NY December 2026.
There is an awkward moment on my arrival when an ICE agent insists on me unpacking my case. He tells me there is similar name to mine on their no-fly list.
I realise I can’t remember my PIN, so I put my hand in my suit pocket to get my phone, and he reaches for his sidearm.
“Phone,” I say, a weak grin on my face, withdrawing it slowly with two fingers. I can smell the heat of my sweat rising and try to suppress a tremble in my hand, but only succeed in dropping the phone.
“Can I pick it up, sir?” I choke out the words in guilty syllables. He nods, but doesn’t let go of his gun.
“Why can’t you remember the lock code?” he snaps.
“It’s a new case, and I used a different code.” it sounds weak. He looks at me through his mirrored lenses as I fumble with the thumbprint on my phone and retrieve the code.
“Let me look at the phone,” he demands, releasing his weapon and stretching out a gloved hand. I hand it to him shakily. He seizes it and determines it is a new, untainted phone with no incriminating documents or messages.
“Why have you brought a new phone?” he asks.
“My contract ended, so I got a new one,” I reply. I can hear the defensive tones in my voice unwittingly condemning me.
“Is it a burner?”
“No, it’s a two-thousand-dollar iPhone,” I reply, my defensiveness turning abruptly to irritation.
He throws my half a month’s salary on the desk with contempt. “Open the case.”
I fidget with the stubbornly intractable numbered wheels, eventually flicking the tabs and lifting the lid.
He points. “Empty it.”
I take everything out and pile it neatly to one side in small carefully categorised units: socks and underwear, shirts, trousers, a bomber jacket, my spectacles, and a small jar of Marmite.
“What’s that?” He says, pointing at the jar.
“Marmite. It’s a fermented yeast product I spread on toast. I’m aware it isn’t readily available in New York, and I really can’t face the day without it.” My voice is stronger now I’m on familiar ground: Americans always question me about Marmite.
“Open it,” he commands, so I twist the lid off and the pungent odour of the delicious, brown goo escapes.
“You eat this?” He queries, sniffing the jar. “You Brits are weird.”
He let me go with, “Enjoy your stay in New York.”
I hold in a sigh of relief until I’m outside the doors to the arrival hall.
In my hotel, I sit down on the bed with the Marmite gripped in my hands, conscious of the weight of the jar, the pull of history, gravity, fate. Then—fishing out the small plastic sack of neurotoxin—I clean it with a wet wipe, load it into the syringe hidden in my spectacles case, and eye the bedside clock for my appointed hour.
