Kevin Barry - There Are Little Kingdoms

Seat belts on, seat backs up, tables clipped. The ice below us is apparently Greenland ice. The passengers remain pretty calm. They are somewhat inured to in-flight dramatics now — they’ve seen it all a thousand times. Stabiliser hormones seep, rivers of feel-good juices flow, and everybody is real smug about how well they’re holding up.

Then, out of nowhere, a heavy-set man with big hair three seats from the top of cheap gets a flash of realism and he screams out. He shouts at us all, he shouts that he always knew death would come for him in this way, and at this time!

It takes just one shitbird to freak out and now the whole plane gets The Fear. Mel and Kelvin launch into action. They forcibly quieten the fat fuck with an injection. We keep trank spikes for this purpose but we don’t advertise the fact. Mel and Kelvin work out.

The plane descends, much more sharply than usual. We eat up huge gulps of air. We are light-headed and we keep on smiling. When the captain said a landing, I guess everybody pictured some snowy little airport for Greenlanders. But there is no airport. There is an ice field. Technically, we call this C.D.I.T. — controlled descent into terrain.

He brings the plane down smoothly. It is a perfect manouevre, flawless, there is hardly a bump. The rows-of-three and the rows-of-six all applaud with great vigour, there are whoops and hollers, but the applause fades quickly as we look out the windows. Visibly the windows fog up with freeze, like in timelapse photography. Mel and Kelvin call a cabin crew huddle.

There has been information from flight crew. We have to get off the plane. We have to use the emergency slides. We have got to keep the people moving. We have got to keep the people warm. First task is we hand out brandy miniatures for calm. We take to the aisles.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I cannot drink this stuff,’ says a corporate. ‘I react against spirits. It’s, like, a peptic thing?’

‘Drink the fucking brandy,’ I say.

I keep on smiling.

The rumours start. There are rumours of an engine fire. There is a rumour of potential explosions. There are rumours of Middle Easterns with dart guns. The emergency slides go down. We slide from the plane. This is not so bad, if you aren’t Alvin or Rose, if you do not have hips of titanium. We scuttle from the plane and slip across the ice in a fretful, hard-breathing slapstick. The cold is almost comical: you’re-kidding-me cold. We shepherd everybody together in the lee of this like… shale outcrop? Like I know a shale outcrop from shit, but the words have come into my head for some reason… shale outcrop.

We are all together on the ice, a true democracy: flight crew, cabin crew, cheap seats, business. We tell them to wear the life jackets for warmth. We hand out smother blankets too. It is almost summer here. The captain makes a brief speech. He says radio contact has been achieved, actually. He says help will be along very very soon.

Then Kelvin makes a speech. This is Kelvin’s Big Moment. This is what it has all been leading up to and Kelvin, he glows. Cabin crew, we all regard Kelvin with awe now. Kelvin has demonstrated The Stuff. His tone is light-hearted and downhome. He says, folks, believe it or not, there is official strategy in these situations. He says, you’ve seen those documentary shows on Discovery Channel about penguins in the Arctic? He says in winter, the penguins form enormous concentric circles, they circle together on the ice, they circle endlessly, move their little feet from side to side, like a revolving chorus line. Folks, says Kelvin, this is how the penguins keep warm and alive! And, basically, folks, this is what we got to do now.

We form on the ice into concentric circles. We move about, we rotate, we get the hang of the penguin stuff real easy, in fact, and it works, it keeps us a couple of degree fractions above blue-veined death. We flap our arms. The way the circles work mean you rotate in and out of many conversations. The talk spins slowly around.

‘I mean that’s a whole heap of tundra, you know what I’m saying? I mean what does real estate go for out here?’

‘Yeah we could make like rudimentary ploughs and settle the place.’

‘Now you’re farmin’!’

‘The nearest town I suppose is… what, Upernavik?’

‘Party town?’

‘And this is summer, right?’

‘I would have to say that I’m anti-pastoral, essentially. Clouds, skies, mountains? Piece of shit.’

‘It’s like, hey, here’s another thousand miles of beauty.’

‘She’s as if she’s on some kind of emotional Slimfast.’

‘My husband is like one of those second-hand books you buy that’s got all the wrong bits underlined.’

‘So I say to her, you sayin’ you ain’t seen him since Tuesday? You say he ain’t been around? Blah blah blah. She goes, naw, I ain’t seen him, I been down my sister’s, I been over my mum’s. Blah blah blah.’

‘Blah, blah, blah, yeah? X, y, zee.’

‘Lying cow.’

‘There is a light. There is a bridge. And they’re all on the other side of the bridge, beckoning, calling you across.’

‘They’re the last people I’d want to see.’

‘You think the cold could freeze the watches, Alvin?’

‘Then they took over the TV station. They played sombre martial music, interrupted by calls for calm.’

‘Yes on the boat now six months many islands no alcohol! Just beer. That is how Pacific islands is yes? No alcohol! I am Portugal originally. The arrest was illegal.’

‘I feel I’ve come to a point where I’ve exhausted the entire form. It can’t hold me anymore. I need to move on.’

‘She said she wouldn’t decide until the cast came off.’

‘First they said clear, now they’re saying secondary.’

‘He is my son, yes! He is flesh and blood! But what can I say? The motherfucker is out of control!’

‘Then he wrapped the car around a lamppost outside Shinrone. End of story. The guard said it wasn’t quick, it was slow.’

There is no sign of rescue. There is no movement at all on the white horizon. There is no signal in billowing smoke. Now I feel it creep over the tundra, I know that it will quickly be among us and it is. And death, it turns out, is a complete B-movie ham. Death is cold fingers lightly placed on the back of the scalp. Death is cheesy as a ghost train.

‘Emily Bronte was always very weak, even as a child. Reading a book, she’d fall into the fireplace.’

‘Says, you gonna grow this business? I look asshole in the eye, I say yes sir I am! Says, you don’t know diddly about growing no business. I say, you fuck! You shit for brains!’

‘Then I had a chipper for a while, this was in Clonmel.’

The light fades and we continue to circle. We put away brandy miniatures, whisky miniatures, gin miniatures. The vodka is about done already. There has been a run on the vodka. Mel is shitfaced. Mel is giving it some to the French hottie with the tiny feet.

‘Very cocktaily, very cha-cha-cha? With those outdoor heaters you know what I’m saying? So you can like sit on the sidewalk in winter even. If that is what you want to do.’

‘How many more years do you think you’re going to entertain me by imitating television comedians, Paul?’

‘Apparently it was one of the worst credit ratings ever recorded in the northwest.’

‘I’m not even supposed to be on an aeroplane. Fact!’

‘How’d you pitch this? Nobody would believe this shit! They’d be, like, get the fuck out of here asshole!’

‘So what you’re saying is you’re one of these high-functioning alcoholics, basically?’

‘I know that! Who do you think you’re talking to here? I know the phrase “prose poem” has certain connotations. But bear with me, please.’