I sit down in the chair at the head of her bed. There is a jug of water and a glass on the small table beside me. Kira’s back rises and falls soundlessly as she breathes in and out. I spoke to her doctor on my way into the ward. She told me that apart from the marks on her neck which will take a few weeks to fade, Kira has no other injuries. Her heart and brain function are fine. There are no injuries to her spine and, despite intubation after she was admitted, there are no problems with her respiration.

‘She was very, very lucky,’ the doctor said.

‘Kira,’ I say again. ‘Kira, can you hear me?’

Now that I am here and I can see how small, vulnerable and silent she is I no longer feel numb and disconnected. I feel solid, strong and calm.

A nurse pokes her head through the curtain. ‘Sorry to interrupt but someone from the psychiatric assessment team will be here to see Kira in a bit. So if you could keep it short that would be good.’

‘Of course.’

I wait until she’s disappeared again, then walk round to the other side of the bed.

‘Kira,’ I say as I crouch beside it. ‘I can’t begin to imagine how you’re feeling. You must have been in a very dark place to do what you did yesterday.’

Her hands are pressed up against her face, covering it. She doesn’t move a muscle as I talk. She doesn’t respond in any way but I know she’s not asleep. She’s listening to every word I say.

‘I saw you in Queen’s Road,’ I say. ‘You were in Mama Valerie’s café with Lloyd. I heard your conversation.’

Her fingers twitch. She knows exactly what I heard.

‘Billy was in love with you, wasn’t he?’

Her fingers part just a couple of millimetres and I catch a glimpse of a pale blue iris and large black pupil staring out at me.

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

Her eyelids shutter back down.

‘Please,’ I say softly. ‘Please, Kira. Just tell me where he is.’

Chapter 65

KIRA

Wednesday 4th February 2015

Billy’s going on about the next place he wants to tag. He’s planning on going to Avonmouth to graffiti the bridge. He’s standing behind me, pressing himself up against me with so much force that the window ledge is digging into my legs. His breath is hot and damp in my ear.

‘By the time I’m done there won’t be a bit of Bristol that I haven’t tagged,’ he says. ‘Fuck what I did at school – that’s amateur shit. I want people pointing and going, “Who the fuck is DStroy?” I want to be everywhere, on every building, every train, every bridge. Half the kids in my year want to be famous. I’d rather be infamous.’