Until this week, Will hadn’t ridden his bike in five years. The tyres have been inflated and the chain drips with rust-infused oil, although it’s comically small for him and the frame is speckled orange where the sea air has got at it. But the riding to work is for good reason.

Since Will took possession of Nain’s note, he has resolved to make himself unpredictable. How can anyone possibly know what’s going to happen to him, how can anything be predetermined, if even he doesn’t know what he’s going to do next? He’ll disprove this thing if it’s the last thing he does.

It’s why he takes his Beppo walks across the marshes instead of the beach, or the opposite direction to usual, or takes an earlier or later bus to school, or no bus at all in the hope he’ll see Alfie and hitch a lift. And it’s why he cycles to and from work sometimes. Or he’ll just walk the bike home. Always he makes the decision as late as possible.

With an unexpected evening off to kill, Will wracks his brain for a way to spend the time, feeling like this is a golden opportunity to be one move ahead of what – fate?

He rides along the seafront before swinging left and taking the path beside the railway. Dismounting at the level crossing, he pushes the bike over the tracks and follows the poorly lit road into Patten’s Island. He stops outside Nain’s. A table lamp on a time switch glows beyond the net curtains. Will had thought he might pop in, water the plants, check the place.

He reaches into his pocket, feels the paper balled at the bottom, soft from being unfurled and scrutinized so many times. Just touching the note is enough to push Will towards doing something more unpredictable, more spontaneous. He hurries down the road, knowing he’ll get nervous and change his mind if he thinks about this idea for too long.

Will has read the short note a hundred times. One thing of which he was immediately confident is that this isn’t some weird hoax – it genuinely was Nain who wrote it. Her handwriting, once so elegant and swooping, has become increasingly wobbly, adding an unexpected sadness to the opening of birthday cards. This note bears the most spidery iteration yet, but it’s undeniably in her hand.

Hastily written in bullet points, it’s as if she’d just scrawled down a bizarre telephone message.

Tell Will trust me. Have to trust.

Tell Will lights will go out.

Lights will come back on late at night.

When lights back on see Danny. Go to alley to find. Only talk to Danny.

V. important you only talk to Danny. You’ll understand.

Will, keep looking for me. Trust me. People not die if you trust.

Tell Will thank you.