At that point I change my mind and decide to spend the day with young Troy. I love the fact that I know that, in spite of what’s about to happen, his life will basically be good. He’s happily married to a Frenchwoman. He has a child and he called him Joe.

‘Wish we were going to Paris,’ he says. ‘Now, if it was Paris I would seriously just stay there. Eiffel Tower. Mona Lisa. The city of love.’

‘Would you find a French girlfriend?’

‘Easily. We’d live in an attic overlooking the river, and I’d probably discover I was an amazing artist and so I’d become the new Picasso or something.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Shame we’re not going to Paris then. We go past it on the bus, so you could jump out.’

He nods. ‘Might do. Tell the driver to stop because I’m sick and then run off to my new life …’

‘Troy, mate,’ I say. ‘You’ll end up living in France. You’ll get married to a Frenchwoman and change your surname to hers because you want a completely fresh start. You’ll have at least one kid. A boy called Joe. And you’ll be an artist. You’ll sell your paintings on the internet.’

Troy laughs. ‘OK. Sure. I’ll take that. Selling on the internet? That’s very futuristic of me.’

‘That’s because it’ll be the future.’

I don’t mention the trophy because we’ve dealt with that now. There’s no point in my trying to give it back. It’s nice not to dwell on that for once.

At the end of school I say goodbye to Troy, and then head to the mall to meet Future Troy. Past Troy thinks we’ll be back at school in a few hours to go on the French exchange, and I keep things as light as I can, then run to Beachview and sit on a bench, waiting for the angry man. I’ve been meaning to take his photograph for ages. I might as well do it today. You never know: Troy might recognize him.

I sit by a drooping plant, camera on my lap. At ten to four I see him charge in, frowning, and go into Boots. I take a picture as he passes, but it won’t be a good one. I stand up and decide to get a chocolate milkshake this time so I can annoy him to the max by throwing it all over him and then taking a photo of his reaction. I’ll put the camera right in his face.

The choreography works as it always does. I turn and bump into him. This time I take the lid off the cup and throw it on to his shirt. For a few seconds we stare into each other’s eyes.