Saskia heads up the hill towards Clapham Common, and Kat falls in step behind her. She watches her cross at the lights, then follows when the traffic allows, keeping those stupid floral wellies in her sights. Saskia lets Luna off the lead, so Kat has to be very careful, backtracking if the inquisitive cockapoo comes close, or dipping into the shadows if Saskia looks over her shoulder. As she watches, Kat wonders what kind of friendship they have, whether it’s one of convenience, doing and returning favours, or something deeper. She remembers Beth’s disparaging comments about Saskia last night, the so-called friend who posted Beth’s story without her permission. And yet, she’s chosen to lean on Saskia rather than Kat today. What does that say about how she feels about Kat? After everything Kat’s done for her?

As she walks, Kat tries to clear her head, to convince herself that Saskia doesn’t pose a threat. That she can get closer to Beth without Saskia getting in the way. But by the time they reach Beth’s house again, and she watches Beth smile warmly at her neighbour, her skin is prickling with the thought of what she might be forced to do.

April 2003

April 2003

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Katherine

Katherine can’t move; she mustn’t make a sound. Her skirt is bunched around her waist and the room is so cold that there are goose bumps on her naked thighs. But even behind the locked door – just a slab of thin MDF really, her feet exposed at the bottom – rustling her clothes feels like too much of a risk now. She slowly, carefully, leans back until the nylon of her school coat finds the cold plastic of the raised toilet seat lid.

Year twelves don’t usually use this toilet block – they have their own in the sixth form centre – but of course they’re allowed to go wherever they want. It’s one of the perks of being top of the school. Katherine closes her eyes and wonders where Becca is standing. She imagines her leaning against the sink unit, but with her back to the mirror because she’s too beautiful to need the reassurance of regular check-ins. Her friend Clara will be facing the opposite way, practising her pouts, or retouching her make-up. There’s the muffle of conversation between them – Becca’s voice instantly recognisable, Clara’s gradually so – but it’s muted, and Katherine can’t make out what they’re saying. It’s probably nothing important, she hopes, just the humdrum of weekend gossip. But still, she feels on high alert. Waiting for something.

Elation hopefully. Catastrophe maybe.