The rest of the morning passes in a depressed manner.

We take pictures on the field at break, posting them to Instagram with the caption relating to Josh in some way. The younger years cautiously approach us, give us their condolences and take pictures with us.

The final quiz is won by the four of us, Cerys and her riddle solving coming to our rescue for the last time. We win a pack of Maltesers each, the red sending me back to Stockland Lakes, staring at Josh's corpse in a river running red.

Mrs Woods comes around, telling us all how proud she is.

Even the headteacher, Dr May, makes a special visit to each form room, reaching us as we're cleaning out our lockers.

"Hello," she greets, stepping into the classroom.

There's a chorus of hi back, ridiculously polite.

"Would one of you please put everything from Josh's locker into here?" she requests, pulling an Asda bag out of nowhere.

"I'll do it," Ravi offers, taking the bag from her.

Our lockers are kind of shit to be honest. You can barely fit a PE kit in there, your hefty winter coat at a stretch. There was a girl in our form who left to become a world famous gymnast or something who could fit inside one in Year Seven. Back to the lockers- they're tiny. So all that comes out of Josh's is a tub with a crack in the lid, a pair of once white now grey trainers, a wad of post-it notes and a chemistry revision guide.

"Thank you." Dr May takes the bag from Ravi. "I know this is a lot to handle and it's definitely not easy, but you can do it."

I clench my fist. She has no idea how fucking hard it is.

Nobody has any idea really.

The girls invite me to Nando's for lunch. I refuse.

I take the bus home instead, listening to sad songs.

I wonder what it'll look like to people who see me. They see a girl in a lilac leaver's hoodie and black jeans wearing headphones. I look sad, they might pity me a little. But they wouldn't dream that I, a Year Eleven on a bus fro a nice school to a slightly dodgy part of the city, would ever be responsible for a murder. Second-hand murder, but still.

Eden is sitting at the back of the bus, I know she is.

I want to go up to her a punch her right in her stupid face. Kick her with my trainers, mash mud into her pale blue hoodie. I want to scream at her, tell her just how twisted she is and how something is so terribly wrong inside her.

But I don't because she gets off early, maybe sensing my violent fantasies, not even looking in my direction.

I text her instead.

you're a psycho bitch from hell i hope you know how fucking messed up you are

I hit send.

And nobody else on the bus sees what I did.

So I go home. I say hi to Dave. I watch Gilmore Girls in the living room. I tell him that I had a Subway on the way home even though the very thought of a loaded sandwich disgusts me.

"I'll go pick up Alfie," I say, poking my head into the kitchen. "I promised him ice cream."

"Make sure he doesn't have a Mr Bubble," Dave answers. "You know how he gets."

The Mr Bubble lollies make Alfie go nuts for some reason, so he's been banned from them indefinitely.

The walk to George Road Primary is a short one. The ice cream van is parked outside, the ice cream man himself (a nice man named Dean who the school adore) reading a paperback inside. The playground is crowded with parents and kids and I push my way through them to Alfie's class.

"Miss!" Alfie says excitedly. "Miss, my sister's here!"

His teacher, some young woman with a long flowing dress and tacky red lipstick smiles. "Off you go then!"

"Ice cream!" Alfie commands, tossing me his rucksack.

"Ow, what have you got in here!" I catch it of course, slinging it over my own shoulder. "Here's a fiver, get whatever you want apart from a Mr Bubble. I need to make a call."

I stand under a tree, one eye on Alfie in the queue as I call the number Diane gave Dave.

"Hello?" It isn't Diane, that's all I register as she tells me some stuff.

"It's about Josh Hartley," I say when she stops. "I need to talk to someone about the case, it's important."

More stuff, something about coming in tomorrow morning since the officers on the case are busy right now. I give her my name and tell her I'll be in tomorrow.

"Here you go, Eves," Alfie says, handing me a strawberry knicker-bocker glory in a plastic cup with a pink spoon.

"Alfie, I didn't want one!" I protest.

"Please." He already has ice cream on his chin from the bubblegum version of what he got me. "You look sad and ice cream makes you happy." His eyes are huge and pleading behind his glasses, like he knows I can't say no to him.

So I eat it as we walk home. Alfie tells me how he scored three goals in football and had fish fingers for lunch even though it's not Friday.

"I'm glad it wasn't those gross fish nuggets," he tells me. "And we had spaghetti hoops!"

I did the right thing.

I will do the right thing.

It is the right thing.

Isn't it?