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It isn’t her. Not Claire. It’s one of the freaks. She’s staring up at me with a face full of pain, pain I don’t want, don’t need, can’t take. I shout at her, swear, tell her to leave me alone. I shut the window and fall back on the bed. ‘Leave me alone,’ I sob, knowing that I’m going to have red eyes when I face Patrick, knowing that he’s going to shoot a little look at Dad. ‘You’re in my head. You don’t exist. I don’t want to see you any more . . .’
    I grab my pillow and punch it. I need to sort my head out. I’m losing the plot here.
    I glance back at Claire’s window; hoping her light would flash – that was just a moment of weakness. I haven’t talked to Claire for ages. The light’s not going to flash again. She’s asleep. She’s someone else now. I’m someone else.
    I take a deep breath, heave myself off the bed and go to the bathroom to splash my face with water.
    It’s an hour before Patrick comes up. He stands in the doorway for a while. I can feel him watching me but for some perverse reason I pretend I don’t know he’s there. Eventually, he clears his throat and I turn round.
    ‘Hi,’ I say.
    ‘Hi, Will. How’s it going?’
    I shrug.
    He walks into the room, sits down heavily on my bed. ‘So why don’t you tell me what you saw today?’ He says it like he doesn’t really want to listen, like he’s just following protocol, indulging me or something.
    I shrug again and spin my chair round to face him. He’s pretty ugly, Patrick. He’s fat and has dark hair and dark eyes. From his father’s side of the family, he says. His mother was Irish and his father was English, and he got the English genes. He says it proudly, as though somehow he got the better deal.
    He’s sweating, a thin veil of moisture resting on his face. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes it away.
    ‘The man was on the street,’ I say. ‘I think he was dead. And Yan was there.’
    ‘Standing over him with the knife,’ Patrick said, nodding.
    I clear my throat. ‘Yeah. I mean, Yan was crouching over him. But I think he was . . . he was trying to help him. He took the knife out. Out of Mr Best.’
    Patrick’s eyes narrow. ‘He took out the knife? So you saw him holding the knife when it was in Gary’s body? Mr Best, I mean?’
    I nod and frown. ‘I saw him take it out,’ I say again.
    Patrick smiles as if to himself. ‘And then what? He was leaning over the body, checking if he was dead?’
    ‘Trying to help him,’ I say again, less certainly this time.
    ‘Just tell me what you saw, Will, not how you interpreted it. OK?’
    I describe everything I can remember.
    Patrick nods. He looks satisfied. ‘It’s a serious crime, murder,’ he says. ‘Might make people around here wake up. Might make them see sense.’
    ‘See sense?’ I ask.
    ‘Country’s not what it was, Will. But things are going to change for the better. You just wait and see.’
    I nod. I can’t imagine what ‘better’ would look like. Except that the freaks wouldn’t be here any more.
    ‘Great,’ Patrick says, closing his notebook. ‘Well, I’ll make sure the police get this. Night, Will. You sleep well, OK?’

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    CHAPTER FIVE
    The following morning I wake, like I always do, feeling like I haven’t slept. At least I didn’t dream again last night. Two lots of night terrors in twenty-four hours would have been harsh.
    I stumble out of bed. My curtains are still open – I find my eyes flickering over to Claire’s house; her curtains are closed. I look away.
    I’m feeling rough. Slightly nauseous. I think of the night before, of Patrick telling me things were going to change for the better. How? I should have asked. How will they be better?
    I pull on some clothes half-heartedly. School day. Great. Just what I need. More rules, more people telling me what to do, stupid imposed routines. When I complained about it to Dad, he just grinned. Wait till you’ve got a job, he said. Wait till you’re on the