Three days after Christmas the decorations, looking somewhat tired, spoke of a season that was history. People now looked forward to a New Year, the promise of a fresh start.

For the travellers crushed in the large passenger transit hall that New Year promised many things. For some, mostly the young, it was white powder, clear, crisp, mountain air, the exhilaration of fast Alpine runs. They guarded luggage trolleys heaped with soft nylon bags, long ski sacks protruding. They were a jocular crowd. With less than a two-hour flight to the slopes, time for a few drinks, a quick bite to eat, and despite the hour difference, they’d be making runs before dark. So what if there were delays: the runs were floodlit and the chalets with their crackling pine fires made a welcome contrast to the dreary, rainy British December.

Others in the crowded transit lounge were also fleeing the damp and gloomy British winter. On an average ten to fifteen years older than the skiers, for them escape was to islands set in deep blue seas, white sand beaches kissed with gentle waves. They were inwardly impatient, outwardly stoic as they shepherded their luggage carts piled with more formal suitcases, picked out here and there with the splash of colour from beach bags.

Yet others were travelling back home after a brief visit with friends and relations over the holiday season. For them there was a sense of sadness, a sense of parting, trolleys piled with odd shaped boxes concealing the gifts they had received.

A very few that morning were travelling on business. Distinguished by their lack of luggage, they clustered together with their leather briefcases either between their feet or under their arms, reading the latest news in the so-called ‘quality papers’. There were few of them because mainly charter flights left from this airport, and charter flights were notorious for being late.

Today was no exception. An early morning fog had compounded the problem of too many planes, too few runways and now flights were backed up, the departure hall was chock-full of people and processing at the airline desks had slowed to a trickle. A few children cried; one or two people were visibly frustrated, but mainly it was a good-natured crowd.

Charles Raines was hot. The departure lounge, full of holidaymakers, really needed air-conditioning, but this was Britain and it just wasn’t in the design (and even if it had it was December 28th and no one in Britain would have contemplated turning it on). People shrugged off topcoats, some loosened ties and Charles stripped out the fleece lining of his green Gore-Tex jacket. He rolled it up, stooped down, loosened the toggle on the top of his pack and stuffed in the liner. Then he moved another step closer to the El Al counter, nudging the pack with his foot.

Raines was slightly more than six feet tall and as he shuffled closer to the ticket desk, he would rise up on the balls of his feet, flexing and stretching his leg muscles, something he did whenever he got the chance. He was 170 pounds and fit, for Charles Raines was the sort of man who viewed door lintels as an excuse for chinups. Each day he did pushups and whenever possible he jogged. As he stretched up he noticed the clerk at the El Al desk. She was busy taking down the information, assigning seats, weighing baggage, affixing tags and then with a curt nod of her head, indicating to the older man to her left it was time to move the luggage onto the conveyor belt, whence it disappeared.

‘ Next!’

El Al’s regular flights were from Heathrow. This flight was a one-off charter and would not be repeated until Easter at the earliest. So the El Al desk was situated not among the regular airline desks, but at the far end of the row. The desk had two stations with a female receptionist at each and assisting them was an older man who did most of the lifting. Any chance they had of leaving on time had long since disappeared, but with luck they would only be an hour late on takeoff.

Overlooking the Departure Hall was a mezzanine concourse, flanking it on three sides. Here there were newsstands, a food court, some video games, a few shops, all ways for travellers to while away the time before their flight. The cheapest of all pastimes was to stand at the rail and survey the sea of humanity below. A little knot of six men were doing just that.

The six were talking among themselves. Occasionally they would point, one would laugh and the others would join in. By their feet were brightly coloured carry-on bags displaying the logos of various airlines: SAS, British Airways, Air France. These were visible to those below because, apart from a thick tubular metal rail, the rest of the railing was a clear, thick sheet of Plexiglass which had the advantage of giving a sense of space to the building.

  She must have slept, for she had the sense of waking up, that slow swimming into focus of the room, the stark stone walls cold like the atmosphere. She saw the two sets of brown eyes watching her from above their veils. Their hair was also covered; she knew that one had silver hair, the other black. The silver-haired one reached out a claw like hand to touch her. She twisted, trying to get away, impeded by her swollen belly and the tether around her right wrist. Her motion was sudden, violent, and then she felt the first involuntary twinge.

She was fully awake now. The straw poked out from the worn mattress cover, scratching her through the dirty cotton shift she lay in. She hated this room, hated the memories. There was a picture she had placed on the wall, a young man in flowing robes, a strong face, darkened by the sun, but he was gone and despair washed over her. She was alone and yet not alone. The four eyes watched her soundlessly and in them she thought she saw concern. She gasped in pain and a wave of heat flooded her body; this time it wasn’t a twinge. The brown eyes watched impassively. The silver haired one gave a tug on the other’s dress and they scuttled away. She was alone, again, with her thoughts.

Her left hand caressed her swollen belly and she thought of the New Year and the new life. She thought of mountains, not the dun coloured ones outside, but majestic snow capped peaks of the Jim Bridger range. She thought of home, of fresh mountain streams, cold clear running water and she was thirsty. She called out.

They brought her a strong tea, without milk, and a bowl of cereal, congealed with age, but she didn’t feel like eating. While they were there she ate one or two perfunctory spoonfuls using her left hand, oblivious to the contempt it provoked. When they left, she pushed the bowl to the side. Where was Ali? Her ‘Ali Baba’ she had called him, reaching back into her childhood memories of a little picture book of that name. His real name was Hassan, but when they first met at university she had named him her ‘Ali Baba’. She loved his brown eyes and brown skin. He had loved her blue eyes and blonde hair. Her family …

“No…please no!”