environmentalists.
And yet…
“The aviation industry presents the single biggest threat to the environment,” the tweet reads, “and world leaders must take action now.”
“Come and sit on my lap, Soph.” That’s what Becca meant about Mina choosing not to fight the cause. Not radicalization—at least not from religious fanatics—but pressure to ground planes, stop people flying, bankrupt airlines.
“Flight 79 is Mummy’s plane.” Her voice wobbles.
Should I lie to her? Tell her it isn’t Mina’s, it’s got nothing to do with Becca, with the fact that we’re locked in the cellar? But Sophia’s not your average five-year-old—she reads and writes far above her age, she takes everything in, and she knows exactly where Mina is. And besides, I’ve told enough lies.
Climate Action Group has released a statement denying their involvement. They claim their Twitter account was hacked, and they are currently reviewing their security measures. More on this story as we have it.
As a music track fades up, I hear a sound in the kitchen. A chair, scraping across the floor, as though someone has stood up quickly.
“Becca!”
“Mummy’s plane is Flight 79.”
“I know, sweetheart. Becca!” I yell louder, knowing I’m scaring Sophia but not knowing what else to do. Mina’s plane’s been hijacked. This should be over.
“Mummy’s plane is a Boeing 777. It has three hundred and fifty-three passengers.”
“That’s right. Becca!”
Another noise, closer this time, and I know—I just know—that Becca is right there, on the other side of the door, her ear pressed close to the wood. I force myself to speak more calmly.
“Becca, I know you’re there. You’ve got what you wanted. Whatever Mina was supposed to do, she’s done it. The plane’s been taken over. You can let us go now.”
There’s a muffled sound, something halfway between a sniff and a cough, then Becca answers. The pitch is high and harsh, faster than the measured, calculating tone she used when she drugged me.
“It hasn’t changed course. I’m supposed to let you go when it changes course.”
“It’s been hijacked! They said on the radio… Becca, you have to let us go.”
“Shut up!”
“You’ve done what they told you to do. Now—”
“I said shut up!”
“Daddy!” Sophia cries from the steps, and I bite back the expletives Becca deserves, dropping my voice, making it as warm and safe as I can.
“Come and sit with me, sweetheart.”
“Why is Mummy’s plane on the radio?”
“It’ll be warmer on my lap.”
Sophia shrinks back. “The mouses will eat me.”
Once we decided not to convert the basement into a usable room, we forbade Sophia from going into the cellar. The steps were steep, and there was no light—it was a disaster waiting to happen. Mr. Mouse will nibble your toes if you do, I would tell her, nipping my fingers at her feet as she squealed with laughter.
“There aren’t any mice,” I say now, hoping I’m right. Becca’s turned up the radio, the music pumping manufactured happiness through the door. There’s no sound from Becca. Is she still there, listening?
Sophia steps gingerly down into the cellar. She curls herself into my lap, reassuringly heavy, and I ache to put my arms around her. I think of the hundreds of times I’ve longed for her to come to me and how often she’s gone to Mina instead. She leans her head against my chest, her mouth opening in an involuntary yawn, and I press a kiss to the top of her head.
“This,” I say, in a manner far more measured than I feel, “is a tricky situation, but Daddy’s going to sort it, okay? Daddy’s going to get us out of here.”
I just need to work out how.
TWENTY-SIX
PASSENGER 1G
There are people—not you, I’m quite sure—who cross the road when they see a homeless man instead of stopping to make sure he’s okay. Who don’t drop a coin in his pot or buy him a sandwich. I don’t understand those people, but I imagine they’re the same ones who switch channels when an unpalatable advert airs—starving children, beaten dogs, hand-dug wells full of dirty water—because they can’t bear it.
If we can’t bear to see it, imagine what it must be like to live it.
If we can’t bear it, we should do something about it, don’t you think? Donate money, sign petitions, join marches.
When those people read the newspaper, do they see the news articles about overcrowded prisons, about the devastation caused by a high-speed rail network? Do they flick past them because they don’t notice or because they don’t care? It’s hard to know which is worse: apathy or ignorance.
Matthew 9:36 says,