One firm knock from a gloved hand, and my quarry card has been re-delivered.
Ugh, I hate being in when they arrive. I’m positively not going to shift all this furniture just to see who slipped another one of those stupid cards under my door – but I would love to discover how they know so swiftly that I’ve destroyed the last one. Cameras? Bugs? Am I on film right now?
Well, they can spy on this rubbish tip as much as they want – I sleep in my clothes now, anyway, and there’s no bathing going on. I’m sure I shall be attracting flies soon.
I was about to tear up this umpteenth card for my growing pile of cardboard confetti – for a camp fire at some point, I suppose – when I had a thought:
Who is this Edward Holland? He’s not just a name – not just some unfortunate, whose only existence is to be killed by me, so I can get off this ship. He’s an individual, too. I can’t be the only one who’s not going to participate? Who’s fighting to get off this rusting hulk, and get to the authorities somehow?
Someone who’d deny X?
Well, given that I have his card, I know this ‘Edward Holland’ isn’t out to kill me – at least not yet. It’s too soon – he has other fish to fry. And I suppose, not everyone must be ghastly to the core. What if he’s not? What if he’s holding out like me? If there are enough of us left, perhaps we could take the ship? But then, that’s what Bailey and his group of ne’er-do-wells was arguing about. And if they can’t work out a way to take this ship, then what chance do more honest people have?
Pfft, Lucy you coward.