Chapter 42
I’m out the bed and ordering a taxi to the airport in a heartbeat.
Muscles demands we exchange numbers so he can check in on me later.
I thank them both for looking after me, pour another orange juice that Derek brings me down my neck, then launch myself into the backseat of an Uber the second its wheels reach the curb.
I check my phone again. Even Jason has sent me a message, no words, just a link to a Manchester Evening News article. I click on the link and read the headline; Terror from Toronto: Man arrested after punching crew member in drunken brawl. I already know it’s Soumia before I click the video.
I hate it when passengers film us onboard.
It’s normally when we’re trying to solve a problem that we can’t fix to their entitled standards.
The filming is usually accompanied by threats of how we’re going to get fired and how the footage will be put on TikTok and YouTube.
It very rarely makes it onto these platforms. By the time the disgruntled passenger has landed and collected their bags, they’ve found something else to complain about.
I once had a passenger on a flight to Beirut complain that her chicken tikka wrap was too hot.
I offered to blow on it for her to cool it down.
To my surprise, she accepted the solution.
I’m thankful for this footage, but I’m horrified for Soumia.
I’m appalled that it’s even happened to her.
She’ll be mortified that she’s made the news.
No one should ever be confronted with this when they’ve gone to work to make an honest living.
At least in a court this footage is indisputable, and judgement won’t come down to which version of events the judge or jury believe.
The clip is shaky, filmed by a passenger who’s clambering over seats, trying to get a good look at the action.
The first thing I notice is all the other passengers have got their phones out and are filming the incident too.
A portly man, late forties/early fifties, old enough to know better, wearing a football shirt – aren’t they always – is squaring up to Soumia.
Soumia is putting her conflict training into practice and is stepping back to create space between her and the gammon.
Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, her inflight pinny without a stain – she looks, as always, immaculate.
The gammon is shouting at her to get the manager before he knocks her into the middle of next week.
Soumia politely replies she is the manager of economy today and invites the man into the rear galley so they can talk about his issue.
She promises to try her best to resolve it.
He replies by spitting in her face, calling her a jumped-up twat, then shouting the well-used threat, I’m going to have you fired.
Soumia tries to de-escalate the situation; she apologises to the man and lets her uniform absorb his insults.
He’s shouting at her, ‘I wanted chicken.’
This is all because the entitled prick didn’t get his first choice of inflight meal.
That and however many drinks he’s had before he boarded the plane.
I’m already convinced he's been drinking his own bottle of duty free he’s bought at the airport.
There’s no way the crew would have served him enough alcohol to get to this level of inebriation.
When crew forbid passengers from drinking their own alcohol, it’s not because they want to cash in on making them buy more on board, it’s so they can monitor how much passengers drink to prevent situations like this.
Several other crew members now circle around Soumia.
Two more crew stand at a distance behind the man.
Soumia tries one last time to reason with the drunk.
She asks him to take his seat, he responds by yelling at her, ‘Don’t tell me what to do you ugly cunt,’ then he launches at her, one smack right into her eye socket.
He’s big enough to do some serious damage.
A brave passenger has stuck their leg out so the man trips and doesn’t hit Soumia with full force.
Soumia stumbles backwards and lifts a hand to her face where she’s been hit.
She doesn’t cry. I want to hug her so much.
I want to kill that nasty streak of piss.
Soumia doesn’t falter. She’s back in front of the passenger, calm, her hands behind her back. A crew member who is stood behind her is discreetly placing the cuffs from the restraint kit into her palms. Adrenalin must be pumping through her; I know what she’s going to say next.
‘Sir, for the final time, I’m asking you on behalf of the captain, in line with the Air Navigation Order, for you to return to your seat and remain calm.’
He stands his ground and tells her to ‘Fuck off.’
Considering we only practice passenger restraint training once every three years, what happens next is textbook.
The crew work seamlessly together. The two crew members who are stood behind the man take one of his arms each and immobilise them by his side, standing so close to him he can’t wiggle away from their grip.
Soumia cuffs his left hand, then his right, before throwing the restraint belt the cuffs are attached to underneath the passenger’s seat.
The two crew by his side force him to sit.
A fourth crew member puts another strap over his head and down over his biceps and around the seat, it’s over him like a lasso.
The crew member pulls the strap tight then connects that strap to the one that Soumia has thrown under the chair.
The passenger is still shouting but he’s completely restricted, he’s not going anywhere.
The other passengers around are now cheering. The recording ends.
I call Soumia. She doesn’t answer. I’m aware of how much I smell of alcohol and I’m cursing myself for drinking last night.
I wind the window down a little to cool the beads of sweat that are forming on my forehead.
The traffic is unusually slow on the M56.
I’m begging the other cars to move out of the way.
They don’t. I click back open my phone and read the comments underneath the article, the first reads, animals like that shouldn’t be allowed to fly.
The second says, that girl is fierce, she doesn’t even flinch.
A few more comments down and some idiot calling himself Bulldog69 has written she’s a total minger - he should have punched her twice.
We pull into the drop-off lay-by at the terminal, I say a quick thank you to the driver, jump out, and jog into departures in the direction of the crew room.
The security check point stands in my way.
It dawns on me how stupid I am. I don’t have my airport ID with me.
There’s no point in even trying to get through.
They’d turn me away in normal circumstances, but breathing vodka fumes onto them and explaining how I just needed to get through would probably lead to my arrest. I try Soumia again, still no answer.
I text her to ask where she is. I send versions of the same text to Ivy, Jason, and Sandra.
A message comes back from Ivy telling me I’m too late and Soumia’s already gone home.
Last night’s vodka is urging me to drink a gallon of water to ease the swilling in my stomach. How have I been so stupid? I pray to God she’s OK. Just let her be ok and I’ll never drink again. Make sure no harm has come to her and I’ll never kiss another man for the rest of my life.
‘Watch where you’re going,’ a man shouts at me, juggling two large suitcases and an infant.
I don’t have time to stop and apologise.
My body is sticky with vodka sweats, my t-shirt’s clinging to me, my hair glued to my forehead.
I run back outside the terminal and jump into an airport cab.
It’s twice the cost of an Uber, but I don’t have time to wait and walk to the regular pick-up point. I need to get to Soumia.