Galway Review 8 - April 2020

N.K. Woods ii
Risks & Rascals
‘Où sont les parachutes?’
The French voice cut through the hum of Spanish
conversation and made Leo’s hearing aid squeal.
Although the lady who’d spoken was standing by the
front row, he could hear and see her perfectly from his
seat in the middle of the small plane. She pointed
towards one of the propellers, slapped the palm of her
hand off her forehead and sighed in a despairing yet
resigned way that reminded him of his wife, Ginnie.
Looking swiftly away, he leaned across the empty seat
beside him and stared out the window.
Everyone was on board now, except for the young
couple arguing on the tarmac. Very fair hair and red
skin, burnt and sore looking, suggested they’d have
been better off holidaying in Scandinavia than Central
America. A minute later they appeared in the cabin and
the woman stomped to her seat, 5C, directly in front of
Leo, while the man, his T-shirt damp with sweat, trailed
along behind her.
Once the door was closed and everyone was strapped
in, the stewardess pulled on a life jacket. But before she
could make the usual announcements, the fair-haired
woman was on her feet again, fiddling with the overhead
locker.
‘Sit down, babe,’ said the sunburnt man, sounding
embarrassed.
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