CECE, DISRESPECTFULLY | ✓

29: OSSIFICATION

            We take a detour for the nearest Tesco Express so I have summat to feed her other than Nicolás's protein bars and marinated tofu and other healthy things. The rain has stopped but the wind near well tries to steal our shopping.

The plastic slaps against itself. Diwa pulls her hood on but it gets torn right off. The cold splices through the seams of our clothes as we hurry across the car park to the road where we're at least somewhat shielded by buildings.

We resume our loop back into Moss Side. The opposite side of the street is backed by wood fencing screened with graffiti. I watch the paintings glide past and, as I knew we would, we eventually reach one of mine. In this one, a red-eyed figure watches by-passers through an ajar door, head titled to the side with threatening curiosity. It's been partially covered by tags but that adds to the creep factor, if owt, with it better camouflaged into the environment.

Diwa needs to turn her head a full forty-five degrees to look at it past the sides of her hood which she grips to keep it on her head. 'What do you know about this Death to Beewolf stuff?'

'Nowt.'

'So you've got no theories about who it is?'

'Don't know, don't care.'

'That's funny.' Diwa's focus sweeps from the graffiti to me. 'Because here I could've sworn it's you.'

I stumble.

(She caught you! She caught you! She caught you! She–) My heart hammers in my chest as adrenaline follows in the slipstream of fear. (–caught you! She caught you!)

Was this day a scheme to gather evidence? (They know now!) Was her (pain) letting me (hurt, pain) into maths olympiad in the first place only about getting proof? Diwa is nowt if not a follower of the rules; she will tell Cobham. Why wouldn't she? (They've caught you.) I'm sure there's a reward in it for her.

I'll be locked in.

'I've seen your drawings,' Diwa continues. 'You've got like fifteen paint cans in your room. Plus, you've got stains on your hands all the time–'

'Yeah, alright, clever clogs.'

Well if it's that easy, everybody must know.

The cold bites my hands. Unless it's termites.

My breathing continues to accelerate. I compress my chest and throat to stifle it entirely. A counterintuitive approach to hiding panic and not all that effective. She can tell.

It wouldn't kill me to have a friend? I'm not so sure about that.

Or would it just kill her?

Diwa could already have told Cobham.

It's a trap. She'll tell everyone. And nobody is going to like you anymore.

They'll lock you in.

'I'm not gonna tell anyone. Though you're well skilled so I don't understand why you don't want people to know–'

'No, you wouldn't understand.'

Her blood is on my tongue before I realise I've bared my teeth.

We've stopped walking. Diwa blinks, then looks away as she tugs at her hair, curling split ends around her finger.

The flavour of copper worms in my mouth. Do I always have to get angry?

But how am I supposed to explain this to her, that I doused my garden with so many insecticides that no butterfly will survive in it again? And that's how I want it.