It would be months before investigators finally filed a report citing the age of the plane and mechanical failure for the tragedy. Much to the disappointment of the press, no evidence of terrorism, conspiracy or foul play emerged.

But Justin didn’t need the report. He knew who was responsible. It took a great deal of self-control to overcome his impulse to confess to crash investigators. If the bullet meant for you kills an innocent bystander do you become an accessory to murder?

He went home with Agnes. ‘Just for a day or two,’ he begged, and how could she refuse? He was obviously in shock and besides, would have a great deal of explaining to do. His parents thought he was on a class trip. In Wales.

They arrived at her flat, shutting the door against the world like refugees. The familiar objects, the smell, the colour and warmth of home calmed Agnes, but Justin’s leg jiggled and the twitch in his left eye intensified. He ran his fingertips repeatedly back and forth over the short soft nap of a velvet chair while she made up the sofa with clean sheets. She rummaged in a drawer for pyjamas that would fit him, then collapsed into bed herself.

At 4 a.m. she woke with a start, heart pounding, to a scratching noise at the bedroom door, like an animal. It was Justin, fully dressed, wild-eyed and trying to smile.

‘Meow,’ he said. ‘You need a cat flap.’

Agnes slumped back against the pillows. ‘What is it, Justin, can’t you sleep?’ He shook his head and she stumbled out of bed with a sigh.

‘I’ll make a cup of tea.’

She carried a tray into the sitting room and Justin watched the fingers of her left hand as she poured milk into steaming cups. He felt awkward and unconnected to the world of people. I’d like to have sex with her fingers, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he opened them again she had reached for her camera.

‘Agnes…’ he began.

‘Yes, Justin?’ Click click click.

‘Agnes, please. My dog is missing.’

Agnes lowered the camera as he leapt to his feet and began pacing, his face crumpled with misery.

‘I haven’t seen him since the plane crash.’

‘Justin, come and sit down. I’m sorry about your dog.’

He glared at her. ‘No, you’re not. You’re humouring me.’

She flared back. ‘Well, I am sorry about your dog. I’m sorry he exists in the first place.’

He looked as if she’d slapped him.

She turned away. ‘Please, Justin. This isn’t easy for me either.’

He sat down, leg jiggling nervously, angrily. ‘I saw something at the airport, Agnes.’

Despite the horror, she was desperate to sort through her photographs and review the disaster close up. She wondered what particular detail amidst the devastation had spooked him.

‘Why didn’t you show me?’

‘Show you what, Justin?’

‘The magazine. Doomed Youth.’

She was taken aback. ‘I did show you. I gave it to you as soon as it came out. I phoned you up and asked if you liked it.’

He jumped up and tried to think, but his brain wouldn’t organize the thoughts. Agitated, he shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Don’t you see what you did? You jinxed me. It’s your fault. I didn’t need to be any more doomed than I was already.’

‘Justin –’

‘What?’

‘You looked beautiful.’

‘I looked doomed.’

Agnes felt unnerved. She couldn’t keep up with his train of thought. ‘Justin, can’t you sit down please? Haven’t you slept at all?’

‘The sleep of the dead. The damned. In answer to your question, no.’ He turned to face her once more, eyes glinting and full of sorrow. ‘How can I sleep with a conscience full of blood?’

He swiped his face with the back of his hand and she saw that he was exhausted, and scared.

‘Justin, you don’t feel responsible, do you?’

He spun off around the room. ‘Of course I don’t. Of course I do.’

Agnes got up, took hold of his arm and pushed him gently back on to the sofa.

‘I was right, Agnes, wasn’t I right?’

‘Please, Justin. Can’t you stop for a moment? You’re confused.’

‘No I’m not.’ He smiled, an awful smile. ‘I’m clearer than I’ve ever been. I can see things.’

Agnes felt a jab of fear. ‘What things?’

‘Things that might happen. Illness, death, catastrophe.’ He lapsed into a grotesque cowboy accent. ‘Stay away from me, baby, I’m trouble.’

Agnes spoke to him slowly, calmly. ‘Justin? You’re alive. You’re OK now. It’s over.’

‘No.’ His expression was fierce.

Then he stood up, grabbed a copy of the oversized magazine from a neat pile by the sofa and slammed it down on the table. He didn’t even have to search. It fell open to his picture under the headline ‘Anthem For Doomed Youth’. He stared out at himself with a face anticipating catastrophe.

‘It’s just fashion, Justin.’

‘Really? It looks more like fucking Nostradamus to me.’

Oh boy, Agnes thought, as he stormed out, slamming the door behind him. He’s at least right about one thing.

It’s not over. Not yet.