At this time of year, just before Christmas, and indeed throughout winter, it was quite normal to experience dramatic cloud inversions across the national park. It was something to do with geography, a subject Donald had studied at A Level, at Eton College, and he explained this to Bart, who wasn’t really interested, but Donald needed to talk through his anxiety, as the helicopter flapped about on the wind like a new-born fledgling, clumsy and vulnerable to predators.

‘It’s really a temperature inversion,’ Donald droned on. ‘Ordinarily, air is colder the higher it rises, but in an inversion, the opposite is true and a blanket of cold air gets trapped underneath. Look, it’s sticking to the layer below it like glue.’ Donald pointed as the big metal bird lost a little altitude. ‘Jesus, I’m going to vomit,’ he said, grabbing the seat.

Bart smiled.

‘Good God, Donald, think about that young Sasha riding you, tits everywhere and screaming your name.’

Donald shot him a look and his eyes widened. This time it was out of embarrassment, not fear for his life, because he thought the pilots might have heard what Bart had just said.

‘The mics are one-way, they can’t hear a thing. For example, if I said that I snorted the finest grade cocaine out of Chloe’s arse cheeks, they wouldn’t even flinch, look.’

The pilots carried on, oblivious to the conversation going on in the back. Donald relaxed a little and smiled. ‘Jesus, Bart, you kill me.’

‘In fact, that valley over there, well, let’s just say it reminds me of something,’ Bart said.

Donald guffawed heartily. ‘It is beautiful, though, I’ll grant you that.’

Bart stared out of the window, knocking his friend’s arm with his elbow as he swigged brandy.

The early morning cloud looked as though it was being sucked downwards, snagged between cliff edges. It was as if it was snared across the valley, an ethereal net laid by farmers the night before to catch some mystical animal that threatened the fells. The fluffy carpet couldn’t quite reach the high peaks; so adhered was it to the valley floors that it looked like an ocean, with the mountain tops like islands protruding through it. So if one was in the lucky position to be at the top of one of the significant summits at such a time, or in a helicopter, then the clouds would be beneath you, benign in their beauty and beckoning in their allure. It was quite something, and Donald’s breath was simply taken away. It helped to remove the premonitions of impending death. Or the vision of what he’d done to a girl half the age of his daughter last night.

‘That’s Helvellyn dead ahead,’ one of the pilots pointed out.