Troy is waiting on the corner. He’s early too: I’d hoped to get past there before he arrived. He sees me coming and lifts a hand. I walk over, wishing I’d left sooner.

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Sorry. I’m going to skip school today. I’ll see you later, for the trip.’

‘Seriously? Where are you going?’

‘Just going back to bed once Gus has left. I can’t face it today. I need a duvet day.’

‘Duvet day?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You OK?’

‘Yeah.’

There’s a moment. I know he wants to ask more, but he doesn’t know how to. I want to give him back his football thing, but I know I can’t do it. I guess I died while still in possession of it because any time I try to hand it back I can’t. Everything hangs between us, unspoken. I think about how shit it will feel for him when he never sees me again, knowing that everything was left like this. But there’s nothing I can do about it, and anyway this isn’t the real Troy. He wouldn’t remember this as our last conversation. He’d remember the first one, when we said goodbye after school and it was fine.

‘See you at school then,’ he says. ‘Tonight, I mean. For the French exchange. You’re going to be OK for that?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Can’t wait.’

I walk the long way to the beach. I pass kids in all the different uniforms. I pass parents (mainly mothers) dragging children to primary schools and nurseries, pushing pushchairs. Even though I’m walking in the wrong direction, no one looks twice at me. I go along Sheringham Road and, on impulse, I stop and ring the doorbell of number twelve. It’ll be nice to tell Ariel a new story about her mum and Sasha.

Anna Brown answers at once and I grin at her. I can’t help it; I feel that we’re old friends.

She’s holding the baby on her hip, like before. Little Sasha has blonde ringlets and is pink and adorable.

‘Hello?’ says Anna, and although she’s unsure what I’m doing here she’s perfectly friendly. I remind myself not to tell her I’m a ghost. I can’t spend the morning weeding her garden either.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Sorry to bother you. Do you … do you know a girl called Ariel? Sorry, I think I might have the wrong house.’

‘No,’ she says, and she smiles. ‘Ariel. What a lovely name. Like The Tempest.’

‘She more often gets people telling her it’s like The Little Mermaid,’ I say. ‘She’d prefer The Tempest.’

‘And Footloose. Have you seen Footloose? That’s one of my favourite films.’