Will says nothing. He looks Janice in the face for a second. She’s got to be the same age as his mum, older maybe. These guys are what – thirty? Why is he expected to resolve this problem? He may be nearly seventeen but he can’t remember feeling more like a child than he does right at this moment. He wants to run home and cry in his room. He wants to be in the arms of his nain.

But a decision has been made that he is The Man. He is expected to fix this. It’s not just Janice’s eyes that drill into him, it’s the two blokes’ eyes as well. A stage has been set here.

A scene is expected.

I don’t want to watch this.

Why do I have to watch this?

Why am I here if all I can do is watch? Watch and not help …

Why am I here at all? I guess that’s the question I’m getting at.

Why am I following you around, Will Parks, every minute of the day and night?

Why you? Why can I only follow you? What’s so special about you?

So many questions.

It was Friday night when it began. In the car, at the level crossing, with you, your brother and that April girl. So, forty-eight hours. Ish. That’s the only way I can work it out – count the number of times it’s got dark then light again. I can’t feel the time passing.

But here’s the odd thing, or rather the oddest thing: I can see it – I can see the time passing. If I look behind me, behind us, I see what was happening before what’s happening right now started happening. And if I look forward, I can make out what’s coming up next. It’s like sitting between two mirrors, seeing copies stretching out to infinity in both directions. Only it’s you I see, not me. And in one direction the image is lagging behind what’s happening now, and in the other direction it’s running ahead.

It’s like I’ve traded one plane of movement for another. You, and everyone else, can move backwards and forwards and side to side. I can only deal in ‘befores’ and ‘afters’.

How far ahead can I see? It’s hard to be sure. Weeks, I think, maybe a month. And like looking at anything far away, the further into the distance I look, the less clear the detail.

Behind me, I can see no further back than my arrival on Friday night. Ever woken up certain you were having some crazy dream but can’t remember what the hell it was about? That’s what my before-Friday is like. If I knew where I was before then, I might have a clue what this is about. Who I am. What I am, even.