Joel’s mum held up a cigarette packet to show how ‘tiny’ the implant would be. But I’ve seen Joel’s body. Forcing a metal box into his toned torso would be like painting a moustache on the Mona Lisa.

Didn’t someone already do that? Tim would know.

‘They got to you,’ Joel says. ‘My parents.’

I can’t deny it. ‘That’s not why I’m saying this. But ever since it happened,’ I say very quietly, ‘I wake up every night, just before midnight, from the same nightmare. We’re on the Lawns. You fall but I can’t run. The fireworks go off and you’re there, lying on the ground, and nobody sees you except me.’

‘Get over it, Kerry. It’s only a pathetic dream.’

A flash of anger lights me up inside. ‘You know, they’ll never let you play again if there’s the slightest risk you could drop dead on the pitch.’

He gawps at me.

‘Face it, Joel. Without the operation, you’re done as a footballer.’

His jaw drops further. I want to take my words back, even though they’re true.

‘Fuck you, Kerry. If I can’t ever play again, there’s no fucking point to anything.’

Now he’s stumbling towards the door, but he doesn’t even have the strength to open it. I follow and do it for him, hating the helpless expression on his face.

‘Joel, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that—’

He stares at me. ‘They’ll let me play, with the box thing?’

I didn’t dare ask his parents that question, though I have my doubts. Joel plays an elegant game, but football is a rough sport. Would any team field a player with an implant that’s vulnerable to the smash of a ball or even a deliberate tackle? I don’t know for sure. What I do know is that the metal box is the only guarantee he’ll stay alive. So I smile as I reach for his elbow to help haul him back uphill. ‘I think it’s got to be your best shot.’

Chapter 10: Tim

14 February 2000

‘Just pop in here and we’ll dab on a bit of make-up, stop you going all shiny on camera.’

Joel hesitates in the doorway.

‘Come on, Joel,’ I say. ‘After broken ribs and cardiac surgery, I’m sure you can handle going on TV.’

He gives me a dirty look but steps into the room. Bulbs surround a giant mirror, and our reflections are pale, Joel’s most of all.

The researcher opens a drawer and pulls out a towel, a pot of orange powder and a big brush. I wonder how many other people’s bacteria and dead skin cells linger on the bristles. But I check our faces in the mirror – no signs of lesions or spots, which means the infection risk is minimal.