Free Girl on a Plane by Miriam Moss

unhitch it, and Sweaty yells, rushes at me, pushes me to one side, and grips my arm. I feel the cold muzzle of his gun against my neck and shut my eyes.
    Oh God. Oh God.
    The muzzle presses deeper. My blood runs like ice in my veins. A wave of nausea, terrifying fear.
    Please. Don’t!
    I can’t breathe. My heart’s exploding.
    â€œNow, now. Calm down.” It’s the Scottish navigator. “What’s the problem here?”
    Help me,
I plead silently.
    â€œShe.” Sweaty shifts the gun until it lies along my jaw. “She take his ammo.” He spits it out. Flecks land on my neck.
    â€œNonsense.” The navigator looks at me.
    Help me!
    â€œI’m Jim,” he says. “What happened?”
    Can’t speak. Can’t move. The gun.
    Gently Jim pushes the muzzle of Sweaty’s gun to one side, puts one arm around me, and takes a step away from Sweaty. “Take a breath.” My legs crumple beneath me. My vision darkens. I can feel the navigator struggling to hold me upright. A sob rises, rips through me. I’m shuddering, gasping for air.
    â€œI . . . was . . . get . . . past . . .” I start to shake uncontrollably. My knees, my legs, my hands, my arms.
    I can’t see. Can’t hear. My mind’s shutting down.
    I’m . . . going . . .
    The navigator’s voice is muffled, distorted. “She was just trying to get past . . . caught on him . . . didn’t mean to.” Then, louder: “It was a
mistake.
”
    I feel a wave of gratitude. Sweaty swims in front of me through the blur, looking unsure. He shrugs, waves us away. The young guard in the ammo belt looks shaken, confused, as I stumble past.
    Jim half carries me back down the aisle. He slides me in beside David and pulls my table down. I drop my head onto my folded arms and close my eyes.
    â€œOK?” Jim asks from the aisle.
    I nod into the table, still desperately trying to control the shaking.
    â€œYou sure?”
    I look up briefly. Nod. “Thanks.” I feel sick, lightheaded.
    â€œLook after this wee one for a bit, will you?” he says to David.
    â€œYes. Sure.”
    When Jim’s gone, David touches my shoulder. “Jesus, what happened?”
    I shake my head. Can’t make words yet. He strokes my back. It feels nice, comforting. After a minute I begin to mumble, “My buckle . . . got caught. On the guard’s belt.” I pause and take a deep breath. “On a hand grenade.”
    I sit up slowly, clench my fists tight to stop my hands from shaking.
    â€œChrist, Anna!” David stares at me, speechless.
    I’m overwhelmed with tiredness. I want to go to sleep. I put my head down again.
    â€œWas that why Sweaty was yelling?” he says.
    â€œHe thought I was trying to steal it.”
    â€œBut you could have been shot!”
    I lift my head and look sideways at him, then drop it again.
    â€œGod, I hope they get us out of here soon,” David says. “This is shit.”

12
1800h
    I don’t ever want to move again. I sit listening to my ragged breathing, with David quietly beside me.
    My heart slowly returns to normal.
Normal.
What’s normal? Is this normal now?
    Gradually I stop shaking and sit up. I feel weak, as if I’ve been in bed with the flu for two weeks.
    David’s watching me.
    â€œWhere’s Tim?” I ask.
    â€œPlaying Monopoly. It’s good he hasn’t seen you like this. While you were away he came back specially to tell me that he’d caught the twins passing hotels under the table to each other.”
    I smile weakly at him.
    â€œDid you hear that anyone with an Arab, Asian, or Indian passport is being allowed to leave the plane?” he asks. “Apparently the Giant gave the captain a list of about twenty passengers. If they do leave, there’ll be less than eighty of us left.” He lowers his voice. “Our Arab