IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

Returning

Timothée blinks.

His eyes feel like they've been glued shut, his back aches from the plane seat that cost him one hundred and fifty euros - he should have waited to travel until after Christmas - and his legs are bound together like a roast chicken by the tiny amount of room they've given him. All in all, he feels like shit.

The flight attendant clops softly down the aisle, smiling a painted red grimace. 'Excuse me?' he asks softly, and for a moment he thinks she hasn't heard him. He wants to shrivel into the seat.

"Yes, Sir, how can I help you?" she replies in a strong French accent. Timmy realises that he is now allowed to speak in French. The time for pointing at things, for hellish phonics lessons, for tears of frustration at not being able to say what he wants, is over. He can say exactly what he means without replying on Frank for an explanation, without having Una there, rattling off synonyms until he finds the word he wants.

He asks where they are.

Just flying over Paris.

Timmy smiles, nods, slumps into his seat. Paris. He could go there and get lost. He could go there and no one would know his name, no one would have to. There would be no one to quiz him about his time away, ask him to teach their children English.

It would just be him, the overflowing bins, and the rats. What a life.

He glances out of the grimy window at the city lights spidering over the great mass of land that is France. Wonders how a city so big can be dwarfed by the darkness of the land around it.

He knows he shouldn't think about them. Shouldn't think about Una, or Frank, or any of the Murphys. That part of his life is behind him now.

(But, for a moment, Timmy thinks of the things he never got to tell her. Thinks of the explanation he'd been planning for days, not wanting to talk to her, to even go near her, until he was certain he wouldn't start crying like a child, until he knew he could give her the most sincere apology possible.

But there was no time. It was always time that got in the way.)

He falls back asleep until a shooting pain in his ear makes him jolt awake, swallowing hard in an attempt to make his ears pop. As the plane lowers, the pain intensifies. He is on the verge of tears as they begin to land, holding onto his poor ear and massaging his temples to try and ease the ache in his brain.

Baggage control is uncharacteristically speedy. Timmy is out of the airport in forty-five minutes, waiting for his cab for ten minutes, and within an hour of landing he is on his way home.

Finding it odd that nothing seems to have changed, he stares out of the window, watching the grey Grenoble skyline fade into wintry fields, spindly trees, and a couple of disinterested sheep.

What is Una doing at the moment? Timmy doesn't know. Maybe she is still on the sofa like she was a couple of days ago, wrapped in blankets like a baby and all tucked up.

Timmy swallows. His mouth feels fuzzy and he rummages in his backpack for the overpriced water he bought in the arrivals lounge. It is warm and unsatisfying.

He should have done things differently, he thinks. Every time he thinks of England, he thinks of Una, and Timmy wonders if that is how it will be forever. If every time he sees a grey sky, a mug of tea, he'll think of the past six months. The time he's spent away from his family, away from the mess it was in when he left.

The thought of going back to his Dad's is scary. The crying, the sleepless nights, all of it comes back like a jolt in his throat.

He contemplates, although not in any seriousness, the idea of turning the cab around, getting the next plane back. But he's here now, and it's not like there's any way to turn back from what waits at home.