Except his mum has never been prouder of him than she is now. Does telling the truth matter more than their happiness? He might have failed once, but when I think of what he does, day in, day out, he’s the bravest person I know.

I can’t punish him for a few minutes of weakness. So I begin to tell a new version of our story that is not the truth, but is believable. If I focus hard enough, it’ll replace what really happened in my head.

‘We were down on the Lawns, waiting for midnight, with a bunch of people from our old tutor group. And, like always happens when Joel Greenaway is around, there was a kickabout . . .’

Chapter 8: Joel

5 January 2000

I call them bastard liars when they tell me I died.

The doctors, nurses, pharmacists, Dad, Mum, even Ant. They’re all in on this conspiracy to keep me in the hospital by making up stuff about what happened to me. They say I ‘died’ for eighteen minutes, and that it was only Tim pounding on my chest that kept me going.

Bullshit.

Sure, my ribs are knackered and every breath hurts like hell. And there are times when I can’t control my body, so my limbs spasm at random, jerking and lurching with all the power of my best kicks.

It’s bad, yeah, but I can’t have died. Even a dumb footballer knows that’s a one-way street.

Out in the real world, Sunday turns into Monday which turns into Tuesday and now it’s Wednesday and I’m already being left behind. My parents have given up their round-the-clock vigil, and when they come in at lunchtime, they’re all over each other, like my trauma has made them fall in love again or something.

Ant’s gone back to catering college and Kerry’s back at school, so there’s been no one to protect me from the staff who keep coming to prod or poke or scan the body that doesn’t look or feel like mine anymore.

But now it’s dusk. She’s here. Kerry, I recognize her footsteps. I feel safe, as long as she’s nearby.

‘How are the jerks?’ she asks when she reaches my bed.

‘Driving me mad,’ I reply.

‘Oh no.’ Her forehead creases with worry. ‘I thought you looked a lot less . . . juddery?’

‘I was talking about the doctors. The jerks. Get it?’

It takes her a moment, but now she’s grinning so broadly she looks about five years old. ‘A joke! Joel, you made a joke.’

‘Yeah, and?’

‘Jokes are hard. They take . . . word play and understanding and a sense of humour. It means . . . well, it means you’re still you.’

Every time she comes in, she repeats the jerks question and I give the same answer: it’s our in-joke. She’s the only one I trust not to be part of the conspiracy.