On-say-say 

The woman at the counter takes Jim’s passport, runs it under a scanner and checks the computer screen. She wraps a label around the handle of his suitcase, then hands him his boarding pass.

“On-say-say.”

“I don’t understand.” He looks from the boarding pass to the woman, taking in her sallow skin, dark eyes and the jaunty cap perched on her head.

“On-say-say.” She says something else in quick sibilant Spanish, then points to his left.

Jim hesitates, and she beckons the next traveler. He’s in the way, so he steps aside.

The airport concourse stretches before him. A sign above a bank of elevators directs him to Departure Gates. He walks behind a straggle of gleeful children, jumping about and waving inflated pillows. One girl tugs her mother’s sleeve, urging her to hurry, caught up in the adventure of travel.

Jim stands on the moving stairs. The computerised voice repeats… mind the step. He inspects his boarding pass. Departure 07:15, Madrid to Edinburgh, Seat 11C.

“So that’s what she meant. 11C… on-say-say.”

He puts the boarding pass in his pocket, and worries that the couple behind may have heard him.  

Travellers mill about the waiting area. Jim checks an information screen, then makes his way to a less crowded area with vacant bench seating. Two girls sit cross-legged on the ground by a window, gesticulating and laughing and eating sandwiches wrapped in tin foil. Jim places his hands on his knees to stop his legs jiggling. It’s a short flight, only two hours, a routine shuttle—no need to worry.

His flight is announced. He gets up, dawdles by the information screen before joining the end of the queue, and is the final passenger to board the plane.

He finds his seat and examines the illuminated 11C overhead. A large woman across the aisle complains about her seatbelt. She harrumphs and twists in her seat.

“It doesn’t work,” she tells Jim.

A flight attendant brings an extension and clips it in place. She touches the shoulder of the passenger in the next seat, a man with a ponytail protruding from the back of his baseball cap.

“Can you please hand me your bag to put in the overhead locker?”

The man nods. “I just need to get my book.” He unzips the bag and takes out a glossy doorstopper with an image of tanks and flames on the cover.

The passenger in the window seat beside Jim begins muttering. Whatever he’s saying is unintelligible, but the rhythm suggests prayer. Jim hadn’t paid him any attention when he sat down. All he can see from his peripheral vision is the cuff of a dark suit and short thick fingers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the crew I ask that you please direct your attention to the monitors as we review the emergency procedures. There are four emergency exits on this aircraft. Take a minute to locate the exit closest to you…”

Everyone here is going to die. A surge of realisation grips Jim. The queasiness in his guts tells him it’s certain. The passengers, Jim included, have been assembled on this plane, which is going to crash… into the sea, or a forest, or buildings.

The plane rolls forward. Jim pushes back against the seat, his fingers interlocked, thumbs rubbing together. The plane bumps, and bumps again as if rolling over cobblestones. This can’t be right—the runway should be flat. A heavy bump sends the passengers swaying, their heads bobbing. The plane judders, the creaking sounds ominous.

No one will survive this flight.

Jim squeezes his hands into fists and focuses on the seat number. On-say-say. He imagines the news coverage.

Flight from Madrid to Edinburgh crashes.

A list of names, ages, occupations, details regarding the pilot and co-pilot, how many hours they’d flown, an unblemished record until this fatal flight. Photographs of the victims: Jim pictured alongside the large woman and the guy with the ponytail, people he’d never seen before.

His brain burns at the prospect of the final moments; knowing what’s happening, grabbing and clawing and screaming, hopeless acts of desperation as the plane goes down.

The man with stubby fingers beside him continues muttering. A flight attendant walks by, checking seatbelts and smiling. The guy with the ponytail turns a page.

Jim thinks about his wife in Edinburgh, fast asleep or luxuriating in drowsiness, ensconced in the security of her soft quilt world. He hadn’t wanted to take this trip. The client insisted on meeting a senior member of the accounts team, and management decided that had to be Jim. He delayed the trip as long as he could, and now he’s ended up on this plane.

He grips the armrest, every sense tuned to the rocking motion. Did the engine sound just change? A different pitch, deeper rumbling. The plane brakes abruptly and stops. The sudden stillness accentuates his unease. His chest hurts. He can’t get enough air, as if his lungs have shrunk.

The plane rattles down the runway, springs and ratchets surely coming loose. Lumbering onwards, a cumbersome heaviness and, then, weightlessness. The plane veers to the right, dipping and turning. A vibrating growl as the landing gear retracts.

Jim glances across at the window, but all he sees is the surface of the wing. A leak of air comes through the overhead unit. The engines thrum. He checks his watch. Two hours to go.

Arrive, his nerves scream. Arrive. Arrive.

The flight attendants come by with trolleys. The large woman wants tea with skimmed milk. She asks if they have shortbread. The guy with the ponytail is handed a wee can of Heineken.

Jim stares at his knees, avoiding eye contact with the attendants. He looks over at the window once they’ve passed. The clouds below are too thick to see anything. Above, a glaring blue. Puffy white balls and gossamer-thin striations glide by.

He closes his eyes, and opens them immediately. Dozing is out of the question, his veins fizzing at the thought of waking to the reality of being on this plane. Instead, he gazes at the seat number, on-say-say, and performs mental calculations. Eighty-five minutes to arrival—thirty percent of the journey complete, each minute almost an extra percent. The second hand of his watch stutters forward.  

The sky changes, reassuring blue replaced by caliginous grey and mistiness. Water droplets spread across the window. Darker grey fingers of cloud reach out as the plane flounders, drops, steadies and lurches.

He breathes through his mouth and keeps his eyes on the back of the seat, following a line of white stitching on the green cloth cover. The passenger beside him flexes his thick fingers, his muttering relentless. Jim studies the stitching but he has to look, has to see, and turns to face the window. The sky is black.

The air in the cabin tastes stale. Sweat runs down his back, his shirt clinging to his skin. The airplane drops. His insides shrivel.

The cabin lights go out, come back on, and flash on and off.

The large woman crosses herself. A child somewhere at the back of the plane squeals.

An announcement from the captain…experiencing heavy turbulence…necessary to take a slight change of course...

The flight attendants return, strained smiles, uttering reassurances. The plane vibrates, shaken by a monstrous force, plummets and stops in mid-air.

Jim repeats his mantra… on-say-say on-say-say... Just get free of this, he begs, fly out of the grasp of what’s doing this.

Arrive. Arrive.  

The plane lands in Edinburgh. The pilot gives the local time and details of connecting flights. The passengers get ready to exit, their eyes glittering. Jim stands to one side, allowing his neighbour access to the overhead locker. He’s not how Jim had imagined him, this stern middle-aged businessman with sharp blue eyes. Jim considers saying something to mark their safe arrival, but can’t find the correct words. The businessman turns away. They wait for the doors to open.

As he walks down the steps, Jim marvels at the solidity of the buildings, the grandeur of the control tower, and the workers unloading bags onto carriers. A gleaming morning, the air chills his forehead and cleanses his lungs. It’s the first day of October, and he will experience the whole of autumn.

In the forecourt, the taxi roofs are coated with frost.

“Where to, pal?” the driver asks.

“The top of Leith Walk, by Picardy Place.”

Jim settles in his seat and looks up, momentarily surprised not to see an illuminated 11C. The taxi drives by long-stay parking lots, passing the replica Spitfire, and joins the queue at the exit traffic lights.

Jim leans forward, compelled to speak, to tell someone.

“The plane I was on almost crashed.”

The taxi driver half-turns, and shakes his head. “Almost crashed?”

Jim regrets sounding so melodramatic. “Terrible turbulence,” he says. “The worst I’ve ever experienced, plane thrown around like it was a toy. The lights in the cabin went out.”

“Sounds scary. I wouldn’t fancy that.” The driver checks his rear mirror, then pulls into the middle lane. “Well, you survived.”

The flat is empty. Jim puts his suitcase in the bedroom, sits at the kitchen table and stares at the fridge. He hears the front door open and close with a loud click.

His wife calls from the hallway, “Are you back?”

“I’m in the kitchen.”

Jim waits. She takes her time, hanging up her coat and then going into the bedroom, the sound of drawers opening and closing. Finally, she comes into the kitchen and lays her bag on a chair.

“So, how was the trip?”

“The plane almost crashed.”

“Really?” She opens the fridge, and takes out a carton of milk. “Would you like some tea or coffee?”

“Did you hear what I just said? The plane almost crashed.”

She looks at the wall clock. “But you must have arrived on time.”

“Terrible turbulence. The plane plummeted repeatedly and was knocked this way and that, flung about like a piece of flotsam. The lights went out in the cabin.”

“You get flotsam in water.” She unplugs the kettle. “You must be exaggerating.”

“I’m not.” Jim puffs out his cheeks. “It was the worst experience I’ve ever had. I was sure that was it. The end.”

She turns on the tap and fills the kettle.

“I was in seat 11C.” He fiddles with a jute coaster on the table, running his finger along its edge. “On-say-say.”

Her phone pings. She takes it out of the bag, and swipes the screen.

“On-say-say,” he repeats.

She continues swiping the phone.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t look up from the phone. “I can do two things at the same time. I heard you. 11C, your seat number.”

Monday, back at work, Jim struggles to concentrate as he types up the report of his meeting in Madrid. He joins his colleagues for morning coffee in the breakout space, and recounts his near-death experience.

“I won’t be taking any plane trips for some time,” he says.

Gillian from human resources grimaces in a show of concern. “I don’t blame you.”

“Terrible,” says Holly.

The other secretaries nod their agreement.

“That must have been an awful experience.”

“Dreadful.”

“Frightening.”

Jim takes a handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose, concealing his disappointment at these banalities. Some of his co-workers ask questions, but not with sufficient awe. Was it very stormy? Which airline? Was the plane full?

One of the partners stops by, and Gillian tells him about Jim’s close call.

“You must have been relieved to set foot on terra firma,” the partner say, and walks away.

“It was complete chaos,” Jim tells them. “Utter bedlam. The air masks dropped from the overhead panel. That’s when I knew it was serious. The passenger beside me burst into tears. Other passengers had to be restrained. The captain begged for calm. He told us to be prepared for an emergency landing.”

Howard Webb, Head of Audit, purses his lips. “Sounds like a close call.”

“Who knows what the future holds,” Gillian says, then leans forward, her eyes widening. “Did you hear the latest? You know Maggie Nicholson, one of the cleaners? She won a hundred grand on the lottery.”

“Really!” Holly swivels on her chair, mouth agape. “If I won the lottery, I’d be straight down to the travel agency. A holiday in Dubai, non-stop cocktails by the pool. Or maybe Barbados. Somewhere sunny, anywhere but grey Edinburgh.”

Jim drops into The Blue Blazer for a drink after work. He sits at the bar, and leafs through a copy of The Evening News left on the counter. A fire in North Edinburgh had claimed two lives. An earthquake in Asia killed thirty. More fighting in the Middle East. He puts the paper aside and rubs his eyes. In his mind he pictures white stitching on a green seat cover.

A man with long straggly grey hair and a goatee orders a drink. The barman reaches for a bottle on the shelf of single malts. Jim contemplates the dregs of his pint and considers having another.

“Ahhh… that hit the spot.”

Jim turns to see the customer lower his glass onto the counter. He smiles at Jim, and the man’s striking blue eyes remind him of his neighbour on the plane.

“I’ll have one of those,” Jim tells the barman. “Let me get you another,” he says to the customer. “I have good reason to drink after what I’ve been through.”

“If you’re buying, why not. It would be churlish to turn down the offer of Talisker.” He shakes Jim’s hand. “You can call me Eric. So tell me, what have you been through?”

Jim describes the plane trip: the woman at the desk, on-say-say, his presentiment of disaster, the bumping and rattling before take-off, the turbulence, plummeting and rocking, lights going off, his fear and certainty he would die. He doesn’t exaggerate, encouraged by his new companion’s obvious interest in what he has to say. The man’s attention deserves the courtesy of accuracy.

“A difficult experience, sure enough,” Eric says. “One that’ll stay with you, and one that warrants careful consideration and analysis.”

“Exactly.” Jim shifts on his stool, and taps the counter for emphasis. “That’s just what I’ve been doing.”

Eric raises a hand to attract the barman’s attention, and orders two more drinks.

“Conventional wisdom would have you count your blessings and feel lucky you survived.” Eric swirls the whisky in his glass. “After coming through such a confrontation with the possibility of death, you’re expected to think that life is more precious and you took it for granted. You’ve been given a second chance. Appreciate life. Live every day like it’s your last.” He sips the whisky and places his glass gently on the counter. “You know that’s all trite, well-meaning or not. It’s the same life, before and after you got off that plane. Life hasn’t changed.”

Jim nods but says nothing, not wanting to interrupt Eric.

“That said, such an event is important in one crucial way. It can tell you things you do not know about matters that are kept hidden. Information you may not wish to have.” He pauses, and strokes his goatee. “Even so, this is an opportunity offered to few. An opportunity you should seize.”

Eric swallows what’s left of his whisky, and steps back from the bar. “I suggest you tell the people closest to you what you experienced on that flight. Reveal as much as you dare—your insecurities and frailties, your deep-seated fears.” 

“He adjusts his scarf and buttons his coat, preparing to leave, all the time eyeing the silent Jim.

“Tell them, and then observe.”

Mark Keane has taught for many years in universities in North America and the UK. Recent short story fiction has appeared in Down in the Dirt, Granfalloon, Samjoko, upstreet, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Liquid Imagination, Superpresent, Into the Void (Pushcart Prize nomination), Night Picnic, Firewords, Dog and Vile Short Fiction, the Dark Lane and What Monsters Do for Love anthologies, and Best Indie Speculative Fiction 2021. He lives in Edinburgh (Scotland).