We take a detour for the nearest Tesco Express so I have summat to feed her other than Nicolás's protein bars and marinated tofu and other healthy things. The rain has stopped but the wind near well tries to steal our shopping.

The plastic slaps against itself. Diwa pulls her hood on but it gets torn right off. The cold splices through the seams of our clothes as we hurry across the car park to the road where we're at least somewhat shielded by buildings.

We resume our loop back into Moss Side. The opposite side of the street is backed by wood fencing screened with graffiti. I watch the paintings glide past and, as I knew we would, we eventually reach one of mine. In this one, a red-eyed figure watches by-passers through an ajar door, head titled to the side with threatening curiosity. It's been partially covered by tags but that adds to the creep factor, if owt, with it better camouflaged into the environment.

Diwa needs to turn her head a full forty-five degrees to look at it past the sides of her hood which she grips to keep it on her head. 'What do you know about this Death to Beewolf stuff?'

'Nowt.'

'So you've got no theories about who it is?'

'Don't know, don't care.'

'That's funny.' Diwa's focus sweeps from the graffiti to me. 'Because here I could've sworn it's you.'

I stumble.

(She caught you! She caught you! She caught you! She–) My heart hammers in my chest as adrenaline follows in the slipstream of fear. (–caught you! She caught you!)

Was this day a scheme to gather evidence? (They know now!) Was her (pain) letting me (hurt, pain) into maths olympiad in the first place only about getting proof? Diwa is nowt if not a follower of the rules; she will tell Cobham. Why wouldn't she? (They've caught you.) I'm sure there's a reward in it for her.

I'll be locked in.

'I've seen your drawings,' Diwa continues. 'You've got like fifteen paint cans in your room. Plus, you've got stains on your hands all the time–'

'Yeah, alright, clever clogs.'

Well if it's that easy, everybody must know.

The cold bites my hands. Unless it's termites.

My breathing continues to accelerate. I compress my chest and throat to stifle it entirely. A counterintuitive approach to hiding panic and not all that effective. She can tell.

It wouldn't kill me to have a friend? I'm not so sure about that.

Or would it just kill her?

Diwa could already have told Cobham.

It's a trap. She'll tell everyone. And nobody is going to like you anymore.

They'll lock you in.

'I'm not gonna tell anyone. Though you're well skilled so I don't understand why you don't want people to know–'

'No, you wouldn't understand.'

Her blood is on my tongue before I realise I've bared my teeth.

We've stopped walking. Diwa blinks, then looks away as she tugs at her hair, curling split ends around her finger.

The flavour of copper worms in my mouth. Do I always have to get angry?

But how am I supposed to explain this to her, that I doused my garden with so many insecticides that no butterfly will survive in it again? And that's how I want it.

As though the words are shackled to the base of my stomach, I can't get an apology out of me. All I conjure up is gastric acid.

I offer an explanation instead. 'Cobham will expel me if he finds out it were me. And, besides, what would be the point in telling people? They'd just laugh, wouldn't they?'

'It's good.'

I scoff. 'It's vandalism.'

'Well, I think it's good,' Diwa insists with her characteristic know-it-all-ness. "I think it's good." As if I care about her opinion.

Diwa's opinion is probably last on the list. I even care more about Ms Lemberg, considering my motivation at all times is to paint things she'd loathe. Everything is crimson red and cobalt blue. I stretch proportions. Realism is nowhere to be found.

What exactly would I gain from telling people? I suppose not having to stress about them finding out.

            Nicolás's laptop imitates a jet plane when I wake it up. I log into my account and it immediately resumes the YouTube video I've left open.

'–attaching themselves to their enemy so that even in death, they can slow them down.'

The laptop takes approximately five millennia to become responsive and Diwa gets to watch the battle between ants and termites.

'What is that?' she asks, grimacing at the scuttling of the colonies but unable to look away.

'This is my favourite film,' I say, only partially joking. 'It's called The Hellstrom Chronicle. It's about how insects are superior to humans.'

'–from childhood nightmares to adult schizophrenia,' Hellstrom says on the screen, 'the insect is a constant fixation on the human mind–'

The video finally complies and pauses. Diwa stares at me, not unkindly but shocked.

'It... calms me down,' I say and expressly say nowt else.

I find a pirating site and turn the laptop toward her so she can type the name of her stupid film in the search bar. Nicolás has enough ad blocks installed to protect us from hot singles and penis growth tablets but the site is sluggish to load after each click.

I run my tongue under the points of my teeth as we wait. 'You're not gonna tell anyone about the Death to Beewolf thing, are ya...?'

A second stumbles between us. Within its span, the doomsday scenario flashes a dozen times in my head: she'll laugh in my face and tell me it's already viral. She's spending time with me today to let me know that I won't need to come back to school after the holidays as I've been expelled. She's come to gloat.

Quite on the contrary, Diwa's smile dries up. She folds into herself.

'I haven't any friends.'

The continuation is implied: who would I tell?

Her gaze glides along the cracks in the ceiling and the suspicious stains in the carpet. The wallpaper around the door has been removed and the plaster has crumbled to expose brick. Nicolás's plants do a lot of heavy lifting to make this place appear fit for human habitation, at least for some type of habitation.

The movie finally loads and I go to stand up from the sofa but Diwa grabs my arm. I'm ready to cuss her out but the conviction in her eyes stops me from complaining beyond an instinctual click of the tongue.

'Neither do you,' she states and I scoff. How many times have I got to explain–? 'We should try together.'

'What, you wanna be practice friends?'

Her face twists into the condescension I'm used to. 'No... We could just be friends.'

I tug my arm from her hold. 'You don't wanna be friends with me.'

'I reckon I can think for myself, thanks.'

We glare at each other, talons ready to clash with teeth. With horror, I realise I'm blushing.

I roll my eyes. 'Don't blame me when I kill you then.'

I take longer than I need to plug the HDMI into the laptop so I can fight the smile blooming on my face. Of course, the film starts buffering after three seconds.

'Don't go expecting owt, though,' I say to the screen. 'I'll flunk mocks and get expelled and shipped off to fucking prison anyway.'

Diwa wraps the throw blanket tighter around herself before taking the bowl of crisps into her lap. 'You're not gonna flunk.'

'You say that with a lot of confidence for someone who reckons I've worms for brains.'

'That were before I knew you,' Diwa snaps, defensiveness bringing out her normal self. She apologises with a self-aware smile. 'I'll help.'

'Really? And why on Earth would you do that?'

Diwa shrugs to say "I've nowt better to do".

I swivel around on the rug to face her, St Trinian's still buffering on the telly behind me. 'Fine. Under one condition: you're not allowed to study over the holiday.'

'I can't not study for two weeks–'

'Yes, you can. What's gonna happen? You already–'

The film finally starts and I grab the laptop from the carpet to pause it.

'–know everything. Sides, you can never guarantee that none of your brothers won't go off their rocker, forcing you to drop out of uni anyway, so I wouldn't put all my eggs in one basket.'

'But I've not even got owt else to do.'

'You must've summat else to do. What have you always wanted to do?'

Diwa eats a handful of crisps to give herself time to think. 'I guess I've wanted to learn to play the drums for a while.'

'There you go–!'

'How am I gonna be affording a drum kit?' I barely manage to wedge in my "fair enough" before Diwa continues, 'Sides, my mum would never go for it.'

'Well I'll find ways to keep you occupied. Then–' I bow until my forehead meets the rug '–I do solemnly swear to study with you—once,' I stress, 'the term starts.'

I hit the spacebar and crawl back to the sofa. We watch the opening credits on a hot pink background for a beat until I twist to face Diwa.

'I'm sorry,' I say. 'For losing my temper with Fionn last competition.' Unravelling my fingers from each other, I wipe my palms on my hoodie. 'I'm so used to being alone, I don't realise it's not just me, that it's not just my life and it affects other people. Maths olympiad is important to you and it's shitty of me to treat it like it's nowt.'

Confusion mellows into summat softer on her face. 'Oh... Well, thanks.'

I stick out my hand, steel rings glinting on every finger. 'Friends?'

Diwa watches me. She waits for me to laugh and call her a tosser, but when I don't, she shakes my hand. Her palm is dryer than I would've expected, and her touch much warmer.

'Friends.'

Notes

Clever clogs: A person who is irritatingly clever, a know it all.