‘There’s nothing,’ I say. ‘I don’t know why she was upset. I don’t know what happened to her. I only wish …’ I break down into tears, and thankfully he calls an end to the interview.

13

Antonio

16 January 2022, 13:00

The Caribbean

I barely slept last night, both traumatized by the police interview and unable to stop turning over and over in my head what the note and the clothes might mean. I don’t get anywhere with it, but I’m pretty sure that one way or another, they’re not a good thing.

I almost told the policeman about the note and the clothes when he interviewed me, because I’m so tired I can’t think straight, but I’m relieved now that I didn’t. Whatever their significance, I’ll need to deal with it myself. In my own way.

I get through my morning duties on autopilot, which isn’t exactly difficult as it’s cleaning after all – I don’t need to concentrate. But today that isn’t a good thing as my mind races, going to dark places where I don’t want it to go.

Lola is dead and I am going to prison. I’m sure of it.

I’ve been withdrawing more and more from the rest of the crew during the lay-up; I can’t bear the looks of pity from some or wariness from others. Most of them give me a wide berth anyway – I get that I’m not exactly fun to be around these days.

At lunchtime I am sitting at a table, alone as usual, staring glumly at my phone, trying to get the WiFi to work so I can find out what kind of sentence I can expect if anyone finds out what I did.

It’s not working, as per, but I can see my reflection in the screen. I look terrible – bags under my eyes, and a stain on the ratty T-shirt I’ve been wearing for days as it’s easier to pick it up from the floor and put it back on again each day rather than find something new to wear. It’s starting to smell, but I don’t care.

I’m still listlessly trying to make the Internet work when someone puts their tray down in front of me. I put my phone face down on the table – I don’t want anyone to see what I was searching for, and look up. It’s Leo. ‘OK if I join you?’ he asks.

I shrug. ‘Help yourself. I’m off in a minute anyway,’ I say, waving vaguely at my tray, which is still covered in food. ‘I’m not very hungry.’ I have almost no appetite these days. Eating seems pointless. I can barely taste anything and my stomach is always in knots.