An English Boy in New York by T. S. Easton Page A

but you have a bad knee and a prostate issue.’
    Dad’s face lit up and he looked at me as if he were about to slaughter a sheep in my honour. ‘Thank you, Ben,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate it.’
    I turned to Gex and shrugged. ‘So I guess we’re in economy after all.’
    â€˜You are,’ he said. ‘I’m in Executive Club.’
    My mouth dropped.
Judas!
‘But don’t you think Mum and Dad might want to sit together?’
    â€˜I don’t mind,’ Mum said.
    â€˜I’m happy to sit next to Gex,’ Dad said, heaving a suitcase onto the weighing belt.
    â€˜He has IBS,’ I said quickly.
    â€˜Well then, the poor lad definitely needs to go in Club,’ Dad said. ‘There’s always a queue for the toilets in economy.’
    I sighed. This is not how things were supposed to turn out.
    Later; somewhere over the Atlantic
    Mum is snoring softly next to me. I can hear Dad and Gex laughing a dozen rows away in EXECUTIVE CLUB CLASS, I’m sure I saw an extremely attractive flight attendant up there pouring something fizzy earlier, before she pulled the curtain across. Mum and I got a cold cheese roll each from a grumpy old steward who keeps walking into my elbow. Mum felt sorry for me and gave me her roll and now I feel a bit sick. Also, the compression socks are perhaps a little too tight. I’m now worried about my circulation. No point avoiding deep vein thrombosis only to end up with gangrene.
    I’m also obsessing over something else. Needles in my hand luggage. When we were checking our bags in, the keyboard killer asked me if I had anything sharp in my hand luggage.
    â€˜Like what?’ I asked.
    â€˜Like a knife, or needles?’
    â€˜I have some needles,’ I admitted.
    â€˜Are they for prescription medicines?’
    â€˜No, for fuschia stitch.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜For knitting. They’re knitting needles.’
    He gave me an odd look.
    â€˜OK, you’d better pack them in your hold luggage.’
    â€˜Really? I asked. ‘It’s just that I was going to work on my knitting on the plane. I get anxious sometimes and it calms me.’
    â€˜Sir,’ he said. ‘I have a long queue of people waiting.’
    â€˜Fine, fine.’ I unzipped my bag and shoved the needles and half-finished Hoopie in.
    â€˜What else do you have in your hand luggage?’ he asked.
    I shrugged. ‘Passport, tickets, my Kindle, my Stiletto.’
    He jerked back. ‘You have a Stiletto?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ I said, grinning proudly.
    â€˜Why?’
    I shrugged. ‘They’re cool. You can play games with them.’
    He shook his head. ‘It needs to go in the hold luggage, I’m afraid. ‘Is it in a sheath?’
    â€˜A case, yes. Does it really need to go in the hold?’
    He blinked in surprise. ‘Well, you can’t use it in the cabin, obviously!’
    â€˜No, I suppose not,’ I said. So that went in the suitcase too and I watched it sail off down the conveyor belt.
    I had this irrational fear that I’d never see it again.
    I huffed and puffed in my seat. I was caught in a vicious circle. I was anxious at having been parted from my knitting; the only thing that could relax me was my knitting.
    â€˜What is it?’ Mum said, dragging her eyes away from her book.
    â€˜Nothing,’ I said grumpily. ‘Just felt like doing some knitting to pass the time.’
    Mum nodded, and a tiny smirk appeared.
    â€˜You are a weird and wonderful boy, Ben. Don’t ever change.’
    I sighed and fiddled with the in-flight entertainment controls.
    â€˜I’m going to lose myself in a few episodes of
Breaking Bad
,’ I told her, plugging in the ear-phones. ‘Let me know when they come round with the hot flannels.’
    1.32pm US time
    I’m writing this in a 6’ x 8’ cell. They’ve allowed me a pencil and a sheet of paper but