Unseen Messages(4)

“Oh, my God. Now, what?”

The unease grew to unrest, prickling my spine.

“Come on.” I stabbed the screen, removing and inserting my passport a few times into the do-it-yourself e-reader. Where were the good old days of customer service and officers who personally asked if you had explosives in your carry-on? Why had machines replaced a friendly face?

I didn’t want to have to deal with robots, all lined up in military precision, unable to empathize or wish me a pleasant journey—extending my misery that much more.

NOT PERMITTED TO TRAVEL. PLEASE REMOVE PASSPORT AND SEE OFFICER.

I growled under my breath. “Fine.”

Stealing my passport and deleting the half-finished clearance, I looked around for a saviour to help.

No one.

Brilliant.

Not one single person to help guide me through this frustrating dilemma.

Slinging my handbag further up my arm, I hugged my jacket and wheeled my heavy carry-on to the glass booths guarding the gate lounge.

Other disgruntled people rolled their eyes, obviously victims of the same masquerade of machines.

The line took a few moments.

I wasted each minute by willing it away when I should’ve been holding each tightly, refusing to let time move forward.

Finally, a dark-skinned youngish man waved me over.

Trooping toward him, I smiled and handed over my ticket, clearance card, and passport. “The machine won’t accept me.”

He scowled. “It’s because only US and Canadian citizens are allowed to use the e-gates.”

I pointed at the sign above the hated machines. “It says anyone with an e-reader passport.”

He huffed as if I’d read it wrong. “It’s not for Australians.”

His attitude pissed me off, but I fought my rising annoyance. “Great. Well, I’m glad I’m in your care.”

He didn’t reply.

Frowning, he passed my passport through his computer and did whatever he needed to do. “I require your fingerprints for identification.”

I placed my first four fingers on the sticky scanner and held them until he told me to flip to my thumb. Rubbing the tacky residue, I resisted the urge to pull out my hand sanitizer and disinfect whatever germs had just contaminated me.

The officer looked up, his forehead furrowing. “Um, that’s odd.”

The unease grew again, a bubble glistening with fear, puffing fresh breath with every issue. “What’s odd?”

“Your fingerprints correspond to a different name in the system.” He glowered as if I were a super spy or wanted villain.

My heart raced. “Look, I am who I say I am—Estelle Evermore.”

“Place your fingers on the scanner again.”

Cringing at the thought of touching the unsanitary device, I did as he asked.

A few seconds later and more keyboard tapping, the computer chimed happily.

My shoulders slouched in relief.

The officer handed back my documents. Suspicion didn’t leave his gaze as he looked me up and down. “Have a pleasant day.”

Hasn’t been very pleasant so far.

I didn’t reply.

Wait...

The nerves dancing on my spine switched from waltz to hip-hop, picking up in strength and number.

There was something wrong with this...surely?

Don’t people say things happen in threes?

Well, three things had just tried to prevent me from getting on the plane.

The thought of home battled against the fear of idiotic superstitions. I couldn’t stand another night in a foreign bed. I wanted my apartment. I wanted to shoo away the house sitter and cuddle my cat, Shovel-Face (named for his flat little nose and saucerish eyes), while catching up on the latest TV shows.

No. There’s nothing wrong.

I was just tired and overly sensitive.

Ignoring my paranoia and ridiculous excuses, I made my way through duty-free and found my gate.

I’m here.

Sitting in an uncomfortable chair, I turned on my e-book and prepared to relax.

I’m going home.

This entire mess would be forgotten.

How stupid of me to ignore yet another message.

.............................

The fourth and final message trying to prevent my imminent demise happened an hour later.

“Flight FJ811 to Nadi is now boarding all remaining passengers.”

I’d patiently waited for most people to board. I didn’t do well standing in the air-bridge, squashed like hamsters in a toilet roll, waiting to enter an overcrowded airplane. I preferred to get on last, regardless if I didn’t get convenient overhead storage.

Ever since I’d said goodbye to Madeline, I’d been tired. But it was nothing compared to the sudden lethargy as I handed over my boarding pass.

The air-bridge beckoned, and beyond that, the airplane that would take me home.

Home.

Yes, please.

“Afternoon.” The lady took my pass, inserting it into the reader.

Instantly a siren sounded; red codes popped up on the screen.

Oh, my God. Now what?

“Is everything okay?” My tiredness evaporated, drowned out by escalating unease.

I’m not meant to get on this plane.

The lady frowned. “It says you’re not permitted to board. There’s an issue with your visa.”