Blake hunches in the corner of the car on the way home as far away from Charley as he can get. Dad is singing so he blocks his ears. He wants to think about what happened: the feel of Izzy’s breath on the side of his face and the way her hair tickled his cheek. He’s been wanting to do something major to please her for ages, like rescuing her from a snarling dog or a burning building or drowning or something. Even though he didn’t exactly rescue her, she must be pleased with him now. He did exactly what she asked; she’d said cut deeper and he had. She’d been holding Poppy’s arm; Sorrel had been hanging on to Poppy’s hand, whimpering. Charley looked like she was going to be sick. Blake’s heart had been thudding in time with the music downstairs. He’d practised on the tarpaulin covering Igor’s bike, but skin’s different, bouncier for a start. Warmer. He’d had to press harder on the blue handle and the skin on the underside of Poppy’s arm bulged up either side of the blade, then the tip sank in. He’d felt all sweaty. He pulled the knife along about four inches, keeping the blade quite deep like Izzy said. The blood welled up straight away. It felt wrong and interesting at the same time. Wipe it, Izzy had said, so we can see.

Blake wiped the blood off Poppy’s arm with the bottom of his tee-shirt; the cut was straight as though he had drawn the blade along the edge of a ruler. He felt as if he’d passed a test. Poppy said it didn’t hurt though she looked funny. Charley wrapped a vest round her arm.

Blake squashes himself further into the corner of the car. He’s not going to start feeling sorry for Poppy. She’d thrown the dice with the fewest dots; what happened was fair, she knew the rules. They had been about to play it again but Dad called up and he and Charley had to go home and Eve said the others had to go to bed super quick because it was late. Poppy might have fallen asleep already but all the same he can’t get her pale face out of his mind.

Part Three

WATCHING THE GROWN-UPS