Just as I get up to go and check the toilet, the captain comes through, looking pleased with himself.
‘Good landing,’ I say to him. ‘So it wasn’t our wheel after all?’
‘Oh, it was,’ he says. ‘Just one of those at the side.’
‘Oh, right. So they spotted it from the tower, then?’
‘No, they couldn’t see a thing, but we had to come down eventually.’ He smiles. ‘Couldn’t stay up there all day, now could we?’
‘Um, no,’ I say as the magnitude of the gamble he’s just taken hits home. ‘I suppose not.’
‘So, right,’ says Richard, nice and loudly, rubbing his hands together, ‘where’s the party?’
‘We’ve got a few things to sort first,’ says Gareth from the other end of the plane.
‘Right behind you, Gareth, right behind you,’ declares Richard, walking off the other way.
I walk towards the toilet and try to push the door open. It appears to be locked from the inside. I take a pen out of my pocket and slide it in next to the lock. Pushing the metal panel to one side, I peer through the gap. Inside there appears to be a man sitting slumped on the toilet.
‘Gareth!’ I yell. ‘There seems to be someone in here.’
‘Oh shit, no,’ he says, walking towards me. ‘Here,’ he says, rattling around in his pocket and producing a passkey. He turns the lock and together we kick open the door. We both stand back. ‘Oh shit,’ he says. ‘Not another one.’
Sitting on the toilet with his trousers round his ankles and a syringe stuck in his groin is a young man. His white face lolls to one side, his eyes are nearly closed, his mouth is hanging open, one of his tattooed arms hangs limply to one side, and the other is holding the needle.
‘D’you think he’s dead?’ I ask.
‘I would imagine so,’ says Gareth, leaning over to check the man’s pulse. ‘He’s dead,’ he announces. ‘Jesus! What a mess.’
‘I can’t believe one of us didn’t notice him going in,’ I say.
‘I can,’ replies Gareth. ‘We had quite a lot going on.’
‘I suppose. Who do you think it is?’
‘No idea,’ says Gareth, shaking his head. ‘D’you know, in the twenty years I have been doing this, this is only the second smack death I’ve had.’
‘Really?’
‘I once caught two queens sharing a crack pipe in the toilets, but I thought that smack thing was over, an eighties thing – Boy George and all that. Didn’t he take heroin on a plane?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘There was some journalist who took it on Tony Blair’s plane, wasn’t there?’
‘Oh yeah, I vaguely remember that. So,’ Gareth says, trying to get some sort of a grip, ‘two corpses to deal with. Oh well,’ he says, slowly turning to smile at me. ‘Looks like I’m going to be a bit late for the party.’
‘I could stay behind and help if you like.’
‘Nah,’ he says. ‘You’re not on duty, and anyway, I know all the guys here at the airport. It will be much quicker if I do it on my own.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘I’m very sure. You haven’t travelled all this way to work, and you’re the best mate of the birthday boy. We wouldn’t want to ruin his day, now would we?’
‘OK then.’
‘Listen, you lot,’ says Gareth, talking to the whole plane. ‘The crew bus should be here by now. Leave me to deal with all this shit and I’ll join you later.’ A loud whoop of joy and a round of applause ring out around the plane. ‘Off you go then,’ he says. ‘Except you, Angela. You can stay and learn something. Your baptism of fire may as well continue.’
Like rats leaving a sinking ship, Andy, Craig, Rachel, Tom, me and the rest of the crew hotfoot it off the plane and into the waiting minibus. It’s early morning but the sun is out and the air is warming up. I wish I had thought to bring my sunglasses. I also wish I didn’t feel so tired, disorientated and really rather sick.
The driver starts up his engine and a rattle of glass miniature bottles comes from at least two of the wheelie suitcases above my head.
‘Are we not going to wait for Belinda, Sue and Edith?’ asks Rachel, looking around the bus.
‘No,’ says Craig. ‘They’re getting that car.’ He points to a Mercedes on the tarmac.
The bus door closes, and as we head off I see Sue and Edith coming down the steps of the plane. Edith is hunched over and covered in a blanket; Sue has an arm wrapped around her. Belinda walks slowly behind.
‘Is Sue coming along later?’ I ask.
‘Woooo,’ says Andy, leaning over the back of his chair like a teenager. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be along in a bit.’
I sit back in my chair and stare out of the window. I am too old and too tired for this.
‘OK,’ says Tom, getting out of his chair, standing in the aisle and shaking a mineral water bottle full of orange liquid above his head. ‘Who’s for some Bus?’
A lethal mixture of champagne, Cointreau, brandy and orange juice, a Bus is a cocktail specifically mixed for the journey from the plane to the terminal. It’s almost guaranteed to get you wasted before you disembark.
‘Wicked!’ says Andy. ‘When did you mix that?’
‘On the flight,’ grins Tom. ‘Want some?’
‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ he replies.
The bottle of Bus is handed around and everyone takes a swig. By the time it gets to me it is warm and full of crew spittle, but I can’t refuse. I take a mouthful to a round of applause. My eyes water as I struggle to get it down. Jesus Christ it’s strong. I cough, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and look up. The world is suddenly a brighter-looking place.
‘All right there, mate?’ asks Tom, patting my knee.
‘Fine,’ I say, finally inhaling. ‘Happy birthday, Andy.’
‘Yeah,’ says Tom. ‘Happy birthday, Andy.’
The bus pulls up outside the terminal to a terrible bleating rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, and the crew tumble out. We collect our bags, carriers and rucksacks and make our way through the building. All the female flight attendants have changed back into their high-heeled shoes and are giving it some swagger as they weave their way through the airport. None of our passports or bags is checked; in fact, as we go through, Customs could not seem less interested. Their only reaction is to smile when one of the girls gives them a wave. I follow the group out of the airport and into the sunshine. We walk out to the left across some tarmac and file like a school party into another waiting vehicle. On the short ten-minute journey to the five-star hotel we finish off the cocktail.
Once inside the hotel, no-one bothers to check in. Instead we follow Tom, in a well-behaved crocodile. He is, after all, a man who looks like he knows where he’s going. He stops and knocks loudly on a door towards the back of reception. A high-pitched collective scream replies. He knocks loudly again. The door is flung open. The smell of cigarettes and alcohol is overpowering, as is the sound of Britney Spears.
‘Welcome to Sodom and Gomorrah!’ Tom grins, waving us through the door. ‘Have a nice day.’
4–5 AM
WALKING INTO THE crew room at our Dubai hotel is a bit like entering Dante’s first circle. Given entirely over to bad behaviour, this small lounge on the ground floor is the hotel’s way of discouraging the crew from holding parties in their bedrooms. It’s always full of anyone who is up for it. It doesn’t matter what time of day or night it is, there’s always a hardcore gang of party animals passing through on their way to or from Australia, Singapore or Bangkok, and there are always enough of them to make sure that the blinds are drawn, the music is shoutingly loud, the air stinks of fag smoke and there are empty booze bottles spinning all over the floor.
Today, there are some seven or eight flight attendants who have flown in from various destinations all over the world, and who have obviously been caning it for some time.
‘Andy!’ screams one blonde as she rushes over and wraps herself around him. She has a
cigarette in one hand and a cocktail in the other. Her white shirt is unbuttoned, and she has tied her red and white striped scarf around her head like a bandanna and hitched up her navy blue uniform skirt. ‘Hello there, birthday boy!’ she purrs as she rubs herself up against him and kisses him on the lips with a wet, glossy, open mouth. ‘Welcome to Dubai.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ says Andy, wiping her saliva off his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Who the hell is that?’ I whisper in his ear.
‘No fucking idea,’ he says, a large grin on his face.
‘Right! Cocktail time!’ yells Craig, waving a bottle of rum in the air. ‘Who’s brought the rest, as requested?’
‘I’ve got the pineapple juice,’ says Tom, hauling six cartons of the stuff, obviously lifted from the plane, out of his suitcase.
‘Coconut milk!’ declares some bloke from the earlier arrivals.
‘And cream!’ shouts another.
‘Pina coladas, here we come!’ shouts Craig, pulling out a plastic water bottle to double as a cocktail shaker. ‘I love it when a plan comes together.’
‘Here, love,’ says the half-undressed blonde girl, pulling out a large bowl from under the desk, ‘why don’t you mix it in here?’
Craig sets about his brewing like a scientist on the verge of a discovery while Andy and Tom merge with the rest of the group. Rachel is hanging back slightly. She comes and stands next to me.
‘Jesus,’ she says, ‘where have all this lot come from?’
‘I have no idea, but they certainly mean business.’
‘You can say that again.’
She and I stand on the sidelines, clearly contemplating our next moves. Craig pours the whole bottle of rum into the bowl plus the cream, coconut milk and pineapple, and looks up.
‘Shit,’ he says, trying to shout above the music. ‘I’ve got nothing to stir this with.’
‘Hang on,’ yells the blonde. ‘Back in a sec.’
She disappears off to the other side of the room and opens up her suitcase. After a few minutes she returns with an enormous red dildo which, when she switches it on, starts to curl around in a circular motion and vibrate.
‘How about this?’ she suggests to Craig, who looks momentarily floored. ‘It’s clean,’ she adds. ‘Scrubbed it myself.’
Craig hesitates. ‘Hang on there!’ shouts some bloke, putting both his hands in the air. The whole party slowly grinds to a halt and turns to stare at Craig as he makes his decision. Then, to rapturous and raucous applause, he takes the large red vibrator and thrusts it straight into the cocktail. It seems to work quite nicely. After a few turns with it around the bowl, Craig loses his inhibitions.
‘Can you make it go faster?’ he enquires. ‘It would be good to get some foam.’
‘Foam is good,’ purrs the girl, taking hold of the big red cock and giving it an expert tug.
‘Foam is always good,’ confirms Craig, maintaining eye contact with the blonde as he dips his finger into the cocktail and sucks it. She smiles. ‘Do you want some?’ She smiles more broadly as he repeats the dipping process and offers her his finger to suck instead. The blonde obliges. She looks like an obliging kind of girl.
Suddenly, there’s a loud screeching noise coming from a nearby room. The glass fire door bangs open and two girls, half naked, wet and covered in bubbles, tumble into the middle of the room. They are chased by a totally naked man, also covered in bubbles, who appears to be rather excited by the game. They collapse on top of one another and roll around on the floor, covering the grey carpet tiles in water and frothed-up bath gel.
‘Get off, get off, get off!’ shouts one girl, laughing and patting her naked bosom, trying to remove the man’s groping hands.
‘Help! Help!’ screams the other woman as the bloke attempts to pull off her soaking wet skirt.
‘For Christsake, someone help me!’ the naked man says as he collapses onto the floor, spent after all this horseplay.
‘Who’s that?’ I ask a steward who is standing next to me, swigging a small bottle of Baileys.
‘Our first officer,’ says the attendant. ‘He’s married with two children. But I think he’s just pulled off a threesome in the shower.’
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘Not bad going for a man who’d sworn off hosties two months ago.’
‘No,’ I agree. ‘Not bad going at all.’
The lounge door opens and Susan walks in. She looks exhausted as she stands in the entrance, taking in the naked man frotting the hosties and Craig stirring his cocktail with a vibrator. I am about to go over and take hold of her hand to escort her out of the room to somewhere altogether quieter and more salubrious when she smiles, claps her hands and walks over to Craig to demand a drink. I look at Rachel and she looks at me. We walk up to the bowl and do the same.
‘You OK?’ I ask Susan as I take a sip of my drink. It tastes sweet, creamy, very alcoholic and vaguely rubbery.
‘Not too bad,’ she says. ‘Edith’s in a terrible state. I’ve left Gareth to look after her. Apparently there’s some crew liaison officer over here who knows Edith and who wants to help.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ I say, taking another sip of my cocktail. It doesn’t taste so bad second time around.
‘I’m just glad she’s got a mate here to look after her,’ says Susan, knocking back half the contents of her plastic beaker. ‘I really need a few drinks.’
‘This isn’t too bad,’ says Rachel, waving her beaker in Sue’s face. ‘Bearing in mind it has been mixed with a sex toy.’
‘I think it makes it taste better,’ replies Sue. She finishes her drink and turns to me. ‘Who are all these people?’
I talk her through what little I know of the crew, including the few intimate facts about the first officer on the floor.
‘I think I know him,’ she says, turning her head to one side to take a closer look. ‘I might have flown with him before. Although it’s hard to tell without his uniform.’
Someone changes the music from Britney to a dance album and a few of the early arrivals take to the chairs and a table to express themselves fully. Andy and Tom go into the back room together to, I presume, take more drugs.
‘Have you been to this crew room before?’ I ask Sue.
‘Once,’ she says, ‘about six months ago. But I normally stop over in Abu Dhabi if I’m coming this way. Or I’m straight through to Singapore.’
‘How about you?’ I ask the Baileys-drinking steward next to me, who introduces himself as Mark.
‘All the bloody time,’ he says. ‘But you know, if you’re in a place for twelve or twenty-four hours and you’ve seen all it has to offer over a hundred times already, what else is there left to do but play stupid drinking games?’
‘I suppose so. What else is there to do here other than shop and tan and maybe take a trip into the desert?’
‘Oh God,’ he says, finishing his Baileys and scrabbling around on the long table of miniatures behind me for another. ‘Don’t mention the bloody desert. Been there twice, got stuck in the sand twice. You only come back looking like her.’ He points across the room at a girl with a scarlet face and virulent pink stripes down her legs. She appears to be having great difficulty moving both her arms. ‘She fell asleep in the desert yesterday, and now not even a bloody skin graft can save her. I don’t know how she’s going to work the flight tomorrow. She can’t bend down to pick anything up her legs are so burnt.’ He laughs and cracks open another bottle of Baileys. ‘Oh no,’ he adds, turning conspiratorially towards me, ‘here comes trouble.’
I face the door to see Richard, the captain, walk in.
Dressed in an orange Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, he appears to have gone up to his room to shower and change before coming in here.
‘Trouble?’ I ask Mark. ‘Richard?’
‘Fuck yeah,’ he says. ‘Last time I flew with him he shagged three hosties on a four-night stopover.’
‘Richard?’
�
��Yeah. He did two of them in one night. We had some party in his room and they both stayed behind at the end. He didn’t know which one to choose so he did both of them while watching Robert Palmer Night on MTV.’
‘He’s a dark horse,’ I say.
‘He’s not the worst by any means,’ says Mark, taking out a cigarette and sparking it up. ‘Do you want one?’
‘Thanks,’ I say, tucking in.
‘The last week-long stopover I did the captain had five,’ says Mark. ‘I think that takes some beating. But we did sort of get our revenge.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘We got him so pissed that he passed out. We put him on a room-service trolley, stark naked, tied a luggage label around his cock, put him in the lift and pressed the button for ground-floor reception. He went up and down a few times before the hotel staff got so pissed off that they woke him and sent him to his room. He had to fly the plane the next day. Somehow he did it. He must have had the hangover from hell. I imagine he was on autopilot the whole way home.’
The music grows louder and the table dancing gets more and more frenetic, some people leaping from chair to chair. Craig shouts something along the lines that the pina colada needs replenishing and two girls walk across the room with their wheelie bags and start filling the bowl with their collection of randomly stolen spirits. The half-dressed blonde stirs the mixture with the red dildo while Craig puts his hand up her skirt. His cocktail is ruined but no-one is sober enough to care, least of all Craig, who at the last count was two tequila shots, one Bus and three pina coladas in.
‘All right?’ says Andy, shaking his shoulders at me in some weird dance move, then pausing for a second to belch. ‘Tom’s going to try to get together a small group to go skinny-dipping.’
‘What, now?’ I ask, finishing my drink and pouring myself a slops cocktail. ‘It’s far too early, surely?’
Air Babylon Page 28