A man I’d seen walking around the top deck a few times, who I’d dubbed The Man Who Walks, was sitting alone, shaking pepper onto eggs and sausages, gearing himself up for another exhausting day of ambulation. He glanced up at me before looking away.

Misery loves company. But this old misery thought he was a prick.

I was interrupted by a Breaking News bulletin on the TV wall opposite.

TENERIFE PLANE CRASH LATEST: Over 200 feared dead

The tickertape along the bottom of Sky News spat out various titbits of information – how the passengers were mostly British and the British Embassy was helping to locate families.

Nothing about Sandra Huggins. Nothing about me. Nobody gave a shit. I watched the other passengers, enjoying their waffles, sipping their coffees, admiring the dolphins.

And I thought: why the hell was I running? What was there to run to?

Keston Hoyle had been right: Ivy was my future. And I had given it away to spend a lifetime on the run, killing people who didn’t even matter. I had a mouthful of pancake and I couldn’t swallow it. I took it out and placed it on the side of my plate. I wondered if I’d have the courage to jump overboard. To dive down into that freezing blue mass and call time on this waste of a life.

But on Day Four the sun rose and the engine shuddered as we pulled into the port of Madeira and dropped anchor. I’d made it to Bobby Fairly’s island. Sanctuary. A chance of a future, however alien it felt. And I had already paid him so I at least had to find out what I’d bought, didn’t I?

I probably should have topped myself when I had the chance.

Tuesday, 1 January 2019 – Madeira

1. Couples who indulge in gross amounts of PDA
2. People who say they genuinely prefer Scandi Noir to normal Noir. No you fucking don’t.
3. Influencers. Do I need a reason?
4. People who aren’t ready to order/pay after a longassed wait in line
5. Pushy bellhops – I’ve carried my own bag across the continent. Why do you get £20 for carrying it up one flight of stairs?
6. The entire British government

I packed my rucksack, made myself as plain as possible in my white-and-navy holiday shorts and T-shirt combo, brown contact lenses and Sally Bowles wig, which was growing ever more ropey with the salty wind, and headed outside my cabin to whatever life Bobby Fairly had bought me.

The corridor was deserted but for my room steward, Gabriel, folding towels on a cart. He was from Austin, Texas and called me ‘Darlin’’ a lot which I kinda liked. Time was if you called me ‘Darling’ or ‘Sweetpea’ I’d have held a knife to your carotid, but it didn’t bother me so much at that moment.