Girl on a Plane Page 8

  She will never wake her boys here again. Nothing will be the same again.

  The boys stir in the quiet. Mark turns and rubs his eyes.

  “Mum?” She goes and kisses him, smooths his hair.

  “Hello, my darling,” she says, stroking the small brown arm lying outside the covers and feeling comforted by its warmth, the life in it.

  She goes and pulls the curtains open and kisses the small bundle of Sam.

  “Good morning, my treasure,” she says, and sits on the edge of his bed. She touches his head, leans over to kiss him, and hears the goat with the bell going by outside the fence.

  Mark sits up, and when Sam sees him, he struggles upright too. “I’m hungry,” he says.

  “Breakfast in a minute,” Marni replies. “But, darlings, I’ve got something to tell you. It’s not an easy thing.” She pauses. “We had a phone call from Dad’s boss. He says that some men have taken over Anna’s plane—​not the pilot or the crew, but some other men, hijackers.”

  Mark concentrates on her, listening intently.

  “Remember how we said hijackers were people who get on board someone else’s plane and tell the captain to fly it to where they want to go?”

  “Not to England?” says Sam.

  “No.”

  “Where have they taken it?” asks Mark.

  “Well, they’ve told the captain of Anna’s plane to fly to Jordan, near Jerusalem, in the Holy Land.”

  “Isn’t that where Jesus lived?” says Sam.

  “That’s right.” Marni says.

  “Mum,” says Mark, “have they landed there?”

  “Yes, darling, apparently they’ve landed in the desert somewhere not far from the capital, Amman. But that’s all we know at the moment. Dad’s gone to find out more before we fly.”

  “We?” says Mark. “Are you coming too?”

  “Yes, we’ve been ordered to fly home today, to wait for Anna in England. Dad’s boss said we should all go together, on an RAF flight.”

  “Will we be hijacked?”

  “No, Mark,” says Marni. “Everyone will be extra careful to keep us safe, now that this has happened to Anna.”

  “How long is she going to be there, then?”

  “Well, they’re saying that they’ll let Anna come home safely if the prime minister of England lets another hijacker go. One who is in prison in England.”

  “If I was the captain,” Sam butts in, “I’d fly the plane wherever I wanted to go. I wouldn’t do what those people say.”

  “I think the captain may have tried that.”

  Mark looks at Marni. “They’ve got guns, haven’t they?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Sam looks shocked. “Are they going to shoot Anna?”

  “No.” Marni’s voice catches. “But we don’t have to think about that now, do we?”

  “Can Dad go and get Anna back? With some of our soldiers who have guns too?” asks Sam.

  “No, darling. He would if he thought they could. If it would work.”

  “Why wouldn’t it work?”

  “Well, it’s better that we leave it to the special people who know how to talk to hijackers. We don’t want to upset them.” Marni feels it unwinding. She’s getting into dangerous waters. She’ll have to bring it to a close, let it all sink in. There’ll be another raft of questions later. And she needs time to think of how on earth she’ll deal with them.

  “Is Anna going to stay there a long time?” Mark asks.

  “But she’s all on her own!” Sam wails. “She’ll be sad!” He bursts into tears. Marni puts her arms around him. Mark climbs out of bed and comes to sit with them. He begins to cry quietly too. She feels their distress, a sharp pain in her heart.

  “She’s not going to die, is she?”

  “No,” says Marni. She wavers, then feels angry. “No. She’s not. We won’t let her, will we?” She says it a little too loud.

  Mark stands up. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he says. “I’m going onto the roof.” He picks up his violin case and leaves. And while Marni and Sam make breakfast together, the strains of a violin float down the stone stairwell.

  18

  Revolutionary Airstrip, Jordan—​0900h

  When I wake again, I’m slumped sideways in my seat with the pattern of the material printed on my cheek. My neck and shoulders have seized up. When I move, I feel like I might crack in half. It’s warmer now, thank God, and everyone seems to be awake.

  What must I look like? I try running my fingers through my hair, but it’s far worse now, really thick with tangles. How stupid to forget to bring a brush. It’s always so matted in the mornings. When I was little Marni would spend ages trying to brush the knots out and, to distract me from the tugging, would say that the fairies had been dancing in it again in the night. And I’d feel proud to have been chosen by them.

  “Nice hairdo.” David’s grinning face appears over the top of the seat behind me.

  “Thanks.”

  “I thought beehives had gone out.”

  “Er . . .” I nod at his hair.

  “It’s the new look,” he says. “Wild Hostage. Tim hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet, have you, Tim?” Tim pops his head up. “He’s still sporting the Prep School: a practical cut that stays put in extreme situations.” Tim’s expression is so impish, he’d look perfect sitting on a toadstool.

  David nods at my window. “You seen out there yet?”

  “No . . .” I shift over and look. “Blimey!”

  Fifty yards from the plane are hundreds of reporters sitting on the sand, surrounded by all their stuff: camera bags, lenses, tape recorders, microphones, folding ladders, TV booms . . .

  “Yes, the world’s press has arrived!” David says ceremoniously.

  “What do you think they’ll do?” I ask.

  “Take pictures?” he suggests.

  Tim’s eyes light up. “So we’ll be allowed off?”

  “I doubt it,” David says. “After all, we might make a run for it.”

  There’s a brief moment while we all consider the possibility, then discard it.

  “How did you sleep?” David asks.

  “Dreadfully.” I yawn. “Tried under the seats too.”

  “I might try that tonight,” he says. “Is there room for two down there?”

  I roll my eyes. “There’s hardly room for one.”

  “Hey! Look,” Tim says. “Something’s happening.”

  We crowd around the windows. A tall man wearing traditional dress—​a long, crisp white cotton thawb and a black and white keffiyeh—​walks out from under the plane holding a loudspeaker. He stops directly in front of the crowd of reporters and raises his hand, waiting for silence. Then he starts addressing the reporters, who either listen intently, film him, or take notes.

  “Wish we could hear what he’s saying,” David says, exasperated.

  “I know, it’s really annoying. It sounds blurry, like we’re in a fishbowl.”

  “God,” he says, “we’re always the last to know everything.”

  After a few minutes, the man leaves, and the reporters stand and brush themselves down. They start collecting their things, shifting into groups. Some stay talking to each other; others file toward our plane and form a line by the ladder.

  At the front, the captain gets to his feet and addresses us. “Good morning, everyone,” he says. “I hope your night wasn’t too uncomfortable. As you can see, we’ve got visitors. I’ve been asked to tell you all to stay seated while they come aboard to interview some of us and take film footage for TV. Please be as helpful as you can. We need the rest of the world to know what’s happening here. This may very well help to secure our freedom.”

  Behind him, the Giant puts down his gun and goes to help the first reporter up into the plane. He’s a large, plump man with a shock of white hair, wearing a crumpled khaki safari suit. A TV camera is passed up after him. Every pocket of his suit—​and there are many—​bulge
s with pieces of equipment. He takes the camera and stands next to Sweaty in the aisle. When he turns around to look for his colleague, we see two patches of red sand on his buttocks where he’s been sitting in the desert.

  “Hi,” he calls out to us, still panting slightly after climbing the ladder. “We’ve come to take pictures of you, to interview you for the papers and the TV. But the guerrillas have given us only a short time slot each, so please stay sitting down while we file by you. There are a hell of a lot of us to get on, through this plane, and out the back door.”

  He makes it sound like a jolly outing. Does he realize how lucky he is to come and go so freely?

  Sweaty and the Giant wave up more reporters. They come in groups of two or three and move down the aisle, to be escorted off by the two guards at the back door, where I suppose they’ve got another ladder. Some of them speak to the captain; others move on down the plane toward us, choosing someone to question, maybe to record and film. The aisle fills up. There’s no room anywhere. It’s getting hotter and hotter. There’s no air left.

  But I need to be filmed. Then the others will see I’m alive, that I’m all right.

  Ask me, I plead silently. But they just walk past.

  Eventually, a tall blond man with a pointed beard and a thin, leathery woman in a bright white shirt start to film me. They’re from a Swedish TV station.

  “Pretend to sleep, please,” the woman instructs me.

  I close my eyes and listen to the camera whir. But instead of feeling good, I feel awkward, confused, embarrassed, even. What am I doing? Pretending to sleep while strangers stare at me, filming?

  Why haven’t they asked if I’m OK? Asked my name? Why haven’t they offered to help, to take a message back? Don’t they think I might need to contact my family?

  I should say something. But what?

  I’m beginning to feel really stupid. What will my family or my friends at school think if they see the clip of me asleep on TV? That I’m relaxed and enjoying myself?

  Or dead?

  I’m on show. An animal in the zoo. A specimen.

  My mind starts to unravel. Anger courses through me. I open my eyes.

  “No, no! Close your eyes,” the man cries.

  “I’m not . . .” But I crumple, feel tearful, weak. “. . . sleepy.”

  The man and the woman stare at me for a moment, then shrug and move down the plane to film someone else.

  19

  1030h

  After all the reporters have finished going through the plane, Rosemary appears with a tray. A water ration! I take one of the tiny paper cups and look at the rippling silver surface, wondering, just for a split second, whether I should dip my fingers in and wash my face.

  No, I must drink it all. I need it. I sip tiny, tiny sips very, very slowly, but too soon the cup is empty . . .

  The captain has been picking small groups to go down and be filmed in the desert by the reporters. I watched enviously as the two blond girls left and came back laughing, and the bald man and the redhead in first class have just returned too. The captain comes down the cabin and stops by the three of us. “Fancy a walk in the desert?” he says.

  “Yes, please!” cries Tim.

  David jumps up. “Fantastic! Anything to get out of here for a bit!”

  But suddenly, just for a second, I hesitate. The idea of leaving the plane feels dangerous. They’re all looking at me.

  David looks perplexed. “Come on, Anna!”

  I get up.

  Heads turn to watch as we follow the captain up the aisle. I waft through the bald man’s cloud of cigar smoke in first class, and as I wait for the captain and Jim, and then David and Tim, to climb down, I look back along the plane. Rosemary smiles and waves encouragingly, the two blond sisters are arguing now, and, farther back, the twins’ heads bob up and down, up and down, like they’re part of a manic puppet show.

  I stand in the doorway, watching the others move a little way off from the guards waiting at the bottom. Now it’s my turn to go down. I wish I were wearing shorts, not my miniskirt. Hoping desperately that no one is looking up, I start climbing down the rough wooden ladder propped against the plane. I try to hold my skirt down as well as the rope slanting alongside, but the rope wobbles so violently, I have to let go and hold on to the ladder with both hands. God, this is so embarrassing. Which is worse—​Sweaty seeing my underwear or David? It’s a long way down. The sun’s heat burns the back of my legs.

  Strong arms help me down the last bit. I feel the metal bed of the Jeep under my feet and turn around. The young guy whose ammo belt I got caught on looks solemnly down at me, his eyes a startling green. I blush and thank him. Shukran. He immediately springs down onto the sand and holds out both hands to help me again.

  I withdraw my hands as quickly as I can, covered with confusion. He smiles, and his face lights up, quite transformed.

  I’m relieved to feel the hard, compacted sand under my feet, but the light here is blinding and the desert wind hot and relentless. I screw up my eyes and peer far off, at the wavering heat sheen distorting the horizon.

  I turn and squint up at the great, smooth white body of the plane, shining high overhead, see the thick stripe down the side and the great, tapered, swept-back wings reaching out well down the body. I look up at the navy nose cone, with its slanting rectangular windows, at the windshield wipers lying still and quiet on the glass, and feel the enormous, majestic plane looking softly down at me.

  A huge Palestinian flag has been draped alongside the open door. Its red triangle with black, white, and green stripes ripples in the hot wind. Above it, painted in black, are the letters P.F.L.P.—​the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.

  The sun beats down on my head. Instinctively I step back into the shade under the plane where the others are sheltering.

  “Och yes, she’s a great flier,” Jim’s telling David and Tim, “especially in hot and humid countries. She’s perfectly made for high-speed landings and takeoffs.” He looks up at the plane’s underbelly. “Her body shrinks and expands in the heat and cold, you know.”

  “What? A lot?” Tim asks.

  “Aye—​well, enough.” Jim grins. “Looks like it’s our turn.” The captain is about to be led away to talk to the reporters. Jim catches up with him. Two guerrillas take them over to the crowd of reporters ranged behind a makeshift cordon of rope. Cameras click continuously as they approach. Some reporters have their notepads out; others are filming. Someone calls out a question.

  “Yes,” the captain says, somehow managing to look dignified in his crumpled shirt. “We were ordered to shut the engines down, which means no water, toilets, or air-conditioning. The passengers are very uncomfortable. The heat during the day, as you can imagine, is pretty awful, and at night it’s extremely cold. During the day we open the escape hatches when we can, to let more air in. We’ve had no proper food since we landed, despite the Red Cross meals that are apparently waiting for us in Beirut. And, although we have a little water at the moment, it’s having to be severely rationed.”

  “Do you know what’s going on back in London?” a man holding a clipboard shouts.

  “We know we face the possibility of being blown up if the British government doesn’t release Leila Khaled by midday on Saturday.”

  It’s Jim’s turn to answer questions. He steps forward, the back of his shirt dark with sweat.

  “Can you tell us what it was like landing the VC Ten in the middle of the desert?” a man in mirror sunglasses calls.

  “Well, it wasn’t quite what we were expecting to be doing, but luckily the ground was firm, thank God. The main risk was running out of fuel before we located the landing strip.”

  “How are you all coping with the deadline?” a woman calls.

  “Not too badly. We have a day or so yet.”

  “So how are you coping otherwise?” she insists.

  “Ah, well, things turned a bit nasty last night but soon calmed down. We’re find
ing the lack of food and drink difficult, but generally we’re managing to keep our spirits up.”

  “Can we have a shot of those three kids under the plane now?” a man holding a TV camera shouts.

  “A shot,” mutters David. “Subtle.”

  “One of them filming earlier,” Tim says, “asked if I was missing my parents.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said of course I wasn’t.”

  “What? Why? Was that wise?” I ask.

  “It’s our code,” Tim replies. “Dad’ll know. We always say we’re not missing each other when we are.”

  How I wish that I could send a message to Marni, coded or not. I look at the press, jostling for position behind their rope, and wish I had the guts to shout something out to them. Maybe, if I could get closer, I could ask them to contact my family. But where? In Bahrain? In the UK? Where?

  At least I’ll have my picture taken. In the end, that may be the best message I can send: a picture of me alive—​if they ever see it. We wait for Jim and the captain to be escorted back to us.

  I look at the reporters, so busy with their equipment. “They aren’t really interested in what this feels like, are they?” I say to David.

  “No,” he agrees. “They’re just out here to get their story, and the story is . . . we’re going to be blown up.”

  “David!” I give him a not in front of the children look. He opens his mouth to reply, but Sweaty pushes us from behind, out into the searingly bright sunlight.

  Now I can see the luggage piled up under the wing and the circular grilles on the engines whirling in the wind. And, farther off, the TWA plane parked behind us.

  The photographers are shouting instructions and pointing. “Farther to the right, no, farther, yes, more, no, there.” We obey wordlessly, squinting into the sun at the banks of cameras.

  We must look like we’re just out for a stroll in the desert.

  I glance back at the captain and Jim, sheltering under the plane, see the two other planes shimmering in the distance and our three distorted shadows slanting a long, long way behind us. We stop, as directed, with our plane behind us, its wings outstretched like a huge mother bird’s.