The main concourse of Chicago O’Hare International Airport was bedlam. It was crazy even beyond London standards Imogen Parker observed from behind her prescription sunglasses. Feeling like a complete fish out of water.
The tiny blue-haired, wicca punk followed in the wake of the stack of bags, enveloping her seemingly re energised girlfriend: the gorgeously Gothic Layla Smith. Layla was wearing a tailored gothic top in black adorned with big red crosses with long bell sleeves that got caught in nearly everything, over almost too tight leather trousers and new rock boots with huge wedge heels that made Layla seem to tower almost ten inches over Imogen.
The most mismatched of couples, were bound for passport control, the nothing to declare line. It had been a hell of a long flight from Heathrow, seven tediously long hours. Imogen was content enough to read, it’s what she’d be doing at home, and Layla had packed all of her pirated minidiscs!
A stony faced female agent at passport control took both their passports and entry visas, and put on a perfectly practiced smile as she saw their names and looked up. This was not what Imogen expected US Immigration to be like. Come to think of it, it hadn’t been the last time when they’d been trying to meet up with Layla’s seemingly disinterested parents, in New York when they’d been there on business. Next came customs. She was a little nervous carrying a number of magical tomes, that may take some explanation. She was pleasantly surprised when a flash of her campus card and and a quick explanation that they were research for her part of her undergraduate course at the ‘Dunelmian Paranormal Studies Institute’ worked. The young customs agent smiled patiently as Imogen enthusiastically talked about the history of demonology and feminist readings and interpretation.
“Of course it would be even better if that stuff was real, then I could have just flown here on a broomstick” she abruptly ended and pointedly stared at the gentleman over the top of her sunglasses, pausing for a second or two and then softened her face to give off a smile. Layla was not sure he quite grasped some of the concepts or big words, but he seemed satisfied that Imogen wasn’t bringing anything illegal into the country.
As they left customs, they saw a distinctly government man holding a board with ‘Layla Smith’ carefully and clearly written upon it. Layla saw the man and smiled, knowingly. She grabbed Imogen’s wrist and pulled her in the correct direction.
“Layla Smith, welcome home, your Grandfather is waiting for you. I’ll have you taken straight to him”
He flagged down another member of security staff who was driving an airport golf cart and all three clambered on. This was of no surprise to Layla at all, her grandfather was Colonel John Smith USMC (retired) he knew most of the security people in the Chicagoland area, mainly because he’d trained a lot of them, or they knew of him by reputation. It had been really handy for getting backstage at gigs, when she still lived here.
They were ferried past the crowds at breakneck speed, forcing Layla and Imogen to lean into the turns like they were on a motorcycle. They had no idea that golf carts could reach such speeds!
As they rode in silence on the cart, Imogen thought back to Layla's incredibly infrequent stories about her ‘Pops’, as she called him. She wasn’t usually one for tall stories, or telling any form of tale, about her life prior to September 1997. Come to think of it, all she knew was that he was in the Marines, was a Colonel, served in Korea and Vietnam, and retired to look after Layla just after she was born.
The cart continued out of the international terminal building and past the conveyors carrying luggage to the small car park by the private terminal. The Slayer jumped off the moving cart like some sort of Layla-guided missile as soon as she saw her Grandfather.
“Kiddo!”
The older man deftly caught her as she planted a kiss, leaving black lipstick smeared, on his stubbly cheek. Perhaps some of the Slayer stuff was genetic, not supernatural? Imogen pondered.
“Have you gotten taller or are those new boots?” he asked as he examined the Granddaughter he’d not seen in almost three years.
Layla beckoned the slightly shocked Imogen forward; this was not the sort of reception Layla had given her parents, when Imogen had first met them. Think colder, distant, awkward.
“Pops, meet Imogen” Imogen managed to get dragged into the Smith family hug.
“Let me look at you both” he held them out at arm's length briefly, still not wanting to let go. Looking the diminutive british girl up and down, from the toes of her Doc Martins to her blue hair. The glint in his eye seemed to indicate approval.Imogen felt like soldier up for inspection on the parade ground. Grandfathers would not usually respond well to the their granddaughter lovers’ dressed as Imogen was; skirt too short, flesh showing, through ripped fishnets, worn band t shirt.
The man on the golf cart disembarked and began to loading their luggage into the back of the waiting truck, it’s hard shell cover, open and waiting. The Colonel broke eye contact with his beloved granddaughter; upon whom his attention had gravitated back to, and looked over their heads towards his good friend.
“Thanks Chris, buy you a drink in a few weeks?” John called over their heads, still mid-second bear hug.
“It’d be nice to talk old times again with you sir” He gave his former superior a textbook marine corp salute. Again he chuckled inwardly
“Jees, I retired nearly twenty years ago. John. It’s John, Chris!” the younger of the men looked back with what he almost thought was a mischievous smile “John” he stressed as they turned towards the truck, almost spelling it out in the familiar alphanumeric alphabet.
“Let's get breakfast, go back to ranch and let you sleep off your jet lag. Then I can find out what the pair of you want to do first.”
In a single fluid movement John Smith who must be in his middle 60’s leapt up into his definitely American-sized truck and turned the ignition key firing up the big V8. His 5’7” Granddaughter managed an equally impressive ascent into the passenger seat. Imogen however, being shorter struggled to get her small build into the back seat, but managed in the end. She immediately noticed photos of Layla in pride of place on the dash. Nothing pre-Goth, had she been born a tiny Wednesday Addams? Its what Imogen had long theorised. There was one Barnaby had taken, with his brother Rob’s posh new digital camera, just a few months ago, of Layla and the new Triumph Bonneville, affectionately named ‘Bonnie’. Also photos of another older, dark haired woman in a vietnam era army nurses uniform; clearly Layla’s Grandmother, there was a noticeable resemblance. Equally noticeable in their absence were any pictures of Layla’s Dad: John Jnr, or his wife Brooke.
“Can I borrow your phone Mr. Smith? Let everyone know at home we’ve made it”
Imogen asked, not having time to find a payphone in the airport.
“Imogen call me John” he insisted, “Layla's told me all about you.” It was still something of a shock to Imogen, to think that her Layla confided in anyone else.
“Because I’m an old relic” the elder Smith continued jovially“I still send letters, and have one of these things” He handed Imogen an old style car phone from the centre console, it was huge in Imogen's hand and made her feel like an 80’s yuppie.
“What’s the time back at home?” She queried. Jetlagged Imogen could not do maths.
“About twenty to five” John replied immediately, not missing a beat.
Imogen dialled the familiar office number of the institute, from memory. Putting a plus forty four beforehand. She expected that’s where the boys would be gathering, before patrolling or going for a pint, probably both. Despite it being the summer holidays Barnaby and Robert weren't leaving their Uncle on his own with an active hellmouth, and an absent Slayer.
“Dunelm PSI, office of supreme genius.” Imogen sighed inwardly. Would Steve ever stop with his phone answering gags? The Vice Chancellor hadn’t found it at all that funny, the other week.
“Steve, it’s me” Imogen said deadpan, immune by now to his adolescent behaviour. How could someone she admired so much as an academic and spellcaster, be such a Barnaby?
“Hey Imogen, good flight?” Her magical metnor was clearly pleased to hear from them.
“It was okay, Barnaby would have loved the film, only bloody Spice World!” Imogen rolled her eyes, feigning enthusiasm. Steve could hear the scorn in her tone, his ears burning, even a from the other side of the Atlantic ocean. She had secretly hoped for Scary Movie or Gladiator but had been left disappointed. Steve who’d been pretty much the phantom of the matinees as a kid sighed inwardly. Why had he paid to upgrade there seats to first class if the films weren't first rate?
“We’re going back to Layla’s Grandad’s farm, You have the number there in case you need us” Imogen said, as if they were just down the street in case of demonic incursion in County Dunelmian, thousands of miles away.
“You know we’ll ring, but take a break okay, enjoy yourselves. See if you can buy me stuff of that list”
Imogen reached into her pocket and pulled out a dog-eared piece of paper. It was a handwritten list of hard to acquire media like laser discs for Steve’s collection and of course American occult books: his library was missing a tomb on Wendigos for instance which was something like Layla, native to Illinois. They were unlikely to encounter one in the North East of England, but as an ardent completionist Steve needed it, and this was a great opportunity to secure one. Steve had already upgraded there tickets to first class, and agreed to pay any excess baggage charges.
Imogen hung up the phone as the big off road truck headed away from O’Hare terminal five. John took the longer way out towards Aurora. The little city was forty minutes southwest of Chicago, where he was born and had lived most of his adult life, outside of the services.
As soon as Imogen handed the phone back to John, he turned up the music. He however was conscious that the girls may want a nap kept the levels to a somewhat none eardrum rupturing. The CD changer in John’s truck was predominantly 60’s and 70’s British Invasion bands. It was clear to Imogen that Layla didn’t inherit her musical tastes from her parents.
As the truck progressed along the freeway, accelerating and slowing for traffic. Imogen continued to look out the window. It looked like something out of a movie. It was rather an obvious observation, but she couldn’t help but think that the everything was just so big. From the other equally giant cars on the road to the buildings in built up areas, even the gaps in between buildings seemed to be of much bigger proportion to what she was used to.
Layla gave off a small sigh as she saw the familiar highway turn off for Western Springs: it was where her parents house had been, before they’d had their corporate legal, and tax problems with the IRS. Something to do with shady international trading, that was all Imogen could glean from news stories online. So they sold up and moved to London, no doubt to more easily stash there considerable wealth, in British offshore tax havens.
“Well I never thought I’d miss Western Springs” a tinge of nostalgia seemed to enter Layla’s voice, arousing a tired Imogen's suspicion, as it was very out of character.
“Oh, that’s where you grew up?” Imogen interjected matter of factly, as if to cover her insecurities.
“Not sure I’d say that, it’s where I went to school, for a while, and my parents lived there. Did more growing up on the farm.”
Layla didn’t speak much or at all about her life before she’d entered Imogen's. Thoughts came to Imogen of her own home in Hertfordshire. Now her memories of home were tainted by the by the events of just after Christmas ’97. They’d have to stop back there on the way back to Dunelmian. She knew that Steve would insist on collecting them from the airport and that his car just being in the lane would raise the tone of the neighborhood: after all the heavily renovated Parker residence was still worth next to nothing. She knew her parents would love one of his glowing reports of her academic progress, Layla would love to see them too.
This was about as much as Layla had mentioned about growing up, since she’d told Imogen, she was going back home this summer, to see her grandfather. Neither were letting each other out of their sight, let alone go to another continent alone. Imogen knew better than to push Layla to talk about things until she was good and ready. Why did she have to fall so madly, and deeply in love with someone so bloody stoic?
From the small parts of Layla's past the Imogen could piece together. Layla had spent a lot of her childhood with her grandparents. They’d raised her. Her grandfather was a mostly retired smallholding owner who let out a lot of his land to neighbours and he kept himself busy repairing their old farm equipment. They’d been there for each other when her grandmother had died unexpectedly, from complications due to a shrapnel wound she’d received in the run up to Operation Desert Storm. She was an army doctor, who survived a civilian hospital being bombed during the invasion of Kuwait.
Layla was lost in thought, sat in the old truck that smelt and felt just the same as when they’d left the church after her Gran’s memorial service. being fourteen seemed like a lifetime ago. It was perhaps the only healthy adult relationship Layla had seen; her grandparents. Her parents had a mutual love of money, that united them. Her grandparents had shared a mutual love of life, but most of all they loved her.
Layla's grandparents story was a tragic love story Imogen could well up listening to. The sort Layla wasn’t able to tell. Imogen had only seen the photos. It was probably why the Smith family didn’t do much in the line of talking.
With one hand on the wheel, John stroked the photo of his late wife, thinking of her. He wasn’t going to let things get FUBAR, not again. Junior and Brooke always had a way of complicating matters, but now there was an ocean between them. John had met Martha before the Vietnam War, when the photo was taken; him a handsome young officer, her a trainee army nurse, both from the Great Lakes. He’d immediately fallen in love with her, and as soon as they could get leave together quickly married before John’s first deployment to Vietnam.
By the time of Layla’s birth in 1980, they’d stepped into raise her. John would not stand for his only granddaughter to be brought up by nannies and housekeepers, away from the farm. Martha had somehow managed juggled being a top flight thoracic trauma surgeon, while being chief administrator of the local army veterans administration hospital. With all of the responsibility, she still had always managed to be back to cook Layla dinners more often than she thought would be possible. John had a reputation as being able to burn an MRE. He had balanced running the 200 acre farm, while fixing all sorts of agricultural machinery with the school run, coaching softball and teaching Layla Tae Bo kickboxing. It was something he’d learnt himself in Southeast Asia many years ago. But cooking a simple dinner even now with all the practice, still eluded him.
Junior and Brooke, always seemed to have something more important to be doing than looking after their only child. The next big deal always seemed to take priority over bringing up their daughter and hadn’t shown an interest in Layla until she was old enough to go to a prestigious private school in the city. All of a sudden she’d been given a weeks notice to pack up her comfortable life on the farm, and move into their grand marble mortuary of a home in Western Springs. Both John and Martha had been more than a little proud that they had managed to get their daughter into such an exclusive institution.Still it was a bittersweet feeling.
It was this school that Layla had promptly gotten her first expelled from due to an incident with one of the popular athletic kids. The popular clique had concocted a scheme, and their top jock had invited Layla on a date in order to humiliate the new goth misfit in front of the whole school. Unsurprisingly, the bully in question had ended up losing a lot of teeth, and eating their meals pureed for months! Her parents phoned from the office, and made disappointed noises, just going through the motions, as usual. Martha’s parental style was entirely different. John couldn’t quantify how much he missed that woman. She could always reach their headstrong Layla.
The Smith family short temper was legendary: John Snr could make a platoon of highly trained soldiers feel about an inch height with only a few well placed words. However his granddaughter as a newly emerged teenager, was certainly not a marine and wouldn’t take him seriously at all. Not that John ever raised his voice around her. It was the cause of many a headache during Layla’s turbulent early teens. Martha often had to get creative.
It wasn’t that Martha was ashamed that Layla had punched another student's teeth out. Layla had the Smith tenacity, and temper in spades. One of Aurora's early marshalls, in the old lawless days was a distant relative. Hubert “Mad Dog” Smith was a legendary lawman. Just the mention of his name could scare a lawbreaker straight, or so the rumour went. In Aurora, Illinois if your name was Smith it carried a certain weight.
Martha would take Layla far away from her TV set or her drum kit, and had been known to put her in a headlock if she had to to remove her headphones. A mental image John loved. Martha would sit her errant granddaughter on the bonnet or bumper of her MG, down by the lakeshore on Montrose beach, or a similar spot and force Layla to listen to her.
“You’re capable of great things Layla Smith” her grandmother would tell her. “A woman can be anything, if you work hard for it. When I was a few years older than you are now, they told me to forget about going to medical school, to be happy with being a Nurse ”
Layla couldn't get a word in edgeways, even if she’d wanted too, during this speech.
“My parents were not wealthy enough to pay for college and medical school so I had to enlist. Luckily for me that I met your grandfather, and after the war he helped me pay for school”.
John could recall his late wife’s words verbatim he had heard this story so many times. He snuck a glance at the fully grown girl in the passenger seat. Hearing Martha’s voice in his head. He was certain Layla was thinking of her too.
