But it doesn’t come…

When you finally chance a look over the top of the hill, the seaplane is on fire.

Its engine is burning fiercely, black smoke pouring out of the cockpit. The pilot is staggering a few steps from the wreckage, dragging what looks like a broken leg; then his eyes roll up and he collapses. You tense, knowing you should go out and drag him to safety – even if he’s working for Justin, he’s probably a local, not a sociopath – but then you see him.

Justin.

He’s on fire.

His entire head is wrapped in dense black smoke, and you realise that some of the engine fuel must have splashed up and over onto his stupid woolly hat. The material is covered in sheets of yellow flame, and Justin –

Justin is screaming, and even over the noise of the engine fire, you can hear him. The sharp tang of the sea air is suddenly overtaken by the unmistakeable smell of charred meat.

And even after everything he’s done, after everything he’s put you through, you can’t just sit and watch someone burning to right in front of you.

Not when it’s your fault.

You make a run for the plane, grabbing the pilot by the shoulders and hauling him ten meters away, to relative safety. Then you swear, yanking your t-shirt over your head soaking it in the water lapping alongside the dock. The smoke is now so thick and acrid that it’s actually burning your eyes.

For a moment, you can’t see Justin. Then he staggers towards you.

The plane might explode at any second. And this is a really stupid idea. And if you die because of him, you’ll never fucking forgive yourself. But you sprint forwards anyway, hands wrapped in the soaking wet t-shirt, intent on ripping the flaming -helmet off his head.

You grab it, and swear again – it’s hot, fucking burning, even through the freezing water soaking through your shirt. Then you pull, hard – then harder –

Something rips, and Justin howls in pain and fury, but the flaming hat is away. You hurl it into the ocean, and it makes a hissing sound as it sinks.

You look back, breathing hard, only to see –

Jesus –

Justin’s face is gone.

Not all of it – but half his face is just missing, ripped away with the hat, melted. He looks like a creature from a horror movie, from a nightmare. The one eye you can still see is shining with tears.

‘You – fucking – bastard!’ Justin bellows, lurching towards you. You sidestep reflexively, and he tumbles to the ground.

But when he comes up, he’s clutching a weapon.

The tiny pistol from before. Somehow, he’s kept hold of it.