Angelic thieves

Angelic thieves


After I got out of the black cab, I entered the airport terminal and headed toward the check-in desk. There was a small queue of passengers and after about ten minutes it was my turn.
“Where are you travelling to, sir?” The woman at the desk asked.
“London Gatwick.”
“Any luggage to check in?”
“Yes, one suitcase and I have a small hand baggage.”

So, after the usual routine of checking my passport, weighing my suitcase, etc, she gave me the boarding-pass, which I shoved in my shirt pocket along with my passport and she wished me a good flight.

I still had two hours to wait for my flight, so I decided to go for a coffee and read the paper, which is what I usually do to pass the time before I fly.

I am a frequent flyer, I like flying and I enjoy visiting new places. I will use any excuse to travel anywhere anytime. It’s one of those experiences that you cannot learn in books. Above all, the interaction with other people from different cultures is what fascinates me. However, this time I was going to London to work. I am an interpreter and it’s not uncommon for me to be sent away to different parts of the country to do my job. The flight from Edinburgh Turnhouse airport to London only took about 55 minutes and somebody would be waiting for me in Gatwick. Then I would be taken to the hotel where I would meet my client: a Spanish artist who came to Britain for an important exhibition of his art. His name is Rodrigo Romero, apparently one of the top artists in Spain. His work is deemed to be inordinately expensive, thus few people can afford to buy.

In the Costa coffee shop, I ordered a coffee and sat down at a table by the wall. The place was half empty; it consisted of about ten or twelve tables and was an open area, therefore from the café you could see a big portion of the airport, and other passengers could see you as well. I started reading the paper as I sipped my latte. Turned a few pages, read a few articles, nothing unusual: political tensions in one country, the war continues in some other country and a number of innocent people had been killed for reasons I will never manage to comprehend; but that’s a reality that whether we like it or not, we must accept.

As I lowered the paper to look at the monitors for my gate number, I acknowledged two girls of about eight years of age, who were standing eight to ten feet from me. They appeared to be twin sisters, were dressed exactly the same in a very classical way. But the strange thing is that they were smiling at me, and even more bizarre is that I had never seen the girls in my whole life. I smiled back at them and proceeded reading my paper or at least pretended to. I had put the paper back up with the purpose of blocking their gaze. I attempted to ignore the situation but my sense of curiosity defeated me. I rolled the paper back down slightly and I saw them again, this time they were giggling. “What the heck is going on?” I thought. “And who in the world are these two little girls who seem to be laughing at me?” I concluded the best thing to do was to ignore them, so that they would eventually grow bored and leave. It didn’t happen. They kept on giggling relentlessly, which made me begin to feel rather uncomfortable. I persevered to keep my paper up but I could still hear them giggle louder and louder. Their giggle became laughter and my feelings of unease and embarrassment became panic. To my horror it got worse; they started running around the café with amusement, especially around my table. I glanced around, and surprisingly the other customers in the café continued with their conversation, or reading without the slightest sign of being disturbed by the little girls.

So I put the paper down, smiled at them and as I was going to ask them what was so funny, one of them approached me with a huge smile on her face and lively eyes, and unsuspectedly, took a hold of my passport from my shirt pocket and ran off with her twin sister. Immediately, I shouted: “Hey, those two girls have stolen my passport.” Then, there was silence, and I could sense over a dozen pair of eyes gaping at me, but no one moved. So I followed the girls who were running like mad and without further delay, I noticed two security guards were right behind me. “Good,” I thought. “Security is very efficient here, and this situation is going to be solved promptly.” The girls kept running as if their lives were at stake and swiftly they went into the female toilet. As I got there, I stopped at the door and waited on the guards, who got there in no time.

As I was trying to regain my breath, I said: “good to see you, officers. Two girls have stolen my passport and they are hiding in this toilet.”
“Could you please produce identification, sir?” One of the officers asked.
“My only identification was my passport, and the two girls, who have just rushed into this toilet, have got it.”
“We haven’t seen no girls, sir. We would appreciate your cooperation and produce some form of ID.”
“As I said, my passport has just been stolen, and the thieves are in this toilet.”
“Ok, sir, that’s fine. You’re gonna have to come with us to the police station.”
“Listen, I’m not the one who’s committed the crime. The ones you’re looking for are in this toilet. Why don’t we go in, so that I can get my passport back? I have a plane to catch in about an hour.”

The security people eventually agreed to arrange to have the toilet checked, so they radioed their colleagues, and two female guards came along within seconds. They went in, had a look around and came back out.
“There’s not a soul in there.” One of the female guards said.
“Did you check the cubicles?” I asked.
“Of course we have, we have checked everything.” She answered in an irritated tone of voice.

Then I realised that there was something remarkably absurd and creepy about this whole situation, and I understood why nobody seemed to notice the two girls in the café, even though they were laughing really loud and were running around the tables. I inferred that I was the only one who could see them or hear them. And if I was to try to rationalise the whole thing, I could end up in a psychiatric hospital, so I gathered the best thing to do was to apologise, give an excuse and leave. It wasn’t that easy. I was frisked, taken to the airport police station, my suitcase was collected and searched to minute detail, and after what seemed like hours, I was ironically told to do it again.

I tried to phone my wife while at the police station but there was no answer. At least I managed to contact Rodrigo to let him know that I was not going to make it that night, and that I would take the first train in the morning. Rodrigo was not too happy about it since he knew how important it is to meet the interpreter the day before the exhibition, so that he or she gets a really good grasp of the material he needs to talk about, so that the interpreter can clearly and accurately convey the information to the potential buyers.

I took a cab at the airport and made my way home. On the short journey from the airport to Dalmeny, a small town eight miles from Edinburgh I reflected on what was happening to me. Two little girls laugh at me, steal my passport and I am arrested. My wife is not at home and one of my best clients is not happy with me. Why is all this happening to me? Why me? And not to mention the embarrassment and humiliation I felt at the airport.

I told the taxi driver to turn left and drop me off at the end of the street. I paid him and got off. I lived in a very quiet area in a two bedroomed-house. For the time being, it was big enough for Claire and me. Maybe in the future, if we had more than one kid, we might consider moving. Claire was three months pregnant so she would have to fall pregnant again before we would even think about it. We were happy with the area and the house.

From the outside of the house, I noticed the kitchen light was on, so I deduced Claire had just come back from wherever she had gone. “It will be a great surprise when she ascertains that I won’t be away tonight,” I thought. I turned the key and opened the front door as I called my wife’s name. There was no answer. When I stepped into the kitchen I became stupefied with horrifying disbelief. Claire was on the floor unconscious; she looked pale and was not responding when I shouted her name over and over. I checked her pulse and her breathing, which seemed to be ok. I called an ambulance, which arrived within ten minutes. She was taken to the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh, where she was seen straight away. I informed the medical staff that she was three months pregnant but her health was generally very good. Everything went very fast, and for an instant I thought I was dreaming but it was real. Suddenly, I didn’t care about Rodrigo or the police station or anything at all; I just wanted Claire back. Before I knew it, she was in the operating theatre. All the medical staff were too busy to give me any kind of feedback about her state, and I was asked to wait in a room. From then on, time slowed down dramatically, and for what seemed like centuries, my mind was inundated with the most absurd of thoughts.

Finally, a doctor approached me and asked: “are you Claire’s husband?”
“Yes, doctor. Is she alright?” I asked in a trembling voice.
“Claire is in a critical condition but she will recover. She will have to remain in hospital under observation for a few days. In my personal opinion, if she had arrived a few minutes later, the chances for Claire to survive would have been extremely slim. It’s a good thing you phoned the ambulance promptly.”

I was overwhelmed, paralysed by what I was hearing, but Claire was going to be alright, and that’s what really mattered. I couldn’t afford to lose Claire, if I did, I would lose the most important thing in my life.

“There’s bad news you need to know, though.” The doctor added. “Your wife has had a miscarriage.”

I could feel my heart pounding hard in my chest, as a devastating pain thundered through my entire being, since both Claire and I were looking forward to having this baby. We wanted it so much.

With tears in my eyes and shivery, I asked the doctor: “Was the fetus alive when Claire arrived?”

“No.” the doctor said. “There wasn’t one fetus though, there were two. Your wife would have given birth to twins.”

THE END