatisfied hunger.

He burped.

Loudly.

Loud enough for the grey haired lady next to him in the check-in line to sniff the air and turn her head away in disgust.

Not apologising, Huck caught the eye of a girl who was stood a few feet away by the escalator, under the large American flag hanging down from the ceiling. She was staring at him. What the hell her problem was he didn’t know. Well he’d go on ahead and stare right back. Ended up being the first to turn away.

With a dampened ego – never something Huck Barrington Jnr. took lightly – he chanced another side glance. Damn her, she was still staring. Can’t have been more than fourteen. Wore an oversized thick blue jacket along with thick blue jeans. Small. Olive skinned. Plaits too tight. Skin blemish free, unburdened by the curse of adolescent acne which had plagued his own teenage years.

He sighed again. Turned away. Glanced around. And thanked God – though being an atheist he knew it was a very loose term – that he was catching a flight to Pittsburgh. The place was a sea. A heaving mass of overweight bodies dressed in white satin and frayed tassels as tourists descended on Memphis for the Elvis revival weekend. A deluge of stick-on sideburns walking through check in.

‘It doesn’t look like it, Mr Barrington. I’m sorry.’

Huck flushed red. ‘You can’t just cancel a flight and then tell me there isn’t another one… There must be.’

‘There is, sir, but like I say, the next one is full. The only available seat isn’t until twenty-three, twenty.’

Huck cleared his throat. Raised his voice and spoke to the immaculately groomed airline service agent with as much disdain as he could muster. ‘Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. So let me spell it out to you, ma’am. I don’t care how you do it, but you need to get me onto the next Goddamn flight!’

Security stepped in. Big. Tall. Eyes dog mean.

‘Is there a problem?’

Huck answered with the disdain still swirling in his mouth. ‘Actually, yes there is. I want to get on my flight and get the hell out of here. That’s not a crime is it?’

‘Sir, there’s no need to be aggressive.’

Agitated, Huck felt the prickle. The sweat. Seeping down and through his shirt.

Rubbed СКАЧАТЬ

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