Heathrow, Terminal 3 — that strange, sleepless purgatory where everyone’s either leaving or pretending to. David Holroyd stood at the front of the queue, passport trembling slightly in his hand — whether from nerves or Parkinson’s, he couldn’t tell. Evelyn, beside him, looked serenely purposeful, her handbag bulging with vitamin supplements and half a dozen printouts about “living naturally.”
“It’ll be fine,” she whispered. “Smile, love. You look like you’re about to confess to something.”
“Feels like I am,” he muttered.
The customs officer was young, smooth-faced, his uniform uncreased in a way that suggested moral fitness. He took David’s passport, scanned it, frowned slightly.
“Off to Thailand, eh? How long are you planning to be out there for, Mr. Holroyd?”
David felt his mouth dry. “Oh — three weeks. Just a short break.”
The officer flipped through the pages, found the visa, looked up again. “You’ve got a Thai retirement visa here.”
“Do I?” David said, too quickly. “Well, can’t be too careful.”
The officer raised an eyebrow. “You don’t need one for three weeks, sir. Bit of over-preparation, that.”
David tried a laugh. “Story of my life.”
The officer handed back the passport, his face unreadable. Then he paused, leaning just slightly closer.
“You know,” he said, lowering his voice, “most people who get those don’t come back. Enjoy your time over there.” he said.
Evelyn tugged his arm. “Come on, darling. Plane won’t wait.”
They moved through security, the noise of the terminal swelling around them — the white noise of departure, engines, tannoys, people escaping.