Charlie J Forrest

This weeks prompt was “Hidden”, this story is based on that, and a prompt from Exhibit Unadorned, who is a lovely chap and made Eroticon that bit more friendly and welcoming… I’m also assured I can sleep in his bath any time I’m financially pushed to attend an event… which is nice.

Anyway, without further ado I present Emotional Baggage.

John

The tyres smack into the tarmac once, twice, three times, then stick, squealing in protest as the plane lurches, tugging everyone forward in their seats. I release a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding. For good or bad, the worst part is over now.

As we shuffle into the terminal building I’m sure that every official is watching me, they know, with their beams and lasers and x-rays and smelling dogs, they know what I’ve done. Why don’t they move? Why don’t they arrest me?

I join the rest of the passengers at the torturously looped conveyor, doing my best to still my juddering heart. The bags start to appear.

That must be it, they’re waiting for me to collect the case, then they’ll have me. I hang back in the crowd as the first bags appear through the flaps, people shuffle their way forward, grasping handles and hauling them rudely back through the throng.

The case is maybe the third or fourth to appear. I don’t go for it. There are too many people and I can’t be certain I’m not being watched. As the handle glides past I realise how stupid I’m being, that the crowd is the perfect cover, might be my only chance. I clench my sweating palms as I wait for the case to make its way back around. Sooner than seems possible it’s approaching me again. I don’t hesitate this time, shouldering my way between the Canadian couple in front of me I grab, brace and haul all in the space of a second. It lifts easily in my hands, the adrenaline lending me strength I didn’t know I had. The wheels ‘clack’ onto the ground and I’m gone. It’s all I can do to act like a simple stressed business man, not quite running but power walking the rest of the way out of the airport.

I ask the taxi driver to help me lift the case into the cab. He does so, muttering under his breath about weaklings, then we’re off again. I stroke my hand over the reinforced surface of the case, mumbling meaningless reassurances to it and myself.

We reach the hotel, I check into our double room. The receptionist looks at me strangely when I say that my wife will be joining me, but not to hold her key at reception. I wheel the case to the lift, out of the lift, over the threshold and finally into the room. I position it in the middle of what floor space there is, taking a moment to catch my breath. Then I rap on the top, the little sequence we agreed, two, one, three.

Julia

I hear the voices coming closer, the occasional scrape of cloth on cloth as they take away the bags burying me. I have to suppress a giggle and a little squeak of excitement as I’m suddenly pushed this way and that as they wriggle my case free. I know we’re down now, know that I’m safe. Not that I was ever really worried, but the release of feeling the wheels hit the floor is euphoric, I feel invincible, more alive than I’ve felt in years. I wait till the movement stops, then pull open the slider that controls the vents. The temperature rises slightly, my nostrils catching the hint of a smell that isn’t me. Pollen and petrol and rubbery tarmac mingling with the scent of sweat and sex. How many times had I come? too many, no, that could never be. At first it was a vague attempt to calm down, trying to make sure I didn’t use the emergency oxygen, not that I should have needed it but, well, better safe than sorry. When that didn’t work I tried meditating, yeah, the restless fidgety girl who tried to get into yoga for three years is going to find her inner Zen now, like this? Then it became something more, a trembling unstoppable desperation to feel something in the darkness surrounded by white noise and fear.

More movement, gradual this time. This must be the trolley ride to the terminal. I jam my knuckle into my mouth to keep quiet The urge to shout out in delight is tremendous, that permanent itch to bring everything crashing down around me.

It’s the thought of him that stops me. Isn’t that always the way, the thought of what might happen to him keeping me from destroying everything.

More movement. I brace myself with my arms against the wooden sides of the case as I’m flung from upright to sideways to briefly upside down and then, thankfully, back onto my side. There’s very little room to move in here, even for someone as small as me, but even so the impact of the side of the case on the ground is enough for me to know I’ll have bruises when I emerge, bruises to be admired, bruises to be smoothed over with arnica and kisses.

Another bout of jolting and I’m propped up at an angle, there are mechanical squeaks form the conveyor outside. Almost there.

Soon there’s another lifting, another drop and I’m grinning again. In the darkness I look up and to the left, to where he must be, his firm right hand guiding my ‘click-clacking’ wheels across the floor towards customs.

I count the different sounds we pass through, bustling inside, squealing outside, the dull rumble of the taxi, outside, inside, the hiss of carpet against the wheels of the case.

Finally I’m still and, a few minutes later, I hear the clunk of the latches being released. There’s no knock. Maybe in his nervous state he just wants to check on me, maybe he’s just worried, or has forgotten. Light floods the case and I glance blinking up into it. There’s a surprised cry as the shadow overhead takes the form of a face that is not my husband’s. Deep inside there is a tiny bit of me that thinks maybe I should have worn at least some clothes for this trip.