Some poor bloke was probably strapped to the gurney inside. A wiped-out businessman who’d stayed over the Saturday night to save his firm money—an honorable thing to do—then risen early, showered and shaved, unaware that this flight would not be the carbon copy of every other trip home. Hopefully, the poor bastard would survive. Rotten luck to be taken ill at an airport.
Looking over his shoulder, Felix inched back onto the road and continued two miles an hour below the speed limit. He began spotting signs for Terminal 2 hourly parking. It was easy to get distracted by the traffic flow and end up in the wrong lane heading for the wrong car park. And when that happened? You had no choice but to exit the airport, circle back to the beginning, and start over. Another ten minutes would be wasted.
Five minutes later he found the ideal parking space adjacent to the pedestrian walkway and lined up the car perfectly between the parallel white lines. Brilliant. The car juddered into silence, and Harry slept on. Ella always woke him gently, easing him through the transition. Even so, Harry often woke up with fists clenched as if ready to box his way through another day.
Felix took a deep breath and squeezed Harry’s knee. “Time to wake up.”
Harry shot awake. “Mom?”
“It’s Dad. You need to wake up now so we can—”
“Where’s Mom?” Harry’s head jerked from side to side. “She was calling my name. Something’s wrong, very wrong—”
“Just a bad dream. You’ve been asleep since we left Durham. Come on.” Felix unbuckled Harry’s seat belt, but his son cowered.
“Harry. Shake off the dream. We need to find your mother.”
Eyes glassed over with fear, Harry stared at Felix as if he were a stranger. Had Ella ever talked to the psychologist about these nightmares? Felix glanced at his watch. Ella’s plane had landed ten minutes ago. The luggage would already be spewing down onto the carousel.
“Hazza—time to go.”
Harry blinked, the spell broken. “You haven’t called me Hazza in years.”
“Because you’re a little old for nicknames.”
“You really believe that?” Harry cleared his throat. Part of his original tic repertoire, this vocal tic had been the one constant in the ever-changing world of Tourette syndrome.
“Harry, you’re—”
“Nearly seventeen, I know.” Harry opened the car door. “Old enough to start mapping out the rest of my life. So you keep reminding me.”
What? Felix got out of the car. What had he said? Now he was the bad guy for trying to prepare his son for the future? Fatherhood was an active minefield.
A plane roared overhead, zooming up into the heavy blanket of gray clouds. Felix shivered and snuggled into the cashmere scarf knotted around his neck. For a nanosecond he was back in London, trapped in one of those gloomy January days when summer was an unattainable dream and you believed sunlight would never again warm your skin.
Heads ducked against the glacial wind, they crossed the road and entered Terminal 2. Felix patted Harry’s arm to signal a change of direction, and they headed for the down escalator. People buzzed around them while an announcement drummed from invisible overhead speakers. Harry winced, then stopped to listen.
“Dad?” He grabbed Felix’s arm, nails digging in as his elbow started to flap.
No. Not now. Not in public. Could Harry not hold in the tic for two more minutes so Ella could deal with it?
“Dad, why are they talking about Mom? Something’s wrong, I told you. I told you. Something’s wrong!”
“Harry. Stop this nonsense right now and—”
“Would the family of Ella Fitzwilliam please go to the Air Florida desk? Would the family of Ella Fitzwilliam please go to the Air Florida desk?”
Felix stood still and tried not to let his mind tumble through a series of worst-case scenarios as Harry’s always did, but the thought trickled out like slow-working poison: Who was in the ambulance?
THREE