Girl on a Plane (6 page)

And I can't believe we landed without crashing.

A sense of uneasy relief sweeps through the cabin. A safe landing, but what's next? What about the armed guerrillas outside?

We taxi to a halt. The Giant, Sweaty, and the steward go to open the door nearest the cockpit. I hear shouts—​
“Al ham du lilla,
or “thank God”;
“Ahlan wasaklan,”
or “welcome”—​and instructions in Arabic that I don't understand. All the energy and excitement feels odd when we sit here in rows, in shock, like sitting ducks.

Tim picks up Fred's tin and opens it.

“Look, Anna.” He's smiling. “He's all right!”

I peer in. “He even looks like he enjoyed the landing.”

“Ladies and gentlemen and children,”
the captain says over the intercom.
“Well, that was interesting—​but we did it!”
The relief in his voice makes him sound younger.
“You can now undo your seat belts, but please remain seated—​just for a little longer, until we have talked to the hijackers on the ground. Thank you very much.”

Rosemary seems to be helping to open the door nearest the cockpit.

“Hold on, Alan,” I hear her call to the chief steward. “I think they want us to undo the emergency rope so they can fix it to that wooden ladder. They're shouting up for it.”

“OK, here it comes. Tie it to that Jeep!” Alan shouts down.

Once the rope and wooden ladder are in place, more guerrillas pour on board. They take turns looking down the aisle at us, at their
captives,
and their faces register a kind of astonishment, then pride and delight. Two new ones walk down and station themselves at the back of the plane.

There's a disturbance behind me. I crane my neck to see. The man with the bomb briefcase is slowly walking up the aisle toward us, still wearing his sunglasses. His steps are measured, deliberate. When he passes by, the passengers lean slightly away from him, as though he's contaminated. And as he gets closer to me, I see that the briefcase is on a long chain handcuffed to his wrist. He has dark stubble on his wide, creased face, and his mouth turns up at the edges in a permanent half smile. His small ears stand out like mollusks from his shaved head. I can smell his acidic after-shave long after he's gone.

When he reaches the front, he immediately disappears into the cockpit. The captain, his two copilots, and the navigator are quickly ejected, and the door is closed firmly behind them.

They stand displaced, out of context, at the front of the plane. The captain's jaw is set, his mouth grim. He has thick white hair, a long face, and an authoritative air. He stands tall and dignified, his arms loose at his sides.

“I cannot agree to turning off the engines,” he says to the two hijackers who boarded at Beirut. “If I do, there'll be no air-conditioning or pumps for water, and the toilets will fail.”

But the hijackers insist. “If the engines aren't shut down,” the woman says clearly in good English, “you might try to escape.”

“Get this thing in the air without you noticing?” the captain says. “Nonsense! You do know that once the power's off, you can't start it up again.” He looks in frustration at the navigator, who shakes his head in disbelief.

“You'll really regret it,” the navigator says in a Scottish accent. “How the hell are you going to look after all these people without toilets or water? Without air-conditioning, in these temperatures?”

But the hijackers won't budge. In fact, they force the two men back into the cockpit to switch everything off. The copilots are told to sit down in the empty first class seats at the front.

Suddenly all the neon lights in the ceiling recesses over the aisle go off, all the No Smoking signs disappear, and the air-conditioning shuts down. The little hose sending out a wonderful stream of cold air above my head stops. I put my hand up to check. Nothing. I try the light switch. Dead.

As the cool cabin air escapes into the desert and the intense heat swirls in, the temperature begins to rise. I lean my head against the once-cool plastic of the seat in front of me. It's warm and sticky already.

Now that the No Smoking signs are unlit, cigarette lighters start clicking all around the cabin, and smoke curls above the seats around us. Soon cigarette smoke is all I can smell. And as it gets hotter and hotter, the cabin appears to shrink into the fog.

Apart from the occasional low voice and the rustle of hot, restless, cooped-up bodies, it's unnaturally quiet now. There's no noise from the plane's engine, no air-conditioning, and no intercom anymore.

We sit quietly, sweltering under the great blanket of heat weighing us down. I've piled my hair up and stuck a pencil in it to keep it off my neck, but it still feels stifling, as though I'm wearing a thick woolen hat. The straggly bits stick to the sweat on my face and neck. Everything is sticking. My clothes are stuck to my body. My shirt is stuck to my back. My skirt is stuck to my legs, which are stuck to the seat. I'm stuck here, sweating endlessly, and there's nothing I can do about it. And everything is an effort. Lifting my arm, turning my head, bending down—​I do it all in slow motion.

I wonder if thinking about cool things will help. Such as the first time I visited London from abroad when it was winter and freezing cold and raining. We all sat in a café, watching the people walk to work holding briefcases and umbrellas, and we wondered what was the matter with them. Why were they all walking
so fast?
What had happened? Were they running away from something? Because no one walked
that
fast in the hot country we lived in then.
They're walking fast to keep warm,
Marni had said. Everyone slows down in the heat, to keep cool.

I wish there were some
cool
in here.

I take my shoes off, blow down my front, wave magazines around to try to stir up the air, to create just the tiniest of breezes, but it's hopeless. Then I remember the BOAC paper fan stuffed down in my seat pocket. I pull it out and whip it to and fro, but I'm just moving hot air around. I give up, defeated.

“This is unbearable,” I grumble.

“And it's only going to get worse.” David wipes a rivulet of sweat from his neck with a tissue.

“Well, thanks, David,” I say. “Guaranteed to raise spirits.”

He laughs shortly. “Sorry. Didn't realize that was my designated role.”

“It won't be this hot when it gets dark, will it?” Tim says hopefully, his face bright pink.

“No, it should cool down,” David says, “but then we'll probably freeze. We're in the desert, after all.”

“Great,” I say. “Though, frankly, anything will be better than this. Even the soles of my feet are sweating, for God's sake.”

“If I was in a cartoon,” Tim says, “there'd be smoke coming out of my ears.”

“Why don't you roll up the sleeves of your shirt? And I'd take your shoes and socks off too.” I help get him organized.

“Funny we haven't heard about the other planes,” David says. “They must be here too somewhere.”

“The two hijacked earlier? Why don't you ask him?” I nod at the Arab opposite us.

“Good idea.” David leans over and touches him on the arm. “Excuse me, sir,” he says. “We heard that two other planes were hijacked and taken to Jordan earlier this week, and we wondered if you can see them through your window. There aren't any on this side.”

“Yes, yes, dear boy,” he replies kindly. “Apparently they are here, but it's difficult to see through these portholes. The Swissair is farther back and on our left—​I can
just
see the nose—​and the stewardess said the TWA was behind us, so out of sight. But mostly I only see guerrillas swarming about.”

“Thanks.” David turns back to us. “Did you get that?” Tim and I nod. “I wonder what the people in those planes are feeling like by now? They've been here three days already. Christ, I couldn't take this heat for three days.”

“Do you think they have bombs on board too?” Tim asks.

“I expect so,” replies David.

“They must have given them some food,” Tim says, “or they'd be skeletons by now.”

“No, not quite yet, Tim,” David says. “And of course they'll be feeding them.” But I can see he's not so sure.

“Do you think someone there will seriously lose it, like that man at the back did?” Tim asks cheerfully.

“You mean they'll set off a bomb?” David says. “And because we're close enough, we blow up as well?”

“Er, thanks, you two, that's probably enough.” They're making me feel jittery again.

David puts an arm around me. “We'd better stop, Tim.” He shakes his head. “
She
can't take it.”

I shrug him off. “God, you're so patronizing. Why don't we swap seats so you two boys can talk fascinating boys' stuff together and I can sit in peace in the aisle seat for a change?”

David raises his eyebrows. “You really want to?”

“Yes, just for a bit.”

“OK.” He lifts the armrest, and I semi-stand while he slides under me, into my seat, and I try slipping into his. It's a bit of a sticky tangle, and at one point I regret asking him, but we do manage it—​eventually.

I'm just settling down to enjoy the new, clear view up and down the aisle, when my calm is broken by the captain raising his voice at the front: “But the passengers haven't had anything proper to eat or drink for ages,” he says to the Giant. “We didn't take on any supplies at Beirut except fuel, so we'll need food and water to be brought on board very soon.”

“I'm sorry,” the Giant replies, “but we have none spare at the moment. You will have to wait.”

I turn to David. “Did you hear that?”

“He can't be serious,” he says.

“Where have the other two hijackers gone?” the captain asks. “The ones that got on at Beirut? I need to speak to them urgently.”

“I'm sorry, they are busy on the ground. There is nothing I can do at the moment.” The Giant's voice is deep and patient. The captain gives him a frosty look and sits back down across the aisle from the navigator.

I sit quietly while the boys play interminable games of hangman, then tic-tac-toe. After that, David tries to draw Sweaty in Tim's school uniform on his Etch A Sketch.

“Where's your school, then, Tim?” he asks as he draws.

“In Kent. I don't like it much. The older boys are bullies. You have to do things for them
all
the time. One of the assistant matrons is nice, though.”

“What's her name?” David is turning Sweaty into a rat with bulging eyes and drooling gums.

“She's called Miss Thomas. She lets me play with her Jack Russell, Dandy. She'll like Fred. I know she will.”

David rubs Sweaty out and puts down the Etch A Sketch. “No offense to you two, but I'm feeling
really
tired of sitting here. I need to get up and
walk.
”

“Go on, then,” I say. “Give it a try. We'll watch. See if you get shot.”

He looks sideways at me and screws up his face. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

I shrug. “Wouldn't mind.”

“Charming.”

“Why don't you draw the Giant now?”

“Screen's too small.”

“Do you want your seat back, then?” I ask.

“OK.”

While I'm settling back down next to Tim, he suddenly asks whether I have a brother.

“Yes,” I say. “Two. Why?”

“I've always wanted one,” he says. “How old are yours?”

“They're eleven and nine.”

“I'm nine too.” Tim looks pleased. “And do you have a father
and
a mother?”

“Yes . . .” I frown. “Why?”

“Oh, well, I don't.” He says it matter-of-factly.

“I'm sorry,” I say quietly. “Your mother?”

“Yes.” He looks straight at me with serious brown eyes. “She died when I was six.”

“Oh, Tim. That's so sad.”

“She was called Anna too, you know. We have pictures of her, lots of them, all over the house. Dad still loves her, you see. If she was alive I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't go to boarding school. Sometimes I dream about her. I'm sure it's her.”

“Who looks after you when you're home, when your dad's at work?”

“Our housekeeper, Mary. She stayed ever since Mum died. I write to her when I'm at school—​as well as Dad.”

“What does your dad do?”

“He's an engineer.”

“What's yours?” David asks me.

“In the army. Mum's a teacher.”

“Ah! There she is,” Rosemary says from the aisle. “Just the girl I want.” Sweaty's standing behind her, so I feel a shock of anxiety. “Don't look so worried!” Rosemary says. “I'm just wondering if you'd like to help me go through the trays at the back, in the galley, to find any uneaten food left over from lunch. Fancy it?”

I look at Sweaty; his gun is pointing at the ground for once. I'd
really
like to get up and walk about. I nod. “Thanks.” I begin to climb past David, but he springs up to let me out.

“How come she's been handpicked?” he asks Rosemary.

She laughs. “Handpicked? You'll get your turn, don't worry.”

When he's back in his seat, I lean down. “You see, David,” I whisper, “there are some advantages to being a girl!”

I follow Rosemary to the back of the plane.

“Now,” she says when we get to the galley, “I'm Rosemary.” She points to her badge. “And you're . . . ?”

“Anna.”

“Good, lovely.” She has lively brown eyes and short, curly hair the color of chestnuts. I can't get over how brave she was with the hijackers when that man wanted to go to the toilet. Would I have done that? I doubt it.