‘Where have you been?’

‘I was just coming to see you.’

‘But you’ve been down there. You’ve been to see Lucy and Chris!’ As he spoke, he realised how indignant he sounded – how hurt. Well, good. Let Paul know how he felt. He was sick and tired of bottling everything up.

‘Jamie, you’re acting like a dick. I’ve just been to see Chris to talk about what happened at karting track.’

Jamie’s eyes widened. ‘And now you’re going to go to the police?’

‘What are you talking about, Jamie? Why the hell would I be going to the police?’

‘Because – because Chris tried to kill you. He put you in that coma.’

Paul laughed. ‘Oh Jamie, you should hear yourself. It was an accident. I can see that, and I was the one who was in a coma. Why can’t you see it?’

‘Because I know Chris. And because I was there.’

‘You didn’t see the accident though. You were in the cafe. Chris and I were having a race. We allowed things to get out of hand. We were being stupid, getting over competitive. Chris was pissed off that I beat him, of course, and he braked the second he crossed the line, causing the driver behind him to swerve into me. Chris shouldn’t have braked so suddenly – he knows that. But Jamie, you have to believe me – it was an accident.’ He clapped his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. ‘An accident. That’s it.’

Jamie opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but seeing Paul staring at him, a broad smile on his face, he fell silent. He felt so confused. He hadn’t seen Paul since that day in the hospital when Paul had been so nasty to him. His friend had been so cold that day, but now, with that smile on his face and that light in his eye, he seemed like the old Paul. A voice in Jamie’s head was screaming that Paul was wrong – that it hadn’t been an accident – but he was so pleased to see Paul smiling again, up and about and acting like himself again, that he didn’t argue. ‘Are you feeling better?’ Jamie asked. His voice was hushed and he became aware that he was holding his breath.

Paul nodded, his hand still on Jamie’s shoulder. ‘I feel great, actually. Better than ever. I feel, y’know, reborn, clean. I’ve had loads of time to get my head together and, God, I’m really sorry I was such a bastard in the hospital. I felt trapped and I was finding it difficult to cope. The frustration of lying there, unable to get out because my muscles were too weak – it was unbearable. And the constant stream of sympathy. It was too much. Everybody treated me as if I was some kind of crippled Lazarus. How was I supposed to react?’