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Audiobook
First published December 6, 2018







What she hated about even mild turbulence was the way it ended the illusion of security, the way that it made it impossible to pretend that she was somewhere safe. She managed, thanks to the vodka, more or less to ignore the first wobble. The next was less easy to ignore, and the one after that was violent enough to throw her neighbour's Coke into his lap. And then the pilot's voice, suddenly there again, and saying, in a tone of terrifying seriousness, “Cabin crew, take your seats.”
For, in the final analysis, our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this small planet. We all breathe the same air. We all cherish our children's future. And we are all mortal.
She said, leaning towards her sister so that their noses were almost touching, “There's a phrase for this now. It's 'toxic masculinity'.” She said the words in English, and Nalini didn't understand them, so she tried to find a Malayalam equivalent. “That's what they call it now. And you can't just take it,” she said. “You can't. Okay?”
Ursula wanted to ask her daughter how she could be sure he didn't have a family back in Syria – a wife, kids, whatever. There was no way of knowing. Ursula had thought about it just that morning on the plane from Doha. There used to be a time when flights from the Gulf to Europe flew over Iraq and Syria – that was the shortest way – only now they had to avoid the sky over those places and fly over Iran and Turkey instead. She had watched, on the seatback screen, her own flight do just that this morning, divert around Syria and Iraq, and she had thought of Moussa, of course, and of his unknown life down there, in that secret place – a place so secret it wasn't even possible to fly over it and look at it from ten thousand metres up. What had he left behind there? What ties did he still have? Impossible to say.
