Girl on a Plane (16 page)

She repeats them to herself and breathes more quietly, grateful for the time to think, to process the terrible day. And as she does so, image after image rises up. Of Anna by Lake Naivasha in Kenya, in a drooping diaper on a lawn strewn with red hibiscus flowers. As a toddler, sitting on the high wooden bed in Hong Kong, with the black mamba snake hissing under it, sitting obediently, so quiet and still, while Marni slammed the wooden bar down and down on its head. She smiles, thinking of Anna's hopeless expression, having stitched her blue school dress to her sampler, and of how the chlorine in the pool in Aden turned her blond hair a fluorescent green. She sees her on the farm in Cornwall, at her grandfather's feet, learning to whistle through new front teeth. And she thinks of her in water, always in water—​swimming, diving, and water-skiing—​and on that last day on the roof and when they went shoe shopping. Is she wearing the new shoes now?

Anna, my darling girl, I'm here. I'm here with you.

Outside the window she sees the blurred moon.

Can you see it too, Anna?

Can you? Are you looking?

The night wears on. The plane flies over the smooth Mediterranean Sea, over the snow-capped Alps, over the fields of France, to the small island lying on the edge of Europe.

As dawn breaks, Marni looks down at the fields and hedgerows, at the glinting reservoirs, at the cows and the sheep, at the extraordinary greenness of it all. And when she sees the roads silvered by recent rain, and the light trails of traffic on the ring road, she weeps to be home.

Just after the lamps are turned low, David and I watch Maria putting on her pink lipstick, straightening her dress, and then sneaking off down the plane. We watch her disappear into the dark, where we can see Sweaty's flashlight flickering.

I'm amazed, horrified. “She was flirting with him earlier,” I say. “It was gross. She's mad, going back there on her own.”

“Right under everyone's noses,” David says, incredulous. “And what on earth does she see in Sweaty?”

“Not much in the dark,” I say. “Maybe that helps.”

“You know she told Tim that she doesn't speak a word of Arabic.”

“I doubt if they're conversing.” I smile.

He laughs quietly, then shakes his head. “Does she really think that flirting with him will keep her alive? Make him save her? Mark my words, it'll end in tears . . .” I like him saying that. It reminds me of Dad.

Mr. Newton's radio, which has been burbling on low, suddenly rises in volume. It's the news. Apparently President Nixon is ordering a task force from the U.S. fleet in the Mediterranean to within striking distance of Jordan. The newscaster says Nixon is thinking of sending in the marines but is considering whether it might endanger our lives.

“God, slight understatement,” David says.

“For Christ's sake, turn that thing off and let us sleep!” someone shouts.

“Are you crazy?” someone shouts back. “Don't you want to know what's happening out there?”

And that's when Lady Mac arrives, which quiets everyone, including the radio.

She raises her head as she enters, stares disdainfully at the captain and crew sitting in the front seats, then narrows her eyes to peer down the plane. She waits as Sweaty rushes up from the back, turning up the lamps as he goes. Her two guards stare blankly out at him. Why are the sleeves of her shirt rolled up? What does it mean?

There's a deathly hush, and then she begins to pace, moving her head from side to side like a snake, her eyes flat and opaque.

This time she hardly raises her voice. “You are all going to die,” she says, and pauses. “Detonators have been attached to the explosives, so now we can blow you up at the press of a button.” As she passes by, almost brushing my shoulder, I'm aware of the black hairs on her forearm, the small scar on her top lip. “And if your prime minister doesn't do as we say, we will do it.” She raises her voice. “The execution deadline is midday on Saturday. He has just thirty-eight hours to decide”—​she pauses before continuing—​“and then we will either blow you up or shoot you one by one.”

I go numb. The captain gets to his feet. I stare fixedly at the place where his hair touches the top of his ear. “I'd like to speak,” he says.

Her lips curl. “I said sit down!” She nods at the guards and turns her back on him. He's pushed down into his seat at gunpoint.

She's wired and pacing again, coming this way.

And that's when I realize it. Her eyes, the windows to her soul, are dead.

Don't look! Don't look in there.
I drop my head.

Marni!
I think quickly.
Marni, what are you and Dad and the boys doing right now? Where are you? I really need to see you, to speak to you. It's awful here, awful. I want to see you, to tell you . . . I'm still alive, Marni. I'm still . . . I'm OK, really, I am, Marni. I'm still alive.

I wake with a start in the middle of the night. It's very cold, but I'm not freezing, like last night, as I'm wrapped in my school coat as well as my blanket. I'm down in the foot well, and David is asleep above, stretched across my three seats. I wonder how he got there. I didn't hear him arrive. Tim is fast asleep, curled up under his blanket on the seats opposite us.

I hear a strange noise from the back of the plane and raise my head to listen. My hips are numb from being pressed against the chair frame. My arm's still asleep. I rub it and feel the fizzing prickle of pins and needles. There it is again, a noise like someone moaning through a shut mouth. Is someone having a nightmare? And again. No, it's like a whimpering dog, soft and in pain.

“David,” I hiss, shaking him. He groans. “David. Listen,” I whisper.

“What?”

“At the back.” We listen like guard dogs, our ears shifting every time there's the slightest creak. There's a muffled cry and scuffling, running footsteps, then Maria rushes past. People stir, turn over. Some shuffle to their feet, stretch, and sit down again. One or two get up and use the toilets.

The captain stands briefly at the front, outlined by the gray light filtering through the doorway. He kneels down next to Maria, who's sobbing, heaving. He tries to quiet her, but the noise goes on and on. She's inconsolable.

“My God,” David says. “What's happened to her? What's Sweaty done?” The sobbing subsides little by little. Silence of a sort streams back. I lie down, feeling a thick dread. Poor Maria, poor, desperate Maria.

“Are you OK?” David asks. His hand reaches down, touches my shoulder, covered by the blanket. He leaves it there, and I find comfort in the warmth of it, in the soft pads of his fingers.

I stay awake for a long while, listening to his breathing gradually becoming regular. His hand loosens and slides off me as he fades into sleep.

My mind is calmer now. I think of the moon, fading in the sky outside, the stars disappearing into the milkiness of dawn. I think of the day, the reporters, the luggage, the photo, the explosives, the song, the cigarettes and booze, and the wonderful piece of bread. I think about Tim's singing, but I refuse to think about Lady Mac; I refuse to let her in.

I'm dreaming, restless . . .
standing at the open back door . . . the night air is cold on my face. Someone below grabs my ankles, drags me out. I cry, fall. Down, down. Sweaty pushes me into the black, moonless desert at gunpoint. I'm kneeling on the floor in a camouflaged tent. Lady Mac's eyes glitter. She jabs her finger at me. “Whose fault is it that we have no land?” she shouts. “Tell me! TELL ME!” She circles. “You WILL tell me or you will DIE.” She grabs my ponytail, drags my head back and up, thrusts her face in at me, makes me look into her eyes. And all I see in there is my own death.

I wake shaking, breathing in deep, ragged shudders.

“Anna. Anna.” Someone is patting my shoulder. I try to come to.

“You were crying out,” David says.

I'm alarmed. What have I said? “Sorry,” I mumble.

“Sounded like you were calling for someone,” he says. “Sounded like Marmite or something.”

“My mother. Marni,” I say. “I call her Marni.” I like saying her name here.

“Marni,” he says. “Why Marni?”

“ ‘From the sea.' It means ‘from the sea.' ” I feel drugged.

“No—​really?”

“Yes, really. She's Cornish. I couldn't say Mummy when I was small. Marni stuck.”

I wipe my tears, breathe the night air, and feel glad he's there.

It's midmorning of the third day, the last full day for Ted Heath, in London, to decide our fate. What's he thinking? What's he going to do? Did our telegrams make
any
difference? What hope have we really got? No one here seems to want to talk about it anymore, which makes me feel that we must be completely doomed. We're just a planeload of helpless hostages with our heads in the sand.

Hungry, thirsty, filthy, sweaty hostages. We've just heard that a woman in first class has been hoarding soaps and hand creams from the toilets. No wonder we ran out so quickly. No one's washed properly for days now. It seems an age since I tried cleaning myself with Nivea cream. The clean shirt against my skin made me feel brighter, more optimistic, but that was then. Now I wish I'd gotten out some clean underwear. I try convincing myself that I won't be here forever—​then I realize that has two meanings, two endings.

The toilets are unbearable again. It's gross knowing when you're in there that everything slides straight down into the open pit in the desert for everyone outside to see. With no water to flush anything down, the sewage only slides
slowly
out into the desert, and in the heat . . . the smell makes me gag. People have complained to the captain about it. But what's he supposed to do? I avoid going as long as I can, which is quite easy, since I hardly eat or drink anything now.

I woke this morning to the smell of vomit, to the sounds of people straining and gagging, throwing up on empty stomachs. It's enough to set you off yourself. When it's happening I cover my ears and rock to and fro, humming. David says I look completely insane. Well, I will be if this continues much longer. And guess what? The baby at the front has started to whimper again. Sounds like he's revving up for something more substantial.

I'm getting really fed up with looking at the same stuff day after day: the rows of seat tops, the stiff little armrests, the seat pockets bulging with rubbish, the lines on the plastic ceiling, the coat shelves stuffed to overflowing. I'm fed up with the sign on the chair back telling me that my life jacket is under my seat.
I know.
And what possible use is it, anyway? Hardly lifesaving. It's just a pointless piece of canvas. I decide to pull it out.
Do not inflate in the cabin,
it says, and I immediately want to pull the cord just for the hell of it and watch it puff up, fatten out. But I don't. There's little enough space already.

The day heats up.

Time passes, ticking on toward the deadline tomorrow. Talking about it is now actively discouraged. It's been consigned to the unspoken zone, the no-point-in-speculating place. And time seems to have drifted there too. No one is allowed to mention that either. There's no framework. No mealtimes. When Mr. Newton's radio batteries died, the outside world went silent, abandoned us.

The plane itself is quieter too. It's horrendously hot. The midday sun beats down, searing through the windows. There's not an inch of breeze. Everyone is still, conserving energy, slowly melting. Except me. I'm rubbing Nivea into the filthy soles of my feet and trying to wipe them clean with a tissue. It's an impossible task, but it gives me something to do. I wonder whether I should ration the cream but decide not to bother. What's the point? Tomorrow either we'll be freed or . . .

I feel jumpiness like a fist in my throat, so I take Marni's letter out of my shoe and read it again while fanning myself with the envelope.

My treasure . . . my precious girl . . . Dad and I will be home by the end of the week . . . we'll all be in the same country . . . loving you to distraction . . . loving you to distraction . . .

It leaves me bereft. Each word a wound.

I fold it up but hesitate about sliding it back into my shoe. Since I've been wearing my shoes without socks, they've started to smell. I must have been mad, flying in them; perfect chunky shoes for an English winter but ridiculous in one hundred-degree heat. What I'd do for a pair of flip-flops. I tip the badge out from the toe and shove the shoes back under my chair. Then I push the badge and Marni's letter right to the bottom of my bag.

Jamal, the ammo-belt boy who I spoke to yesterday, climbs on board. He glances down the aisle, then stands by the galley opposite the open doorway and lights a cigarette. The Giant stands a little way off, his gun resting against his leg. Occasionally he picks it up and wanders around at the front, or up and down the aisle, before sitting down again.

I get up and walk into first class.

“Can I have a turn in the doorway soon?” I ask the captain.

“Sure.” He scans the list. “After Mrs. Newton.”

“How many before her?”

“Just four.”

I return to my seat.

David sits down beside me. “It's funny,” he says. “Wearing this clean shirt makes me feel I'm going to be stuck in here for longer.” He watches the Giant walking up and down the aisle. “Why does he have to keep doing that?” he says irritably. “It's not like we're going anywhere.”

“He's just checking . . .” But I can't be bothered to finish the sentence. It's too hot, and I feel too bad tempered.