I touch the EpiPen again, feeling at once close to Sophia and thousands of miles away. I think about the note I left on her pillow and wonder if she’s found it yet. I wish I could text her. There’s a Sky Phone in the flight deck, as well as the VHF radio the pilots use to check in with air traffic control every half hour and whenever we enter or leave a country’s airspace. It’s not unheard of for personal messages to be passed via these channels (I’ve been on flights where birth announcements were made, and when the World Cup is on, every England goal is celebrated), but this isn’t an emergency.
“I’m thinking of painting the walls gray, with an accent wall in rose-gold wallpaper. What do you think?” Carmel is talking me through the apartment she and her boyfriend have bought.
“Sounds lovely.”
“I’d like a soft-pink velvet sofa, but I wonder if it might be a bit much with the rose gold. What do you think?”
“Maybe.” I look at my watch again. Time has slowed down, and I long for the end of my shift so I can go up to the bunks and draw the curtain around me. Maybe the Wi-Fi will be up by then, and I’ll be able to message home.
A small figure creeps into the galley. It’s Finley, too shy, perhaps, to press his call bell.
“Hello, sweetheart,” I say. “Do you want something to eat?”
He holds up his headphones. “Could you—”
“Again? What on earth are you doing to them?”
Carmel takes over, unpicking the knots with white-tipped nails. “Mine do this all the time. I wrap them up really neatly, then, when I want to use them, they’re like spaghetti.”
There’s a shout from the cabin, the commotion building from both sides. I hear someone shout, “Get help!” and my heart sinks. It’ll be the woman from economy, causing problems in the bar again.
But just as I’m about to investigate, Erik comes running into the galley, his habitual blank expression flushed.
“What’s happened?”
He doesn’t answer, reaching for the intercom and speaking with a calm authority that belies his agitation. “If there is a doctor on board, please make your way to the front of the plane.”
“Is a passenger ill?” Carmel says, and I wait for Erik to snap at her about stating the bloody obvious, but he stares at her, and I realize he’s shaking.
“Not ill,” he says. “Dead.”
TEN
PASSENGER 6J
My name is Ali Fazil, and I wish I’d never set foot on this flight.
The crew members are running down the aisles. There’s panic in the air—people shouting and calling for help, standing up in their seats to see what has happened.
It makes me feel better, to be honest, to know I’m not the only one panicking.
All that time I’ve had to sit here, heart pounding and palms sweaty, watching everyone around me ignore the danger we’re in. There must be intelligent people among them, people who read articles, people who know the facts. Why aren’t they as scared as I am?
I know what you’re thinking: you’re wondering why I’d get on a twenty-hour flight when I feel the way I do about flying. But some jobs require you to get on a plane. You’re not given a choice.
I can just imagine emailing the boss to say, Actually, I’m a really nervous flyer, and the thought of being in the air for all that time is stopping me from sleeping…
Never mind flying: he’d have given me my marching orders.
My sister told me I should quit, said it wasn’t healthy to be at someone’s beck and call like that, but she doesn’t know enough to understand. There’s a hierarchy, of course, like any organization, but we all pull together. We’re like family.
I’ve tried to get over it. I’ve had hypnotherapy. Reflexology. CBT. Ironic for a psychologist, right? It doesn’t matter what I do: the facts always win.
Do you know how many people have died in plane crashes since 1970? 83,772. Wouldn’t that make you panic? Think twice about stepping on board?
The reasons are many. Sometimes it’s as simple as running out of fuel. It happens to car drivers all the time, doesn’t it? No one intentionally runs out of petrol, but something happens—you have to make a diversion, or you get stuck in traffic—and suddenly you’re crawling to a standstill, fuel light flashing. It’s a pain—you might be stuck on the hard shoulder for hours or have to walk for miles to fill a jerry