the left to lie along the body of the plane. Huge, blunt metal teeth down the edge of the doorway fit into the opposing ratchets on the door itself, and thereâs a great curved metal hinge. No wonder it takes so many people to heave it open. It feels indestructible under my hand, but I donât doubt that if the explosives detonated, the blast would shred this door. And I canât help imagining what it would do to my soft flesh . . .
Ahead of me, a sea of sand stretches away to the horizon like so many folds in an endless bed sheet. And three tiny horsetail clouds, like delicate brushstrokes, hang high up in the blue.
Across the middle of the open doorway falls a thick rope. It comes out of the wall above the door space, where it says Escape Rope behind Flap, and Emergency Exit. The rope falls all the way down to the ground, a long way below. If I fell, it would be like falling from a second-story windowââor a high-diving board.
I imagine myself on the high-diving board in Bahrain, opening my arms, flying up and out, that fantastic feeling when youâre spread-eagled in midair, when, just for a millisecond, the world stands still. Then Iâd drop through the air, down, down, until my hands broke the water open. And after the impact, Iâd also fly, but under water, with my eyes wide open, my arms free in acres of cool water.
Suddenly the rope jerks. I lean out a little and see the shiny, black top of Sweatyâs head. Heâs retying it to the bed of the truck below, his gun lying to one side. On the ground is a small, round rock shaped like a resting sheep and, next to it, a tough, low shrub with one tiny yellow flower.
Through the crack in the door above the curved hinge, I can see the cluster of the planeâs four back wheels under the wing. And there, a ways off, shimmering and distorted by the heat haze, I see the foreshortened shape of the Swissair plane, the red and white bulk of it looking preposterous out there in the desert. The windows mirror the sunlight, and there arenât any doors open on this side, but I can just make out what look like the wheels of a truck on the other side, under its belly. The idea that some of the passengers shut in there might be able to see our plane feels weird, strange, muddling, somehow. I canât see the third plane, the one the man said was directly behind us. I look down again. Sweatyâs still busy. I donât want him to see me, so I pull my head back in and stay just inside the doorway.
I stand staring into the open space ahead, at the seemingly endless desert and the low line of far-off hills. And in the relentless dry heat, with sweat dripping down my back, I dream of fat English clouds heavy with rain, of cool drizzle and mist, of catching the droplets in my mouth. And I think of the huge expanses of cold water covering the earth and of the days Iâve spent swimming in the bulging cool of the sea. I think of the boys ducking under water, doing handstands, the V of their legs wobbling and collapsing, and of them bombing me from the raft tethered inside the shark net, where shoals of tiny fish hide.
Suddenly thereâs a noise below. I peer over.
Sweaty, his gun slung over one shoulder, is scrambling up the wooden ladder toward me. âYou! You! Go back!â he shouts. I duck back in, adrenaline surging. But heâs already in the plane, pushing me. My back slams against the bulkhead. He shoves his face up against mine. My heartâs pounding as I blink back tears, smell rancid sweat, his sour breath. And I hate him. For bullying me, for touching me.
Furiously I turn on my heel. But one of the new guards is waiting to leave after his shift. Heâs standing where the cabin narrows, watching us with intense eyes, his belt crammed with bullets and hung with hand grenades.
I slide back along the galley wall and try to squeeze behind him. But my buckle catches on the back of his belt. I reach quickly to
Ahead of me, a sea of sand stretches away to the horizon like so many folds in an endless bed sheet. And three tiny horsetail clouds, like delicate brushstrokes, hang high up in the blue.
Across the middle of the open doorway falls a thick rope. It comes out of the wall above the door space, where it says Escape Rope behind Flap, and Emergency Exit. The rope falls all the way down to the ground, a long way below. If I fell, it would be like falling from a second-story windowââor a high-diving board.
I imagine myself on the high-diving board in Bahrain, opening my arms, flying up and out, that fantastic feeling when youâre spread-eagled in midair, when, just for a millisecond, the world stands still. Then Iâd drop through the air, down, down, until my hands broke the water open. And after the impact, Iâd also fly, but under water, with my eyes wide open, my arms free in acres of cool water.
Suddenly the rope jerks. I lean out a little and see the shiny, black top of Sweatyâs head. Heâs retying it to the bed of the truck below, his gun lying to one side. On the ground is a small, round rock shaped like a resting sheep and, next to it, a tough, low shrub with one tiny yellow flower.
Through the crack in the door above the curved hinge, I can see the cluster of the planeâs four back wheels under the wing. And there, a ways off, shimmering and distorted by the heat haze, I see the foreshortened shape of the Swissair plane, the red and white bulk of it looking preposterous out there in the desert. The windows mirror the sunlight, and there arenât any doors open on this side, but I can just make out what look like the wheels of a truck on the other side, under its belly. The idea that some of the passengers shut in there might be able to see our plane feels weird, strange, muddling, somehow. I canât see the third plane, the one the man said was directly behind us. I look down again. Sweatyâs still busy. I donât want him to see me, so I pull my head back in and stay just inside the doorway.
I stand staring into the open space ahead, at the seemingly endless desert and the low line of far-off hills. And in the relentless dry heat, with sweat dripping down my back, I dream of fat English clouds heavy with rain, of cool drizzle and mist, of catching the droplets in my mouth. And I think of the huge expanses of cold water covering the earth and of the days Iâve spent swimming in the bulging cool of the sea. I think of the boys ducking under water, doing handstands, the V of their legs wobbling and collapsing, and of them bombing me from the raft tethered inside the shark net, where shoals of tiny fish hide.
Suddenly thereâs a noise below. I peer over.
Sweaty, his gun slung over one shoulder, is scrambling up the wooden ladder toward me. âYou! You! Go back!â he shouts. I duck back in, adrenaline surging. But heâs already in the plane, pushing me. My back slams against the bulkhead. He shoves his face up against mine. My heartâs pounding as I blink back tears, smell rancid sweat, his sour breath. And I hate him. For bullying me, for touching me.
Furiously I turn on my heel. But one of the new guards is waiting to leave after his shift. Heâs standing where the cabin narrows, watching us with intense eyes, his belt crammed with bullets and hung with hand grenades.
I slide back along the galley wall and try to squeeze behind him. But my buckle catches on the back of his belt. I reach quickly to
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