They foam out of the gym into the entrance hall. Teachers are positioned ready to herd them and hush them, but the jabber and the sobs can’t be tamped down any longer; they surge up, careening around the high ceiling-space and up the stairwell. Becca feels like she’s taken her feet off the ground and she’s being carried along effortlessly, floated from shoulder to shoulder, all down the long corridors.

The second they’re through the homeroom door, Holly has a hand clamped round Selena’s wrist and she’s force-fielding the whole four of them past sobbing hugging clumps, into a back corner by the window. She grabs them into a fake hug and says, hard, ‘They’re going to be talking to everyone, the Murder detectives are. Don’t tell them anything. No matter what. Specially don’t tell them we can get out. Do you get that?’

‘OhmyGod, look,’ Julia says, holding up a cupped palm, ‘it’s a great big handful of duhhhh. Is it all for us?’

Holly hisses into her face, ‘I’m not joking. OK? This is real. Someone’s going to actual jail, for life.’

‘No, seriously, are they? Do I look handicapped?’

Becca smells the acrid electrical-short urgency. ‘Hol,’ she says. Holly’s all jammed-out angles and staticky hair; Becca wants to stroke her soft and smooth again. ‘We know. We won’t tell them anything. Honestly.’

‘Right, that’s what you think now. You don’t know what it’s like. This isn’t going to be like Houlihan going, “Ooh dear, I smell tobacco, have you girls been smoking cigarettes?” and if you look innocent enough she believes you. These are detectives. If they get one clue that you know anything about anything, they’re like pit bulls. Like, eight hours in an interview room with them interrogating you and your parents going apeshit, does that sound like fun? That’s what’ll happen if you even pause before you answer a question.’

Holly’s forearm is steel, pressing down across Becca’s shoulders. ‘And the other thing is: they lie. OK? Detectives make stuff up all the time. So if they’re all, “We know you were getting out at night, someone saw you,” don’t fall for it. They don’t actually know anything; they’re just hoping you’ll get freaked out and give them something. You have to look stupid and go, “Nuh-uh, they must’ve got mixed up, it wasn’t us.”’

Someone behind them sobs, ‘He was sooo full of life,’ and a wavering wail rises above the fug of the room. ‘Jesus Christ, someone shut those dumb bitches up,’ Julia snaps, shouldering Holly’s arm away. ‘Fucking ow, Holly, that hurts.’

Holly jams her arm back where it was, clamping Jules in place. ‘Listen. They’ll make up mental stuff. They’ll be like, “We know you were going out with Chris, we’ve got proof—”’