‘What the actual fuck?’ Clara’s voice suddenly rises in the cold room and Katherine puts her hands to her face, her worst fears itching at her skin. ‘She wrote you a letter?’ Katherine’s heart booms in her ears. Becca will defend her, she promises herself, cut Clara dead. The room is silent for a second, then another, and Katherine feels it spinning behind her eyelids.

Then she hears Becca let out a sigh. ‘It’s my fault,’ she says, her words now pealing with clarity. ‘I can see that now. But I felt sorry for her.’

Katherine squeezes her eyes, then her cheeks and lips. Her whole face contorts. No, no, not this. Not sympathy. There’s more to their relationship than that. They like the same TV shows, the same music. They share the same beliefs. Why doesn’t Becca mention that?

‘That’s your problem – you’re too nice. And then you get weirdos like her writing you freaky love letters. Makes me feel sick.’

Clara’s calling me a weirdo, Katherine thinks, willing her message to get through to Becca. Surely you must defend me now?

‘You wouldn’t feel like that if it was a boy,’ Becca counters eventually. It’s quiet, tentative, but Katherine can hear the conviction too. A warm breeze of relief flows over her skin. It’s not all in her head; their relationship is real.

‘I would if it was a year eleven heffalump with a face full of acne.’

A herd of buffalo stomp over Katherine, the dust of its wake threatening to suffocate her. She hates Clara with every atom in her body. It’s her fault that Becca’s pushing Katherine away. She’s warping Becca’s mind, driving a wedge through the friendship they’ve built.

‘Actually, there was something in the letter about you,’ Becca continues, her voice slowing down and dropping an octave, as though she’s reluctant to share any more. Katherine leans forward, digs her elbows into the doughy flesh of her thighs.

‘Oh?’

‘She said that I shouldn’t be friends with someone who chucks cider cans around.’

‘Hang on, what?’ The room goes silent. Katherine imagines Clara’s face screwed up, trying to wind her memory backwards. ‘She must have been watching us on Friday night,’ she finally says.

Katherine bites the inside of her cheek. She hears the squelch of flesh tearing, and tastes the metallic liquid as it slides down past her gums. Why did she mention Clara in her letter? Her mind flickers back to Friday night, watching them sat on the edge of the skate park. She knew Clara was poisonous then, so why didn’t she just forget about her? Katherine’s legs feel numb now. There’ll be a red mark on the back of her thighs.