Squashed up next to her in seat 64b is a silverback gorilla. In his polyester Primark suit, he sweats and grunts, hunches forward, and attempts to adjust his navy blue compression socks. As the cabin fills up, he hisses through yellow, broken teeth. She catches a whiff of his breath; it reeks of rotten bananas and earwigs. She turns away her head.

When the air steward demonstrates how to inflate the orange emergency life vest, the geriatric ape turns to her, with an imploring, panicked look. It’s the same pitiful expression her daddy made, when she dropped him off, unpacked his case, settled him in to his own bijou room, at the Sunset Retirement Home.

She hesitates, then blurts out, “Sir, would you like to swap? There’s more space in the aisle.”

“Pardon,” he says. “Je ne parle pas anglaise.”

She gestures he should take her seat.

After take-off, she orders three double Cognacs. She downs one and passes the other two, along with three diazepam, to King Kong. He looks puzzled but necks the pills and booze. Within minutes he’s comatose. Thank God, she thinks. At least now I can get some beauty sleep. She reclines her seat and drifts off.

:::

She’s at his side at l’hôpital de Libreville, when eventually he comes round. Her hand feels tiny in his giant leathery palm.

“Manicure?” she asks.

He smiles weakly but nods. She sets to work with her emery board and cuticle tool.

At her request, the head nurse contacts Loango National Park, which manages to track down his family living wild in the western lowlands. Apparently, they are thrilled. His great-granddaughter is on her way to collect him.

While he rests, she slips outside. She pulls out her phone and dials the Sunset Retirement Home. No signal. But she’ll keep trying.

Bio: Jane Salmons