Girl on a Plane Page 10

  Slowly, slowly, the clouds of sand inside the plane settle a little. The air clears a bit more. People come out from under their blankets and scarves, their sweaters and coats.

  I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry, bloated, and thick. I try not to rub my grit-filled eyes and blink instead. But I’m so dehydrated, I can hardly make any tears. Slowly, though, my eyes clear enough for me to see that every inch of everything—​the seats, the carpets, the overhead lockers, the pleats in the curtains—​is coated in a fine layer of red sand. David and Tim are outlined too. A red film covers their hair, their eyebrows, their eyelashes. It lies in every crease of their faces and necks. I wipe it from my ears. It’s under my fingernails, in between my toes.

  Everyone is wiping their eyes, coughing, brushing themselves down. I sweep the sand off my tray. A little trickles into my empty shoes, set together on the floor. How far has it come? From North Africa? From Bahrain? They say the sands of the Sahara sometimes fall on southern France.

  Eventually the storm outside abates, and when they open the door again, I add my name to the captain’s list for a turn to look out, to breathe fresh air.

  We all carry on clearing up. Someone is complaining about the sand in their whiskey. Tim’s gathering it up to wear like soft, red war paint.

  “I’ll look just like a Kalahari caveman,” he says, smearing it onto his sticky forehead.

  When I finally get my turn at the open door, there’s a new world outside. Our little piece of desert has changed. The softer sand beyond the trenches and the hard, flat-topped hillocks have disappeared beneath a magnificently ridged dune rippling away into the distance.

  So, I think, it really is a land of shifting sands, a place without maps, where everything keeps moving.

  And nothing remains the same.

  24

  1600h

  I’m standing in the doorway when Mr. Newton lumbers into view, his trousers hitched up a little too high, as usual. He staggers toward me from the aisle, still etched in red sand, sways briefly beside me before collapsing onto the black crew seat.

  He’s been drinking steadily all day. I can smell the alcohol fumes and his sour sweat.

  He leans forward and fixes his tired eyes on me. “Now, li’l lady,” he says, slurring his words and throwing one arm out as if he’s trying to get rid of it, “come and sit here, next to me.” He blinks and pats the seat next to him.

  “I’m OK, thanks, Mr. Newton,” I say.

  “That bastard prime minister going to save us, you think?” Thick saliva gathers at the corners of his mouth as he speaks. To my relief, he doesn’t wait for a reply but pulls a packet of cigarettes out of his top pocket, lights one with a trembling hand, and takes a long drag.

  He peers up at me again, his eyes bleary. “What do you say your name was?”

  “Anna.”

  “Ah.” The ash on his cigarette glows and lengthens. “Last days on earth, you know.” He takes another drag. A small, hollow tube of ash falls, breaks up on his dark trousers. “I’m tired,” he says, staggering to his feet and lurching toward the open door.

  “Mr. Newton!” I catch him by the arm and look around for help. But no one’s paying us any attention. “I’m . . . I’m going back now, Mr. Newton. Why don’t you come with me?”

  He nods sagely, as if he understands everything there is to know. Then his mouth droops, his face crumples, and two tears slide down his red-veined cheeks.

  A hand reaches out and takes his elbow. The Giant.

  “Hey!” Mr. Newton shakes him off.

  The Giant glances at me, gives me a quick smile, and stands firm. “This way, please.” He nods toward the aisle.

  Mr. Newton sighs, shrugs, and totters back to his seat.

  I follow and watch the Giant settle him down farther back, then walk past me to resume his conversation with the captain and Jim. The boy with the ammo belt joins them from the back of the plane. He’s almost as tall as the Giant but leaner and more graceful. I wonder what they’re so busy talking about.

  I can see David and Tim right at the back of the plane by the galley, but I don’t feel like joining them. Mr. Newton may have been drunk, but what he said might still be true.

  These might be my last two days on earth. I look at my watch. Teatime. Whatever that means.

  25

  1630h

  Sweaty’s at the front, guarding the doorway. He shifts, turns, and glances down the cabin, and I duck out of view, what Dad calls “keeping your head below the parapet.” He’s always said, “In difficult circumstances, don’t attract attention.”

  But I’m getting sick of pretending I don’t exist.

  Maybe I won’t exist soon.

  How will I die? Will I be shot or blown up? I wonder which is less painful. If you die a violent death, don’t you become a ghost, stalking the earth for eternity? Imagine.

  Unseen. Alone. Forever.

  The pit of my stomach clenches. Alarm blossoms. It blooms and darkens, like ink in water.

  I have to stop this. Stop this fear from spreading, from taking over.

  I try to concentrate on Rosemary, walking past on her way to the front; on the two blond girls making their way noisily to the back; on the redhead in first class that the bald man calls Maria—​she’s leaning provocatively against the bulwark, chatting with Sweaty; on Mrs. Green, fixing a pink ribbon to her daughter’s head. I watch them all—​and I see them as they really are: despite the calm, the smiles, and bravado, they’re all tense, terrified of dying.

  They’re holding on, like me; mothers for their children, men for their wives, the captain for his crew, the crew for the passengers.

  How long can we all keep it up? And who am I holding on for? For Tim? For my family? For myself ?

  What if Mark and Sam were here too, as they could so easily have been? I think of the freckles on Mark’s nose, the tension in his small, muscular body. I remember his kindness and deep sense of loyalty. He’s fire and restlessness too, and endless energy, always flitting from one activity to the next, easily bored, pacing, impatient . . . He’d hate it in here, all cooped up.

  And then there’s little, thoughtful Sam, always in his own world. I love the way he slips his small, warm hand in mine whenever we cross the road together. I think about his silky brown hair, streaked by the sun, his little white shorts, his incredible ease under water, where he seems happiest. Sam is an underwater seal, and Mark a bright, impatient flame. Fire and water. I’d never realized that before . . .

  Suddenly Mr. Newton turns his radio up to full volume. People call, shout out, complain.

  But I’m glad. It’s distracting.

  “Mr. Gary Sobers, the West Indian cricket captain, who has been described as the world’s greatest cricketing all-rounder, was welcomed in Salisbury, Rhodesia, yesterday. Despite sanctions being in place . . .”

  Above it, I can hear Rosemary persuading Mr. Newton to turn the volume down. It goes suddenly quiet, and in the lull I hear Tim’s high-pitched voice talking excitedly to David at the back.

  I decide to get up and see what they’re up to.

  David has his face squashed up against the porthole in the back door, looking out with one eye, his nose flattened against the glass.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He turns. “They’re fixing what look like explosives to the wheels.”

  “What?”

  “Look,” says Tim. “Bundles of them.”

  I squint down. Sure enough, I can just see the edges of the bundles, tied with black tape, bunched around the back wheels. They’re turning the whole plane into one enormous bomb.

  And we’re inside it.

  David grimaces at me, then glances pointedly at Tim.

  “Let’s go and see if they’ve put some under the belly.” Tim is eager. “We might be able to see from the front doorway.” He trots off up the aisle.

  “David, you shouldn’t encourage him,” I say. “He just doesn’t understand.”
/>
  “I haven’t.”

  Tim is back. “Come on,” he says. “Mr. Newton’s just given me a box of matches, says we should light one and flick it down next time Sweaty takes a leak against the wheel.”

  David shrugs helplessly at me and follows Tim to the front.

  I slump down, hugging my knees to my chest. I want to shut everything and everybody out.

  “What are those two boys up to?” It’s Rosemary.

  I look up at her. “They’re checking the explosives.”

  “Oh, they don’t miss a thing, do they? I was hoping they wouldn’t notice.” She looks more closely at me. “They won’t use them, you know.”

  “If the British government doesn’t let that hijacker go, they will,” I reply.

  Rosemary squats down next to me. “Anna, they’ll work something out. There’s still time. Try not to dwell on it. Now”—​she stands back up—​“I’m reminding everyone that as well as taking walks up and down the plane, you need to exercise your eyes by focusing them on the horizon. Everything in here’s too close up. OK?”

  “Mmm,” I say.

  “You seem low.”

  “Just want to get out.”

  “I know. It’s really hard. We’re trying to persuade them to let us get to our luggage soon. Several people are running low on medication and need to get supplies from their cases. Come on.” She holds her hands out and pulls me to my feet. “Let’s see if the food’s arrived.”

  I follow her to the front.

  “They’ve not just rigged the cockpit and flight deck with dynamite . . .” Jim starts saying to Rosemary as she approaches, before noticing me behind and wincing.

  “She’s already seen the explosives outside,” Rosemary says.

  “Ah,” he says. “Och, well, it’s not all doom and gloom, Anna. They’ve agreed to us having another breather outside later on.”

  I smile as if that’s great news but feel my hope running out.

  26

  1715h

  The captain stands at the front. The Giant towers over him. It’s odd, but there’s something about his size and presence that seems to calm things.

  “Would everyone sit down for a moment, please,” the captain calls. “I have something good to tell you, for a change. We’ve negotiated with the hijackers to allow us access to our luggage.” There’s a murmur of delight. Tim looks across at me and does a joyful thumbs-up.

  “They’ve agreed to let us go down in groups of ten at a time,” continues the captain, “to pick out our own cases, open them, and take out one or two items. They’ll check when you’ve chosen them. Obviously some of you will want to take out much-needed medicines or toiletries—​I know that the bathrooms have run out of everything; others will want to collect a change of clothes. Please be cooperative. Think about what might make your stay here easier. We’ll be carefully watched while we do this, and I advise everyone to stick absolutely to this agreement, to their rules. We don’t want any trouble. I don’t need to reiterate that we’re at the center of a very volatile situation, which we don’t want to make worse. As some of you are in dire need of medical supplies, I am suggesting that we all agree to this offer?” There are murmurs of agreement and a smattering of Hear, hears.

  “What about those Red Cross meals they keep promising?” Mrs. Newton calls out. “We haven’t eaten since this time yesterday.”

  “Apparently they’re still stuck in Beirut,” replies the captain. “And I have no news about when they’ll get here. I’ll let you know if I hear anything. I’ve negotiated a little bread and water for us all this evening. If everything goes smoothly with the luggage, we may very well get it.” The captain turns to the Giant and says something. The Giant smiles a long, slow smile, then claps the captain lightly on the back.

  The names of the first ten people to go down the ladder are called out. They are those who need to get medication and include Susan and Mrs. Green, the bald man in first class, for some reason—​and, more bizarrely, Mr. and Mrs. Newton. Apparently Mrs. Newton said she suffered from migraines. Hangovers, more likely.

  Before the first group returns, the second group assembles. It’s mainly the crew, and when they go it feels odd without them here. I don’t like looking at their empty seats. They’re always talking through practicalities, organizing the door rotation, trying to keep the loos clean, pressing for meals, for lanterns at night, discussing safety. The plane feels and sounds different with them all missing. It’s eerie, like they’ve been taken out and . . .

  A light flurry, a breeze, comes in through the open door and down the central aisle. My turn soon.

  “What are you going to get out, Anna?” David asks from across the aisle.

  “I thought of a warm coat for the nights, but I’m desperate for a change of clothes too,” I say. “I can’t decide. With all this sweating and no washing, maybe it’s a bit pointless.”

  “What I’d give to dive into the wardroom pool right now.”

  “You went there?” I’m surprised.

  “Yes, sometimes. Why?”

  “I never saw you.”

  “Expect you were too busy with some guy.”

  I ignore this. “Seems ages since I packed. I can’t remember what’s in my case. And it’ll all be so crumpled.”

  “I think the world might forgive you for looking a bit crumpled,” he says, “when we’re released.”

  “You really think we’ll get out?”

  “Yes,” he says, not looking at me. And I don’t know him well enough to know whether he means it or whether he’s just being encouraging. I desperately want to believe him, but then he adds quietly, “We have to think that, don’t we?”

  Tim is restless. He’s standing already. “I’m going to get my comics.”

  “No clothes?” I say. “You’ll feel better in a pair of shorts. Then you won’t have to keep asking Rosemary to cut the legs off your trousers.”

  “Don’t think I’ve got any shorts in there,” Tim says. “Maybe a T-shirt, then, and some sweets.”

  “Sweets! You’ve got sweets in there?”

  He nods.

  “Then I’m your new best friend.” David gets up and puts an arm around him.

  Tim smiles. “It’s only a tube of Polo mints.”

  “Only. Polo mints!” David says.

  “Do you think I should leave Fred here when I go down?” Tim asks.

  “Just put him under your chair,” I suggest. “He’ll be OK there. I don’t think anyone will take him.”

  “And they wouldn’t get far, would they?” says David.

  “No, but . . .” Tim frowns.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That horrible lady . . .” says Tim.

  “What about her?” I say. “She won’t come on board now, Tim. She only comes at night—​especially at night—​just to scare us. Stupid old witch.”

  “Don’t you mean Lady Macbeth?” says David.

  “Who’s that?” asks Tim.

  “A cruel woman in one of Shakespeare’s plays,” I say, and I’m relieved when the conversation’s stopped by Sweaty coming to tell us we’re in the next group.

  It’s great to be outside again. Someone puts their hands around my waist to help me onto the truck. I’m a bit disconcerted to discover it’s David and jump quickly down to the ground before him. Then I feel strangely exposed. For a moment, I’m the only hostage there.

  We’re herded under the belly of the plane, past the bundles of explosives taped to the wheels and all down the undercarriage. Around us the hot wind stirs up eddies of sand like tiny whirlwinds. We can see the two other planes properly from here. I still can’t see any faces at the windows but can clearly see the truck under each plane now, on the other side from us. They must have a door open too. Their luggage is also piled up outside in the shade under the wing, but there’s no one by it except a few guerrillas milling about. Suddenly I realize why it’s been put outside. It’s so that they can rig up explosives in the empty hol
ds.

  Seven or eight guerrillas who I haven’t seen before are guarding our luggage. It’s stacked in lines and small piles: large and small, soft and hard, black, brown, navy suitcases, school trunks circled by thick leather belts, a guitar case.

  Sweaty shoves his gun in my back. I lurch away from him, frightened—​and furious. How dare he? I make sure I walk well ahead of him.

  But there’s my case! I can see the edge of it, the dark-green cloth with brown leather piping, chosen by Marni. It’s worn and scratched by all the trips to and from school. I feel a surge of emotion, seeing her handwriting on the cream label. And suddenly I can see Marni’s hands stroking the last sweater flat before closing the lid, and Dad’s strong, square hand picking it up by the leather handle, pulling it from the trunk of the Peugeot.

  David, about to open his case, glances around and, seeing my face, calls out, “Are you OK?”

  I nod. He takes a step toward me, but Sweaty pushes him roughly back.

  “Really, I’m OK.”

  “Tim,” David calls over Sweaty’s head, “what about you?”

  “I’m fine.” His clear voice comes from somewhere behind me.

  When it’s my turn, I step forward to undo my case. But the zipper sticks. I feel a wave of panic. I’m overcome by an illogical desire to run. I don’t want to be down here with Sweaty and all the strange guards watching me. I want to be back on the plane. I don’t want to open it so that Sweaty can see my things. I don’t want him looking in on my life. I don’t want him to have anything to do with it.

  But I fumble with the zipper, get it moving again, take a deep breath, lift the lid, and peep in. A lump comes to my throat. On top of the neatly folded clothes and all the textbooks that remained unopened all summer, Marni has packed her special beginning-of-term letter. I fight back tears. Marni’s handwriting. The handwriting that is Marni, every bit of her: her warmth, her strength, and the safety of her.

  But I have to concentrate, not miss my chance. I raise a hand and brush the tears quickly away, not wanting Sweaty to notice. Could I slip the letter out too? What if they take it off me? Is it better to take it or leave it safely here for later? Will it be too much to bear? I pull out my school coat, a rust-colored Aertex top, my toothbrush, toothpaste, and a pot of Nivea cream—​and there’s the PFLP badge my friend Samir gave me the night he showed me where he used to live in Palestine. I hide it inside my clenched fist.