Girl on a Plane (9 page)

“Yes, for now,” he says. “But what if the Americans decide to attack, or the British, or the king of Jordan's army? He must be keen to get control of his country back.”

“For God's sake,” I say. I stare out into the desert. “We're not in a very good position, are we?”

“Not great,” he says.

“Do you think the captain and the people in first class know more about what's happening than they're telling us?”

“God knows,” David sighs. “It's going to be weird, if we do get out, going back after this, isn't it?” he says.

“Mmm.”

“Got my exams coming up.”

“What in?”

“Physics, chemistry, and biology.”

“A scientist, then.”

“Yeah. I want to do medicine. Dad's a doctor, and all three of his brothers too. So there's no escape.”

“I see what you mean.”

“What about your . . . Hey!” he says suddenly. “Look! Can you see them? There. Those dots.” Way out on the far horizon, a number of tiny black shapes are moving around. We watch, fascinated. Slowly, very slowly, they take shape and materialize into a semicircle of tanks.

“My God! I can see the guns,” I say.

“They can't be the PFLP's,” David says. “I doubt if they have any.”

“Alan said they'd heard on the news that the king of Jordan is coming with tanks. Or what about the Syrians?” I suggest. “He said they were massing tanks on the Jordanian border.”

“Are you serious?” David looks shocked. “Then let's hope they
are
the king of Jordan's; otherwise we're going to be in the middle of not just a civil war but a full-scale international one.”

My heart skips a beat. A civil war, families fighting families, or a full-scale war? And us in the middle.

“Look,” David says. “Can you see? All the tanks have their guns trained on us.”

We watch the sun sink, turning the sky a washed-out blue and the sand a gentle peach, like the color of the face powder in Marni's compact. Soon a fiery sun sets, glowing behind the line of hills, etching them onto the backs of my eyes, so that when I blink they're still there.

As the temperature in the cabin drops, the warm, wet sweat that we've grown so used to cools. My shirt becomes clammy, and it's a relief to begin with, but then I feel cold. The guerrillas all wear thick sweaters, but few of us have anything. Some people have winter coats, which they pull down off the luggage racks and put on. I'm beginning to wish I had some of my school uniform, but it's in my case in the luggage hold.

We've still been given nothing to drink. There's plenty of alcohol, but no soft drinks or water is left. My throat's parched, and there's a small hammer tapping at the back of my head. I hope they hurry and find water for us tonight. I can actually feel myself shriveling up, dehydrating. Now I understand what being “dry as a bone” means.

It's dark in the cabin. Several hurricane lamps have been passed up from outside. The Giant and Sweaty are lighting them at the front and hanging them at intervals down the plane by hooking them over the edges of the ceiling recesses. They fill the cabin with their hissing and dance about when people walk to and fro, casting strange, elongated shadows.

The Giant and the captain are hanging one in the aisle right over our seats.

“Are you sure these are safe, with all the explosives about?” the captain asks. “What if one falls and catches fire?”

The Giant smiles in his own quiet way and assures him that they'll be all right.

I'm not so sure. But it looks as if we have more than that to worry about right now. The Giant looks down at the captain, then hesitates and frowns. “I have just been told that the second in command is coming on board. To speak to everyone.”

The captain gives him a quizzical look. “Second in command?”

“Yes, she is coming,” he repeats, as if that explains everything. “Everyone must be seated.”

The captain goes to the front and asks everyone to return to their seats. David glances over, catches my eye, and makes a
what now?
face. I shrug, twist around in my chair, and look back down the plane. The two guards are hurrying the last few people to their seats. Mrs. Green looks anxiously at Susan, who whispers secrets into her rag doll's ear. Mrs. Newton, swaying slightly, is still fussing in her overhead locker. When I turn to the front again, the Giant and Sweaty have completely disappeared. The captain, looking drawn, waits patiently until everyone is seated, then he too sits down.

A figure climbs aboard: a woman wearing khaki fatigues, black boots, and a red and white checked scarf wound loosely around her head. She's very striking, with strong features, dark eyes, and arched brows. She stands at the front, her face lit by the overhead lanterns, nods curtly at the captain, then stares out at us, shifting her gaze from face to face, taking her time. The conversation in the cabin peters out and the atmosphere changes, as if something new and more hostile has entered the plane. And now I don't want to be sitting here on my own. I want to be back between Tim and David.

Two new guards follow the woman in and stand on either side of her. One is heavy shouldered, with a bullneck and a rough complexion; the other is tall, with wary, deep-set eyes and an oversize jaw. Both wear immaculate fatigues and have submachine guns slung across their shoulders.

She starts speaking, slowly and deliberately, in perfect English with a faint Arab accent. “We have brought you here because we planned it. We have guns, bombs, hand grenades. We are strong.” She pauses to let her words sink in. “You, on the other hand, are helpless. Trapped.”

The cabin is deathly quiet except for the hissing lamps. I glance at David, who widens his eyes at me.

She starts pacing a little, pushing her head forward, emphasizing each word. “We will live. We have water and food. You will be hungry, thirsty. We will live, and—​if we choose—​you will die.”

I feel a bolt of shock. Why is she doing this? None of the other hijackers have spoken like this. Not the Giant, not even Sweaty. Her two guards stand coldly and impassively, their belts heavy with grenades. Are they going to kill us now? Mow us down? Is that what she is saying? Why would she speak like this otherwise? My mind whirls. I feel disbelief and panic. I feel sick.

“Excuse me.” The captain stands up.

The woman swings around. “What?” she spits.

“We have children on board.”

“You?” she says. “
You
tell
me
about children?” In one fluid movement, she pulls the pistol from her belt, cocks it, and points it at his head. “You tell me about children?” she shouts. “What about us? What about our children? What about them? The ones who died at the hands of the murdering invaders? Do they not count?”

“Of course they count,” the captain says quietly, his face white.

“Silence!” she screams. “You are nothing here! Silence! Or you will be removed! SIT!”

He sits.

A horrid quiet seeps back.

She lowers her gun and begins to speak again, her voice thick with hatred. “The murderers took our land and threw us onto the scrapheap of the world.” I feel her seething disgust as she paces down the aisle toward the back of the plane. “And who cares? No one!” She turns and comes forward again. “So we have risen up. AND WE WILL BE HEARD!” she yells.

The hurricane lamps jiggle crazily as she stalks past. “If your prime minister doesn't release our comrade Leila Khaled in London by midday on Saturday, you will ALL DIE. We will blow up the whole plane with you in it.” She spins around at the front. “Or maybe,” she adds, lowering her voice and leaning forward, “we will kill you all, one . . . by . . . one.”

Oh God. Oh God.

She raises her head, gives us a triumphant look, turns on her heel, and leaves the plane, followed by her two guards.

There's a stunned silence, as if all the air on the plane has been sucked out.

I look at David, staring at the seat in front of him, at Tim, clutching Fred's tin on his lap. I watch them in a dream, unable to move.

There's murmuring. It grows from muttering into outrage, then sheer panic. Mr. and Mrs. Newton stagger to the front, walking painfully, looking as if they have aged. More adults move forward in drifts.

The two guards at the back do nothing as the crowd at the front increases. Passengers lean over seatbacks, stand in the aisle, sit on the seat arms, crowding in and around the captain and the crew in first class. The captain stands up and starts to speak, softly at first, then with more strength. He's trying to reassure us, desperately trying to quiet the growing hysteria in the cabin.

“Who does she think she is?” roars Mr. Newton. “Coming in here and threatening us like that? Lady Bloody Macbeth?”

It's the second day. The first light streaming into the plane wakes me. I lie still, disturbed by my dream. I'd been shut in a cardboard box with only small holes to let the light in. I knew I had to get out quickly, but I couldn't move my arms or legs.

I sit up slowly. My whole body feels bruised and battered. My eyes are like lead, my neck is stiff, my head aches.

No one else seems to be awake. David's asleep, sitting upright but skewed over, with his feet in the aisle and his mouth open. Tim's curled up next to him like a dormouse. I can see the edge of Fred's tin under his seat. It's funny—​I feel like I've known them for ages, but it's been only one day.

I started the night crunched up on my empty seats, struggling to avoid the armrests and belts digging into my back. Rosemary warned us about the sudden temperature drop at night, and I was desperately cold in my thin cotton miniskirt and T-shirt, despite the BOAC blankets she gave out. Every time I turned over, I exposed a foot, an arm, or a shoulder and woke freezing, aching with it. The end of my nose, my hands, and my feet were numb. At one stage I couldn't feel my arm at all and woke up shivering, my teeth chattering as if I'd been locked in a freezer. I literally couldn't sit still. Had to walk up and down to get warm. I couldn't stop thinking about my school coat. I longed for the intense heat of yesterday.

Thinking it might be warmer down in the foot well under the seats, I crawled into it, but the freezing metal feet tormented me at every turn. I've never slept in the desert before. The temperature drop must be crazy. In Bahrain we needed fans at night, it was so hot, and slept under only one thin sheet.

There's heavy snoring coming from the way back, probably the Newtons, after all that whiskey. I can't see any guards. Maybe they're sitting in the doorway. In the pauses between snores I can hear the plane ticking, like it's expanding in the sun after the cold night. I imagine it like a great, restless bird wanting to be back up there in the blue sky instead of being manacled down here on earth.

I look at my watch. Five o'clock. What will happen now, after that awful woman's visit last night? I reach over and pull the window cover up. The sky's washed a delicate pink. The sun, edged in fire, burns low on the horizon. Some of the guerrillas are milling about down below, squatting on the ground, smoking, chatting; doing what people on a campsite do at first light. One stands and stretches, pulls on his jacket, and tucks a rolled towel under his arm. There are two men by a parked Jeep, changing a tire, the contents of their toolbox spewed out on the sand.

My stomach suddenly cramps. I double over until the pain passes and am left feeling more sick and empty than ever before. My head is really killing me now. Must be dehydration. My lips are cracking, my tan is flaking off, and my eyes feel shrunk dry. My throat's parched. I am
so
thirsty. I hope they give us some water soon. I run a thick tongue around my furred teeth and gums. Disgusting. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, like I've run out of saliva. Is that possible? How long can a human last without water? I'm sure it's only a matter of days.

Two guerrillas pass below, laughing, their arms around each other's shoulders. What did my friends at school think when I didn't turn up yesterday? They'll have stayed up chatting all night. I feel a pang at missing them and hearing all their news.

I think about my best friend, Ali, with her crazy, crooked smile. Seeing her is the best thing about going back. She's the funniest and most loyal friend ever. She always brings me sheets of paper-thin dried apricot, looking like amber glass, back from Istanbul, where she lives. And there's Jaffa, obsessed with smoking and horses, with legs like a foal herself. I always smuggle in duty-free cigarettes for her in my suitcase. And Fi, whose spoiled mother told her to marry only for money, and Spud, with her wild red hair, who hid in bed for days when her dad died last term. They'll all feel exhausted when they're woken by the bell at seven this morning. There'll be baths, prayers, and breakfast in the old dining room, smelling of gravy, fried eggs, and the porridge that sets like cement in your stomach. What I'd do for a bowl of that now, or even a cup of Matron's horrible, metallic tea.

They'll do the long walk from the boarding house to Main School. It'll be cool, raining. They'll wear brown regulation raincoats and troop along the wet pavement, talking and laughing. The mist will dampen their faces. The trees down the avenue will drip on their heads. The dew on the playing fields will soak their socks, but they'll just carry on as normal, like all the people flocking to work and school on their buses and trains, cars and bikes.

A tiny iridescent fly lands on the top of the seat in front of me and proceeds to wash its antennae and smooth down its wings. Then, just as suddenly, it takes off again, flying down through the cabin—​and probably out through the open door. Just like that. Easy. Because it can.