The Boeing-Tupolev plane (BT300) was flying from London-Prestwick, one of Bryan Air’s new hub airports, to the Byzantistan. Onboard were 213 passengers, two pilots, five stewards (not called stewardesses anymore, but still dressed in short, sexy uniforms – and that was just the men, the women were even sexier).

“We are flying at xjfjfd n feet, the weather at our destination is shskdkj” his voice went in and out; the co-pilot was intoning in that suave way that is designed to instill confidence but irritated me hugely; I wasn’t paying attention. I was in Seat 6F, near the front of the ‘officially’ single class plane which nevertheless had extra leg room, better food, no middle seat, winewithyour_meal, and numerous other options. I had booked the extra leg room option because I wasn’t a battery hen. I was meant to be in 6E, but as luck would have it there was no-one in the window seat, so I moved over. This might have seemed a pity because the passenger in 6D was young, pretty and well-dressed. I could have stayed where I was, but I’m not lecher, and we both appreciated the extra space for book (hers) and laptop (mine). I think she appreciated not having a man trying to peer down her blouse for four hours too.

I was twenty seven; sent out to fix problems not of my making by a boss who was the human equivalent of rancid milk. He would have stayed in 6E and would have made what he thought were amusing comments all the way to a woman beside him who would think about jumping without a parachute to escape – I’ve seen his chat-up approach at Christmas parties. He didn’t seem to understand that the 1980s had come and gone now. I tip-tip-tapped away at my work, she read her book, until the food arrived. It was as good as could be expected now – sumptuous, sauce covered steak prepared by our catering staff on a bed of rice (reheated shoeleather recooked in a microwave to remove all flavour). Still, it filled a hole. I hadn’t remembered to order wine! She had. I ordered a beer, which came after the food was finished.

Then the bang happened. The co-pilot was being emollient again, like a sleazy lothario, explaining that the plane was the latest design from the Boeing-Tupolev company when the bang nearly, but not quite, was loud enough to hide the “FUCKING HELL” in an Irish accent from the co-pilot (I won’t mention his name, he’s probably still working). The plane lurched, and those lucky (lucky?) enough to be on the starboard side could look out to see half the engine was missing.

A bird strike would have been bad enough, but the loss of half the engine made the rest of the mechanism rattle and rip. It could remove the wing, I thought. We went into a curving dive, like those WWII planes in films that start to slide away and down until the end in a blazing explosion. The captain came over the airwaves “Nothing to worry about, the plane is designed to fly on one engine, but we are going to have to land quickly. We are searching for the nearest airport.” What was it? Had we been shot at? Had a pterodactyl hit us? Had the plane been as shoddily built as reviewers had suggested? Probably the latter.

We were told that a provincial airport in Byzantilev was the closest/best option. It wasn’t clear if it was the best or the only option, but we were going down quite fast.

The woman in seat 6d moved to 6E. “Are we going to die?” she said and gripped my arm. “I hate flying.” No I’m not a fan of sitting in a clearly not airworthy few hundred tonnes of steel that was kept in the air by massive engines and blind faith either.

“No” I replied, “It will be fine.” At that moment, the plane lurched again (a bit more engine fell off and the port engine started to make protest noises). She gripped my arm with her long nailed fingers and I felt my circulation start to reduce. With some difficulty I switched her hand to my hand, and wished I hadn’t as the long nails started to drill into my soft flesh like the claws of a tiger opening a Christmas present. She did actually draw blood, I discovered later.

The plane juddered and went steeper, causing a stewardess (non-PC term, so shoot me, I’m going to die anyway) to fall over; demonstrating that high heels, short skirts, and thongs are not the best uniform for a crisis. She left not a lot to my fetid imagination. The girl beside me was staring straight at this floored female and seeing nothing. The girl’s claws felt like they were nearly right through the hand. She was white as a sheet, and so was I. She was terrified, I was just in extreme pain – which actually distracted me from the likelihood of imminent death.

We plunged through the clouds more like a Stuka divebomber. The cockpit door opened and we were close enough to the front to hear “Negative, we have to land with you now; we cannot proceed to Byzantistan as we are in extreme danger of losing the -” the door slammed shut. Clearly ‘no cause for alarm’ was not quite the whole truth as the pilots saw it. The two male stewards were hugging each other in fear, the three female stewards were walking (staggering) down the plane telling everybody to adopt the brace position. I felt like saying that being bent over like you want to suck your own dick would not save you when you slammed into the ground at several hundred miles per hour. I didn’t, I figured they had enough to worry about without stupid, argumentative customers.

As we came out the clouds, a town appeared on the right, painfully close in fact. It felt like roof top height, but I’m sure it wasn’t. Enough to say that I could see the muezzin’s face on the minaret and it was horizontal to me. He looked surprised, to say the least. The second engine died, and I never knew if this was accident or design. As we crossed some trees, I swear they swayed with us. Then there was a flat grass field, the small runway must have been beneath us. The bump felt like someone had kicked me up the arse, and I suddenly had an image of the Father Ted episode with Bishop Brennan. Strange how the brain works. The brakes screamed and so did several passengers. And then for five seconds, there was silence.

Then the stewardesses (used deliberately since the female crew were the ones taking action) rushed into action. Launching escape ramps, they hassled and shouted and people started rushing to the slides to escape. The two male stewards stayed huddled in a corner. I stood and dragged the girl with me, as we reached the escape slide, I bodily lifted her and pulled off her shoes with one hand (holding on to them) and launched her down the slide, following closely behind; in fact landing on her person in a way which in other circumstances might have been sexual assault. She did not seem to mind, we stepped smartly away from the plane, expecting it to explode at any moment.

An old green fire engine roared up, I swear it had a bell, not a siren. The firemen (all men), swarmed around laying out hoses, but the plane stood on its wheels, and the hissing of the tyres was merely the slow release of air as they had worn through in the braking. No fire, no drama. I think the fire brigade was disappointed. They doubled as airport fire brigade and town fire engine.

Byzantistan and Byzantilev were two opposites: opposite in culture, religion, and politics. When Byzantistan moved left, Byzantilev lurched right. Byzantilev had been an Islamic cultural crucible, publishing ideas and debating them for two hundred years; then, it seemed, as Byzantistan moved forwards from an oligarchy of intolerance towards embracing the free thinking and originality of the The West, its neighbour moved to a stricter interpretation of the truths of Islam. Now their Supreme Guide (as he was called) saw all Byzantistan influences as automatically suspect and intolerable. The black cars that rolled up to the small airport buildings contained religious police intent on containing this unwanted invasion.

All the passengers who could walk – which was most of them thanks to the skilfull management of the stricken plane by the two pilots (actually the pilot alone, but he was happy to share the credit, he was not a greedy man) – were escorted to the buildings to be questioned. The three hospital cases were given twenty four hour watches to ensure they were not shamming.

We queued up, I found myself near the back with the girl and introduced myself, she told me her name was Yohanna. She looked at my hand “Did I do that? I’m really sorry. It must hurt.” I told her it was entirely understandable in the circumstances. We watched as each citizen of Byzantistan was questioned more thoroughly than others and then led off for deeper investigation. We heard later that this included a group strip search surrounded by men. The women endured comments that had nothing to do with checking if they were spies. One man protested, and was beaten senseless for his trouble. The others put up with their shameful treatment. The Supreme Guide had been known to call women who did not cover their arms ‘whores of the Babylon of Byzantistan’, so a skirt that did not reach the floor was bound to be treated with a lack of sympathy. The stewardesses, in their short, sexy outfits, were terrified, the pilot and co-pilot stayed close to them to insist on them being treated correctly.

“They will take me away. They will!” Yohanna was fairly sure she would be assaulted at least, possibly worse. I had to agree, from the reports I had read. The country seemed to have a slightly bipolar existence. At one end they were trying to encourage tourism, but at the other they were paranoid concerning spies ... especially from Byzantistan.

“I have an idea. It may get us both into trouble, but it may help.” I said, and when we were nearly at the front, I put my arm around her waist and pulled her towards me, tight so we felt each other’s bodies against each other. When only an old couple were in front, waiting to be called towards the waiting questioners, I kissed Yohanna. Not some peck on the cheek, but a long full, mouthy kiss. Her eyes opened a little wider (though I did not invade her mouth, tempting though it was. I made sure it was long enough to be seen. The old couple went forward together; they answered questions leaning on their walking sticks and were quickly sent to the right (the extra questioning group was taken off left).

“You!” We walked forward, arm in arm. “No! One!”

“We are married, like they are. We should be questioned together.” I replied.

“Your passports have different names!”

“Yes, we married yesterday. We haven’t changed them yet. But ... yes, there are our boarding passes, see? We sat together.”

“Where is the certificate!” Everything was sharp and clipped from this jumped-up little man, determined to be in control.

“In our luggage on the plane. Please sir, when can we proceed?”

“I would have thought such an important document would be kept safe in your pocket!”

I said nothing.

“Well?”

“Oh, was that a question? I thought it safer to be in our luggage than creased and messed in a pocket.”

“She is from Byzantistan!”

“She is, she is also now from Great Britain!” I said this like it might strike terror into his heart. The last time our country had stood alone was against the Boers I think; and they nearly won! “We are going to Byzantistan to meet her family, so anything you can offer can hardly be more scary than that.” I laughed. He looked at me and we had a common understanding. In-laws are worse than anything. He smiled and let us both go.

“Oh! Congratulations!” He was human after all.

When all had been interviewed, an army coach arrived, with four armed soldiers on it. The captain pilot came forward “Ladies and Gentlemen, if I could have your attention. We will not be able to leave today. I have spoken to the company and they confirmed that it will not be until tomorrow that a replacement plane or a replacement engine can be provided.” People mumbled that they did not want to go back into that ‘deathtrap’. “We will know more tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m pleased to announce that our wonderful temporary hosts have very kindly made available accommodation for the night and are in the process of booking the rooms for us as we speak.” It was a gracious, flowery speech which did not reflect the look of the ‘wonderful hosts’ as they circled with guns and scowls. Nobody was looking forward to where we were likely to be placed.

We all climbed onto the bus and it trundled away. Yohanna sat with me for safety, we noticed none of the other citizens of Byzantistan were on the coach and I felt somehow responsible for asking the captain about their welfare. “It’s true, they’ve been taken for extra interrogation – I hope that is a mistranslation. We are making strong representations. I have said we will not leave without them.”

It was good to know he was on the ball, so I left him to it. Later we heard what a horrible time the other citizens had, but in the meantime at least someone was looking out for them. We went through a small forest and then down the main street of the local town and out the other side. There, in shiny new brick and concrete was a brand spanking new Hilton Holiday Hotel. For some reason, the government of this country was thinking this would be a good place for tourists. Perhaps I missed the obvious attractions. The hotel was fully functional, with a pool and gym as well. By the time we got to the hotel, people were asking about luggage. It was made clear that for one night we would have to do without. There were no baggage handlers to unload the luggage. Yohanna and I, at least, were pleased since that pesky marriage certificate wouldn’t be found if they searched the luggage, and that would seem very suspicious.

At the checkin desk, we realised that there was an obvious problem with the story we had spun; we were given two keycards for the one room. Since we were married, it was obvious we should have one room. “Perhaps it will be a twin.” I whispered. But no, this was one of their luxury King Size rooms. The airline was picking up the bill, so naturally the hotel only had the best rooms available at full price.

“Lunch will be in the conference room, as will dinner and breakfast. We hope you enjoy your stay with us sir and madam.” A cheerful manager said to us. He might well be cheerful, he had just upped the occupancy of his hotel probably by 100 or 200 percent.

It being 11am, we went up to our room first. Of course it was a double not a twin. It was actually a very nice room. Yohanna rang home and explained the delay in getting back to see her family. I rang work and the customer. Then we were free. It slowly dawned on us that this enforced stay removed all obligations. Yohanna explained that she would have been taken round all the relatives to meet everyone, I would have had to put in a 2 hour presentation this afternoon. “Let’s look at the pool, shall we? We can go to the lunch after.” Yohanna said.

We walked down to the ground floor, followed the signs for ‘Fitness Area’ and found the usual: a reception area with various things for sale. We asked if we could look at the pool complex and we pointed to a window. On the other side, and indoor pool looked inviting, down the side was a steam room, a sauna, and a plunge pool. At far end of the pool, a small canal like offshoot allowed bathers to duck under some plastic curtains and emerge in an outdoor pool of similar size with a wave machine in one sector of it. It looked fun. Not one person was in the pool.

We went back to reception. “Should we?”

“Why not? The facilities are here to be used.”

I selected a pair of swimming shorts and Yohanna selected a swimming costume that she thought would fit. I signed for them. I wasn’t sure how I would get a female swimming costume through expenses, but I didn’t care really; I was actually enjoying this break from the normal life. Even the hint of menace was rather exciting.

Lunch was good; the hotel staff were pleased to have a full or nearly full hotel, the manager especially. He was keen to put on a good show to encourage people to come back. I even engaged him in conversation on what there was to see locally. He recommended the town as being full of pleasant cafes, and ancient ruined church and a new mosque which the town was very proud of. “And we can visit?”

“Oh yes, yes, they will be delighted.” he assured me. So after lunch, we strode down into the town.

“Have you noticed? The soldiers have gone. Seems we are no longer a threat to the morals of the people.” Yohanna told me, she adjusted her head scarf, just to be sure. Several locals definitely did a double take at seeing her legs. Locals wore long dresses and head scarves but no more. There were rumours that the Supreme Guide was thinking that more covering up might be needed, but so far this did seem to be a fairly liberal Muslim state. We hoped it would stay that way, the people seemed happy. The only danger they saw was apparently the neighbouring state which they despised and hated for no obvious reason. Yohanna spoke the same language as them but with a different accent, she just told them she was from ‘The South’ which seemed to satisfy people.

So we visited the church, went to the mosque and were welcomed in after taking our shoes off. The man who welcomed us would not shake Yohanna’s hand but would shake mine, but still was very friendly and recommended a cafe down a small alley, which probably belonged to a relation; but it was good. The coffee was hot and sweet and strong, and the cakes were delightful. Then we strolled back and decided it was time for a swim. As we left the room, a man came out of a room further down the corridor. “That’s the co-pilot.” I said.

We signed in at reception. “Are you swimming ... together? We have ladies only for an hour every afternoon, we draw the curtains for your privacy, madam.” The male receptionist said. Naturally he could peek if he wanted, yet somehow it preserved the proprieties. We assured him that we would happily swim together – particularly since we were married, Yohanna reminded him. He brightened up immeasurably on hearing that and promised to reserve the pool for the next hour for our use alone. It would be a while before they could properly accommodate the wild and lewd ways of The West.

We went to separate changing rooms, they had the usual lockers for everything with a key attached to a safety pin. I usually put the pin through my costume so my brand new shorts got a hole and went into the baths. Naturally Yohanna took ages to get changed. Why is it that women have to do all sorts of pointless activities like brushing their hair when it’s going to get tousled anyway? Then she appeared and I was glad I had waited patiently, it was worth the wait. I’d already realised she was good looking, but in a costume she looked fantastic. Hour glass figure squeezed into a tight costume that stretched and compressed a bust that definitely strained to escape. If I looked a little too long at her shapely – not large, just sculpted – thighs and the space between them, well, I hoped she hadn’t noticed. She had a clear gap between her legs; some women have thighs that expand rapidly inwards to leave a tiny triangle of light at the top; her legs left her body and stayed apart. Perhaps it was the way she walked, I’m not a structural engineer, I just know what I like, and she definitely ticked the boxes.

As she came to the water, she turned to climb down the ladder rather than moving to the wide steps at the shallow end. So I had a good view from behind, and it was good; firm and rounded bottom, not a skinny, bony behind nor a wobbling jelly. Of course, this is all academic. She had made sure (as women must with any man, so there is no misunderstanding) that I knew she was in a relationship with a young man from the next village to hers in Byzantistan; they had met at UCL in London and just stayed. I didn’t get the impression of sparks and stuff, but she seemed happy.

We swam, we swam under the barrier to the outside pool. This pool was surrounded by a high fence for privacy, but bizarrely also had a diving board which enabled a view over the fence (and of course a view of anybody on the board). “Going to try it?” Yohanna asked.

“I can’t dive.”

“Well, I’m not very good, but I will if you will.” That’s the kind of challenge that any teenage boy can’t turn down – and all men become teenage boys in the company of attractive women. So I followed her up the steps, getting one of the best views of a young female bottom that it is possible to get. At the top she stood for about thirty seconds and then seemed to tip over. She went down straight as an arrow, cutting into the water smoothly. If that was ‘not very good’, I’d be interested in her concept of excellent.

“Come on then, I’ll move out the way.” She shouted. Thank goodness there was no-one else around. I stood on the edge, it felt like I was on top of the Empire State Building. I took a deep breath and jumped, and I even held my nose as I hit the water. So I made a huge splash. “Oh well done! Didn’t feel like trying to dive?”

“No, I can’t. I’d have ended up hitting the water at some awful angle.” I replied; a small part of me felt diminished because she was better. I knew that was stupid, but that’s stupid teenage attitudes for you.

“Shall we go in? Fancy a steam room or a sauna? I’ve never tried either.” She told me that at home in her village they would never dress like this and ‘disport’ themselves even with only women – so the cultures of the two countries had some overlap I said. “Oh yes, like two sisters who argue all the time, they cannot see how similar they are in so many ways.” She explained that when she’d moved to the UK for her degree, she had taking swimming lessons, and then diving lessons, determined to be good before moving back. There was a chance that on the beaches of Lake Byzantium people might start doing more than paddling in mixed groups. “Things are freeing up.” Lake Byzantium is one of the political sources of conflict, one side wants to use lots of the water for irrigation, the other wants to keep it for drinking water. I discovered another source of difference when I innocently mentioned the mountains we could see in the distance. “The Kara Range? Yes.” I asked which country they belonged to and she briefly flared up. “This bloddy [she said it that way] country moved in and took Mount Karak and built a military post there, the agreed border clearly follows the river! But they have built an impregnable fort and won’t negotiate. They have no right! The mountain was sacred before Christianity, it is the foundation of our nation! They have no right! It is why we don’t trust them. They are sneaky and liars!” she calmed down and I made a mental note to avoid the subject of the beautiful snowy mountains again.

In the sauna we lay on the wooden benches. She lay face down, her legs slightly open. If she was unaware of the view she presented, she should have been. I was behind her and able to study every inch of the legs rising to that delightful view of her rear end. I could see no evidence of a camel toe and wondered if that was the cloth hiding it or she had no prominent labia. “What are you thinking?” she asked. Obviously I couldn’t tell her that I was doing what every heterosexual male does with an attractive woman and imagining what was underneath the clothing.

“Did you know know that in Scandinavia everybody attends sauna nude?” I told her. She looked at me with disbelief. “It’s true, they think nothing of it. Large and small, young and old. Male and female. We are too hung up by our repressions to do that.”

“Urrgh! I can’t imagine ever, ever, ever doing something like that. Would it be better with friends and relations or complete strangers do you think?” we chatted for a while and then she sat up and saw me looking at her chest. “Oh? Oh I’m sooo sorry!” she was apologising for the fact that her nipples were standing up proud and poking two little hillocks through the material. I assured her that I was cool with it; thinking ‘thank goodness the normal reaction in my loins is under control, so far.’

“Come on! Plunge pool.” We both shrieked a little as the freezing water hit us. It was good though, it was very refreshing.

Then it was into the steam room. I turned the steam up and soon we could barely see the door. We sat close and got closer. She leaned forward to make some point in our conversation and I misinterpreted and kissed her. “Oh?”