He's not in the category that requires sedation or hypnotherapy, but sometimes it's close. On board he settles into his seat in economy as best he can, glad that the check-in girl noticed his flight had been paid by Merseyside Police and had given him an exit row. Airlines like policemen passengers. The take-off is bearable as long as Frank keeps his eyes shut and doesn't move a muscle. He pretends he's asleep but only so that he can't watch the disturbing spectacle of the moors at the edge of Manchester spinning below them as the plane rises. Anyone looking at his face would assume serenity within but the grinding of his teeth gives him away. After an eternity, the seatbelt light pings and Frank opens his eyes as the plane levels. From here it's manageable as long as they don't hit turbulence and as long as he doesn't, even for a second, think about the insanity of strapping yourself inside a cylindrical pressurised tube full of flammable material and hurtling halfway round the planet through the upper atmosphere.
