They walked quietly, some in a hurry, others lazily, but each too tired for talk. Announcements came and went over the PA system, and toilets flushed and sinks filled and drained in the washrooms. Some passengers gravitated towards the bright lights and advertising of the duty-free aisles, pulling out their wallets. Mak’s mouth was dry and her eyes filmy. Her legs felt tight and there was the dull ache of dehydration behind her eyes. Wearing the clothes she’d bought at Heathrow with Luther’s cash — a black Burberry trench coat, jeans and black boots — she joined the hundreds of travellers filling the arrivals area, anxiously shifting from swollen foot to swollen foot. There had been no direct flights from Barcelona, and she’d been wait-listed literally at the last minute, getting to the airport hours after killing the nameless assassin in the bushes. She’d come with little more than money, her new passport, Luther’s laptop and the clothes on her back. Mak had ended up on an even more roundabout route than necessary — Barcelona to Paris to London to Helsinki to Singapore to Sydney.
