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The Tourist

I sink deeper into the seat, fresh sweat squeezing from my armpits, pooling around the base of my stomach. Chewing my bottom lip, trying to act nonchalant. The tray of food remains before me, untouched, even though I had refused it. I keep my hands busy by playing with a pencil-shaped sachet of sugar, bending it to the point where it's just about to break open, but doesn't. I keep doing this until the pilot announces our impending arrival at 20,000 feet, the point of no return, and I surreptitiously unbuckle my seatbelt, swallowing hard. My right hand slips into my pocket and feels the length of plastic hidden there, the sharp metal enclosed within it, and I feel assured, confident that this will be a fruitful and affirming occasion. I decide that I will wait until the stewardess passes - any moment now, here she comes - before getting up behind her. This will be my moment. Finally, after so many years, I will be recognised.

I can smell her perfume, hear the squeaking of the trolley wheels. I sense her coming up behind me, and I feel sad for her, but only for a moment. She is a necessary victim, an innocent caught up in a sinful game, a virgin to the terror I will unleash. This is not for God. I vomited up God a long time ago. This is for Me. This will be my legacy.

She passes. I go to get up from my seat but...something...is wrong. I have become entangled in the belt somehow and I pitch forward clumsily against the tray, knocking it to the floor, where the sealed cup of orange juice splits in two, the liquid rushing up the length of the aisle. I try to take the box cutter from my pocket but am fatally unbalanced, and I tumble against the passenger to my left, splashing hot coffee across his lap. He lets out a shout and at that moment a man two rows down springs to his feet. He screams something incomprehensible, and begins waving around something hard and black, and I recognise it as a pistol. There is a report, and somewhere out of my view, in first class, an air marshal is punched open.

"This is a hijacking!" the man cries, just as those same words are stifled in my constricting throat. It turns into a pathetic groan, a paean to failure.

I am truly useless.

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