Dust and dirt spewed everywhere, the cabin shredding itself along the ground, the front half spinning sideways

Ascream of metal ripped in Finn’s ears as his knees were thrown into his chest. He looked up and the cabin had been severed into two pieces, split a few rows in front, both halves hurtling at Christ knows what speed, cold air filling the space, the excruciating grind of metal on metal, steel on tarmac.

Two of the oil workers were thrown out of their seats and smashed down into the aisle, then another thrash and lurch and Finn’s head smacked into his seat. Something moved out the window.

It was the wing, broken free, bouncing up into the air off the tarmac, flipping over through fog then slicing down into the front half of the cabin, the broken propellers and thick cylinder of the engine landing on the front row where the couple were.

Dust and dirt spewed everywhere, the cabin shredding itself along the ground, the front half spinning sideways.

The severed wing was on fire, flames leaping through the seats. The overhead lockers were open and bags flew out. Finn tried to scream but couldn’t get air into his lungs as the plane hammered along the runway, throwing debris and seats up from the front so that he had to duck out of the way.

He lifted his head and saw the front part of the plane 50 yards away and still moving, flames licking the cockpit. They were losing momentum as they scraped along the runway. Finn saw the airport building up to the left, which meant they were skidding towards the perimeter fence and the sea.

Their half of the fuselage jerked upwards at the back before crashing down, unhinging the row of seats Finn was in, flipping him towards the rear of the cabin where his skull connected with the wall, bursts of purple and red in his vision, pain screaming through him until his body gave up to the blackness.

The fumes hit him first and he gagged. It felt like he was breathing petrol. He coughed then puked down himself. Pain swarmed through him, the back of his head, his ribs on the left-hand side, his knee

Something felt very wrong with his right hand. He tried to breathe but pain sliced across his chest as his lungs expanded. He spat sick out of his mouth and opened his eyes.

He was still strapped in his seat, which was now on the floor at the back of the aisle, pushed up against the toilet wall.

In the rows in front of him only half the seats were still there, the rest pitched upside down on top of others or presumably somewhere outside the cabin.

Two of the oil workers were on the floor further up the aisle, one with a seat and a small case on top of him. The guy he’d fought with was in his seat a couple of rows in front, slumped over with his head to the side.

Where the fuselage had ripped in two, ragged metal and plastic edges were exposed, torn fabric flapping in the breeze. The stench of fuel was everywhere as Finn tried moving his head.

He could see the front half of the plane not too far away, as if the two pieces had tried their best not to be parted.

The front seats were crushed by the engine. The fire there had gone out, leaving rows of scorched headrests. Beyond that the co-pilot and Charlotte were still strapped in, seemingly unconscious.

Behind them, the cockpit door was closed. He couldn’t see Maddie. Her seat was still bolted in place, but he couldn’t see her head. Maybe she was unconscious, flopped to the side.

Between the two parts of the plane was grey tarmac. Beyond that was rough grass, tussocks of sandy gorse.

They’d managed to stay on the runway, but he could hear waves so they must be close to the sea.

Jesus, the pain. He looked at his right hand. The two smallest fingers were pointing in the wrong direction, at a right angle to the knuckle, which had flattened.

He tried to flex it and felt bone grind under the skin, a shard of pain up his arm.

He put his head back on the seat. His wrists and ankles were still bound. He felt dizzy, the fumes taking over. He closed his eyes and tried not to be sick again, concentrated on breathing.

Sirens. They were coming. Everything was going to be OK.

He heard movement in the cabin. His head was spinning as he drifted close to passing out, an awful kind of vertigo, control of his mind slipping away.

He opened his eyes and saw Maddie. She stepped down the aisle towards him, rubbing her eye. She was alive and she was coming for him.

“Are you OK?” she said. Finn nodded. She knelt down. Finn looked at his right hand and she followed his gaze. “Oh no, your fingers.”

“It’s not too bad.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Finn shook his head, his skull thudding. “It’s not your fault, it’s mine.”

She put a finger to his lips, then leaned in and kissed him.

The sirens were getting louder. Maddie pulled away and looked around, then out through the gaping hole at the front of the cabin. She shook her head.

“I can’t do this,” she said under her breath. She reached under the seat to Finn’s left and pulled out her holdall, the one she’d stowed.

She clutched it in both hands and looked at him. “I have to go.”

She turned and walked down the aisle then stepped out the tattered front of the cabin.

The sirens were all around now and Finn saw flashing lights out the window.

Maddie looked back at him then disappeared into the haar.

Fingers touched his neck and he thought of her. He opened his eyes and saw a middle-aged paramedic with a grey beard and wild hair.

“What’s your name?”

“Finn.”

“How do you feel, Finn?”

“Pretty awful.”

“Well, you’ve been in a plane crash, that’s to be expected. Where does it hurt?”

Finn took shallow breaths. “The left side of my chest. The back of my head. My hand.”

The paramedic looked at Finn’s hands and saw the restraints. “I can explain,” Finn said.

The paramedic shook his head. “I’m not interested,” he said calmly. “Save your strength, you’re going to need it.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

More tomorrow.