In the background of an airport somewhere in the world, a nasally challenged announcement was being made:
‘Will a Mister Pilt Down, arrived on BSD flight 945 from Melbourne, Tullamarine please report immediately to security checkpoint Three-Five.’
At the checkpoint in question, a passport was pushed across the desk in front of the customs officer.
She opened it, with a bored expression and checked the biometric data against that just taken by the machines.
It all matched. It always did.
She longed for a mismatch so she could justifiably shoot someone. Ever since these new passports came into force, her job had become one of rote and boredom. A machine could have done it.
The officer looked up at the man that stood there and pushed his passport back to him.
‘Welcome home, Mister Presley.’
The dark haired man nodded, his metal-framed sunglasses reflecting the face of the customs lady.
He walked through the barrier without a word.
Fade to black…South Yarra, February-March 2006
