Girl on a Plane Read online

  The couple drinking whiskey together earlier, that Alan called the Newtons, have swapped places. He’s got a small radio pressed up against his ear. Her dyed-blond bouffant hair now looks like a tousled bird’s nest. She’s talking across the aisle to an elderly Asian couple.

  In the front, in first class, Alan has twisted around to flirt with the two blond sisters in miniskirts. He’s leaning over, offering them a cigarette.

  Suddenly the captain peels off from the Giant and the stewardesses and positions himself at the top of the aisle. He raises one hand and calls: “Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys . . .” He pauses until the cabin’s quiet. “The hijackers say that you can now move about a little, not all at once, please, and only quietly and sensibly, for just a few minutes each. So please stretch your legs, have a walk up and down the aisle, and then return to your seat. If we can do this without causing the hijackers concern, without too many people doing it at the same time, then I think we may be more comfortable, so please be thoughtful and don’t overdo it.”

  I stand quickly, slip past David before he can say anything, and walk to the front. I want to get to the open door, to see something else instead of the inside of this plane, to breathe some fresh air.

  Alan is standing in the aisle now, still chatting with the girls. I squeeze past him. He smiles and says hi. The two girls completely ignore me. I’m obviously too young to bother about.

  I pass the captain, who is standing with the navigator, talking with Celia and Rosemary. The Giant stands off to one side, leaning up against the bulkhead, his arms crossed, looking almost relaxed. His gun hangs over his shoulder, the barrel pointing down.

  And suddenly I feel exposed being up here alone, but I’m desperate for that fresh air; I feel so sticky and hot. I’m glad that there’s no sign of Sweaty and that the cockpit door is firmly closed. Is the man with the bomb still in there? And, if so, what’s he doing? I haven’t seen him leave. What would I do if he suddenly came out? The thought chills me.

  I feel the blast of hot desert air long before I reach the door, and have to shield my eyes against the blinding pool of sunlight on the floor, which I pad through in bare feet.

  A black seat is on the left and folded down, inviting me to sit on it. It’s where the crew sit for takeoffs and landings and is held in place by two thick belts attached to the wall.

  I put my hand out and touch the heavy metal door. It’s inches thick and has been swung back to the left to lie along the body of the plane. Huge, blunt metal teeth down the edge of the doorway fit into the opposing ratchets on the door itself, and there’s a great curved metal hinge. No wonder it takes so many people to heave it open. It feels indestructible under my hand, but I don’t doubt that if the explosives detonated, the blast would shred this door. And I can’t help imagining what it would do to my soft flesh . . .

  Ahead of me, a sea of sand stretches away to the horizon like so many folds in an endless bed sheet. And three tiny horsetail clouds, like delicate brushstrokes, hang high up in the blue.

  Across the middle of the open doorway falls a thick rope. It comes out of the wall above the door space, where it says Escape Rope behind Flap, and Emergency Exit. The rope falls all the way down to the ground, a long way below. If I fell, it would be like falling from a second-story window—​or a high-diving board.

  I imagine myself on the high-diving board in Bahrain, opening my arms, flying up and out, that fantastic feeling when you’re spread-eagled in midair, when, just for a millisecond, the world stands still. Then I’d drop through the air, down, down, until my hands broke the water open. And after the impact, I’d also fly, but under water, with my eyes wide open, my arms free in acres of cool water.

  Suddenly the rope jerks. I lean out a little and see the shiny, black top of Sweaty’s head. He’s retying it to the bed of the truck below, his gun lying to one side. On the ground is a small, round rock shaped like a resting sheep and, next to it, a tough, low shrub with one tiny yellow flower.

  Through the crack in the door above the curved hinge, I can see the cluster of the plane’s four back wheels under the wing. And there, a ways off, shimmering and distorted by the heat haze, I see the foreshortened shape of the Swissair plane, the red and white bulk of it looking preposterous out there in the desert. The windows mirror the sunlight, and there aren’t any doors open on this side, but I can just make out what look like the wheels of a truck on the other side, under its belly. The idea that some of the passengers shut in there might be able to see our plane feels weird, strange, muddling, somehow. I can’t see the third plane, the one the man said was directly behind us. I look down again. Sweaty’s still busy. I don’t want him to see me, so I pull my head back in and stay just inside the doorway.

  I stand staring into the open space ahead, at the seemingly endless desert and the low line of far-off hills. And in the relentless dry heat, with sweat dripping down my back, I dream of fat English clouds heavy with rain, of cool drizzle and mist, of catching the droplets in my mouth. And I think of the huge expanses of cold water covering the earth and of the days I’ve spent swimming in the bulging cool of the sea. I think of the boys ducking under water, doing handstands, the V of their legs wobbling and collapsing, and of them bombing me from the raft tethered inside the shark net, where shoals of tiny fish hide.

  Suddenly there’s a noise below. I peer over.

  Sweaty, his gun slung over one shoulder, is scrambling up the wooden ladder toward me. “You! You! Go back!” he shouts. I duck back in, adrenaline surging. But he’s already in the plane, pushing me. My back slams against the bulkhead. He shoves his face up against mine. My heart’s pounding as I blink back tears, smell rancid sweat, his sour breath. And I hate him. For bullying me, for touching me.

  Furiously I turn on my heel. But one of the new guards is waiting to leave after his shift. He’s standing where the cabin narrows, watching us with intense eyes, his belt crammed with bullets and hung with hand grenades.

  I slide back along the galley wall and try to squeeze behind him. But my buckle catches on the back of his belt. I reach quickly to unhitch it, and Sweaty yells, rushes at me, pushes me to one side, and grips my arm. I feel the cold muzzle of his gun against my neck and shut my eyes.

  Oh God. Oh God.

  The muzzle presses deeper. My blood runs like ice in my veins. A wave of nausea, terrifying fear.

  Please. Don’t!

  I can’t breathe. My heart’s exploding.

  “Now, now. Calm down.” It’s the Scottish navigator. “What’s the problem here?”

  Help me, I plead silently.

  “She.” Sweaty shifts the gun until it lies along my jaw. “She take his ammo.” He spits it out. Flecks land on my neck.

  “Nonsense.” The navigator looks at me.

  Help me!

  “I’m Jim,” he says. “What happened?”

  Can’t speak. Can’t move. The gun.

  Gently Jim pushes the muzzle of Sweaty’s gun to one side, puts one arm around me, and takes a step away from Sweaty. “Take a breath.” My legs crumple beneath me. My vision darkens. I can feel the navigator struggling to hold me upright. A sob rises, rips through me. I’m shuddering, gasping for air.

  “I . . . was . . . get . . . past . . .” I start to shake uncontrollably. My knees, my legs, my hands, my arms.

  I can’t see. Can’t hear. My mind’s shutting down.

  I’m . . . going . . .

  The navigator’s voice is muffled, distorted. “She was just trying to get past . . . caught on him . . . didn’t mean to.” Then, louder: “It was a mistake.”

  I feel a wave of gratitude. Sweaty swims in front of me through the blur, looking unsure. He shrugs, waves us away. The young guard in the ammo belt looks shaken, confused, as I stumble past.

  Jim half carries me back down the aisle. He slides me in beside David and pulls my table down. I drop my head onto my folded arms and close my eyes.

  “OK?” Jim asks from the aisle.


  I nod into the table, still desperately trying to control the shaking.

  “You sure?”

  I look up briefly. Nod. “Thanks.” I feel sick, lightheaded.

  “Look after this wee one for a bit, will you?” he says to David.

  “Yes. Sure.”

  When Jim’s gone, David touches my shoulder. “Jesus, what happened?”

  I shake my head. Can’t make words yet. He strokes my back. It feels nice, comforting. After a minute I begin to mumble, “My buckle . . . got caught. On the guard’s belt.” I pause and take a deep breath. “On a hand grenade.”

  I sit up slowly, clench my fists tight to stop my hands from shaking.

  “Christ, Anna!” David stares at me, speechless.

  I’m overwhelmed with tiredness. I want to go to sleep. I put my head down again.

  “Was that why Sweaty was yelling?” he says.

  “He thought I was trying to steal it.”

  “But you could have been shot!”

  I lift my head and look sideways at him, then drop it again.

  “God, I hope they get us out of here soon,” David says. “This is shit.”

  12

  1800h

  I don’t ever want to move again. I sit listening to my ragged breathing, with David quietly beside me.

  My heart slowly returns to normal. Normal. What’s normal? Is this normal now?

  Gradually I stop shaking and sit up. I feel weak, as if I’ve been in bed with the flu for two weeks.

  David’s watching me.

  “Where’s Tim?” I ask.

  “Playing Monopoly. It’s good he hasn’t seen you like this. While you were away he came back specially to tell me that he’d caught the twins passing hotels under the table to each other.”

  I smile weakly at him.

  “Did you hear that anyone with an Arab, Asian, or Indian passport is being allowed to leave the plane?” he asks. “Apparently the Giant gave the captain a list of about twenty passengers. If they do leave, there’ll be less than eighty of us left.” He lowers his voice. “Our Arab family is going.”

  I feel a sharp wave of disappointment. I felt protected somehow by their presence. I look over and realize that the woman is weeping softly—​with relief, I suppose. The man comforts her.

  He looks over, smiles, shakes his head. “They should let you children go too. I shall ask them, when I can.”

  “Thank you,” David says. “Shukran.”

  The little boy, unsettled by his mother’s crying, starts trying to climb out of his seat, so the man turns away to deal with him.

  I really don’t want them to go. “David,” I say, “I don’t . . .” A sob escapes.

  He puts an arm around me. “Neither do I. Maybe they can help once they’re off—​you heard what he said.”

  It all feels so unfair—​so hopeless.

  But it turns out that everything is not so simple for those leaving. The young couple behind us is engaged. He’s Arab and she’s British. He can go, but she’s told she has to stay. He gets up to talk to the captain. Sweaty comes and speaks to the two of them, while the woman sits ashen faced. The two men speak in Arabic, and it’s obvious that the man is refusing to go without his fiancée. Sweaty speaks directly to the woman, and she breaks down, begs him to let her go too. He refuses, raises his voice.

  I can’t stand it when he’s nearby. The thought of him touching me again . . .

  The man refuses to leave her, still insists she goes too. “We’re getting married in a few days. In England!” he says again and again.

  Sweaty shakes his head. He’s standing right beside David now. I can see his expression. He’s enjoying it, the power he has over them. The bastard. The woman starts to sob. The man sits down to comfort her. The Giant arrives, listens, and then relents, says she can leave with him. The man stands up, shakes the Giant’s hand, looks overjoyed, then returns to his fiancée.

  Before Sweaty and the Giant go, the Arab man opposite us stands up and with great dignity addresses them formally in Arabic. He keeps gesturing toward us, and for a moment I feel a surge of hope. Can we leave too? Will this all be over soon? But the Giant and Sweaty are adamant. We stay. Sweaty points to his watch and walks away. The Arab man sits down, defeated. His wife, who has already packed up their things, leans over and pats his arm. I want to thank him for trying but feel so incredibly disappointed.

  All hope of escape has gone.

  The couple behind us follows the hijackers to the front to speak to the captain about arrangements for leaving, and Tim slips into his seat beside me.

  “Blimey, what was all that racket about?”

  David ignores him. “It’s really not fair,” he says. “Just because she’s in love with an Arab, she’s allowed to go. Maybe I’m half-Arab but have a British passport.”

  “Are you half-Arab?” Tim looks fascinated.

  “No, I’m not. But that’s not the point. They’re bending the rules, just for her. Who’s making up these rules anyway? What about saying anyone under eighteen can go too?”

  “Well, I think it’s good that they’re bending them,” I say. “If they’re letting her go, maybe they’ll bend them for us at some point.”

  “Fat chance,” David says grumpily. Then, “I know, I know, I’m jealous. But it just doesn’t feel fair. What have we done wrong? Why’s her life more important than mine or yours or Tim’s?”

  “Well, at least some people are getting off,” Tim says.

  “Exactly,” I say. “If some can, then maybe . . .” I trail off.

  “We can?” Tim says brightly.

  “Yes, maybe we can.”

  The Arab family stands in the aisle. The man smiles, leans over, and shakes each of us by the hand. The woman waves from behind him. The little boy, still clutching his VW Beetle, sits on her hip, his arm looped around his mother’s. He looks solemnly at us with big brown eyes. I try to smile, to make him smile back, but my heart isn’t in it. There was something comforting about having that family across the aisle.

  “I liked them,” Tim says wistfully after they’ve gone.

  “Me too,” I say, and we all fall silent.

  I decide to slide across the aisle into the three empty seats. The family is down under the plane, waiting for the minibus to take them away. The engaged couple stands hand in hand behind them. Through the window I see them climb into a battered old bus and drive away in a cloud of dust. Then I lie down across their three seats and try to doze.

  13

  1820h

  It’s late afternoon and still unbearably hot; the air is thick and heavy, and I’m dying for a drink. Since the others left the plane, a feeling of stagnation has set in. Nothing seems to be happening. No one bothers to move about much. It’s as if we’ve been sucked into the black hole of despondency.

  I’m in the foot well under the three empty seats, sticky with sweat, lying stretched out on my back with one arm over my eyes, trying and failing to sleep. Tim’s curled up in his seat by the window opposite, and David’s snoozing with his feet on my old seat.

  I had thought it would be great to lie here across the three empty seats, but the last metal armrest by the window is fixed, so my feet hung in the aisle for people to knock as they went by. And if I lay on my side, the seat belts dug into my shoulders and back. So I’m squeezed down here on the floor, with the metal grille that runs down the length of the plane right by my head; my hair caught in it earlier when I turned over, making me wince in pain.

  I try to imagine the cool late-afternoon sea breeze up on the roof of our house in Bahrain, the boys arguing over some cricket catch or drinking juice at the kitchen table or stealing ice cream from the freezer compartment of the fridge.

  How long will it take before I forget what they look like?

  I sit up, scramble into the window seat, and stare out to where the hard sand meets the scrubland. Sam took off once into the desert from the house. Left home. He was only four. We’d been teasing him, load
ing his lunch plate up with leftovers, calling him “the dustbin,” saying he had to eat all of it. Suddenly he got up and left the room. We looked at each other, stunned.

  “He’ll be all right,” Marni said. “Just give him time to cool down.” But he reappeared with a small bag over one shoulder, his beloved tiger bulging inside it. He went into the kitchen, took a small colored bottle, and stood on a chair to fill it with water. No one said a word as he opened the front door and left. We just crowded around the window. And there he was, marching steadily out across the wasteland, a small figure wearing shorts and flip-flops. I remember how we expected him to stop, to lose his nerve. But he didn’t. He just kept going.

  “Quick!” Marni said to Mark. “Run after him. Tell him we’re sorry. Really sorry. Tell him we’d like him to come back so that we can apologize properly. Did you get that?”

  “Yes!” shouted Mark, scampering off.

  “I think we’d better be a bit more sensitive,” Marni said. “When he returns, no smiling when you apologize. Especially you, James!”

  “I promise,” Dad said with a smile.

  And I’m overcome by a great wave of grief, of missing them. Missing everything: the lines that fan around Dad’s eyes when he smiles, the way Marni’s eyes light up and laugh on their own.

  I remember standing on the top diving board, overlooking the tennis courts, last week. Dad had his toe on the baseline and both arms up in the air, one holding the tilted racket, his eyes gazing upward at the soft white ball, frozen for a split second before the explosion of his serve. And Mark was below, in the pool, splashing Sam, and Marni was sitting on the side, sipping orange juice from a frosted bottle with a white paper straw. And I was with them.

  Now I’m left just trying to imagine them.