“Yes, that’s true. She does look beautiful.”

“You know, Fred, there’s one thing I’ve learned. People can be either good-looking or they can be ugly. In the middle are the nice ones.”

Fred gives a bitter smile, which Mick returns with interest.

“This vacation’s coming to an end. What are you going to do next, Fred?”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Go home. Get back into the old routine.”

“Not me. I don’t know how to live a routine life. You know what I’m going to do, Fred? I’m going to dedicate myself to another film. You said emotions were overrated, but that’s bullshit. Emotions are all we have.”

Mick gets up, goes over to the window, opens it and steps out onto the balcony. And with exaggerated nonchalance he puts one foot on the wicker chair, the other on the window-sill, and lets himself drop from the fourth floor.

Fred had time to get to his feet, but Mick was too quick and unpredictable to give him any chance to save him.

65

The Boeing aircraft is stationary on the runway. In the background stand the Alps.

The aircraft is full; the passengers sit without moving.

A hostess walks along the aisle. She politely addresses a distinguished-looking gentleman. “I’m sorry, sir, you have to switch the mobile off.”

Suddenly, from the other half of the plane, from business class, separated by a curtain, a monstrous raucous shrieking is heard. It continues, a dynamic sound that is intermittent yet piercing.

Everyone strains their neck in surprise towards business class.

The hostess runs as fast as she can in that direction.

The cries continue – a female voice, and one in great distress, it would seem. More female cries ensue, along with the sounds of a scuffle.

The shouting now grows faint.

The passengers are on their feet and looking ahead of them. From up near the pilot’s cabin and the forward exit, we can hear only the sound of voices talking over one another, a muffled cry of pain, a confused disturbance.

At the centre of the disturbance, five hostesses, overwrought by the exertion, are struggling to immobilise a person stretched out on the floor. One of them is bleeding from a cut on her lip.

The person they are restraining is moaning, writhing, as if in extremis.

It is Brenda Morel, stretched out on the floor in a terrible state. Her dress is torn, revealing an old woman’s flesh-coloured petticoat, her make up has gone awry, her face is unrecognisable, distorted by pain and tears as she utters incomprehensible unfinished words that are more than a little disturbing.

She is also bald. Her wig must have been lost in the scuffle with the cabin crew.

Now we can understand what she is saying. She mutters in exhaustion, but determinedly, to the hostesses holding her down, “You shitty bitches, let me get off this asshole of a plane immediately!”

The pilot emerges from his cabin, visibly out of breath. He address Brenda: “Alright, Miss Morel, you win. I have authorisation from the control tower. We can now let you off the plane.”