Mr Lynch’s Holiday

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He arrived on a cloudless day. As he stepped on to the tarmac, he looked up at the sky and saw nothing but blue and the traces left by other planes.

The terminal was deserted. He wandered along polished floors with a handful of other passengers. Music was playing somewhere. An old tune, he couldn’t remember the name. It was not how he’d imagined airports. It seemed more like a ballroom to him. Something grand and sad about the place.

Walking through a sliding door he found himself in the arrivals hall, confronted by a crowd of people crushed up against the rail waving pieces of paper and looking at him expectantly. Scanning the faces and signs, he smiled apologetically for not being their man. He looked beyond them to others who hung back and leaned against walls, but saw no trace of Eamonn. He had never assumed that he would be able to meet him. It wasn’t always possible to just drop what you were doing.

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