She was upset when I told her to stop coming, and in the end she stormed off and said FINE, that she’d never visit me again. It was awful, but I know it’s right. Now I feel a peace I don’t think I’ve known since I was a tiny child.

I’m not going to fight this any more. Ariel can live, and I will find a way to inhabit my existence. I am going to craft a collection of perfect days, and then I just have to get my head round the idea of embracing them forever. I think of the other ghosts I know: Leo has found a purpose by developing his glitch theory, and by positioning himself as a hub for his paltry collection of Devon and Cornwall ghosts. Lara knits for Mabel and dances round the train. I’m the only one driving myself insane by trying to solve my own murder and I haven’t got the energy. I’m not going to do it any more. I don’t have the agency to fix anything.

First thing in the morning I sit up in bed and write a plan for the rest of my existence. I can make a week’s worth of days (not that I need to, but I might as well keep the seven-day structure since it seems to have served humanity well so far) and set it out on the back of my maths book:

I feel a strange sense of relief. I might be able to do this.

‘I love you, Dad,’ I say before he leaves for work. He doubles back and hugs me, in his goofy way.

‘Why, thank you, Jojo,’ he says. ‘I love you too! Always know that.’

‘I love you, Gus,’ I say when Dad has gone. He laughs and puts a hand on my forehead in mock concern, checking for a fever.

‘You twat,’ he says, but affectionately.

‘You’re going to have a happy future with a woman called Abby and two daughters called Zara and Coco,’ I say, talking fast. I tell him this often. He walks off, shaking his head and making a ‘you’re crazy’ twirly finger gesture. Then he turns back.

‘OK, Mystic Meg,’ he says. ‘What about you? What does your future hold?’