‘That’s a bit like taking coals to Newcastle, isn’t it?’ says Tom. ‘Whoring in the Far East?’
‘I knew loads of Asian hostesses who doubled up as call girls over in the UK,’ I say. ‘I remember the story of one airline that lost its whole crew and eventually found them working in a massage parlour in Birmingham. But I didn’t know it went on the other way around.’
‘Apparently so,’ confirms Craig. ‘She had a thing going in Singapore and Sydney as well.’
‘God,’ says Bev, her voice full of awe. ‘I always wondered why she had such nice stuff, so many handbags and things. I always thought they were fakes she picked up in Thailand.’
‘She certainly picked them up in Thailand,’ says Tom.
‘How did she get found out?’ I ask.
‘Unfortunately, the concierge booked her with a pilot from our airline,’ replies Craig.
‘And he reported her?’ I ask, slightly incredulous.
‘They’re such wankers, those boys, they’ll report you for stealing a Kitkat,’ says Craig.
He is right. Some pilots can be very unpleasant indeed. One of them did actually report a hostie for nicking a Kitkat once and she lost her job. I suspect this bloke was so embarrassed at being caught whoring in Thailand he thought that he’d get in there before Dee did.
‘So has Dee been fired?’ asks Bev.
‘Yup,’ says Craig. ‘Her and a bloke called John, who I don’t think you know, who tried to smuggle his lady-boy lover into Australia.’
‘That’s common enough,’ says Tom, sounding jaded. ‘I’ve heard that a few times. There’s something very alluring about those Thai boys.’ He smiles. ‘Makes you want to bring one home.’
‘I think it’s them who are more keen,’ says Craig. ‘This one had stowed away on the flight and cut up his passport. John was apparently going to try to smuggle him through in a crew uniform.’
‘Sounds very Bonnie and Clyde to me,’ says Tom.
‘Sounds bloody illegal to me,’ says Bev. ‘I don’t know why people would want to compromise their position and job like that,’ she says, finishing off her tequila shot.
‘We can’t all be lucky enough to have an MMD,’ laughs Tom.
A blue light goes off in the galley.
‘I’ll go,’ says Bev. ‘Anything to get away from you lot.’
Bev leaves the galley and we all sit in silence. Andy stares at the corpse in the corner and Tom plays with the half-empty tequila bottle.
‘Does anyone fancy racing toilet rolls?’ asks Craig.
‘The flight’s far too full and grumpy,’ says Tom. ‘That’s a day-flight thing when everyone’s bored and awake and up for a laugh.’
Toilet-roll racing ranks up there with tea-traying as a game peculiar to inflight entertainment. Each attendant picks up a roll of toilet paper, places one end down the toilet and takes the other end as far up the plane along the aisle as he or she can. Then two fellow attendants are instructed to flush the toilets at the same time and their immense suction pulls all the paper back along the plane. The toilet with the quickest paper suckback wins.
‘Anyway,’ continues Tom, ‘aren’t we landing in a bit?’
‘You’re right, not far off now,’ says Craig, looking at his watch. ‘All right there, Edith?’ he asks as she walks behind me down the aisle.
She does not reply. She is looking straight ahead, as if in a trance. I turn and watch her walk slowly towards the back. There’s something odd about her behaviour. Her body is rigid; her arms are stiff by her sides. Someone tries to engage her as she walks past. She doesn’t pause.
‘What’s wrong with Edith?’ I ask as I step into the aisle.
‘What?’ asks Craig, poking his head out of the galley. ‘Jesus Christ!’
We both stand and stare as Edith, who is halfway down the plane, starts slowly but surely taking off her clothes. First she undoes her skirt and steps out of it. Staring straight ahead in her girdle and American tan tights, she then slowly takes off her scarf, removes her jacket and unbuttons her blouse. None of us knows what to do. The passengers start to whisper and nudge one another as they realize what is going on. Edith starts moving again, walking towards the back of the plane.
‘Shit!’ I say. ‘I think she’s lost it. Shall I go down there?’
‘Good idea,’ says Craig. ‘And I’ll . . .’ He stands there flummoxed.
‘Go and get Sue in club,’ I say. ‘I know she’ll be good at this sort of thing.’
Craig rushes off to club and I slowly walk towards Edith, not wanting to scare her but wanting to reach her before she is totally naked in front of the whole plane. Either she hears me coming or the growing sniggers coming from passengers perturb her, because she suddenly marches off to the small galley at the back of the plane and opens a cupboard. By the time I get there, she’s locked herself in.
‘Edith! Edith!’ I say, knocking on the door.
‘Go away,’ she replies.
‘Let me in.’ I’m having flashbacks of the paracetamol boy this afternoon, and it’s scaring me. ‘What are you doing? Are you OK? Can I help?’
‘Leave me alone,’ she says.
‘How can I get into the cupboard?’ I ask a rather shocked-looking flight attendant who is standing at the back of the plane.
‘You can’t,’ she replies. ‘Once it’s locked, it’s locked.’
‘Shit!’
‘What’s going on?’ asks Sue, appearing with Gareth behind me. I fill them both in and watch the concern grow on their faces. ‘I think you should leave me to deal with this,’ says Sue, finally.
‘Do you think?’ asks Gareth.
‘Well, I couldn’t do any worse,’ she smiles. ‘There’s nothing in this cupboard, is there?’ she asks the flight attendant.
‘No.’
‘So she can’t harm herself,’ says Sue, talking more to herself than anyone else. ‘That’s a good thing. Edith?’ she says, gently tapping on the door.
‘What?’
‘It’s Sue.’
‘Hello.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Not really.’
‘Is it all a bit much?’
‘Mmm.’
‘D’you want to come out and tell me about it?’
‘Not really.’
‘Do you want to talk to me about it here?’
‘Not really.’
‘Are you cold in there?’
‘A bit.’
‘Do you want a blanket?’
‘Not really.’
Gareth taps me on the shoulder. ‘I think we should leave her to it,’ he mouths.
I nod. I give Sue’s shoulder a squeeze before I turn and walk away.
‘What the hell is that all about?’ asks Gareth when we are halfway up the aisle.
‘We all know what it’s about,’ I say. ‘The question is, what brought it on?’
‘All those Temazers she’s been taking and Tom’s little cocktail, I should imagine.’
‘You knew about that?’
‘Yeah. You’d better get back to your seat. The plane’s landing in about a quarter of an hour.’
I make my way back to club. Andy’s yet to return. The smell from the colostomy man has dissipated somewhat. Someone must have been through with the perfume bottle again; either that or I’ve got used to it. The captain switches on the seat-belt sign and announces to the cabin crew that we have fifteen minutes to landing. The woman behind me whimpers – clearly turbulence and landing are not her thing. If she knew we were a landing light short and had a bloody wheel missing, she might well want to bail the aircraft altogether. Although a parachute at ten thousand feet is useless, and anyone leaping from this plane would end up in the engines smelling of roast chicken in a matter of seconds.
The cabin crew go through the plane raising all the blinds, letting the daylight in. It’s a rude awakening, bearing in mind it’s nearly three a.m. for the passengers on the flight, though the local time is nearly six a.m.
<
br /> ‘Weird,’ says Andy as he sits back down beside me, fastening his seat belt. ‘I have been queuing for the toilet and I have had to give up. There’s someone locked in there and they’re not coming out.’
‘Maybe it’s the bloke who had his food laced with laxative.’
‘No, I saw him in his seat,’ says Andy. ‘I’ve told Gareth but he doesn’t seem to care. He says we’re landing anyway.’
‘He’s got a lot on,’ I say. ‘Any news from Edith and Sue?’
‘Sue’s got her out of the cupboard; they’re sitting at the back. Edith’s wrapped in a blanket.’
‘Good.’
Gareth comes through to check that all the seats are upright and our tables are put away.
‘Apparently there is still someone in one of the toilets,’ I say.
‘It’s probably stuck,’ he remarks dismissively as he walks on through.
‘Told you,’ says Andy.
‘Cabin crew, take your seats for landing,’ says Richard over the Tannoy.
Only Craig comes to the front to strap himself in the seat in front of us. Edith and Belinda are missing. I close my eyes and pray that it is not the front wheel we’re missing.
3–4 AM
TEN MINUTES LATER we are still circling over Dubai airport. And it’s not the normal sort of gentle horizontal circling that happens as you stack up over London; this is swooping circling, presumably as we buzz air traffic control in the hope that they can spot which one of our wheels is no more. We have gone over about five or six times already so they can’t be getting much of a look.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ asks Andy, looking pasty and sweaty in his seat.
‘I have no idea,’ I lie.
‘It’s not as if we’re approaching fucking London,’ he says. ‘London, you expect this sort of thing. It’s first come first served, but here . . .’
The first come, first served philosophy is one of the pilots’ big irritations about the London approach, particularly if you are coming across the Atlantic. Instead of being able to slow down as you near Ireland, talk to Shannon air traffic control and find out the state of traffic over London, you have to belt it across the pond to ensure your place in the queue, keeping enough fuel on board to be able to circle over the south coast for up to ninety minutes. Land any sooner, and on your last sortie over the south you end up having to dump fuel in order to be light enough to make the runway. The thousands of tons of fuel burnt over London and dumped over the south coast every day is a crime in itself. And it wouldn’t take much to sort it out.
However, the situation we find ourselves in this morning is slightly more urgent. All I can say is that I’m glad we’re not on a 777. The 777 has a camera mounted on the front so the passengers can see take-off and landing. The last time I flew one we developed an engine fire and someone forgot to turn off the camera, so as we came in to land all the passengers got to see the ten fire engines waiting for us on the tarmac. At least this time we are all flying in blissful ignorance. Or at least some of us are.
The plane lurches around again and swoops down over the airport. The woman behind me is whimpering again. Her husband is trying to shut her up. This time I don’t really blame her. I think the whole plane is sensing that something is not quite right. Even Craig is starting to look puzzled.
‘Do you have any idea what is going on?’ asks Rachel from across the aisle. ‘It’s never difficult to get into Dubai. I can’t feel a crosswind or anything.’
‘I’m sure we’ll be fine,’ I lie again. There really is nothing else to say.
The plane goes around again. It stutters slightly. Everyone looks at one another.
‘I’m not liking this at all,’ says Andy. The coke and the alcohol are clearly getting the better of him. ‘My heart is going ten to the fucking dozen and I’m feeling sick.’
‘Try and breathe slowly,’ I say. ‘Calm down, you don’t want to hyperventilate.’
‘I think I’m having a heart attack,’ he says. ‘I feel like I’m fucking dying.’
‘You’re not. It’s the cocktail you’ve taken and the fact that you’re a bit tense and tired.’
‘A bit tense?’ he says. ‘I’m fucking shitting it.’
The woman behind starts mumbling ‘Oh my God, oh my God’ over and over again as we descend towards the runway. It seems that Richard has decided to go for it. Maybe the tower has identified which wheel we have missing, maybe they haven’t. The faster and lower we descend, the more I grip my chair, the more I hope and pray it’s not the front wheel.
‘Hold on,’ I turn and whisper to Andy.
‘What?’ he says, his white face turning towards me.
‘When we hit the ground,’ I say, ‘just hold on tight.’
‘I knew it! There is something wrong!’ He closes his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ . . .’
I look out of the colostomy man’s window and see the radar tower and the ground rapidly approaching. I think of Sue and hope that she is well strapped in at the back, or that she is, by some slim chance, over the wings somewhere – the safest part of a plane.
The plane hits the ground. The woman behind me screams. Andy yelps. I grit my teeth and wait for the screech of metal, the crash, the bumps, the swerving fuselage, the smell of burning and the yell of sirens. Instead, there is nothing. In fact, the plane lands so beautifully it’s as if it has floated down and ended up gently skating on ice. There is no bounce, no swerve, no leaving of the tarmac at all. We have one of the smoothest rides in I’ve ever experienced.
‘Oh,’ says Andy, looking surprised and relieved.
‘Thank God,’ exhales the woman behind me.
A ripple of applause flows up from the back of the plane.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Welcome to Dubai where the local time is twenty past six in the morning and the temperature is already twenty-eight degrees. Due to the tailwind we encountered coming over the desert we are a little early but we shall be taxiing up to the terminal in the next few minutes, where we will disembark the plane. I hope that you have enjoyed your flight with us today, and rest assured we will endeavour to get your kit off as soon as we can so you won’t have to hang around the airport.’
I can’t believe it. Having just averted what could possibly have been a disaster Richard has the bravado to remember the ‘get your kit off’ bet that he has with the crew.
Craig gets out of his seat, giving me the thumbs up. ‘Nice one.’ He grins, nodding his head. ‘A quick CPA and we’re off!’
The plane finally grinds to a halt and the bloke behind me is straight out of his seat and rootling around in the overhead locker. The captain has yet to turn off the ‘fasten seat belt’ sign, but no-one seems to care. Craig is too busy checking his personal appearance, Edith is up at the back of the plane, and Belinda is obviously detained elsewhere.
Finally, the bell sounds and we are all released. We are hit by a cacophony of clicking belts, snapping lockers and bleeping of reactivated mobile phones.
‘I think we should sit here and wait for the whole plane to leave,’ I suggest to Andy, ‘and get the crew bus.’
‘What?’ he exhales, turning to look at me like a man who has just been to the brink and back.
‘Wait and get the crew bus?’
‘Oh, yeah. Absolutely.’
Doors are switched to manual, the steps arrive, and Craig opens the plane door. A surreal bright light pours into the plane, as does a cleansing blast of fresh air. All the passengers are standing, clutching their hand luggage and duty-free bags, queuing down the right aisle, jostling slightly, all eager to get off.
Craig stands to one side, indicating that they are now allowed to disembark. The first-class passengers come through ahead of the others. The sheikh and his wives look untouched by the flight; by contrast, the boy band look as if they have all been run over. The lead singer says goodbye to Craig and has the decency to look slightly sheepish. He looks down the plane but Andy doesn’t even bot
her to flirt. He must be feeling terrible.
Next to leave is club. The agitated businessman is the first out, having managed to make it to the front of the queue without anyone noticing. He is rapidly followed by the whimpering woman and her exhausted husband. The colostomy man also shuffles past, as does the princess, the child puker and his unfortunate victims, both of whom, rather amazingly, say thank you to Craig.
The passengers in economy then start pouring forth from all sides. They come up Andy’s aisle and cut across through the galley in their attempt to exit the plane more quickly. The irate laxative bloke is so exhausted by his flight he doesn’t even have the energy to be rude to Craig as he leaves the plane. I see Andy’s ex-shag who he downgraded, plus the doctor who tried to save the fat cardiac patient’s life, and the couple who shagged across most of Europe. Eventually it’s just the last dribs and drabs who are weaving their way up the aisle. The active homosexuals are the last to leave. They appear a lot quieter and more respectable then they did in the drunken half light at the back of the plane. They all walk out with their faces down, avoiding eye contact with anyone, obviously feeling a whole lot less witty at this hour of the morning.
‘That it?’ asks Craig.
‘Yup,’ calls Tom from the other end of the plane.
‘Thank fuck for that.’ Craig yawns expansively and stretches his arms above his head. ‘What a fucking flight!’
‘Yes, well,’ says Gareth, walking down the aisle, ‘it’s not over yet. There’s something blocking that toilet at the back of club.’
‘Do you want me to try to get it open?’ I offer.
‘Would you?’ asks Gareth, sounding hassled for the first time on the flight. ‘There’s so much to do, to clear up here; there’s the corpse to get out, and I’m not sure if Angela has bonded the bar correctly. The last thing I need is a whole load of alcohol to go missing from the plane.’
I understand his anxiety. Bonding the bar, or sealing it all back up again in the correct order with the right numbered seals and documents, is a vital part of the flight attendant’s job and it is all supposed to be done before the plane touches down. Since no duty has been paid on any of the alcohol, it has to be under lock and key as soon as it’s no longer in the air. It comes from a bonded warehouse and must remain bonded when it is not flying. Every bar is the same size and they all slot into the drinks trolleys. There can be as many as forty bonded blocks on a long-distance flight.
Air Babylon Page 27