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family, to have their arms around
me.
I’m missing them so badly, it hurts. It’s not ordinary sadness, going-back-to-school sadness, but a draggingly deep sorrow that I’ve never felt before.
    David comes back, and at last it’s my turn to get up and walk about. I follow Celia, glancing down the plane at all the disembodied heads turning, chatting, smoking. Some stare morosely ahead. An older couple gulps back whiskey in unison. Two boys, who look like twins in identical maroon and gray school blazers, crouch up on their seats and pass toys over the top to those behind them. The bomber sits dead still, wearing his sinister dark glasses. His suitcase sticks slightly out into the aisle. Those sitting nearest him seem more subdued than the others. Sweaty’s standing right at the back, holding his gun, a picture of unease.
    I move to the front, passing the two girls with blond hair from the line at the airport. They are both a bit older than I am and are wearing floral miniskirts and matching tops. One’s braiding the other one’s hair. They look up as I go by, and I feel their eyes on my back. I pass the baby crying in the bassinet, his face screwed up in outrage, pink and gasping. His mother strokes his head, looking glazed, as if she’s completely given up trying to quiet him.
    I walk past the two new hijackers sitting at the front, in first class, deep in conversation and eating lunch from airline trays. Then I squeeze past the Giant, at the front with his gun trained on the cabin.
    Reaching the toilet, I close the door on them all and lock it. In the mirror, under the strip lighting, I’m shocked to be confronted by this tired girl with worried gray eyes and mussed-up hair. I stare at her. She seems different—​older, careworn.
    I try combing my hair with my fingers but soon give up. It’s too tangled to make much difference. How stupid not to bring a hairbrush. I splash water on my face and dry it on the paper towels. And it feels really good. I use the toilet, wash my hands and my armpits with soap and water and dry them too. I think about scooping up some of the water, but it says Not Drinking Water, so I don’t risk it. It’s such a relief to be alone, though even in here I can still hear the baby’s plaintive cries. I wonder how long I can stay without Celia badgering me. I try stretching my arms and jiggling my feet about as though I’m warming up for a diving competition. It’s too cramped, but it’s my space, just for this moment, and I like it.
    What if something happens, though? What if I hear shots or someone tries to overpower the hijackers? What if everyone’s rescued but me?
    My face looks terrible.
    Help me, then,
I say to the girl in the glass.
    She stares back. Mute.
    Marni would say,
Anna, I think you need to have a good cry.
She says crying’s good for you. Bottling things up isn’t.
    The girl in the mirror’s definitely bottled up.
    Cry, then,
I say to her. But her face is set in stone, her eyes hard and dark and haunted.
    You have no feeling,
I say. And it’s true. I feel numb, empty.
    Suddenly there’s a brisk
rat-a-tat-tat
on the door. “Hello? Time to finish up.” Celia’s impatient.
    Finish up.
Finish up where?
Good question,
I say to the reflection in the glass. Then I unlatch the door.
    On my way back down the aisle, I notice that the girl with red-blond hair in first class has moved to sit beside the bald cigar-smoking man. He’s complaining in a loud voice to the steward about not being offered a
double
gin,
under the circumstances.
    I squeeze past Rosemary, tending to the baby. He’s really letting rip now, his lungs fit to burst. His mother stands by helplessly, looking even more wrung out. Rosemary’s pouring some liquid painkiller into his bottle.
    After Tim’s been to the toilet and we’re all sitting back down, Rosemary brings around a tray full of small plastic