"The budget airline flight from London to Milan was a special kind of hell. The cabin was a cacophony of crying babies, overly loud stag party chants, and the incessant, cheerful bing of the seatbelt sign. It was a flying metal tube that smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant, and for Victor Blackwood, it was a profound and personal torture. He sat in stony, thunderous silence, his long legs jammed against the seat in front of him, a dark, gothic eagle forced into a canary cage."