I grit my teeth, push the ancient suitcase across the taxi seat and follow it, slamming the door behind me. The worn jeans and cotton shirt feel like a tailored suit of steel and sandpaper against the bruises blooming over my body and the lacerations tightening with dried blood. The driver turns and I smile, ignoring the pain.

“Where you going?”

“Airport.”

The taxi does a u-turn, headlights cutting a swathe through the fog. I close my eyes and hope the driver refrains from assaulting me with a one-way discussion of whatever the shock jocks are polluting the airwaves with this week. I need this ride to unwind and rest in safety.

Exhaustion ebbs and flows with sea-sickness motions. I look at the window, distracting myself from the bone-shattering tiredness, thinking of the future rather than the past.

My mind wanders to the comfort of the scuffed Doc Martens and how good they feel after two years in designer shoes; Christian Louboutin, Jimmy Choo and Dior, as dictated by the role of Keely Jackson, personal assistant to John Hildebrand Junior, CEO of Pangaean Airlines. The last pair I wore, and hopefully I will ever wear, abandoned in JJ’s bedroom. The rest lined up with military precision, in Keely Jackson’s overpriced studio apartment.

A place I’ll gratefully never set foot in again.

I wonder if JJ will find the Dior platforms? The housekeeper certainly won’t. Her only act of defiance is to not vacuum under his bed.

JJ insisted I keep the platforms on, bending me over his dressing table, one hand jammed between my shoulder blades, the other hand grabbing at my hip bone, his fingers digging into the tender hollow. It replays behind my eyelids, his face looming in and out of the mirror with the rhythmic pounding, grinning with narcissistic delight.

Sex which pushes boundaries is something I’ve always sought, but there was nothing to relish about sex with JJ. I only got off because I knew the man with his head buried between my thighs stood to lose his family’s most prized possession… to me. That, and only that, allowed me to orgasm, howling and writhing in genuine ecstasy.

I faked it from that point on, my body obeying, subservient, while I disassociated. In this fashion two years of sexual fantasies unravelled for JJ, his hidden cameras throughout his penthouse capturing every minute and nuance of his brutality.

Hours on, in the bosom of a heavy sedative, JJ slept, his perfect mouth slack, a silver line of saliva pooling on the silk pillow case. I corrupted the security system, disabling the cameras, wiping the archives and backups. Dressed in one of JJ’s business suits, with his trade mark black fedora pulled low over my forehead I unlocked the safe and took what I’d been waiting two years for.

With a single upmarket department-store bag in hand, I slipped out the fire escape to the car waiting below.

“Domestic or international, Miss?”

The question pulls me back to the present. The driver’s eyes meet mine above the tacky pine tree deodoriser swinging from the rear vision mirror.

“International, please.”

My body protests when I stretch, but I push aside the pain. I don’t regret cow-tailing to JJ’s sadism, every second worth the agony.

Skin heals.

Plastic surgery removes scar tissue.

He fucked Keely Jackson’s body, and I’m not her now. In the end, JJ was the one fucked, good and proper.

***

It is 6:05am when the taxi eases into the chaos of the drop-off zone. Sleep-deprived travellers tumble into the cold, hitting the ground just ahead of me, clutching luggage and staggering towards the automatic doors.

A group of people gather to the left of the doors, out of place in the human tide. Heavy coat collars turned up. Words hang midair in white frosty clouds. None have luggage. A few stamp their feet. My heart skips until I see the flash of a familiar uniform and remember the strike by a rival airline.

“Bloody unions,” the taxi-driver mutters. “You flying with them?”

I shake my head and concentrate on finding the correct change, then worry about moving myself and the suitcase out of the cab.

Out in the cold, I let the pain fall from my body, winding my scarf around my neck to keep out the chill and prying eyes. I’m early. With time to spare, I haul the suitcase to the smoking area, pull a packet of tobacco from my pocket and roll a cigarette. I hate smoking but it is a good excuse to kill time without being obvious.

The striking employees wait for breakfast TV cameras to arrive to provide sensationalised fodder for the brain-dead masses. I stretch the life of the rollie, knowing I won’t inadvertently be in a back ground shot broadcast into millions of homes. As the cameras arrive, I grind the butt into the ground, bend stiffly to retrieve it and bin it with the tobacco and matches.

Inside a leather backpack I find a bottle of bergamot body-spray and a packet of mints. I mist the air around me and pop a mint into my mouth. The intense citrus scent settles on me and the transition from Keely Jackson to Medae Newman is complete. I swing the backpack over a shoulder and pick up the suit case, walk as casually as possible toward the automatic doors sucking away the last bitter traces of nicotine and the last two years.

The line up at the check-in counter is twice the length now. Fifteen minutes and one cigarette is all it takes to be in the best position in the queue. When it is busiest, people pay you and your luggage only the briefest attention. Checking in becomes a production line with a smile and a personalised tick list of all the dangerous goods you are not carrying. X-ray security behind the scenes keeps everything moving to avoid a delay.

The line coils six times through the temporary barricades, squeezing the most people possible into the small space. I join the line behind a woman carrying an over sized garment bag arguing loudly on an iPhone with someone named ‘Louise’. Her bag is big and heavy enough to be transporting a dead body, though if she’s trying to hide anything she’s making a sham of it. Further ahead, two nondescript businessmen with slip-on shoes and equally unremarkable black laptop bags. One is whistling in between taking verbal swipes at his travelling companion.

Every few minutes the queue moves, like an anaconda devouring a large mammal. My body recognises the check-in two-step and shifts to accommodate the new beat. Down-up-shuffle-shuffle-down-up. The brainless repetition relaxes me.

When it is time to move again, my hand lingers atop the suitcase after I place it down. I’m not usually attached to things, but both the case and contents represent significant investments of time and patience.

Rising to the top of my profession didn’t happen by being impulsive. Everything is done slowly, incrementally. Luck plays no part. It all comes down to planning and patience. The fact it took me two years to steal from the Hildebrands is testament to my ability to wait.

You could say I was born a thief, though I didn’t officially steal until I turned nineteen. Anyone can learn to crack a safe, disable a security system or hotwire a car. Anyone, with a reasonable level of intelligence has the ability to learn to hack the internet, procure illegal identity papers, master another language or charm the unsuspecting. Few, though, have the patience required. That’s what separates those in prison from those of us still plying our trade.

Given the opportunity, I’d happily stand in a check-in line for hours. People-watching in an airport never raises suspicions. Plus, people in transit often let their masks slide, exposing sides usually hidden in everyday life.

Medae Newman hit my radar wile waiting in line, playing airport bingo to pass the time. Travelling as Keely Jackson, to take up the position with JJ, she checked in ahead of me. She wore a long, classic-cut suede coat, with old jeans and a soft white shirt, red hair cut short and choppy. A very old leather suit case stood by her side. Her perfume attracted my attention first. I guessed Estee Lauder’s Sunflowers, one of the squares on my airport bingo card.

Of course, I have no idea if she’d been christened Medae. I wheeled my Samsonite suitcase past her, hearing the clerk greet her as Ms Newman. That’s when I realised the Sunflowers square on the bingo card could not be marked off; she was wearing bergamot oil.

I play airport bingo to pass the time, not find my next identity. The card is always the same and under normal circumstances, no identity is considered assumable. Medae Newman was an anomaly—the trick of her perfume.

It has been a long time since I last filled a bingo card. Scanning the check-in queue I feel lucky.

Six ahead of me is the disgruntled corporate type, his body trying to escape the ill-fitting, pin-striped suit. He’s the overworked executive of a company too cheap to fly him business class, who spends the entire flight thumping away on a laptop, using the paper napkin supplied with the meal to mop his brow, the ectoplasmic flow of fat from his side breaching the arm rest delineating your seat from his.

Several families stand around mountains of luggage, hissing commands at restless children. After a time I find the woman travelling alone with the over-active child. He’s dressed in a Thomas the Tank Engine parka and trying to swing from the industrial tape separating her part of the line from mine. He’s the kid who’ll want to say hello to you from the seat in front, a small snotty face popping up between the head rests.

I see several likely students and finally locate one with a lip piercing and purple foils, oblivious to anyone beyond Charlaine Harris’s Dead Before Dawn and her iPod.

Moving on, a couple at the head of the line can’t stop kissing. In the middle of the line, a woman in a sky-blue rain coat tries desperately to put distance between her and the guy who shoved through the line to join her half an hour earlier.

The line shifts forwards, and I’m one, two coils closer to the end.

I smell Sunflowers, spy a purple Samsonite suitcase and then a fake alligator one.

I round another bend. And another.

A bald man. A woman who thinks she’s beautiful.

A Canadian Flag sewn on a backpack.

I’m close to the head of the line and filled with the thrill of finishing the first bingo card in years.

A commotion to the rear of the line distracts me. A crowd of dishevelled men in matching blazers try to push their way through the line, an airport representative between them and passenger revolt. They’re not the type of traveller I’m interested in.

Yves Saint Laurent’s Jazz wafts my direction compliments of a male flight attendant stopping to chat to a brunette clerk.

BINGO!

And I’m the head of the line.

“Good morning,” the same brunette says motioning me to her counter, the tail end of laughter clinging to her face as the male flight attendant walks away with a list in hand. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Travelling through to Paris this morning, Ms Newman?”

I nod, putting my backpack on the counter to look for my passport and travel documents. Once I’ve handed them over, I ease the suitcase onto the conveyor belt. The digital numbers on the counter stop at 32kg.

“Spot on.” The brunette prints a baggage tag and sticks it around the wooden handle, then loops on a weight warning. “You don’t see many cases like this.”

“Family heirloom,” I say, trying not to pay the suitcase more attention than it warrants. “My great-grandmother was an artist too.”

She nods her head in an absent way born of repetition rather than interest and runs through the list of things I’m forbidden to transport.

“I don’t have any of those,” I say, waiting for her to hand over my boarding pass. The conveyor belt lurches to life, taking my case and the Hildebrands’ painting from me. My heart picks up pace watching it disappear. For the first time this morning I relax and smile.

“Boarding through Gate 46 at 7:45am.” She hands me my boarding pass. “Please clear customs as soon as possible to enable you to board on time. Have a safe trip and thank you for flying Pangaean Airlines.”

“Thank you,” I say, with a little too much emphasis on the ‘you’, euphoria flooding my system. I put my travel documents in a secure inner pocket, my hand brushing the cover of the diary as I do. Hidden in the safe with the painting, I can only speculate on its contents until I find a quiet place to sit and read.

I zip the backpack and look up. Suits cut through the swarm of passengers on the concourse, headed straight for the Pangaean counters. The one heading the pack wears fashionable glasses and a well cut jacket, leading with an open ID wallet. Adrenalin surges through me and I search for an escape route, the space between him and me closing.

The easiest is off to the left, through First Class check-in, from there, a clear path to the taxis, but I hesitate, and it is not just the thought of abandoning the suitcase. Something is amiss.

He pushes past me, standing at the counter I’ve just vacated waiting for his posse to file over the baggage scales and behind the counters before stepping up, raising a hand for silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. As the representative of Rourke International Administrators and Liquidators, I regret to inform you that as of 6:30am Pangaean Airlines was put into involuntary administration. All operations are now suspended. All Pangaean Airline flights, including this one, are cancelled. Anyone still wishing to travel today will need to find an alternate airline.”

“All Pangaean Airline assets are under the control of Rourke International as administrators. Checked-in luggage will be held by the administrators pending inspection to ascertain they are not assets of the company. We expect to begin returning luggage in the next 24 hours. Your cooperation in this regard is appreciated.”

Beyond him the main baggage conveyor jerks to a stop and I freeze. Those behind me still have their luggage.

XXX

You can also download the Prologue as an ePub or mobi file to enjoy at your leisure.