Going Through Customs

I am stopped, quite politely, by a man who asks me to accompany him into another room. I wouldn't, only he looks official you see and I don't wish to make a fuss.

In the 'other room' - a small, white affair, with only one large table and one window (mesh-glassed) - he informs me that he's going to search my luggage. I raise my eyebrows and shrug politely. He snaps on a pair of surgical gloves to begin the operation, then slowly unzips my bag. If he was good looking, I might say he unzipped it seductively, but he's fortyish and balding. There's another man in the corner with a clipboard and pen, waiting to take down the details.

It's a small bag, my bag, about three times the size of my head, and sort of lumpy shaped and awkward. I've had it for quite a while and it's never been searched yet. The first man looks inside, cautiously, as if it might contain an angry cat, then seeing that it doesn't, takes his giant tweezers and begins to unpack it. I'm not keen on the tweezers; they make everything he picks up look somehow distasteful.

"One camera," he says slowly, dangling my poor Olympus from its cord, then laying it out on the table. He looks at me, then over to the man in the corner who is jotting fastidiously. "Olympus," he adds.

I don't like his tone as he says this. "A very good make," I inform him, smiling tightly.

"One large sarong." He does his best, but looks like a magician pulling a string of handkerchiefs from his sleeve. "Orange and blue."

"Turquoise," I correct him. He doesn't reply.

"One…string." I blush and look at a corner of the ceiling. He holds it up to the light. "Soiled."

"What?" I look back at him quickly. I could have sworn I only packed clean.

"Fuchsia," he adds.

I don't recognise it for a minute. It's an old one. I must have packed it by mistake.

"One pair control briefs."

"Control?" I see my black stomach crunchers raised like a flag to the window.

"Also soiled."

I blush again and look at my shoes. I must have taken the wrong bag…but I only have one.

"I'm terribly sorry gentlemen, I believe I've made some mistake when packing. I only packed clean. And those…" I glance at the black pants, now pitched on the table, and wince. "…those are not mine."

Both men look at me suspiciously. I look down at my shoes.

"One small, mechanical toy gun."

I look up, and sure enough, there it is, suspended from the tweezers by its guilty trigger: my brother's miniature pirate cap-gun. For a moment I am relieved it's not another pair of pants…but, I could have sworn my mother threw it out in a rage, in Dornoch, twenty years ago - I fired it when my sister was pointing at the hammer…I mean she was fine, she shouldn't have been sticking her fingers in where they don't belong. I suppose that's no excuse, but still it's silly to feel bad about it after all this time. I'm sure she's forgotten all about it. She must have.

"One small piece of cardboard."

I stare as he places the brightly coloured fragment down on the table.

"One small piece of cardboard."

He places a second piece close by.

"One small piece of cardboard."

Each piece is announced in the same way, and as he places them carefully in formation on the table, they begin to map out the shape of a postcard. My stomach sinks. Hollyhobby's bonnet, face, dress, basket of flowers are slowly reconstructed, an image of guilt. My sister's postcard. I cut it up when I was seven, and always said I thought it was mine. I'm not even sure now if that was true or not. I breathe deeply to try and control my face. I think of the last time I saw my sister and wonder why she's chosen now to get back at me.

"One mouse," he says and I look up sharply, "damp."

It can't be. It flashes through my mind; cornering the mouse by the edge of the bridge to get a closer look, the panic in its eyes, the way it ran into mid air like a little cartoon, then fell into the river.

"Mice can swim." I feel my lips move.

"Take that down please Arnold. The lady says that mice can swim."

"What?" He doesn't answer me, but takes a firmer grip on the tweezers and continues.

"Oh," he says. He's struggling with something. It's big and brown and doesn't want to come out of the bag. The zip is straining. For a moment I think it might be a calf. Suddenly the zip gives and I duck as he swings it across the room over my head and slams it down in the corner. I look at it, then back at him.

"I definitely didn't pack that," I say. He raises his eyebrows. There's barely space for it in the room.

"One brown corduroy, three-seater sofa," he says calmly.

I close my eyes and my head fizzes. It comes back to me. Brian's sofa. How the hell…I always said that burn wasn't me, maybe he…I quickly try to hide the burn mark by sitting on it.

"Don't sit on that please ma'am. That's evidence."

"Evidence?" I stand up abruptly.

"One small cigarette burn on the right arm."

I hope Brian doesn't find out. I hear a wet slop on the table.

"One…" the man pauses. I look up. There's one lying crippled and thumping on the table, one hanging, dripping red from the fierce grip of the man's tweezers. "…two broken hearts."

I put my hand to my mouth.

"Well I certainly don't remember packing those," I say, trying to look away, but drawn to their movement. They are like two small animals, skinned alive, lurching and juddering on the table. I expect some reply, but it doesn't come. The man is digging deep again. It must be almost empty by now. Please let it be empty.

"Can you give me a hand here Frank?"

I whine gently and look down at my shoes again. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see them pulling something out, unfolding it and standing it up.

"One Caucasian male," the man says, "in mid-twenties…is that about right miss?"

I look up. Andrew Manson. I said I'd call him three years ago.

"Andrew!" I try to look thrilled rather than guilty. "I'm so sorry I didn't call, I…"

"Miss," the man says louder, "mid-twenties. Is that correct?"

"Em, yes," I say, "Andrew?" He doesn't reply, stands like a statue, staring straight ahead. I look back to the two broken hearts, the pants - the mouse is gone, it's seen me and jumped from the table - the gun, the sofa. "I…"

"Ok miss," the man says. 'Arnold' tucks his pen back into his top pocket. "I'm afraid we're going to have to hang on to all this."

"You mean…I can leave it here?" I look back at the contents of my bag. I certainly don't want to take it with me. "You're going to keep it?" I can't believe my luck.

"I'm afraid so," he replies, nodding gravely.

I raise my eyebrows, then ask tentatively, "my bag?"

"Ah yes," he zips it up and hands it back to me.

I brace myself to take its weight, but it doesn't come. I swing it lightly onto my shoulder, smiling, and am already half way out of the door when he stops me.

"Hold on two seconds and I'll give you a ticket - you can come and pick it all up on your way back."

First published in an earlier version on tenthousandmonkeys.com.