mother used stinging liquid to clean the grazes. That didn’t stop him going back on it. He didn’t remember what the pain felt like. He’d never fallen from the top before, but he was a whole year older now and it didn’t seem that far down any more. Sometimes he felt like jumping from the top just to see if he could, but his mother always knew when he was thinking about it and would shake her head and give him
that
look, and he knew he would be in big trouble if he did.
She watched him from one of the benches while she smoked a cigarette and drank coffee. Both smelled horrible. He didn’t know why she liked them. He knew from school that smoking was very bad and he told his mother as often as he could. She always agreed with him, but she still did it. It made her clothes stink. She never smoked inside their home though. She stood on the balcony with the door closed. How good could it be if she had to go outside in the cold to do it?
When he’d finished on the climbing frame he played with some of the other children on the swings, taking turns between pushing and swinging, and then on the roundabout, sometimes heaving and pushing to make it go faster and faster so the girls screamed and he fell away because he couldn’t run as fast as it could spin around, other times hanging on while others spun it, but he never screamed. It never went fast enough to make him scream.
Just like always, it was time to go too soon. Peter pretended not to hear his mother’s calls and instead chased one of the girls up the path and through a crowd of pigeons that all took flight in one big flapping mass.
‘
Peter
,’ his mother called again.
The girl ran off to her own mother and Peter turned to trudge back down the path.
‘You’d better hurry,’ a man said.
He was big and had short blond hair. He was old like Peter’s mother but not really old like Mrs Fuentes and sat on a bench with a half-eaten baguette of bread across his legs. Peter had seen him before, but he didn’t know where or when. He was smiling and looked a bit like a friendly giant from one of the story books they read in class.
‘You don’t want to make your mother late for work at the restaurant, do you, Peter?’
Peter didn’t know how the man knew his name. He didn’t ask because the man was a stranger.
‘You take care of yourself,’ the man said. ‘You’re a very special little boy. I look forward to seeing you again soon.’
Peter pretended not to hear and sprinted towards where his mother waited.
SEVENTEEN
Budapest, Hungary
The plane touched down a minute behind schedule at Budapest Ferenc Liszt International Airport. Victor remained in his economy class seat while the cabin emptied around him. The harried business travellers were first to get up from their seats to try and beat the rush to the exit, followed by the tourists and finally the old or infirm and families with young children. There were a few solitary passengers who, like Victor, were in no rush, and he briefly wondered what had brought them to the city and why time didn’t hold the same power over them as it did so many others.
He made his way off the plane, pausing in the aisle to let a woman use a walking stick at her own pace. A slow walk through the jet bridge tunnel brought him to the arrivals hall, where a stewardess smiled and nodded at him as he passed. He smiled in return and gazed around while he walked, as though he was visiting for the first time and every mundane feature of the airport fascinated him and required him to stop and examine it.
The passport and visa check was conducted with swift efficiency by a round woman in her fifties, but was significantly delayed when Victor had trouble locating his passport. He checked the pockets of his trousers and those of his jacket. He searched through his bag twice. He laughed along with the woman when the passport was eventually found to have been in his inside jacket pocket all along.
He waited near the baggage
that
look, and he knew he would be in big trouble if he did.
She watched him from one of the benches while she smoked a cigarette and drank coffee. Both smelled horrible. He didn’t know why she liked them. He knew from school that smoking was very bad and he told his mother as often as he could. She always agreed with him, but she still did it. It made her clothes stink. She never smoked inside their home though. She stood on the balcony with the door closed. How good could it be if she had to go outside in the cold to do it?
When he’d finished on the climbing frame he played with some of the other children on the swings, taking turns between pushing and swinging, and then on the roundabout, sometimes heaving and pushing to make it go faster and faster so the girls screamed and he fell away because he couldn’t run as fast as it could spin around, other times hanging on while others spun it, but he never screamed. It never went fast enough to make him scream.
Just like always, it was time to go too soon. Peter pretended not to hear his mother’s calls and instead chased one of the girls up the path and through a crowd of pigeons that all took flight in one big flapping mass.
‘
Peter
,’ his mother called again.
The girl ran off to her own mother and Peter turned to trudge back down the path.
‘You’d better hurry,’ a man said.
He was big and had short blond hair. He was old like Peter’s mother but not really old like Mrs Fuentes and sat on a bench with a half-eaten baguette of bread across his legs. Peter had seen him before, but he didn’t know where or when. He was smiling and looked a bit like a friendly giant from one of the story books they read in class.
‘You don’t want to make your mother late for work at the restaurant, do you, Peter?’
Peter didn’t know how the man knew his name. He didn’t ask because the man was a stranger.
‘You take care of yourself,’ the man said. ‘You’re a very special little boy. I look forward to seeing you again soon.’
Peter pretended not to hear and sprinted towards where his mother waited.
SEVENTEEN
Budapest, Hungary
The plane touched down a minute behind schedule at Budapest Ferenc Liszt International Airport. Victor remained in his economy class seat while the cabin emptied around him. The harried business travellers were first to get up from their seats to try and beat the rush to the exit, followed by the tourists and finally the old or infirm and families with young children. There were a few solitary passengers who, like Victor, were in no rush, and he briefly wondered what had brought them to the city and why time didn’t hold the same power over them as it did so many others.
He made his way off the plane, pausing in the aisle to let a woman use a walking stick at her own pace. A slow walk through the jet bridge tunnel brought him to the arrivals hall, where a stewardess smiled and nodded at him as he passed. He smiled in return and gazed around while he walked, as though he was visiting for the first time and every mundane feature of the airport fascinated him and required him to stop and examine it.
The passport and visa check was conducted with swift efficiency by a round woman in her fifties, but was significantly delayed when Victor had trouble locating his passport. He checked the pockets of his trousers and those of his jacket. He searched through his bag twice. He laughed along with the woman when the passport was eventually found to have been in his inside jacket pocket all along.
He waited near the baggage
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