Girl on a Plane Read online

  Marni puts a hand to her temple and slumps against the door frame.

  Sam stares at her. “Mum?” He gets up and runs over, puts his arms around her. “Mum?”

  She wraps him up and squeezes him tight. “It’s OK,” she murmurs. “It’s OK, my darling. I’m just happy.” She wipes her eyes quickly with the back of her hand, then smiles down into his eyes. “See?”

  He looks hard at her. “Your mouth is,” he says, “but your eyes aren’t yet.”

  “Will Anna be OK now, Mum?” Mark says from the floor.

  “Yes,” Marni says. “She’ll be absolutely fine.”

  43

  Revolutionary Airstrip, Jordan—​1430h

  Six dirty white, bullet-scarred minibuses draw up alongside the plane, and everyone is ordered to leave the aircraft. I look at my place, my row of three chairs, my little window, my overhead locker and the fold-down trays. I look at the floor where I’ve slept. This has been my place, where I’ve been, where I’ve lived through all this. Where I’ve hidden, slept, dreamed, laughed, cried.

  It pulls me back.

  Suddenly I don’t want to leave it. If I do, it will be forever.

  In a blur, I pick up my bag, file down the aisle, and, as I wait in the line to be helped down the ladder, I look at the line of subdued passengers standing quietly below in the burning sun. They look scruffy, disordered, rumpled. Older. There’s little conversation. Even the baby is silent. Hands are tightly held: the Newtons, the blond sisters; Mrs. Green stoops to tie Susan’s shoelace.

  As soon as I am down too, I look around the aircraft for Jamal and the Giant. There’s been no sign of them since the captain’s announcement. I’d really like to say goodbye. Instead I see the neat, dark figure of Lady Mac watching from the shadow of the tail. Is that the man with the bomb standing next to her? I turn away to join the line waiting to collect luggage from under the other wing.

  Rosemary is in front. She turns and smiles at me. “Isn’t this great . . . ?” She stops. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, of course.” I give her a wan smile. “Just feel a bit odd.”

  She looks relieved. “I know what you mean. We’ll all feel a bit odd over the next few weeks. It’s going to take time to get back to normal. But imagine, Anna—​a shower! Sleeping in a real bed! Seeing your family.” She turns back to collect her luggage. And of course I know she’s right.

  I can see the two other planes properly now. Their passengers are milling about under them, collecting their luggage, and there are minibuses parked there too, waiting to take them into Amman.

  Tim and David have already collected their cases and have gone on ahead to line up by our minibuses. It takes ages to locate my case, and by the time I do find it, I glimpse Tim climbing into the minibus behind the lead Jeep, which has a large Palestinian flag fluttering from its radio antenna. The minibuses from the other two planes have set off and are already wending their way across the desert, leaving a long trail of dust behind them. I think of the people in them, who were held even longer than us. What must they be feeling like now?

  I’m told to board the last minibus in the line and feel a great wave of disappointment at being separated from David and Tim. I climb in and sit in the single seat by the window behind the driver and the guard. The door slams shut, and we move off, flanked by Jeeps with guerrillas I don’t recognize. Our driver, wearing his black beret at a jaunty angle, swings the wheel left, then right, struggling to avoid the deep fissures in the hard sand. The guard sitting next to him in the front cradles his rifle on his lap, his headdress obscuring his face.

  I stare back at the three planes. They look smaller already, and incredibly isolated in the middle of the empty desert. And, although I’m relieved to be going home, I suddenly feel worried about what will happen to them. Will they fly home one day too?

  I lived in that plane for four days, felt safe in it, as well as in terrible danger. And now I don’t feel safe at all. I don’t really know where I’m going or even if I’ll get there alive. I’m just shut in again, but this time with only a dozen people, who I still hardly know. No Rosemary, no Jim, no captain, not even the Newtons or Susan and Mrs. Green. Not even the baby. Just Maria, slumped at the back next to the bald man, both smoking.

  The three planes are as small as toys now. And when we drive down a slope into a wadi, a dry river channel, they vanish from view—​and I feel bereft.

  The temperature rises inside the van, so I slide my window open to let some air in, but it’s blisteringly hot outside too. I’m desperately thirsty. Our last water ration was hours ago. I run my finger around the tin of Nivea and rub the very last smear of cream into my dry lips.

  While we lurch and bounce over the dry earth and water-smoothed stones that form the bed of the wadi, I imagine the river as it once was, millions of years ago, with giraffes, zebras, hippos, and elephants grazing. Suddenly, I see two black tanks hunched ahead on the horizon and feel a jolt of adrenaline. Are they friendly? Will they fire at us? Am I going to die now, here, after all?

  There’s muttering among the passengers, and then everyone falls quiet. As we get closer, I see the huge tire tracks and the gun turrets, and figures leaning against the great creatures’ flanks. Closer still, and I see they’re drinking from metal cups and smoking. As we pass by, turning left through a gap in a barbed-wire fence onto a rough gravel road, the soldiers raise their cups as if toasting us.

  Every so often, in between long stretches of road, we have to stop at PFLP roadblocks. The driver shows his papers and sometimes exchanges news and information. The PFLP seems to control this side of Amman, and the road is littered with burning tires and rocks, debris from barricades and from fighting. I can hear bursts of gunfire, faintly to begin with, then worryingly close. We pass several low buildings that have been reduced to rubble. Farther off I see a twisted plume of thick black smoke rising into the air. And I begin to wonder if we’ll ever make it into the center of Amman, or escape home before the country explodes into civil war. And if it does, then what? What will happen to us?

  At the next roadblock a line of brown and gold camels walks past with their heads outstretched, ignoring the revving Jeeps, the minibuses, and the intermittent gunfire, just treading the desert as they have always done.

  When the road becomes tarmac, we travel faster between the roadblocks. I sit back, close my eyes, and welcome the warm wind on my face. It ripples through my hair, cools my neck. The rhythm begins to lull me, and I doze. But soon I sense the minibus slowing down again and open my eyes to see that we’ve reached the outskirts of the city. Crowds of people are going about their business. There are bike bells and car horns and stifling exhaust fumes. When I smell food cooking, my stomach clenches. I salivate and am consumed by hot, sick waves of hunger. I look longingly at the bunches of bananas hanging from stalls, the crates of oranges, the mounds of carrots. A woman on a veranda drinks mint tea from a glass.

  We pass a butcher’s shop, a man unloading sacks of flour from a truck, a boy selling cold water from an ice chest fixed to the front of his bicycle. Moya barrida! he shouts, waving at me. “Cold water.” Moya barrida! Can’t we stop and buy some? But perhaps we’re nearly there.

  I’ll drink water soon enough, I tell myself. As much as I want.

  We’re stationary in a busy road approaching the InterContinental Hotel. And suddenly I’m aware that there’s no sign of the PFLP Jeeps that accompanied us. Somewhere along the road, they must have quietly melted away. Up ahead I can see a huge crowd of people. When they spot our minibuses, they start running toward us, dodging through the traffic—​reporters with cameras on their shoulders, trailing loops of wire, some with notebooks, some carrying reels of film, others with earphones, boom microphones. And my heart sinks. I don’t want to fight my way through them, to have to be filmed and answer questions. I just want to get inside the hotel and find David and Tim again.

  44

  Amman, Jordan—​1630h

  One
of the reporters outside the InterContinental Hotel runs up to our minibus window and jogs alongside. “How did they treat you?” he shouts, his yellow tie flying over one shoulder. But the minibus lurches forward, accelerates away, and the man disappears behind us.

  When we slow down in the traffic, he catches up again. “Were they violent?” he shouts, his brown hair flopping. There’s sweat on his top lip. “Did they torture you? Was anyone abused?” There’s a shocked silence inside the minibus before it edges forward again.

  Suddenly a huge, gray boom microphone is thrust in through my window, forcing my head against the back of my seat, pushing into my face. As the man keeps pace, it jiggles up and down. The stale smell of it is sickening.

  “Say something! Say something!” the man shouts at me.

  His colleague comes alongside, his TV camera whirring.

  Fury stirs in my blood: “LEAVE US ALONE!” I yell.

  The stinking microphone retreats. I slam my window shut and lock it. There’s nervous laughter and a smattering of applause from behind. Someone pats me on the back. But all I can feel are my eyes filling, hot tears falling, pouring down.

  The driver parks outside the hotel, drags on the hand brake, and comes around to open the side door. I pull off the scarf tying back my hair and use it to wipe my face dry.

  Then I step out into the scrum.

  Picking up my case, I try to run the gauntlet through the shouting, jostling crowd of reporters waiting on the steps of the hotel. The noise is overwhelming, and I hardly have the strength to batter my way through. Eventually someone grabs my arm and pulls me out of the crowd. The doors swing shut behind me, and I’m inside, standing in the foyer in a melee of passengers, crew, and uniformed staff, who are herding everyone around to the right. I can’t see David and Tim anywhere, just our aircrew, being siphoned off to the left.

  Behind me there’s a shout as a bunch of reporters surge past the hotel doormen. The reception and security staff dash to head them off. There are scuffles and swearing. Eventually the front doors are slammed closed and locked; the reporters outside bang continuously on the glass.

  I glimpse several men in a doorway wearing suits and holding clipboards. As I pass one, he asks my name and ticks me off his list. I’m ushered into a large air-conditioned room, the walls hung with old oil paintings in ornate gold frames. There is a large arrangement of flowers in a vase on the table, big, curved white lilies with pointed leaves looking calm and dignified.

  I search for David and Tim, determined to find them. I try to squeeze through the crowd in front, but my case is too bulky, so I drop it. I can pick it up later. But then a burly official in a navy uniform, still panting slightly from his exertions with the reporters, motions for me to stay put. He stands so close that I’m enveloped in his musky after-shave.

  There are so many people in the room, all looking disheveled, crumpled, traumatized. Babies cry, white-faced women clutch at one another in relief, couples huddle together for comfort. The air is electric with anxiety.

  Two American women stand in front of me, swapping stories.

  “Well, right at the very beginning,” says one of them, “I saw her scrabbling in her purse and holding out a wad of dollars to this young hijacker, like he was a highwayman or something. He just looked at her, really dignified, and said, ‘We are not robbers, madam. We are fighting for our freedom.’ ”

  “No!” The other woman looks at her, thrilled.

  They’re interrupted by a man standing on the raised dais at the far end of the long room. He’s wearing a slick-looking gray suit and a tie and keeps clearing his throat. Though I strain to hear, I can only make out the occasional word. Who is he? The ambassador? A diplomat?

  And then I think, What does it matter?

  I’m so weary and empty that I slump down on the floor and lean against the back wall of the room. The official looks down at me in surprise. I stare pointedly away. I’m tired of being told what to do.

  Up on the wall to my left is a clock with gilt ornaments around its wide, cracked enamel face. Its two black hands point to 4:35. I take off my watch, set the time, and wind it again.

  Staring into the crowd of legs in front of me, I recognize Mrs. Newton’s flat brown sandals, the backs of Maria’s knees, and Susan’s cloth doll, hanging down, looking dejected. There’s a flash of maroon blazer but no sign of Tim’s lace-ups or David’s flip-flops. Mr. Newton breaks free from the crowd, blows his nose loudly, and examines the contents.

  I look away in disgust and spot Sarah and her baby standing almost directly in front of me. Sarah kisses him on the cheek and jiggles him up and down. His little bare legs dangle and kick, and I have a sudden urge to hold one of those fat little feet, with their perfect, tiny nails.

  The noise in the room drops a notch as a woman’s voice filters in overhead. It is higher pitched and seems a bit easier to make out than the man’s.

  “. . . group of diplomats’ wives,” she says. “. . . kindly offering to look after . . . children . . . take home . . . meal, bath, sleep . . . tomorrow’s flight . . . door marked A . . .”

  Sarah turns and spots me. “I don’t suppose you’d hold him for a moment,” she says, “while I get something warmer for him to wear? This air-conditioning’s freezing, isn’t it?”

  She passes the baby into my arms. I feel the soft suede of his head brush my chin and breathe in his milky smell. He feels so solidly alive, a warm bundle of flesh. He turns his head and looks at me with eyes full of wonder.

  “Hello,” I say, smiling down. “Hello, you.” And I jiggle him a little, as Sarah does. He gurgles and wobbles about, and I hold him more tightly. Then he reaches out a chubby little hand and grabs my hair.

  The crowd in front has started to thin now, and I just glimpse Tim and David being hustled through a door at the end of the room. Tim turns to look back, his eyes searching. I try to wave, to stop him, but I can’t. I’d drop the baby.

  I’m last to be called forward, the last to go through door A, for unaccompanied children. I burst through, excited to catch up with David and Tim at last—​and am devastated to find that they’re not there in the room beyond.

  45

  1700h

  The only person in the room is a tall woman with thin brown hair pulled back in a small bun. She has a long English face and wears an old-fashioned cotton dress belted at the waist. Her flat open-toed shoes are just like Granny’s—​navy leather, with twists at the front.

  “Hello, my dear, you must be Anna.” Her brown eyes are kind behind pale blue-rimmed glasses. “I’m Mrs. Hamilton.” I take the hand offered and shake it. Her grip is surprisingly strong.

  “Now”—​she licks her thin lips quickly—​“I’ve not had children of my own,” she says, making nervous, birdlike movements, “but I do volunteer at the local orphanage, so you’re not such a strange species to me after all.” She laughs. It’s an awkward, dry sound that feels like it needs practice. “They said sweets, but I thought fruit.” She offers me a small Tupperware box.

  “Thank you!” I say. I lift the lid and feast my eyes on the jewel-colored fruit: two fat, glistening dates, two moons of mango, a chunk of pineapple, and two thick slices of peeled orange.

  “Go on, dear,” Mrs. Hamilton says. But I need no encouragement and polish it all off very quickly. Nothing has ever tasted so wonderful. When I start licking the juice off my filthy fingers, she offers me a napkin. Then she leads the way down several long sage-green corridors to a sleek black car parked around the back of the hotel. We stow my suitcase in the trunk and climb in.

  Mrs. Hamilton drives away through the shaded, winding back streets. “It’s a bit of a maze, I’m afraid,” she says as we pass a row of air-conditioning units dripping rusty water down scarred walls. “But we’ll avoid the press this way.”

  We swing down wider roads and skirt roundabouts before joining the heavy traffic in the city center. Battered, overloaded buses spew exhaust fumes into the car. Bikes and taxis pres
s alongside. Through gaps between buildings, I glimpse telegraph line looping across stretches of wasteland, and dead grass pricking up through hot sand. And there is the sun, burning a hole on the horizon.

  The road opens out a little, and I can see that we’re surrounded by hills covered in small white houses. As she drives, Mrs. Hamilton points out tourist attractions, but I can’t concentrate. When we climbed into the car, she handed me a bottle of water, apologizing for not giving it to me first, and it’s sitting on my lap.

  I can’t stop looking at it.

  I wait for a break in the chatter to ask, “Can I drink my water now, please, Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “Oh, my dear, of course you can. You’re bound to be a bit thirsty.”

  I unscrew the lid. A whole bottle to myself ! This is what being all right is, having a stomach full of fruit and enough water to drink. I take a tiny sip, feel the cold wetness running down into the dry heat of my throat. I drink a little more. The cold winds its way down into my stomach. I put the lid back on, automatically rationing the rest.

  The spicy smell of the souk wafts in through my open window. I imagine the cool, narrow crisscrossing passages crowded with people, squawking chickens, tables weighed down with bales of cloth, vegetables, coffee, and spices.

  We turn left down a road with dual-ridged tracks and lined with date palms. A group of camels sits folded like cats on the bare earth. A moth-eaten donkey, weighed down with firewood, stands tied to a tree, and there’s a scattering of goats eating cardboard from a trash pile.

  “Where are all the other young people going to stay, Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “Oh, at various diplomatic family houses. We were asked to offer hospitality, and I’m afraid I said I could only take the one. Will you be all right on your own?”

  “I expect so,” I reply, feeling a sense of dread at the thought.

  When we arrive at Mrs. Hamilton’s house, the turbaned guard at the gate salutes and lifts the barrier. We go down a gravel drive into a wide, white-walled garden and park in front of marble steps leading up to an imposing black front door with a brass knocker. A white-liveried servant opens it and stands back for us to pass.