‘S M I R N O F F?’ the officer spelled, as he jotted the name in a notebook. ‘Like the vodka?’

Harry shook his head. ‘The proper Russian spelling, with a V, not two Fs.’

‘Uh,’ the officer said, as he crossed out. ‘You know Deion Powell?’

‘Not personally,’ Harry said.

‘And you don’t know anything about this explosion?’

‘I’d have thought anyone that did would have kept their distance,’ Harry pointed out.

‘Don’t get smart,’ the officer rebuked, but his moustache curved into a slight smile as he turned towards the teacher. ‘Can you escort Mr Smirnov off the premises?’

Harry followed the teacher’s short-of-breath waddle down a paved path and all the way to the school’s main entrance. The ambulances had departed, but the service road beyond the school fence was lined with squad cars and a major-incident command truck.

‘They’re waiting for explosive-sniffing dogs,’ Harry’s guide told another teacher walking in the opposite direction. ‘After that they’ll do a manual search.’

‘JJ wasn’t in school today,’ the teacher replied, shielding her mouth like it was some big secret, even though Harry stood right there.

Three TV news vans were parked on the big turning circle by the school’s main entrance. The student parking lot had mostly emptied out, while the yellow zone where school buses usually parked was busy, with anxious parents waving out of cars, collecting kids who were too young to drive.

‘Got my eye on you,’ Brown Leggings told Harry. ‘Now scoot!’

Once the teacher was out of sight, Harry checked his phone. He had a message from his running buddy, Matt, three minutes old.

Amazing vid! You crazy! Need a ride home?

Harry didn’t reply right away, instead refreshing the YouTube page. After eleven minutes online, the clip was closing on 500 views, with comments off the bottom of the screen. Out of the virtual world, Harry found himself by a lively crowd watching three girls being interviewed for Vegas Thirteen local news.

The producer had selected pretty girls and the trio acted super dramatic, holding hands and tearing up. One girl told the presenter that she was scared they were going to die, while tenth-grade dicks pulled faces in the background.

‘Harry, my boy!’ Matt Silver said.

Harry looked left and saw his best – and so far only – American friend closing in.

Matt had stupidly tangled blond hair and a solid build. He teetered on the verge of Gothdom, in wrecked All Stars, frayed black cargo shorts and a slate grey shirt with embroidered zombies on the back.