Section One

Static.

-But it's all safe it's all safe it's been proven statistically proven it's as safe as houses safer in fact one chance in a million no chance at all really so come on get a grip get a grip don't be so soft you can do it you can do it but when's it gonna happen when's it gonna happen when are we gonna move let's get up there please God let it be soon!

Static.

-It's quite simple really we go up and then we go down up and down nothing simpler no problems no problems at all nothing to it no problems with flying the only problem's with hitting the ground don't say that you cretin don't tempt fate there is no problem is there is there moron moron don't be such a pathetic bag of jelly OK but let's get this thing off the ground let's just go!

Static.

-Oh I give up. She smoothed condensation away from the window. Gazed out across the wing. A catering van, looking like it was carved in metal, stationary as a statue, yelled its identity at her in brash expanding and fading letters. No sign of life. Nobody was delivering anything or collecting anything or checking anything or maintaining anything or announcing anything -WHY THE HELL AREN'T WE MOVING?
She spread her palms across the thighs of her jeans and gripped. Tightly. Closed her eyes. The unused headphones dug into her neck.
The engines started up. They huffed and puffed and growled. Her seat started to vibrate. Her legs were stiff. Every muscle felt drawn-out and tightened.
The van curved out of sight without moving.
A crescendo of engine noise had an echo in an accelerando of movement. Her hands were now shaking slightly.
The whole cabin now seemed to shake.
She had the sensation that the plane was sucking up the tarmac and blowing it back out behind it. It was all-devouring. It was the last flight to anywhere.
Almost-inaudible voices droned around her. There was an incom-prehensible mime-show performed by uniformed flunkies which entailed much pointing and much pulling on cups attached to rubber tubes like enema bags and much putting-on of luminous yellow waistcoats and
The flunkies disappeared.
Then her head was flung back as the nose of the plane tilted up, a huge rake-angle, and her stomach bounced inside her as the metal big-bird did a squat thrust into the skies.
She clutched at the hand next to her. A layer of clamminess - hers - lay trapped between their two palms.
They levelled out. Engines droned. Chatter lobbed up and sub-sided.
A plateau reached. All together. Pitched in a ton-weight of metal on a stream of vapour five miles above the ground.
Her stomach yo-yoed slowly back to

Static.
The comatose numbness subsided. The "No Smoking" lights went off. There was an anvil chorus of released seat-belt buckles. She glanced at the person next to her. Looked into her eyes. Thank God it was a woman. Middle-aged. Italian? Kindly smile.
She released her hand. She looked at the woman's fingers and saw that they bore the nail-marks of her clench. "Sorry. I'm really sorry. Did I do that?"
"Yes. But don't worry about it. It doesn't really hurt. And it will go soon.
"I'm sorry. Sorry. It's just that I get a little - nervous."
The woman smiled. "A little? I should say a lot, my dear."
"Yes, well, I'm not very used to flying. I just can't get used to it."
The woman smiled again. "Can't get used to it? Have you flown much, then?"
"Well, yes, in some ways I have, I suppose. But not often. Sorry, that sounds really stupid... What I mean is... Well, for instance, I've flown all the way to India. Hated every minute of it."
"The flying?"
"Yes, the flying. Yeah. The flying. And not just the taking-off and landing. The whole journey." She paused and took a deep breath. Traced her finger through the condensation again. "I mean, I get the impression that most people might get nervous when they take-off and land but then they just get bored with the bit in be-tween. But me, I still just get very nervous. I suppose that's why they have meals and videos and short-circuit radio or whatever they call it to keep us sedated and then you get the progress re-ports from the second-in-command, whatever he's called, you know the sort of thing 'we're now cruising at 35,000 feet - the weather - seasonally adjusted - is very balmy for the time of year and if those of you on the left-hand side of the plane care to look down, you can see the entire Swiss Alps Mountain Rescue Team trying to drag off the would-be first person to ascend Annurpurna backwards in a tin-bath pulled by blind dogs for the guides whilst whistling "Jesus wants me for a sunbeam" without pausing for breath' and then you always get..." She looked down. The woman was patting her hand. "I'm sorry, I'm talking absolute drivel, aren't I?"
The woman's eyes twinkled. "Don't worry, my dear. We all get nervous. We just show it in different ways."
"Do we? Do you get nervous?"
The woman shrugged her shoulders. "Well, not much any more, I suppose," she said. "But then, I've been travelling backwards and forwards every year between Manchester and Naples for as long as I can remember."
"So is that where you come from - Naples?"
"Yes. Many years ago. But I live in England now. Mio marito - my husband - is English. But I go back to see the family at least twice a year. Where are you going?"
"Me? Oh, to Naples as well."
"To stay?"
She scratched an itch between her eyebrows and looked down. "Well, only for a couple of weeks or so probably."
This time, the woman laughed out loud. "I'm sorry. this time I am not communicating very well. What I meant was, 'are you staying in Naples itself?' Most people don't, you see: they don't think the city has anything to offer. They go to the airport and then they go off to Sorrento or Amalfi and go on day-trips to Pompeii or Vesuvius from there and then go home again."
"Oh, I see. No, no, Naples is the limit of my horizon at the moment. I've got business to attend to there." Still looking down, she started to play with her seat-belt buckle. She glanced across at the woman, who smiled politely, nodded her head, put on her spectacles and picked up the in-flight magazine. -Business to attend to, eh? -Was that a piece of conversational bait? -If so, she hasn't taken it.
She reached down and pulled her rucksack from underneath the seat in front of her. At the same time, she tapped the life-jacket under her own seat, just to check it was there. -Have we done all that - all those safety checks and things? -Suppose we must have. Superstitiously, she glanced through the pictures on the plasti-cised emergency procedure card, then opened the rucksack, took out a folder, removed some stapled sheets of paper, and started to read.

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