“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” said Jack, her eyes sparkling with life.

It was 11.47 p.m. and they were sitting in Jamie’s bedroom. Jack had come straight back to Jamie’s house after her night shift at the paper. She was now lying on Jamie’s bed, with her hands cradling the back of her head.

Jamie was sitting next to his desk, thinking. In fact, he hadn’t stopped thinking since that afternoon. Since that moment.

“Er, what exactly happened outside today?” asked Jack, putting into words the question that Jamie had silently considered ever since he had struck that football.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Could have just been a fluke.”

“Yeah, right,” laughed Jack. “You’re about the only person in the world who could have done what you did this afternoon. That wasn’t a fluke. That was Jamie Johnson.”

He nodded. He knew. Of course he knew. The way in which his brain had analysed the mugger’s speed and distance. The instant it had taken his body to adopt the perfect position to execute the volley. And the sweet, colossal power that he had managed to generate into the strike. None of these were matters of chance.

“But what if it just happened because you were … in trouble?” said Jamie. “What if it was just a one-off?”

“Well, that’s what we need to find out,” smiled Jack, rousing herself from his bed and slipping on her rucksack.

“Where are you going?” asked Jamie.

“I’m going to get things ready for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? What’s happening tomorrow?”

Jack looked at Jamie and gave him her huge, big, cheeky grin.

“We’re going to do exactly what you just said: find out if it really was a one-off.”