‘Why?’
Elis takes a deep breath.Remain calm. ‘Because it’s my seat. All my stuff is there.’
‘Oh, that’s no problem at all. Allow me to move it for you.’ George reaches into the seat pocket and grabs Elis’s stuff – sunglasses, book and pillow – and dumps it on the seat in front. ‘Okay?’
‘No, not okay,’ Elis says. ‘That’s my seat – it says so on my ticket.’ He points. ‘Thatis yours.’
George laughs. ‘Gosh. Don’t make a scene – you’ll get us kicked off the flight.’
Elis leans over Reubyn’s seat, lowers his voice. ‘I’m not making a scene. I just want to take my seat.’
‘Look,’ George says, ‘we’re going to be on this plane a long time, and we can move about if we want. It’s not a big deal.’ He starts to say something in Latin, but Elis talks over him.
‘Justmove.’
Elis locks eyes with George and finds his baffled expression infuriating. A few seconds of silence seem excruciatingly long.
Miles presses his lips into a line. ‘Look, George is a bugger, he shouldn’t have done that. But actually, do you know what, ithasbeen a while since we played this. You don’t really mind, do you, Elis?’
Elis clamps his teeth. What’s he supposed to say to that? With those words from Miles, his argument has been utterly defeated. He nods and folds his arms. ‘Fine.’ The two passengers in front, who have clearly been eavesdropping, make way, and Elis squeezes in, sweeps some wrappers off his new seat and sits down. He picks up his book, a paperback copy ofTouching the Voidhis aunt gave him for Christmas, and flicks through to page 1. It’s the first time he’s opened this book. His heart is still beating fast, and his teeth grind on every syllable. He tries to focus, but it’s not going in – the words on the page are no match for the ones uttered by the three men in the seats behind.
‘Reubs, it’s your go,’ George says.
‘I’ve run out of drink.’
‘Don’t worry – I’ve got you.’
Elis feels something jerk into the back of his chair and the sound of George rummaging in a bag at his feet, then the chair decompresses.
‘Where did you get that?’ Miles asks.
‘Picked it up in duty-free.’
‘Nice.’
‘You’ve got to have some backup ammo if you’re flying cattle-class; the cabin crew are far too slow with the drinks.’ A screw cap cracks, followed by the sound of something glugging into a plastic cup. ‘And why settle for a taste of the fruit, eh fellas?’
That last quip from George spurs a disproportionately enthusiastic reaction from all three of them: they laugh and grunt their approval like pigs watching scraps being slopped into a trough.
There’s a tap on Elis’s shoulder and he looks around to see Miles holding up a bottle of wine. ‘Do you need a drink, mate?’
Elis makes eye contact for a split second. ‘Nah, I’m good thanks.’
He turns back to his book. Still on the first page, he hasn’t made it past the opening four-word sentence. He sighs. If only they were on a later flight, then he could bosh a zopiclone and wake up at their destination. This is going to be torture. And there are ten hours to go. Behind him, the game has started up again.
Reubyn: Hungry cat.
George: Imbecilic cat.
Miles: Jealous cat.
Reubyn: Knotty cat.
George: What? That’s N, you idiot.
Reubyn: No, knotty, not naughty. His fur’s knotted.
George: Oh. Fine. Long cat.
