He did it. He did the thing he keeps telling me he’s going to do. Moved to France, met a girl, became an artist.

Then at last I see it.

Behind Troy in his cluttered studio is a shelf of objects. There are books, jars of brushes, a box, a piece of material. A football trophy shaped like a foot kicking a ball.

I open my bag and take it out. This time it comes out easily. I hold it up next to the screen.

I look at Ariel and see, now, what it was in her eyes.

‘I try to give it back to him,’ I say. ‘All the time. I’ve been trying to give it back for twenty years.’

‘But you never can.’

‘I can’t get it out of my bag. It’s one of the things that’s fixed. So how can Troy have it?’

‘Joe,’ she says, ‘I’ve been thinking about this every moment since I saw it. There’s no way this could have happened unless Troy knows a whole lot more than he ever said.’

‘He must have seen me just before I died. Or after.’

‘Or,’ she says, ‘during.’

We spend the rest of our time composing the message Ariel sends through his website. There’s no point in being half-hearted: we need to write something that will stop him in his tracks. It takes a long time, but in the end she fills in the contact name as Joe Simpson, with a new email address that she’s set up in my name. The message says:

Mate. You hate your name because it’s an anagram of Tory. In primary school we found a frog on the playing field and took it to the playground to try to scare girls, but they thought it was cute and made it a little hat from a leaf and called it Froggykins. Modelling agency scouts say you have a strong look. You hate it.

You always said you’d meet a French girl and become an artist, and now you’ve done it.

I took your trophy. I think I was jealous. God knows, but I’m sorry. I was in a little room behind Boots at Beachview. I don’t know what happened after that, but I’m here now. In that same room at Beachview. I met Ariel here. She’s helping, but I need your help too, mate. Please. I need to know what happened. I’m guessing we had a fight and you threw an unlucky punch. I don’t mind any of that. I just need to know. Please help. Just come back to that room, any afternoon except Sunday, between four and five. Please.

Joe

It sounds off-the-wall batshit, but it should get his attention. Ariel couldn’t possibly have known about Froggykins.