He watched the progress of the plane. He had once appreciated the limbo of airports and journeys; after eight years, though, limbo was losing its appeal. He would have liked to have watched a film, but he did not want to with the agents watching him. When he needed the toilet, one of them accompanied him and waited outside the door. He went several times, for the chance to walk through the plane, and to look at his face in the unbreakable mirror. Some of the passengers glanced up as the bearded Asian and the tall white man passed by, repeatedly, always in tandem. Back in his seat, he looked across to the windows to see the sky. At one point the Auntie went past and seemed about to speak to him, a smile playing on her lips, but changed her mind. After a few hours of it he fell asleep.

*

Now at Heathrow, the agents take him through security and immigration, flashing their badges.

And then they leave him. Once they’re through passport control they stop, and the novel-reading one holds out his passport and says, looking over the top of his head rather than at his face, ‘OK. You’re free to go.’ And then they leave.

Trolleys and suitcases wheel past him on the polished floor, which bounces light. He holds his passport.

Airport security is everywhere. The eyes of uniformed men run over him and rest on him. He has no money but he dare not beg for change.

He wonders if they know who he is, if they’ve been alerted, and then decides that they don’t – they are suspicious of him anyway. And he is not big news any more.

‘Ringing for you now.’ The reverse-charge call goes through to his parents’ house.

He senses the presence of the operator on the line. Calls to his brother and parents from prison, always with a rasping, rushing sound in the background, and a clicking occasionally.

‘There’s no answer from that number, caller.’

‘I’d like to try another one.’

He gives his brother’s flat, and then his parents’ shop: the only landlines he has dialled in eight years. There is no answer from these either. Putting a call through to a mobile is not allowed. He guesses at the number of an aunt.

Uncle Greybeard and Auntie Hijab emerge from passport control. He considers approaching them, but decides not to risk it. The Auntie smiled so nicely at him before; he’d prefer not to see the shutters slam down.

‘There’s no dial tone, sir. Are you sure you have the correct number?’ Slightly testily.

What does it matter to you? he thinks. Are you on commission? But there is nothing else he can dredge up and so he rings off and hangs up the phone.