‘Incubator’ by Katie McDermott

People die on airplanes. Of course, people die in office blocks and toilet cubicles too, but that doesn’t change the fact that people also die on airplanes. Statistically speaking she is quite safe. But still, it could happen. They could end up like that Malaysian plane. How nice it would be to just disappear and not have to deal with this at all. Or anything else, ever again.

The seat in front of her shudders then jerks back, the lurid Ryanair yellow less than an inch from her nose. Sitting back, away from the imposition, she stares out the window. Rivulets of rain cut down the pane.

Nations mourn air tragedies. There is no such thing as a private plane crash. People empathise, sympathise, make accommodations for the survivors: counselling, a warm smile, a bottomless cup of tea. She is not sure this sympathy would extend to her.

The seat belt clicks over her lap. Snug. The last person to sit here was a lot thinner than her. She is happy with her body the way it is. Shuffling in the seat, she tries to make herself smaller. One must fit exactly in the provided box. They say one in ten women have been in her situation. Why then does she feel so scared? The omnipresent they had so many opinions about her, shoulds and shouldn’ts and unverified facts. In every corner lurks a they, ready to pounce. Sucking her stomach in for an extended period proves too difficult, every lapse in concentration results in the seat belt biting into her, hungry. Giving up, she loosens it.

‘Please make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and your seat is in an upright position. We will be departing shortly.’ The intercom barks and buzzes.

She sighs as the plane stutters out of the gate, taxiing into position. Not much hope of disappearing between Dublin and Luton. They’d hardly get going before stopping again, truncated, like a little bird plunging to the ground, leaving his mother; free to start again.

The man next to her makes a grunting noise, unfolds his enormous newspaper, and shuffles down into his seat, wriggling from side to side until he manages to comfortably take up both arm rests, pushing her off the mutual one. Pushing her aside like so many others. The safety demonstration is starting. The one male flight attendant is standing near her, smile just as plastic and strained as the women further up the aisle. They have to dance and perform like puppets, gesturing with surgical precision for all of those who are just checking their phones or reading or fighting with their neighbour for personal space. All are ignoring the performance. Everyone knows the routine, but if they didn’t do it there’d be uproar. Cries of the planes being unsafe; it would turn into a whole social media campaign with its own hashtag and everything.

The plane leaps off the runway, as if jumping to catch prey. Her stomach is left on the tarmac behind in Dublin. Ryanair were never great at gradual transitions. She knows she’ll be fine. The plane will incubate them for the meantime. Hooked up and tied to the machine, life-giver and preserver. They never prosecute for this kind of thing, not that she is aware of. The sentence is fourteen years but it isn’t as if she’d never broken the law before. A few joints in college, speeding when she was late for work. She can’t remember the last time she’s actually paid for music. But still. This is in the media a lot recently. There’s always a first time, someone to be made an example of.

‘Can we get you anything from our inflight service?’ She jumps at the soft Eastern European voice, coming from a smile that looks far too white amongst all the yellow plastic.

‘Eh, I’ll have a vodka and white, please?’ It’s a question. Her default drink, but she shouldn’t be drinking, should she? All the rules say you’re not supposed to drink or smoke when you’re… sod the rules, the very fact that she is on this plane means she won’t be following any rules any time soon. A nervous giggle escapes her and her stomach gurgles. She hadn’t had any breakfast, but after handing over a tenner and waiting expectantly for change that never comes, she decides to wait until landing to eat.

With a smile and a satisfying sense of defiance, she sips her drink.

‘Good idea. I think I’ll join you.’

‘Hmm?’

The man leans over her and orders a gin and tonic. ‘Some might say it’s early, but fuck ‘em, it’s five o’clock somewhere.’

She nods in agreement.

‘Emigrating?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You emigrating?’ the man repeats.

‘No. It’s a work thing.’

‘Ah, a career woman. No rest for the wicked so.’

‘Hard at work, or hardly working,’ she replies with the refrain and they attempt to clink glasses. The plastic rims produce only an unsatisfactory, dull tap.

She gazes out the window, at the grey sky blurring into a grey ocean.

They hang, in the liminal space over the ocean. The plane is a psychopomp, guiding her from one life to the next; from one kind of life to another. She’s gotten away with it. Practically. She is nearly there. She’ll be a criminal upon return, gagged and silenced, but for now, briefly, she is a free woman. Free. Maybe she’ll stay in England, they were weathering things better anyway.

‘So why is a pretty young thing like you travelling alone?’ The man leans over, uncomfortably close to her, his belly rolling over the top of their armrest.

Great, he is one of those. ‘It’s for a training course for work.’ She practices the excuse, the one that she’s been telling people for days, and will have to continue to tell anyone who feigns polite interest.

‘Ah. Most people are leaving these days. Can’t train you at home?’

‘They could if they wanted, but it’s easier for them not to, to outsource their work.’

‘Always the way, isn’t it?’ the man nods sagely. ‘I was on the phone to customer care the other week, they kept shuffling me around to different departments, talking to different people who couldn’t help, probably cost me a fortune now that I think of it. But no two of them had the same accent, wonderful! This tiny world of ours.’

She had initially pegged him as an ‘I’m not racist, but…’ kind of guy, but she guesses there’s as much variety amongst conservatives as amongst liberals.

‘So what do you do?’

‘I’m a teacher.’

‘Well, isn’t it a sad day for Ireland when we can’t even help our own. I used to be a teacher, took early retirement with both fists when it was offered. It won’t be long before you’re back on this plane on your way to a job interview in London. The government couldn’t give a fiddler’s.’

‘It sure feels that way sometimes.’

‘Primary?’

‘Secondary. Biology and chemistry.’

‘Ah, you’d be out of my league so. We only have to teach the basics. Moral upbringing is the most important thing, good Christian values.’

She cringes a semi-polite smile at this. She can only guess what kind of moral doctrine he battered into his students. He seems to mean well, but is of that vintage.

‘Yes, I well remember the day I was a young teacher like yourself, not as good looking of course.’ He winks, probably thinking he is being mischievous rather than leery, and folds his newspaper to take up marginally less space. She edges further away from him.

‘So what are they sending you over for? England have some new-fangled methodology they want to export?’

‘It’s an old idea, we just haven’t caught up with it yet.’

He rustles his paper as the plane shakes ominously. Even the mild turbulence makes her aware of the metal skin encasing them, sitting snug in the belly of the plane, like bacteria amongst the organs.

‘There’s the woman herself!’ his finger stabs the paper more violently that is necessary. ‘Would you look at her. Ms Minister for Education.’

She sighs. He seems determined to talk for the whole journey. She takes a large gulp of vodka. He holds the newspaper for her to see. ‘Look at the carry-on of them now, with their policy changes. The old methods never did any harm. What’s more, they worked.’

Her abdomen clenches, almost as if her period is onset. But that’s not possible. Who would have thought she’d miss PMT? The plane shudders again. She imagines she can hear its carapace creaking. ‘Excuse me.’ Standing up, she edges past him into the aisle, another shudder making her grasp headrests for support as if she is just learning how to walk.

What if she’s caught? What if she becomes another statistic, a Ms X or Y, or another addition to the alphabet of ‘little misses’? Her head spins as she stumbles down the plane. A bad knock causes squeals of delight from children.

She is glancing like a panicked animal at both ends of the plane. The bathroom light at the rear is green. She lurches down the aisle towards it, flashes of faces, glimpses of lives like train cars flying past a platform. The aisle stretches on forever, past a happy baby, bouncing on a sibling’s knee, past bratty toddlers, demanding juice and entertainment, old people asleep, adults hunkered over their phones generating double, triple chins and fierce concentration. She feels as if she has been spun around, her head whirled and stomach jolted.

Lunging into the bathroom, past a high-beam flash of air hostess teeth, she locks the door. The announcement to remain shackled to your seat because of turbulence buzzes over the intercom.

Foul acid gurgles up her gullet and she throws up a slimy, watery bile.

Fear tickles at her, curls in around her. What if what if what if. What if something goes wrong? Things go wrong with simple procedures all the time. Life is made up of little things, little people, little interactions, any one of which can kill you. Kill you with kindness or concern or morals or politics or protests or single-mindedness, but kill you nonetheless.

The bumps scare her. Bouncing, rattling. She’ll never get used to turbulence, never. Bump. What a loaded word. Her stomach lurches thinking not of the next step, but of the return home. Turbulence rattles are replaced with knocks on the door.

‘Miss, I really must insist you return to your seat.’

‘Just a minute!’ The whooshing of the toilet flush and cold of the water splashing on her face. Her knees wobble. The door accordions open to show a concerned, still smiling hostess.

‘Are you okay, Miss? We are about to begin our descent, but I can see if there’s a doctor aboard if you like?’

‘No. No thanks. I’ll see one once I land.’

The woman’s head tilts curiously, then nods. ‘I understand.’ She reaches out, squeezes her hand and stands back.

Returning to her seat, she feels like she is taking charge. Her legs are steadier. Eventually, she might want this life, but not a day before she feels ready and safe doing so. Not a moment sooner.

‘I tried to get us a refill, but we’re nearly there. Some airplane policy. What do they know anyway?’ the man says.

‘Thanks.’ There’s that they again.

The plane descends, steep. She grips the armrests, having reclaimed the one between her and the man, and pushes herself back into the seat. Soon, soon. It will all be over soon.

From issue #3: autumn/winter 2016

About the Author
Katie McDermott is from Meath. Her work has been published in several journals, including The Queen’s Head, Literary Orphans and Not One of Us. She lives on coffee and when she isn’t writing she’s teaching. She can be contacted via her website: www.katiemcdermott.com