Hostage by Clare Mackintosh

EIGHTEEN

PASSENGER 8C

My name is Peter Hopkins, and I’m a passenger on Flight 79.

Almost as soon as we’d taken off, people started moaning about the legroom. The woman next to me put her seat back, only to be kicked in the kidneys by the bloke behind. Apparently there’s an etiquette to flying economy: you don’t put your seat back till the lights go out. Who knew?

I think the seats are pretty comfortable, to be honest. I’ve certainly lain my head in worse places. Filthy mattresses in squats that smelled of piss; between cardboard sheets; in doorways of shops with grilles across their windows to keep out people like me. In friends’ front rooms, and on the sofas of people I barely knew but who couldn’t say no when I turned up in the pouring rain. Sure, the flat beds of business class would be nice, but you learn to take what you’re given. I’m not planning on sleeping anyway. Keep your guard up: that’s another lesson you learn when you’ve lived on the streets.

The powers that be could solve homelessness just like that. Remember when there was that royal wedding in Windsor, and for forty-eight hours, there wasn’t a single person on the streets? ’Course, as soon as the happy couple jetted off on honeymoon, everyone got turfed out again, but the point is: there’s enough beds. They proved it. The government could give everyone a basic income, make sure they’ve got a roof over their head and food in their bellies. But it suits them to keep us at the bottom of the heap. Not registered to vote, so we don’t get a say; not paying taxes, so whyshould we get a say? It’s all about keeping us in our place. Second-class citizens.

We need a revolution. A massive uprising, where we march on Parliament and overthrow the government. None of your poxy online petitions, signed by middle-class liberals who count a direct debit and a tut as doing their bit. An actual revolution. Direct action: that’s the only thing that works. Playing cat and mouse with the cops through the back streets of London; wiping Vaseline over riot van windscreens and jamming potatoes up their exhausts. Small acts, big action. Like back in the day, when we’d been banging on about overcrowding in the night shelter for eighteen months or more, and they were doing fuck-all about it. A small fire: that was all it took. No one hurt, no real damage done, but that storeroom they’d been on about converting got sorted in less than a week. Twelve more beds, no more crowding, just like that. Direct action.

Mind you, if we’re talking about overcrowding, you couldn’t fit more seats in this plane if you tried. We boarded in a long line—shuffling forward like we were being herded into gas chambers—and squeezed into our seats, climbing over legs and holding bags above our heads so as not to clout someone with them. I thought then:I hope there’s not a fire. It’s all well and good, knowing where the emergency exits are, but the chances of you reaching one are slim, I reckon. You’d be trampled underfoot. People clawing at you to get past. Every man for himself.

Don’t get me wrong—like I said, I’ve spent nights in far worse places—but when you think about it, it’s pretty weird to voluntarily stay in three square feet for twenty hours, in what is essentially a mobile death trap. It’s like those trucks you see in India, stuffed to the gunwales with cows and chickens and women with bags full of shopping.

And no one complains. They just sit there, grateful for their shitty little packets of nuts and the tiny bottles of wine given out with the judgment of a chemist dispensing methadone. Because they’re off to Sydney! They’re so excited! So grateful! So blessed! It makes me laugh.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’d be the first to complain, right?

Yeah, I’ve got form for causing trouble, but I also know when to keep my head down. I’m onto a good thing. A ticket to Australia; my first ever passport; the promise of a bed when we finally touch down. A fresh start.

What do I have to complain about?