Boydy is red-faced with anger. His mouth is turned down in a perfect curve of unhappiness and I can see straight away that he’s angry not only with the twins, but also with himself for not having more courage to stand up to them. I don’t exactly blame him, but it doesn’t matter: he’s doing enough blaming for both of us.

I’m about to tell him not to worry about it, but something feels different.

It starts in my fingertips, an aching sort of tingling, and spreads to my scalp. By the time Boydy and I are much further along the beach, I can feel rivulets of sweat trickling down my back and my whole skin is fizzing like a soluble aspirin.

‘Hang on, Boydy! Stop,’ I call ahead to him. ‘I feel strange.’

My stomach convulses, and I fall to my knees, retching and vomiting in the sand.

‘You OK, Eff?’ says Boydy – a bit pointlessly because I’m obviously not. ‘Shall I call someone?’

Then the sensation stops almost as quickly as it started. I get to my feet, spitting the taste of sick from my mouth. I remove my glove because I want to feel the crawling skin on my face.

And there it is.

My hand.

I take off my other glove and look up my sleeve. My arms are there too!

‘Boydy! Boydy! I’m back! Look!’

I take off the mask and wig.

Lady bounds up to me, relieved, I think, to see me again.

Boydy turns and looks, and grins slowly.

‘Oh yeah,’ he says, nodding. ‘That’s a lot less weird, Effow!’