A high-pitched squeal penetrates my brain like a flock of angry needles.

‘What the hell is that?’ screams someone who’s voice is carried away on the noise.

‘Distress signal,’ I shout. ‘But why so loud?’

‘Sorry,’ says Nia, frantically tapping on screens as the sound fades, replaced by an incessant ringing. ‘Two communication channels opened at once.’

‘I’m having your powdered masala later,’ says Michael, his usually tanned face drained of all colour. ‘And that’s only a down payment on my compensation. Jesus, my ears feel like they’re being plucked from my head.’

‘Jesus won’t hear you from here,’ I say. ‘And neither can I for that matter. So, was that a distress signal, or just...

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