Géricault scratched her chin briefly with her three-fingered hand. I was running hard by this point, pumping my arms, losing my breath, 8.7 speed, almost full pelt as another picture of me flashed up on the BBC News 24 channel – an old one from a PICSO evening out where I’m sitting in a booth in the China Palace, grinning in an enforced group photo. I’m cheersing and my eyes are all thin and, arguably, a bit evil. I could see why they’d used it.

I pushed my legs as hard as they would go until I had no more breaths to keep up with them and slowed the numbers to a brisk walk, propelled by the thumping of a hip hop track on another TV.

Adrenaline. The thrill of seeing my face up there on the screen. The thrill of knowing this hadn’t been in vain. That even though the police wanted me, they didn’t have a clue where I was. I was still in the driving seat.

And I felt better; the sweat beading on my face felt like it had pushed something out of me. My lungs had been blown up to their full sizes and all my toxins had been squeezed out into the air-conditioned room. I stopped the belt and stared at the four TV screens ahead. My face on two of them. My name on the tickertape. I’d finally made it. I was famous.

But a sinister new thought owl was incoming – an evil black bird with a sharp, pointed beak, slicing through the horizon with razor-sharp wings: why did Géricault say they ‘remain concerned for the child’s safety’? They must have known about the adoption. Claudia must have given a statement. Why hadn’t someone come forward to refute that at least? Heather? Claudia? They knew I hadn’t hurt Ivy – that was why I left her. Why would Géricault say that? And where the hell was my confession?

That bird got blacker and louder in my head as the night went on.

The next morning, I was in no mood for the bustle of the main dining room at breakfast so I ventured up to the quieter Diamond Deck instead, sneaking into an area called Park Avenue; a glass-covered walkthrough filled with trees and plants, interspersed with quiet cafés. I wanted to stew and sulk some more about what Géricault had said about the baby and the presence of green things and floral smells immediately cooled my jets. I ordered a flat white and sat at a table next to a huge ornate bush, allowing a bird of paradise flower to graze my cheek. It was a tiny pocket of calm amid a cluttered brain.

Raised voices filtered through my peace.

‘Your children race up and down that dining room every morning and it’s got to stop. Nobody else will say anything but I’ve got nothing to lose.’