Hello, I’m Mike

Heathrow Airport

May 2001

What an idiot.

Thump.

After last night’s team-building pub crawl, the cinder-block wall is the last thing his head needs. So why does he keep bonking his head on it? More to the point, what kind of idiot thinks the immigration officer’s raised eyebrow is flirtatious? This kind, apparently.

Thump.

Wanker. That’s what his London team would be calling him right now if they could see him; what they’ll call him from this day forward if they ever find out that a backfired watch-list joke caused him to miss his flight and be detained for further questioning. Further questioning. Something he can expect more of when he finally gets home.

Idiot.

Thump.

Wanker.

Thump.

The holding cell has a leak. A bucket catches drops. Ploop. Ploop. Ploop. An Italian couple on the opposite bench argue, make up passionately, argue again. There’s an old man next to Mike, dozing maybe, though his lids—thin and delicate as tracing paper—hang so low that it’s hard to tell.

“At Her Majesty’s pleasure, are we?”

Not dozing, apparently. He’s a Brit, but there’s something else in his accent that Mike tries to identify. A couple of dumb questions flash through Mike’s mind—does that mean in jail? does he spell it “gaol”?—but he keeps his mouth shut for once.

“Bigger than most I’ve seen,” the old man says. “Smaller than some.”

Mike rubs his eyes, then his temples.

Ploop. Ploop.

“Been on the lash, then?” the old man says. “You smell a pub.”

Mike takes a long inhale. Here come the hangover sweats. Great.

“You know what’ll have you in absolute bits the day after? Communion. Communion wine. Bits, mate.”

Mike gets up, knocks on the door as civilly as possible, asks the security officer if he might have access to his bag, which contains medicine he requires. Emergency? Well, no. The door shuts.

Mike slumps back onto the bench. The old man tsks. “No, no, mate. Now they’ll have you down as a drugger. Never ask for medicine.”

Ploop. Ploop.

Mike bites. “How is it possible to … I mean, how would you get ahold of enough Communion wine to get drunk?”

“Ah, well, I’m a salesman! I wine and dine ’em like the rest, make no mistake. But when you’re selling to the clergy and don’t speak the language, a tipple can do a world of good. I always keep a flask of gin to hand, but in case of emergency, Communion wine works a treat.”

A pause while the man takes in the erotic spectacle on the opposite bench.

Ploop.

“But the hangovers, mate. Bits.”

“You were in Germany, then?” Mike asks.

“Yah, Frankfurt. What gave me away?”

“Nothing. Lucky guess.”

Mike can feel the old man looking at him. He checks his watch. Three drops plash the bucket before the man speaks again.

“Fifty years, mate. Chandler.”

Mike turns automatically, his hand out. The old man presses a business card into it.

“Chandler is my trade, sir. Arthur is my name.”

Mike accepts the card, and now they shake hands. The old man doesn’t let go. He leans in conspiratorially.

“Fifty years. Making candles, selling them to red-nosed deacons across Deutschland.” His voice drops to a whisper. “And now I’m back, back home. And I don’t think I’ll be leaving again.”

Ploop.

Well, this got predictably weird and uncomfortable. Mike is working on exit strategies when the old man, still clinging to his hand with a pulsing grip, pulls in like he’s got some big secret.

“Every kind of candle,” Arthur says. “Tall white tapers for the altar. Burn clean, pure, and straight—angelic stuff. Cheap, tiny votives, a groschen for a dozen. Course the church sold ’em for a mark apiece to the punters. But come Weihnachten, they’d go in for scented ones. Especially”—he looks around, then leans in closer—“the fat red ones, smell like cinnamon.”

Ploop.

Something stirs deep down. Might be a long-buried memory, might be that ill-advised banana flambé. Something is bubbling, surfacing. He does that awkward pre-barf face. He suspects that the Italian couple are now the spectators, he and this old man the spectacle.

“Say, you remind me of a lad I knew,” says the old man. “‘Knew,’ well, that’d be a stretch. Was a long time ago. I’d begun to think perhaps I’d imagined him and that nasty bit of business. … But maybe ol’ Arthur ain’t so barmy after all. Fancy that. …”

Ploop.

The nausea subsides for the moment. He feels like he should say something, but he doesn’t know what will come out if he opens his mouth.

“A brace of ’em there were!” the old man says. “And they were after me for something I done. Another time, though, another place. Funny thing, memories, what?”

He gives Mike one more pulse, then loosens his grip and slumps back against the wall.

“Fifty years,” he says to no one. “Ol’ Arthur’s exile is over, though it seems I’ve just traded one pen for another. Bah, that’s the way of it.”

“Michael Smith,” an officer calls from the door. Mike stands up.

###

Later that evening, from a hotel room in London, he calls home. No answer. He digs out another number and dials it.

“Dr. Schaffer?” he says. “It’s Michael Smith.”

“Mike?” he says. “Everything all right?”

“No. It’s not. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. There was an old man. You said to call you if, if …”

“What exactly did you remember? An old man?”

“No, the old man was real. But when he talked, he talked about candles, and I remembered a house in the woods. And then … I tried calling Amy but couldn’t get through.”

“Where are you?”

“London. I had some trouble with security and missed my flight.”

“Come to the institute as soon as you get back. Bring Caleb. We need to try something more invasive.”