The loneliness and self-pity I’m feeling quickly gives way to anger. I cross the room, take a pillow from the bed and squeeze it between my hands. It is huge, square, duck down and encased in Egyptian cotton. For the really important passengers, the case would be personally monogrammed. It’s a totally different world up here to ours below deck. Rick is probably enjoying more luxury and privilege during this lay-up than he’s ever had in the rest of his life, not that he deserves it in the slightest.

He gives a kind of snorting snore and stirs. I brace myself, ready, holding the pillow in front of me, but he settles back down to sleep.

In a gruesome echo of one of his favourite positions, I climb onto the bed and straddle him, fixing his wrists to the headboard using some cable ties I found in a maintenance cupboard of the crew area. I laugh quietly to myself. If he was awake – he’d be loving this. So far.

He doesn’t stir. I’m about to press the pillow into his face, but I feel another flash of anger. Why should he have a peaceful death, not knowing what hit him or why? Dad didn’t have that privilege when he died. He was probably full of angst – must have been, given that he was driven to take his life. I want Rick to feel fear. To regret what he did, even if only fleetingly. I want his last emotions to be panic and remorse, though perhaps the latter is too much to hope for. I’m not sure if someone like him is capable of remorse.

‘Rick,’ I say, still sitting astride him. No movement. Another snore. ‘Rick!’ I call louder. I’m not too worried about anyone hearing me – these top-end suites are soundproofed to within an inch of their life and everyone will be at the muster station by now, probably being bollocked by Bill for being too slow to get there.

He still doesn’t wake up, so I slap him across the face, hard. My palm stings, but it’s immensely satisfying.

This time he makes an unintelligible noise and opens his eyes. He tries to move his hands but from the puzzled look in his eyes it seems like he can’t work out why he can’t. His eyes are unfocused.

‘Lola?’ he whispers thickly. I slap him again. ‘What … why,’ he mumbles.

I lean down, putting my face close to his. ‘This is for what you did,’ I hiss, ‘all those years ago.’

For a second I think I see a flicker of something – realization? recognition? – in his eyes, but then they defocus again. ‘I never, I didn’t …’ he is mumbling, but it’s difficult to make out.