and I can now see why she was beside herself with worry about me.
Even on the way to the airport she stopped the car, turned towards me and tried to tell me it wasn’t too late: I didn’t have to go, I could stay with her, get my old job back and work hard to rebuild my life in Gateshead.
But I didn’t listen – I didn’t want to rebuild my old life. I was going to find a whole new and exciting life in one of the world’s most glamorous cities – a place that positively sparkled with opportunity and promise; a place that called itself Mercy.
Five
A Gun to the Head
I should have listened.
The moment I walked off the plane and into the arrivals hall, something didn’t feel quite right. Call it intuition, call it sixth sense; I don’t know exactly what it was but all my nerves were jangling and something in my head – not a voice, just a ‘something’ – was telling me to find the nearest ticket counter and book myself on to the next plane back to England. As I stepped into the bustling crowds inside Schiphol, every synapse seemed alive to the prospect of some unidentified danger: every stranger, sweeping by me without so much as a backward glance, seemed instantly menacing. The words ‘Don’t do this!’ screamed soundlessly inside me.
I really wish I’d listened – to my mum, to my intuition, to the something inside my head. But I didn’t. I told myself I was being stupid; this was the city where my dreams were about to come alive. What on earth could go wrong? And so I ploughed straight on through the airport until I found the baggage carousel, then I picked up the one small suitcase I’d brought with me and marched out confidently into the public area of the arrivals hall.
The whole cavernous space was painted a sort of dull grey, with occasional flashes of yellow and orange. It made picking out faces in the throng extremely difficult. Sally had said she would meet me there and so I anxiously scanned crowds of people, looking for someone matching her description. There seemed to be hundreds of them: identikit European-looking women in sensible clothing. Some were holding up signs for important business people, others were family groups – mostly mothers with children – clearly waiting for a relative. But there was no one who looked like she would turn out to be Sally – and no matter how much I stared and peered, no one paid the slightest bit of attention to me.
For the next 15 minutes I stood in that great big hall, searching for a friendly face in the mass of people. No sign. Of course, with hindsight, that should have rung even more alarm bells. Sally and John were meant to be responsible professionals, working for a well-established child care facility, and responsible professionals don’t leave new employees in the lurch at a major airport in a strange country.
As it was, I waited and waited, telling myself as each minute ticked by that Sally had probably just been held up in bad traffic. Hadn’t the guidebooks said that the motorways around Schiphol sometimes got terribly clogged up? These were the days before everyone in the world had a mobile phone – I certainly didn’t. So there would have been no way for her to call and warn me she was going to be late.
And then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun round and she was there behind me, grinning, bubbly and apologising for being late. A huge surge of relief rushed through me – my body felt suddenly warm all over. I wasn’t alone in this strange place. It was all going to be alright, of course it was.
Maybe that instant rush of relief blotted out the other immediate reaction running through my mind: this woman is no nursery nurse! As soon as I looked at her I knew. She was wearing a very short, tight black skirt with long black leather boots and a long three-quarter length black leather coat. Nursery nurses don’t dress like that. Her hair was blonde: not real blonde but that shade of bright yellow-white that
Even on the way to the airport she stopped the car, turned towards me and tried to tell me it wasn’t too late: I didn’t have to go, I could stay with her, get my old job back and work hard to rebuild my life in Gateshead.
But I didn’t listen – I didn’t want to rebuild my old life. I was going to find a whole new and exciting life in one of the world’s most glamorous cities – a place that positively sparkled with opportunity and promise; a place that called itself Mercy.
Five
A Gun to the Head
I should have listened.
The moment I walked off the plane and into the arrivals hall, something didn’t feel quite right. Call it intuition, call it sixth sense; I don’t know exactly what it was but all my nerves were jangling and something in my head – not a voice, just a ‘something’ – was telling me to find the nearest ticket counter and book myself on to the next plane back to England. As I stepped into the bustling crowds inside Schiphol, every synapse seemed alive to the prospect of some unidentified danger: every stranger, sweeping by me without so much as a backward glance, seemed instantly menacing. The words ‘Don’t do this!’ screamed soundlessly inside me.
I really wish I’d listened – to my mum, to my intuition, to the something inside my head. But I didn’t. I told myself I was being stupid; this was the city where my dreams were about to come alive. What on earth could go wrong? And so I ploughed straight on through the airport until I found the baggage carousel, then I picked up the one small suitcase I’d brought with me and marched out confidently into the public area of the arrivals hall.
The whole cavernous space was painted a sort of dull grey, with occasional flashes of yellow and orange. It made picking out faces in the throng extremely difficult. Sally had said she would meet me there and so I anxiously scanned crowds of people, looking for someone matching her description. There seemed to be hundreds of them: identikit European-looking women in sensible clothing. Some were holding up signs for important business people, others were family groups – mostly mothers with children – clearly waiting for a relative. But there was no one who looked like she would turn out to be Sally – and no matter how much I stared and peered, no one paid the slightest bit of attention to me.
For the next 15 minutes I stood in that great big hall, searching for a friendly face in the mass of people. No sign. Of course, with hindsight, that should have rung even more alarm bells. Sally and John were meant to be responsible professionals, working for a well-established child care facility, and responsible professionals don’t leave new employees in the lurch at a major airport in a strange country.
As it was, I waited and waited, telling myself as each minute ticked by that Sally had probably just been held up in bad traffic. Hadn’t the guidebooks said that the motorways around Schiphol sometimes got terribly clogged up? These were the days before everyone in the world had a mobile phone – I certainly didn’t. So there would have been no way for her to call and warn me she was going to be late.
And then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun round and she was there behind me, grinning, bubbly and apologising for being late. A huge surge of relief rushed through me – my body felt suddenly warm all over. I wasn’t alone in this strange place. It was all going to be alright, of course it was.
Maybe that instant rush of relief blotted out the other immediate reaction running through my mind: this woman is no nursery nurse! As soon as I looked at her I knew. She was wearing a very short, tight black skirt with long black leather boots and a long three-quarter length black leather coat. Nursery nurses don’t dress like that. Her hair was blonde: not real blonde but that shade of bright yellow-white that
Similar Books
