Girl on a Plane by Miriam Moss Page A

suit. A TV camera is passed up after him. Every pocket of his suit—​and there are many—​bulges with pieces of equipment. He takes the camera and stands next to Sweaty in the aisle. When he turns around to look for his colleague, we see two patches of red sand on his buttocks where he’s been sitting in the desert.
    â€œHi,” he calls out to us, still panting slightly after climbing the ladder. “We’ve come to take pictures of you, to interview you for the papers and the TV. But the guerrillas have given us only a short time slot each, so please stay sitting down while we file by you. There are a hell of a lot of us to get on, through this plane, and out the back door.”
    He makes it sound like a jolly outing. Does he realize how lucky he is to come and go so freely?
    Sweaty and the Giant wave up more reporters. They come in groups of two or three and move down the aisle, to be escorted off by the two guards at the back door, where I suppose they’ve got another ladder. Some of them speak to the captain; others move on down the plane toward us, choosing someone to question, maybe to record and film. The aisle fills up. There’s no room anywhere. It’s getting hotter and hotter. There’s no air left.
    But I need to be filmed. Then the others will see I’m alive, that I’m all right.
    Ask me,
I plead silently. But they just walk past.
    Eventually, a tall blond man with a pointed beard and a thin, leathery woman in a bright white shirt start to film me. They’re from a Swedish TV station.
    â€œPretend to sleep, please,” the woman instructs me.
    I close my eyes and listen to the camera whir. But instead of feeling good, I feel awkward, confused, embarrassed, even.
What am I doing?
Pretending to sleep while strangers stare at me, filming?
    Why haven’t they asked if I’m OK? Asked my name? Why haven’t they offered to help, to take a message back? Don’t they think I might need to contact my family?
    I should say something. But what?
    I’m beginning to feel really stupid. What will my family or my friends at school think if they see the clip of me asleep on TV? That I’m relaxed and enjoying myself?
    Or dead?
    I’m on show. An animal in the zoo. A specimen.
    My mind starts to unravel. Anger courses through me. I open my eyes.
    â€œNo, no! Close your eyes,” the man cries.
    â€œI’m not . . .” But I crumple, feel tearful, weak. “. . . sleepy.”
    The man and the woman stare at me for a moment, then shrug and move down the plane to film someone else.

19
1030h
    After all the reporters have finished going through the plane, Rosemary appears with a tray. A water ration! I take one of the tiny paper cups and look at the rippling silver surface, wondering, just for a split second, whether I should dip my fingers in and wash my face.
    No, I must drink it all. I need it. I sip tiny, tiny sips very, very slowly, but too soon the cup is empty . . .
    The captain has been picking small groups to go down and be filmed in the desert by the reporters. I watched enviously as the two blond girls left and came back laughing, and the bald man and the redhead in first class have just returned too. The captain comes down the cabin and stops by the three of us. “Fancy a walk in the desert?” he says.
    â€œYes, please!” cries Tim.
    David jumps up. “Fantastic! Anything to get out of here for a bit!”
    But suddenly, just for a second, I hesitate. The idea of leaving the plane feels dangerous. They’re all looking at me.
    David looks perplexed. “Come on, Anna!”
    I get up.
    Heads turn to watch as we follow the captain up the aisle. I waft through the bald man’s cloud of cigar smoke in first class, and as I wait for the captain and Jim, and then David and Tim, to climb down, I look back along the plane. Rosemary smiles and waves encouragingly, the two blond sisters are