I picked up my book, hoping to join the plight of Garion and escape with him under the protection of his aunt and Mister Wolf. I stared at the words on the page but they didn't make sense. They seemed to look back at me, wondering what I wanted them to say. What could they say? He was dead. No words could offer comfort or warm the cold feeling that had spread from my chest to my fingertips. I touched my neck again, partly to make sure it was still in one piece and partly to wonder what it would feel like to put your hands inside your body if there was a cut large enough. Would it be warm? Slimy? Would you feel the beat of your heart through your organs? Would you feel that beat slow and stop as the life flowed out of you in the form of your blood?

I had a small rubbish bin in the corner of my room. It had a Star Wars picture printed on the side, with Han, Luke and Leia standing side by side and Darth Vader looming behind. There was an empty crisp packet and read-reread-rereread copy of 2000 AD comic squashed inside. I managed to reach the bin in time for the vomit to erupt. I looked at it as I wiped my mouth. I didn't want a puke splattered bin to be associated with my friend in my memories, so I took it downstairs, quietly so as not to alert my mother (she was on the phone to my dad, telling him the news through the sobs). I dropped it into the large green bin in the back garden. I was sure they came to empty it the next day. Mum wouldn't notice the absence of my Star Wars one and I pulled a bulging black sack over it to hide the evidence.

Once back in my room, I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the wall opposite. My walls were a pale blue. I had various posters up from the films I liked – Indiana Jones, Star Wars, Superman, Labyrinth. Almost anything that would pull my mind to another world or reality. If I were Christopher Reeves, I could put on my cloak and spin the world to turn back time. I didn't have a cloak. I wore my underwear on the inside. I couldn't fly.

They closed the school for the rest of the week. My mother told me I was too young to go to the funeral, although she didn't know when it would be because the police had his... his... body. She told me it took a long time to clean the tiles. The blood had worked its way into the grouting between. So Drew's mum had told her. And her sister went to bingo with the sister of one of the cleaners at the school.

The next Monday the school reopened. Mum tried to tell me I shouldn't go back yet. I wasn't well and I was still mourning, she said. I wasn't mourning. I hadn't seen Ian's parents, even though they only lived around the corner, and I hadn't seen Ian himself. It still felt like something from a movie or television show. It wasn't real.

I walked to school alone. That's when I really felt it. Usually, Ian and I would cross the Spinney, the field behind the blocks of flats across the road from my house. It was a short cut. We'd then cut across the school fields into the playground. The only cutting that was happening was (in Ian's neck...) by me, not us.

The school was subdued that morning. A heavy blanket of sorrow covered everything, almost choking the air out of the air. A few of my friends asked me how I was. I just told them I was OK. I always looked down to the floor as I said it. I didn't know what else to say or how to look. Fine, but appearing sorrowful. I couldn't get past the idea that he'd still walk in. He'd say it was a joke. Fake blood. He'd laugh. We'd laugh.

We talked much more than we concentrated on actual lessons. Who had killed him? One of the teachers? One of the pupils? Someone from outside? By the afternoon, though, once we were fed and watered, spirits lifted. The metaphorical blanket was pulled back, folded and stored in the airing cupboard. It wasn't forgotten, but it wasn't spoken about. Not much, anyway.

My lesson after lunch was PE. We didn't shower afterwards. Large sheets of plastic had been taped to the entrance to the showers and a 'DO NOT ENTER' sign. I couldn't help looking at the floor tiles, trying to see if any blood had stained the grout. Even though I couldn't see any, my eyes were constantly drawn back, just in case. If I could see some, Ian would be dead. If I couldn't, then, perhaps...?

The next lesson was English, my favourite by far. Conversation in the corridors on the way was fairly animated and you could barely tell someone had died only a few days before.

Such was the resilience of us. The power. We were invincible. Anything bad would happen to someone else. Anything bad would be a story on the news or Harrison Ford's latest blockbuster. No one in the class had witnessed Ian's death – he was my friend because we lived so close to each other, not because he was in any of my classes. In fact, nobody at all had seen it take place. As such, they partly felt as I did. It wasn't quite real. It was a story they'd heard. They were disconnected from it. I wasn't, but their disconnection helped separate me a little from that part of me still trying to decide – to decipher – what had happened.

As usual, when we walked into the room, most of my classmates were already there. Usually, they'd be seated, talking to those next to, in front or behind. This time, that wasn't the case.

A scream from the back of the classroom. A commotion. The screech of chairs pushed back too quickly. Shouting. Another scream.

Our desks were closest to the door. It meant we were furthest away from the source of the panic. Our only option was to stand on our desks, but we still couldn't see what was going on. Everyone was tightly packed towards the middle of the room. Some were trying to see over others, pulling and jumping on backs. Others shouted to be heard over the din, asking what was wrong, what was happening.

Then the door opened and Mr. Staniforth came running in.

"What's going on?" he shouted, pushing through the pack of pupils.

Everyone separated then, parting like the Red Sea at the command of Moses. We could see what had happened. We could see the body of Helen with her head inside her desk. We could see the lid was too low, too close to closed for the size of her head. We could see the blood dripping from the sides onto the floor.

I didn't faint, though two students did. I didn't scream, though many did.

I simply watched as the faces of all my friends seemed to melt or look as if Mr. Staniforth had taken the blackboard eraser to each of them. Mr. Staniforth attempted to move pupils away from Helen's desk. He wasn't having a great deal of success, though he was struggling to take his eyes off the blood. He certainly wasn't rubbing out everyone's features. He didn't seem to notice the blood was spreading. It rose. It lapped at the ankles of everyone in the class. He didn't seem to notice that his pupils no longer had eyes or mouths. No one noticed.

Except me.

More teachers ran into the classroom in response to Mr. Staniforth's shouts. They guided us out, then went back into the room and closed the door. I could hear the voices, loud and shocked. We'd been left alone in the corridor and we all stood in silence. We'd done our shouting. Our own shock had remained in the room with our friend and was now joining in with that of the teachers.

Doors opened along the hall and a steady stream of other children came to stand with us, asking, telling, wondering, not believing. My classmates' faces had returned to how they should be. I said nothing, even when pushed by the sudden horde of onlookers. I could only stand apart from the others. I could only...

Remember.

The shower after Tony had kicked the ball at me rather than to me. The table covered in slowly congealing blood. I remembered.

I'd seen it. Both deaths. I'd seen them - foretold them, somehow - before they'd happened. Of course, you couldn't foretell something after it had happened. That would be just 'telling'. Mr. Staniforth would be pleased, I thought, that I'd known the difference. Mr. Staniforth was too busy at that point, however, to worry about my language skills. I could hear his voice above the others behind the door and above the crowd's own noise. His voice carried. You felt it as well as hearing it. The door swung open suddenly, bashing into Mandy. She fell against David, but neither particularly noticed. They were too busy watching Miss Haith sprint along the corridor towards the staff room.

No running in school, Miss. You could get a detention.