The stories and character names are fictitious. No resemblance is intended in the character names to any living or deceased person.
by Rod Smith
James Moran sauntered along the aisle of the aircraft glancing left and right. There was
that peculiar bustling which always preceded a Jumbo flight. People assessing each other
nervously. Everyone with questioning eyes, each searching for the confined space that would be
home for the next few hours. Little old ladies wrestling with large hand luggage.That extra
deep breath, a lean forward to allow a fat person to pass.
James grinned. At last, there it was - H 24. The other aisle seat was unoccupied as yet. In a
way he was relieved. Now he could reflect on the day without making small talk. He was en route
to London for a business conference, his first visit to the capital, indeed to England. A tune
was bobbing around in his brain, "bobbies on bicycles two by two � the rosy red cheeks of the
little children". He had heard it on the radio years before. He was eagerly wondering whether
the reality would match the words.
He knew Gail would be missing him already. She would be putting the computer on standby, then zigzagging through the lunchtime Chicago crowds to the little caf� where they would often meet. Probably she was now buying a card for his 34th birthday. Tough on her but she'll manage, he thought. In three weeks he'd be home if the conference went to plan.
Now the plane was gathering speed. He was relieved no-one had taken the seat next to him. He'd be able to stretch out later when the "seatbelts off" announcement came.
With a great whoosh the plane took off, and though he'd been in many aircraft, James marvelled at his eagle's view of the suburbs sprawling beneath. He could see the major highways, the cars as beetles crawling on a sidewalk. Soon the aircraft had reached cruising altitude.
He reached to the rack before him and extracted the Inflight Journal. As he did so a leaflet fluttered out of it. "Hmmm, 'Six Steps to Salvation.' Got one of those the other day," he muttered almost inaudibly. Where was it? Ah yes, walking into the subway and an old man had given him something similar. He shrugged and put the leaflet on the seat alongside. He was now a high flier in the business world. He'd have time to look more into that Christianity thing later. Anyway, he was too busy now. Maybe after he and Gail bought that little weekender in Maine. Plenty of time, he thought.
Glancing up he saw one of the stewardesses smiling at him. Maybe she put it there. Then again, maybe not. Huh, they smile at everyone, he thought.
He fell asleep for what seemed a few minutes, but he awoke to a British voice, "Ladies and gentlemen we will soon begin our descent into Heathrow. Please put your seat into an upright position and fasten your seatbelts". He picked up the leaflet again and began to read. It had a heading at the top, "John". John who, he wondered. Then he remembered. A man at Sunday school had read from that too. Ah yes, John was a disciple. James had just finished reading when the plane began its descent.
The formalities on arrival went better than he expected but he was confused by the babble of English voices around him, and the various dialects made it difficult to interpret the meaning. A pretty airline official, heels clickety-clacking, approached him. "Excuse me sir," she said in that polite English way. Her accent though was clear and BBC-ish. "You're Mr Moran aren't you? Welcome to England. This is a message for you". It was from the English division of his company. They couldn't get to the airport. Would he please take a taxi to the hotel and they'd contact him.
The taxi driver outside the terminal was young with an eager, happy face. "Orright guv, where would yer like ter end up?" James stared at him for a moment then, "Churchill Hotel please". "Right yer are," he responded chirpily. The traffic was as busy as at home but he was vaguely aware of something different about it, something he couldn't define.
The hotel was like nothing he had seen in America. It had a massive stone fa�ade with ornate craftwork. Probably sixty years old at least, James thought. The porter showed him to his room. "Thank you sir," he said, surprised when James gave him a five pound note. The room had high ceilings with a thin strip of wood running all around about threequarters of the way up. He wondered what it was for.
He decided to look around outside, as there was no message yet at the hotel reception. A hundred sounds of London invaded his senses as he negotiated the revolving door into the busy street. His eyes fastened on a large shop sign immediately opposite, "Carruthers Antiques". Now he was excited. Could be a real bargain there I can take home, he mused.
Eagerly he looked left as he'd always done in Chicago. Nothing. Everything OK. He began to walk and suddenly -BANG. He felt a tremendous thud against his body. Now pain was engulfing him and he knew blood was pouring from his head. Seemingly far away, he heard an English voice.
"Cor blimey, I saw the 'ole thing I did. Only looked one way 'e did. Never seen nuffink like it. What was 'e thinkin' abaht. Must be a foreigner."
"Quickly, let me through! Excuse me!"
A woman was pushing her way through the crowd now gathered around James. "Make way, I'm a nurse." She ripped up something from her handbag and used it as an improvised bandage. Her finger was on his pulse. Everything was beginning to fade now. He could only just make out her face. Suddenly the words on the tract flashed across his mind. "Yes Lord, I . . . am . . . a sinner". He gasped the words. "I . . . call on . . you. Ssssave me . . . now."
"Ere what's 'e sayin" said a cockney voice from the crowd. The ex-nurse stood up, shaking her head sadly. "Doesn't matter, he's gone." END