Cody’s phone rang. It was PC Queely saying that she had been right. Cody Jameson had been the last thing on Ronald Henderson’s mind before he jumped in front of the train. He’d left a message on his answering machine. Cody asked PC Queely to play her the tape. He said it was a bit upsetting. She said she didn’t mind.

“. . . My wish is to be cremated [muffled approaching roar] and I want the ashes pissed on by a dog and flushed down the toilet of some big polluting jumbo by a stewardess who fucks a copilot while she does it [roar intensifies] and I want the ashes to mix with the puke and shit and then freeze into an ugly lump [Ronald has to shout] and then drop onto a fucking cruise ship sailing the Atlantic, where it’ll smash through the casino, killing someone who thinks that their luck has changed, someone who thinks they’ve hit the fucking jackpot, someone who thinks their life is fine and dandy, someone who calls herself Cody Jameson! Tales of a fucking Stewardess. Don’t think I don’t know who you are! [loud bang, screech, crackle] beep beep.”

201

Cody didn’t want to be remembered that way. She wondered what she’d done to deserve that and couldn’t remember, so she wondered what I’d done to deserve that. She decided it must be something pretty awful.

“That’s not so good,” she said.

“No,” said PC Queely.

“You must think I’m a pretty terrible person.”

“I don’t have an opinion one way or the other.”

She decided to stop being Cody Jameson. It wasn’t really working out. She’d go back to being Lily Frankburg. Lily Frankburg would get a better dedication. Despite everything, she didn’t think anyone would want a frozen lump of piss and shit to land on Lily Frankburg.

Lily Frankburg thanked PC Queely and hung up.

She reached the Birmingham turn off and so she decided to drive home.

200

Michael Davies thought he’d lost the police. He had a quick car. They were too slow. Weren’t expecting him to run. He wasn’t expecting to run either. He was sick in the back. The sweat was popping out over his brow and his hands were clammy. He rang up every contact he knew and told them he was quitting all stowaway operations until further notice. He’d had enough. The heat was on and running made him puke. He didn’t get through to the American team. They had their phones switched off. He tried playing Sinatra but found, to his irritation, that he’d stolen a tape by an artiste called Sinita and it wasn’t doing the trick at all.

199

Graham Johansson arrived at the airport. He checked in, booked in and was going through his flight procedures in the cockpit of SA109.

“You all right?” asked his copilot.

Johansson nodded.

198