Amma slams a bowl of porridge down in front of me. A splash of milky oats leaps on to the table cloth.

‘You’re a bad bitch,’ Shais purrs under her breath, stirring her smoothie with a bendy straw. The thick pale liquid is her own revolting recipe. Slugs must’ve been harmed in the making.

Suppressing a shudder, I reach for the maple syrup. In the kitchen, Amma’s tablet is broadcasting the local news. The reporter’s going on about some shoot-out at a factory.

‘Where were you really?’ Shais probes.

I squirt the amber liquid over my steaming porridge. ‘I told you: detention.’

‘Till seven? You could at least try making your lies a bit believable.’ She snatches the bottle and adds a squeeze to her own macrobiotic nightmare.

My eyes widen. ‘Shais …’

‘Well it’s true. You could’ve pretended you went round to a friend’s house and got caught up playing PlayStation or whatever idiotic activity—’

‘Listen!’

‘Don’t speak to me like …’ She trails off, hearing the reporter on the tablet.

‘… as Andrés López and twenty-one-year-old Zaman Akhtar.’

My sister lets out a little gasp, nails pressed to her lips like diamante shields.

‘Notorious gang DX Dingoes is suspected to be operating in at least six boroughs in south London, but the full scale of the picture is as yet unknown. For now, charges of drug trafficking, embezzlement and firearm possession are expected.’

‘That boy was working at our shop!’ Amma says in disbelief. ‘He was carrying on with my own daughter, and I didn’t even know! I must call your father.’

Shaista gets up, mumbling incoherently, before stumbling into the corridor. Amma follows Shais, and soon I can hear her muffled sobs. My own heartbeats go staccato. Come Monday, Imran will be back at school, and now that I know he’s the cousin of a convicted gangsta, murdering me doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

‘Today, you are going to gain some experience in answering exam-style questions under timed conditions,’ drones my English teacher, Ms Pettigrew.

I glance round at Noah, who is glaring at me. He jabs a finger at his phone, instructing me to text him my answers, or else. Daevon seems to be texting under his table. A few seconds later, Denusha’s phone vibrates, and she starts giggling.

‘Hush!’ Ms Pettigrew snaps.

‘It’s not my fault if someone keeps sending me inappropriate dick pix,’ Denusha mutters sulkily.

I wonder what she thinks an appropriate dick pic is.

‘Any questions? No? Best of luck. Your time starts now.’ Mrs Pettigrew stretches a bony finger towards the virtual timer. The numbers roll back as the thirty-minute countdown begins.

Today, I decide, opening my exam booklet, will be the day I score top marks and free myself from the brotherhood of the damned. If I can do it in maths, I can totally do it in English.

Section A is about Shakespeare, and skimming through the choices, the name Ariel jumps out at me. Disney questions! my demented brain thinks happily, before realizing it’s an extract from The Tempest. I try to read it, but Sebastian the crab has begun singing ‘Under the Sea’ in my head. Only halfway through, it becomes a mash-up of Jme’s ‘Man Don’t Care’.

I’m caught between having a flat-out panic attack and laughing hysterically when there’s a knock at the classroom door. Mrs Pettigrew puts a finger to her lips, indicating to the messenger that he shouldn’t disturb us. The boy hands over a note, and Mrs Pettigrew looks at me.

I swallow.

‘Ilyas, Mr Gilchrist wants to see you in his office. The rest of you remain silent and keep working.’

Grabbing my bag (just in case I’m being fast-tracked to an exclusion) and dodging a kick from Noah, I follow the kid out. ‘What’s Gilchrist want?’ I ask him.

The kid shrugs.

Could Imran’s brain have haemorrhaged, leaving him a vegetable? My stomach ties itself in knots.

I knock on the deputy principal’s door and shuffle into his office. Seeing Kelly there fills me with relief. Then I notice Gilchrist is a mess. Hair like a swirl of ice cream, red-radish eyes and belly poking through a shirt that is buttoned all wrong. Gilchrist gestures for me to take a seat.

‘I’m sorry to pull you out of class, but I had to see you both urgently. Yesterday I received some shocking news.’

Imran passed away. I am so going to Hell …

‘My wife was admitted to hospital last night.’ The final word comes out in an emotional squeak, which he covers up by coughing into a boulder-sized fist.

Kelly helps him out. ‘Is that why you didn’t come back for us yesterday?’

He sighs looking like a forlorn bear. ‘I was in shock … Completely slipped my mind.’

I exchange a glance with Kelly. ‘Look accidents happen, innit? It’s cool. I won’t say nothing to my mum.’

Kelly nods. ‘I already told my mum I went to the library and didn’t realize my phone had died. She thinks I’m irresponsible. Nothing new there, then.’

‘I’m so sorry …’ Gilchrist says.

‘Do we still have detention after school?’ Kelly asks.

Gilchrist shakes his head, rubbing a creased hanky under his nose. ‘Just give me your letters at the end of the day so I can hold on to them for Monday.’

We nod and get up to leave.

‘Remember, Ilyas, Kelly – life’s too short to hold grudges.’

Closing the door behind us, me and Kelly exchange worried looks.

‘Reckon he’s having a breakdown,’ she says sagely.

‘Having? Already had one, more like! His eye bags were like hammocks for dolphins.’ I sigh. ‘Anyway, better get back to my “exam style” English test, I suppose.’

‘It’s like these people don’t realize it’s nearly the Christmas holidays,’ she says, making me realize the exam idea wasn’t just Ms Pettigrew being extra. Instead of winding down for the end of term, they’re winding us up.

I watch her plodding away. ‘Hey, Kelz,’ I call, making her whirl round. ‘Gotta ask. Why do you wear them boots?’

She looks down and shrugs. ‘Because I like them?’

Kelly’s friends hate her boots, and they seem to pull all the strings. Something doesn’t add up. ‘No offence, but they sorta look like man boots.’

She goes very quiet. ‘They belonged to my dead Uncle Fiz.’

I swallow the foot in my mouth. ‘Hey, sorry man. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.’

She crouches down, rubbing at a scuff mark. ‘Uncle Fiz was the only member of my family who ever thought it was great that I wanted to be an author. Mum hated him.’

‘Cos he supported your dreams?’

‘That also, but mainly because he was gay and proud. She wouldn’t let me see him because she thought he was corrupting me.’

‘That is cold!’

Kelly sighs, her eyes glistening, and I immediately realize how close she must have been to this Uncle Fiz.

‘I guess it’s not completely her fault – she’s from a really strict religious family. She didn’t even go to his funeral.’

‘But you did?’

She nods, smirking. ‘I was only ten. I caught a bus and turned up late. His funeral was fab-u-lous. So many weeping drag queens in one place! They played the 1974 Elton John-Bernie Taupin collaboration “The Bitch Is Back”. Uncle Fiz totally believed in reincarnation.’

I smile sympathetically. ‘So you wear his boots to show solidarity.’

‘And to piss Mum off, obvs!’

We both crack up.

‘When I’m wearing these boots, I feel I can do anything – hop on a bus or take a rocket to the moon. That’s how Uncle Fiz lived his life.’

‘I hope he comes back as a unicorn. One with a rainbow mane.’

‘He’d love that!’ She gives me a goofy grin, then clip-clops down the corridor.