Girl on a Plane (17 page)

“Oh, right, making sure we're not sneaking off one by one.”

“Yes,” I say, and then try to make more effort. “Like in that movie where prisoners do gymnastics over a horse so that the others can dig a tunnel underneath and escape.”

“I see.” David looks at me as though I'm crazy. “So he's checking for holes under the seats?”

“Exactly,” I reply. “And he's missed Tim, who, as we speak, is swinging down to freedom on Mrs. Newton's knotted tights.”

David smiles, then nods down at my feet. “Given up wearing your shoes, I see.”

I make a face. “They were smelling.” I look at his flip-flops. “Wish I'd worn those.” He has nice feet. He's nice altogether, just a bit young. “God,” I say, “I'd do anything to wash my hair; it's full of sand.” It was so itchy this morning, I put it up in two very tangled braids.

“Mine too,” he says. “Like the braids, though. Not bad for a dumb blond.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Have you come over here just to insult me?”

“No, I thought you might like to amuse me, for once.”

“
For once!
No pressure, then.”

“Anna”—​his voice changes, becomes serious—​“are you worrying about your folks?”

“Yes.”

“I really want mine to know I'm OK,” he says. “You know, still alive.”

“Yes. But we were in those photos, David. Maybe they've seen you there.”

“Yeah.” He looks around. “God, I feel so cooped up.” I'm silent. “What shall we do now, then?” he says. “Recount the king of Jordan's tanks?”

I smile a little and sigh. “You know we did that yesterday.”

He gives a short laugh. “I know. But maybe there are more now.”

“That may not be a good thing for us—​in the end.”

“In the end,”
he says. And we go quiet, contemplating what that might mean.

“I've got something to show you,” I say, bending down and feeling around in the bottom of my bag for the badge. I hide it in my clenched fist and hold out my hand for him to guess.

He looks at it. “Let me see—​a mandarin.
Oh God, a mandarin!
Imagine peeling one, the smell, putting a segment in your mouth. It bursting open . . . the juice . . .”

“Stop!” I say. “No, it isn't a mandarin.”

“Food or drink, by any chance?”

“Neither,” I say.

“Then I'm losing interest.”

“Close your eyes and put out your hand.” I place the badge on his open palm. “OK.”

“What the . . . ?” He looks at me, then back at the silver shield with the black inscription on it.
“P.F.L.P.,”
he reads, turning it over and over. “Don't tell me, you've been one of them in the PFLP all along. No, wait, you were converted at the back of the plane by Sweaty.”

“Don't be disgusting,” I say. “Have you seen Maria today?”

“Yes. She's keeping a low profile. Moved to the window seat and isn't really talking to anyone. Haven't seen Sweaty either, mind you. Perhaps he got sacked.”

“That would be nice. Has anyone said anything?”

“What, to me? You must be joking. They're all pretending nothing's happened.” He looks down at the badge again. “So how did you come by this? Are you
really
an undercover agent?”

“Yeah, definitely,” I say. Then, “No, a friend, a Palestinian friend of our family in Bahrain, gave it to me a couple of days before I flew. Weird or what?”

“Weird. Anyway, it's obviously brought you immense good luck.”

“What, being hijacked?”

“You could look at it that way,” he says. “But I expect you're feeling particularly fortunate about having met me.”

“Very funny,” I say, taking it from him. “Actually, I think it's
going
to bring us immense good luck.”

“Oh, good! Go on, pin it on, then.” He smiles. “You'll cause a stir when they notice. They might even want to keep you.”

“No,” I say. “I'm not wearing it. It's my lucky charm, my mascot, and it's going to remain a secret.” I look hard at him. “OK?”

“OK,” he says solemnly.

And after that, somehow, against my better judgment, he persuades me to play cards—​and I actually manage to win the first game.

“You know,” he says, dealing the next hand, “despite the incident with Sweaty and the ammo belt, you seem to be managing all this quite well.”

“I'm glad it looks like that,” I say, “but what would you know?”

“Yeah, OK. But you seem quite self-contained.”

I shrug. “Don't we have to be, if we go to boarding school? You learn to fend for yourself, don't you?”

“True.”

I watch Jamal, at the front, move aside to let Mrs. Green and Susan nearer the open doorway. They're obviously anxious about the drop, as they stand a good ways back, holding hands, looking timidly out into the void.

“Moving around so often, every few years,” I say, “makes you pretty adaptable, doesn't it?”

“Yeah.” He flips a card over. “In the end it does. But sometimes it's painful getting there. I can remember going through a phase when I was about five of not being able to stay at kids' parties, having to leave the present and go straight home with Mum. I couldn't bear going into yet another room with all those kids I didn't know staring at me.”

“I bet you were sweet when you were five.”

“Course I was.” He turns and grins at me. There's the faint shadow of stubble growing on his chin.

“When I was five,” I say, “my dad had to go abroad for months, and I was so upset that I started a ‘library' in my room—​made up of little books stolen from school. Marni had to take them all back and apologize.”

“Blimey, thieving so young,” he says. “But moving around so much does make you reliant on your own family, doesn't it? Especially when you move to a new place and don't know anyone else. Me and my sisters and parents are incredibly close, really look after each other, even when we're apart. I'm really missing them.” He glances quickly at me to see my reaction, and I try not to show how sad I feel. “Anna,” he says, “I haven't ever told anyone this, but whenever I meet someone I like, I immediately imagine what it will be like to say goodbye to them. You see, the only fixed things I have are my family and my friends at school.”

I nod. He's beaten me at cards again and starts collecting them in. “At least going to boarding school teaches you to keep your feelings under control,” he says.

“You think that's a good thing?”

“Well, it helps in a situation like this.” He pushes the cards into their box.

I see that Mrs. Newton is by the door. “Look, David,” I say, nodding at her. She stands and turns her smoke-lined face up to the sun, drawing the air in dramatically, filling her lungs. Then she coughs and doubles over. “It's my turn at the door next. I'm after her.”

“Hey! What about me?” he cries.

“I put my name down ages ago,” I say, getting up. “I'll add yours now, though, if you like.”

“Oh, OK.” But he's clearly put out.

I go up and sit down on the black seat by the open door and stare out. Jamal leans against the end closet opposite the galley.

I glance quickly up at him. He's staring down the aisle. I can't get my head around it. He seems so normal, quite nice, even, and yet he's actually prepared to kill us, to kill us all.

I want to understand what makes someone like him do something like this. I really do. And what have I got to lose?

In the end, though, he comes over to me. “Hello, Anna.”

“Hello.”

“Can I tell you something?” he says quietly. I turn to face him. “You may choose not to listen, or not to believe me,” he says, his voice deep and reasonable, “but, please, just for a moment?”

He sits down by me. It feels too close. I don't look at him.

“How can you do this?” It bursts out of me, brutally. “How can you keep us here like this—​like animals? How can you kill us just because you want publicity, for people to listen to you? Do you really think the world will have any sympathy for you if you kill us?” I'm surprised by my own vehemence. But I need to know. I stare angrily up at him.

“Please,” he says, looking straight at me, his eyes troubled, “please, just listen.”

I nod curtly and look out at the desert. He's gazing out too.

His voice is low and urgent. “My brother and I grew up on a farm in orange groves. It had been in our family for hundreds of years. But the Israelis wanted the land, wanted to drive us from it.” He takes a deep breath. “When I was eleven, we came home from school down the long, straight track that led to the farmhouse. Our mother, then our father, ran out of the house. There was a burst of gunfire. They fell, face down. Dead. I dragged my brother into the long grass, and we hid till it was dark. Then we left. We never went back. Couldn't.” He turns toward me. “Tell me—​where would you be if that had happened to you?” He looks right at me. “Might you be here too?”

I can't answer him.

I get back from speaking with Jamal and find David and Tim sitting in my chairs, trying to play whist despite the heat. I sit down and tell them the story of Jamal and his parents. They listen intently, David glancing up occasionally, Tim chewing his thumbnail.

“That's terrible,” Tim says at the end.

“He asked me what I'd do if I were him,” I say.

“Well, I doubt you'd blow up a planeload of innocent people!” David says vehemently.

“No, but we've no idea what it must be like,” I say. “And if the world won't listen, and you're going through so much . . . I mean, it's not that simple, is it?”

“Suppose not.” David isn't convinced. “And you think he's telling the truth?”

“Yes, I do,” I say.

They finish their game.

Tim throws down his cards. “I give up trying to win against you.” He clambers across to the other side of the plane.

“What are you doing?” I call.

“Checking Fred.”

“You might let him win
sometime,
” I say to David.

“Yes, I should, really,” he says. “Though he is getting better.”

I watch Tim reach down and pull Fred's tin out from under his chair.

“He's gone!” he cries.

David and I stare across at him.

“I hid him up under there, behind my school blazer,” he says.

I clamber over to look. The tin's empty but for a little water and a slop of brown weed.

“But, Tim, how?” I ask.

“He was getting too hot, so I left the lid off,” he says. “Dad said I had to be careful . . .” Tears spill down his cheeks. “He said I had to . . .” He starts to sob.

I put my arms around him. “We'll find him. We really will. He can't have gone far. David, you ask the people in front and behind to look. See if they can see him. Tell them to be
careful!
I'll stay here and look under these chairs with Tim.”

“What if someone treads on him?” Tim wails. “He'll be . . . !” He's really sobbing now.

David's still standing in the aisle. “Shouldn't I help you look around here first?”

“We'll do that. Why don't you go and tell Rosemary and the captain as well? Quickly! Tell everyone on the way to be really careful where they walk.”

David disappears, watching the ground, stepping carefully.

The captain comes straight down to see Tim, looking concerned. “How big's this terrapin, Tim?”

Tim holds out one little trembling hand. “This big.” His voice is choked with emotion.

“OK, now, don't you worry. We'll find him. First we need to let everyone know he's lost.” He goes off down the cabin.

Tim wipes his eyes, and we start searching very carefully around his seat and the ones behind and in front. We look in every nook and cranny, under every chair. We take down every tray and search in every magazine pocket.

But there's no sign of Fred.

We search the rest of the cabin. It takes ages. Everyone tries to help, but as the minutes go by, Tim becomes more and more distraught. In the end I have to take him back to his seat to calm him down. He's red eyed and morose and cannot be comforted. As though, after everything else that's happened, losing his terrapin is the last straw. It's like he's shutting down. I talk quietly to him, telling him over and over how Fred couldn't have gone far, that he'll turn up eventually. Tim remains silent, then suddenly shudders into sobs again, as though all the grief in his small life is spilling out today, now, on this plane.

“Honestly, Tim,” I say for the umpteenth time, “he'll be here
somewhere.
”

He looks up at me almost angrily. “But he can't live . . . out of water . . . for long.” He takes another trembling breath. “What if he's fallen out . . . of the door . . . in . . . into the desert?” Tears pour down onto his shirt.

“He won't have.” I'm
determined
he won't have.

“Or fallen d-d-down . . . in . . . into . . . the l-l-luggage compartment,” he stutters. “Ohhhh . . . no!” He begins to sob again, so hard that words fail him.

“What, Tim?” I say. “What is it?”

His words come in fits and starts. “He'll . . . be climbing . . . all over . . . the bombs . . . down there.” My insides turn to wool. Could a terrapin set off a bomb? I feel sick. Should I tell the captain?

“Look, I'm sure he'll still be in the cabin, Tim. Really.”

David comes back. I look up at him questioningly. He shakes his head. Jamal moves around him to get to the back of the plane.

“Has anyone told the hijackers?” I ask.