You were missing. I didn’t look but you were twelve, I was ten. I had your name and a jumper you loaned and a half pack of cards, mainly hearts.

I’d seen Gremlins and my nights were horror films in waiting, trailers, teasers, tantalising. Pen pals only worked if parents sent letters. Mine said they would but I expect loft boxes stuffed with unstuck envelopes and birthday wrapping and yellowed Sellotape.

I thought that if movies were Biblical lies, Jason Statham lines, you’d be dead before I knew. Are you dead now? Or is this that unfinished game?