by Chris Wheat
She glanced at Zeynep’s safety instruction card. It had the same smiling cabin crew as on most safety instruction cards, although the illustration suggested that the plane’s tail was on fire.
‘What if there are too many morbidly obese passengers on board?’ Zeynep whispered. ‘They weighed our luggage, but they didn’t weigh us.’ She unclipped her seatbelt and stood up, darting looks of concern up and down the cabin.
‘Sit down!’
She sat. ‘Chelsea, it says: Subtly, every aeroplane is different.
Shouldn’t they all be identical? Why are they all different?’
‘Get a grip, Zeynep,’ Chelsea snapped.
‘There are only eighteen seconds of useful consciousness if the cabin loses pressure at forty thousand feet. Is this the cabin?’
‘Don’t even read that thing.’ Chelsea tried to snatch it away.
They were now beginning to taxi and Zeynep, still clutching the safety instruction card, closed her eyes.
Chelsea took the Phoenix Air in-flight magazine from the seat pocket and opened it to an article on Mildura’s nightspots.
Zeynep had begun to wave a hand in the air, trying to attract one of the cabin crew.
Chelsea pushed it down. ‘What’s wrong, Zeynep? Put your hand down. This isn’t school.’
It was too late: a member of the cabin crew was approaching. He was rather handsome.
‘Is the plane going to fly over water?’ Zeynep asked him.
‘For a few minutes. Most of the time we’re over land,’ he answered with a reassuring smile.
‘Shouldn’t we have parachutes then?’
He smiled again; he had excellent teeth. ‘Phoenix Air has a perfect safety record.’
‘That wouldn’t be hard,’ Chelsea pointed out. ‘You’ve only been flying for eight months!’
He frowned.
‘We should fly over water all the way if we’ve got life jackets,’
Zeynep persisted. ‘Otherwise there should be parachutes.’
Chelsea slapped a hand over her friend’s mouth and shook her head at the man. ‘She’s a bit anxious about flying,’ she explained, rolling her eyes at him. ‘This is only her second time on a plane. Do you have any tranquillisers?’
He ignored her. ‘I think you’d have to ask the captain about our flight plan,’ he said to Zeynep. ‘It would prolong the flight time if we flew over water all the way.’ He turned to go.
‘Do air pockets go right down to the ground?’
The steward was frowning again. He shook his head. ‘I’ve experienced many air pockets. You’ve been on a roller-coaster?
It’s much like that. Quite exhilarating.’
Zeynep wasn’t convinced. ‘I haven’t been on a rollercoaster.’
‘Very strict parents,’ Chelsea explained. ‘Zey, try to think of something pleasant. Think of Angelo. Read this magazine.
Look, a story about Adelaide’s churches: very informative, even for a Muslim.’ Chelsea waved the in-flight magazine in Zeynep’s face.
There was an announcement and the steward left. He joined the other cabin crew a little further along the aisle to demonstrate the safety procedures. Chelsea returned to the magazine, but Zeynep went suddenly into a brace position, then reached up to fiddle with the panels above her head, trying to find the oxygen mask. At the demonstration’s conclusion she seemed to be doing deep-breathing exercises.
The sound of the plane’s engine changed as the pilot prepared for take-off. Chelsea’s grabbed Zeynep’s hand. It was damp with anxiety. ‘Think of Angelo holding you tenderly in his arms … think of his ball-handling skills … think—’
‘What if a pelican gets sucked into the engine?’
‘Look, relax. Everyone else is relaxed. There’ll be something to watch soon.’ Then Chelsea had a brainwave. ‘What if they let you clean this plane?’
Zeynep opened her eyes. ‘Now?’
‘No, hypothetically. Imagine cleaning it. That will keep you distracted.’
The plane was taxiing fast, and the engine noise had risen.
Zeynep’s grip increased. Then the nose of the plane suddenly lifted, and they were off the tarmac and rising rapidly.
‘It’s okay. We’re up now. See, it’s fun.’
Zeynep let go of Chelsea’s hand, undid her seatbelt and leant forward to put her hands under her seat.
‘What are you doing?’ Chelsea exclaimed. ‘You have to leave your seatbelt on!’
‘I bet the pilot has a parachute.’
‘Shhh! You don’t know how to make a parachute jump anyway.’
‘Stop the plane!’ Zeynep gasped. ‘I don’t like this.’
‘It’s not a bus. Wouldn’t it be fun to vacuum this plane? What about vacuuming the whole Sydney terminal?’
‘Shut up!’ Zeynep began groaning as the plane bulldozed into clouds then lurched, then rose, then sank. ‘I’m going to be sick.’
‘No. Put on your headphones.’
Zeynep gripped Chelsea’s hand again and stared out the window in horror. Chelsea adjusted her friend’s headset and clipped her back into the seat. Once she was lulled by the dialogue in Everybody Loves Raymond she’d be fine, although her head was now lolling against the headrest as though she was drunk.
Chelsea decided to ignore her and turned to an article on the wine regions of the Barossa Valley, Shiraz Pizzazz. Then an article about Tamsin Court-Cookson’s mother – and there was Tamsin with her.
‘Look. Tamsin Court-Cookson. Ex-friend. That’s her mother.
In Year 7, she turned up at my party in a yellow dress and her mother’s earrings, then spent the afternoon wrestling with one of the help’s daughters! Quelle horreur! I ran a survey, and she was unanimously voted the most inappropriately dressed girl in Year 7. She can’t forgive. That’s why she rescued me. It was just a failed attempt to humiliate me.’
Chelsea looked at Zeynep. It was useless; she was taking no notice. Chelsea returned to the magazine but was interrupted by the unpleasant sound of ripping velcro.
‘What are you doing now?’
‘Checking the life jacket.’
‘Leave it. You’re not allowed to remove it.’
‘Really? So what if we crash? I want to see if it works.’
‘It works. Put it back!’
‘I’m going to the toilet.’
Zeynep stood up. She had a yellow package in her hand.
Chelsea let her go. Zeynep disappeared up the aisle. There were important things to think about. The formal was at the top of her list. She had organised the ticketing with Josh and his boyfriend; Khiem and Craig were in charge of all things film-related; and she had been assured by the Board that the unstable headmistress of Mary Magdalene had been safely sedated in a secure rest clinic. The security was being organised by the federal police because Tamsin Court-Cookson might attend.
The music, which she was a little concerned about, was being organised by the boys at St Ethelred’s, who were notoriously slack, but she’d spoken to their head boy, Fraser Murray, and he’d assured her that not a note of the Nutbush, Time Warp, Hokey-Pokey or Bus Stop would be heard. She had also organised Joshua Yeatman’s brother’s band as a backup and reminded them that they would be playing at an absolutely top school and weren’t to take their shirts off or yell out things like eat the rich.
She had considered barring Matilda Grey, but it would be too much fun to see her there with Angelo Tarano, so she’d resisted that overwhelming temptation. All that was left for her to do was write her speech and look gorgeous.
She’d turned up the volume on her iPod, closed her eyes and begun to sing softly when there was a tap on her shoulder. She opened her eyes and looked up, hoping it was the gorgeous steward, but it was Zeynep. And she was wearing the life jacket.
And it was inflated.
‘I can’t get it off!’
Two frowning cabin crew, a man and a woman, were striding up the aisle. Chelsea considered closing her eyes and pretending t
o be asleep.
‘What seems to be the problem, miss?’ said the man.
‘I can’t get the life jacket off.’
‘You’re not supposed to have it on.’
‘She has high levels of anxiety,’ Chelsea explained. ‘But she’s quite harmless.’
The other steward was checking the passenger manifest. ‘Is your name Zeynep Yarkan?’
Zeynep nodded. Chelsea could see that her friend was becoming teary.
‘She’s a bit anxious at the moment. No way is she a terrorist.
You don’t have to worry. She’s just nervous about a crash.’
Both the steward and the stewardess were frowning.
‘I’m going to have to ask you both to accompany me to the front of the plane,’ said the steward.
‘Don’t be ridiculous – she’s never hurt a flea.’
The female flight attendant was looking very intolerant.
‘If you wouldn’t mind accompanying us right now,’ she said sternly.
‘She’s not a threat. You can’t treat her like a terrorist on the basis of her name. That’s racist.’
The man grimaced. ‘Those sorts of remarks are not appropriate,’ he said sternly.
‘This wouldn’t happen on Qantas!’ Chelsea shouted.
‘Terrorist?’ said the passenger across the aisle with a hint of anxiety.
Zeynep turned to him. ‘I was just trying on the life jacket to make sure it works. It isn’t a bomb.’
‘Bomb!’ cried the woman sitting next to him.
‘This is ridiculous! She’s a young woman with obsessivecompulsive disorder; that’s a life jacket, not a bomb! ’ Chelsea announced loudly to everyone in the vicinity.
A number of people stood up suddenly, and someone screamed.
‘Get the captain and I’ll explain!’ ordered Chelsea as she noticed another member of the cabin crew running towards them.
Both the steward and the stewardess were now on walkietalkies.
The steward running up the aisle suddenly pulled a gun from his jacket. Several people dived out of his way, and others crouched. There was now a great deal of screaming and yelling.
‘Tackle her!’ someone called.
The steward fired.
Zeynep shrieked, gasped, and fell heavily into the aisle. She bounced on her life jacket, then she rolled over and was motionless. The cabin crew jumped on her and bound her hands and legs with duct tape.
‘You’ve killed her?’ Chelsea screamed.
‘I’m the air marshal. We’ve tazered her with fifty thousand volts. Nothing to be concerned about, miss,’ he said, then turned to the other passengers. ‘There’s no reason for alarm, ladies and gentleman. We have her subdued. The federal police have been informed, and they’ll be waiting at Melbourne Airport. Relax and enjoy your flight.’
A WHOLE LOT WEIRDER
Wayward Rookie Detained at Airport
Angelo Tarano is escorted from Melbourne Airport by federal police.
Photo supplied by airline passenger.
Angelo Tarano, young Hobart Cockatoos recruit and acclaimed young Cocka toos star, was whisked away from Melbourne Airport by federal police yesterday afternoon for questioning. Tarano is the exboyfriend of Zeynep Yarkan, alias Candibelle Brown, the notorious terrorist suspect detained at Melbourne Airpor t yesterday and held by police overnight.
The entire Hobart Cockatoos Football Club is now under a cloud. A spokesperson for the team said that so far as the club knew, Yarkan and Tarano were no longer seeing one another, and that Yarkan acted alone. The troubled Tarano has been romantically linked since late July to Dingo Girl Matilda Grey, who attends Tarano’s school and is currently listed as a Missing Person.
However Yarkan, who was bound and gagged by cabin crew on a flight from Sydney, has now been exposed as the mysterious figure Tarano was sighted kissing in early August in a Melbourne McDonald’s. She was heavily disguised in male clothing, leading to speculation by this paper that Tarano may be gay.
Yarkan is currently being questioned by federal police in Melbourne. Tarano was released yesterday after several hours. Both the federal police and the Attorney- General have declined to comment.
Angelo was staring blankly at the photo of himself when his phone rang. He looked at it, hesitated, then lifted it to his ear. It was Paul Vasilevski from Hobart, of course.
‘Yep.’
‘You’re at home?’
‘Yep.’ He was wagging school.
‘We’ve been contacted by the federal police. You’re cleared, and so is Candibelle.’
‘Zeynep.’
‘Whatever. You’re a bloody twit, aren’t you, son? Lying to us like that. We told you to stay away from her. Trouble with a capital Z.’
‘Sure.’
The police had questioned him for two hours.
‘What’s this about her dressing up like a bloke?’ Paul’s voice had a distinctively don’t fool with me tone to it.
‘She was in disguise. Long story.’
‘Disguise? I thought you told us you didn’t like disguises.’
‘I don’t care if girls dress up as guys. I told you that.’
‘You prefer your girlfriends to dress like males?’
‘No! Why is it any business of yours what kind of girl I like?
Butt out, mate.’ He hung up.
Why not be rude? His football career was definitely over anyway; he’d just hung up before Paul had the chance to say it.
Too bad. The season was over for the Cockies: they were tenth on the ladder. Stuff it all.
Poor Zeynep. She was the one everyone should be worrying about. They’d shot her, not him.
He’d got home from the questioning last night and flipped between Today Tonight and A Current Affair. The Minister for Foreign Affairs had referred to him as a naïve young man and Zeynep as a possible security risk to the nation. They’d shown footage of Zeynep’s mother outside the police station handbagging two reporters, and Chelsea Dean appeared on both programs to say that Zeynep had never been involved in terrorism – but that she could see how the sub-standard service on certain budget airlines may provoke an attack. They’d even interviewed Matilda Grey, who’d said she didn’t like Angelo at all and had changed the subject to airport sniffer dogs.
Zeynep had sent him a text message earlier. Apparently the tazering had not permanently injured her, and the police were not laying charges, but her parents had grounded her for five years. The challenge now would be getting her out of the house. He wasn’t giving her up, ever. No way. She was all he had left.
He phoned Joshua.
‘Josh.’
‘Angelo! Are you okay? I saw you on TV.’
‘I’m going crazy.’
‘Did they torture you?’
‘What?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’
‘Do you want me to come over?’
‘Yeah, I need to talk.’
‘I’m over there.’
Angelo flipped his phone closed. A friend was someone who helped you out without expecting a payback. That was Josh.
His phone rang again.
‘Yeah?’ he answered bleakly.
‘It your Nonno.’
‘Ciao, Nonno.’
‘Cockies is terrorist. You quit. Play man’s game: soccer.’
‘It’s okay. Thanks, Nonno, for ringing. I’m fine.’
‘Come for haircut Saturday. I give you tips like a tiger.’
‘Thanks, Nonno. Maybe. Gotta go.’ He could hear knocking downstairs.
‘Josh,’ he heard his mother say. ‘Yes, go and see him. Have you been running?’
‘They didn’t do a phone-book bashing?’ Josh panted as soon as he entered the room.
Angelo shook his head. ‘They wanted to know everything about Zeynep. The more I told them, the worse it got.’
‘Did you tell them about the shoelace boiling?’
He nodded. ‘They reckon it’s all some code. And then I had to tel
l them about the freaking clown stuff.’
‘Well, the police know you’re not a terrorist and neither is Zey, so you don’t have to worry,’ Josh said. He stared at Better Homes and Gardens. Angelo had the sound turned off. ‘And the Cockies – I suppose it’s too late? But it’s good you didn’t dump Zeynep. She’s been shot,’ he continued.
‘You’re right, man. They can get stuffed. If they really wanted me on the team, they would have accepted Zey.’
The phone went again.
‘It’s them. This is it.’ He felt sick. He’d wanted to be an Afl star since he was five.
‘Yes?’
It was Paul. ‘Angelo, a deal: turn up with Matilda Grey at this social thing your school is having and kiss her for the press, and you can stay with us for next season. With tongue, Angelo. Make it convincing. Her mother just called to say she’s been found; but she’s gone completely feral. Turn up with Candibelle Yarkan – or don’t turn up at all – and you can say goodbye to your footy career forever. This is your last chance. No more games, Tarano. Choose.’
Click.
Angelo groaned and fell back onto the bed.
STRETCHED LIMO
TAMSIN COURT-COOKSON’S mother had been opposed to her daughter attending a social gathering like Chelsea Dean’s. But Tamsin, who argued as logically as her mother did in parliament, had convinced both her parents that she would be safe, and that there would be no bad publicity. Her daughter’s arguments were so persuasive that in the end Mrs Court-Cookson had even considered appearing at the Mary Magdalene function herself. It would have looked very good in the media; however she had been advised not to at the last minute, as she would almost certainly have been upstaged by Matilda Grey.
Mrs Court-Cookson was also opposed to stretched limousines. She said they were vulgar and drew attention to the occupants. Tamsin agreed but argued that they were not meant to be taken seriously. Finally her mother had conceded everything – even the tails and top hat.
The limousine arrived at her house empty. The federal police inspected it carefully, and she was given permission to climb in.
‘What’s this boy’s name?’ her mother asked from the footpath.
‘Craig something,’ she said and threw her hands up with a grin.