An ambulance arrives. The two paramedics that emerge go to Rhys first but stop several feet away from his body, still being rocked by the now silent Ms Henry. Gloved hands move to cover mouths and noses as they back off; there's no need to check for a pulse when they can smell the rot of him from several feet away, see how his guts are not out but gone.

One speaks into a radio they pull from the pocket of their yellow and green high-vis jacket. They try to speak calmly to the crackly voice that answers. Try, because their voice trembles like their hands. The exact wording of their curt conversation is hidden behind codes, but you don't need a handbook to know they're telling whoever's on the other end of the line Rhys is dead.

Dead.

Death isn't as common here as it seems to be in films and tv. Shows depict murders, horrific accidents and ends to life so awful they're unnatural to us. In all my years I don't think there's ever been a murder here. It just doesn't happen. And the last deadly accident...

Tabby's face is turned to the lake, eyes no doubt focused on the white sheet the paramedic lay over Rhys. They've managed to coax Ms Henry away to the back of the ambulance, where she sits with a foil blanket wrapped about her shaking form. One of the paramedics is at her side, speaking to her even though her wide, unblinking eyes are an indication she's far from able to take in anything that's said.

Tabby's arm is around me and her oversized green flannel jacket hangs about my shoulders, practically enveloping me. It's fleece-lined, comfortable enough I might have to stop teasing her over buying some things, like jackets and jeans, from the men's section. This jacket is far cosier than my light coat, plus it has functional pockets; she hates clothes without pockets. My hands are balled into fists in them, a poor attempt at hiding my own tremor from Tabby considering her side is pressed against my shaking frame.

The paramedic who isn't caring for Ms Henry weaves about the scattered class with a medical bag slung over one shoulder, passing out foil blankets to those who need them. There's not enough for us all so they must be looking for the most shaken. All of us are —obviously— in bad shape, but I suppose some look worse for wear than others. The paramedic is Owen's dad, I realise as he draws nearer to us. He spots us and pauses, makes a beeline over. Guess I come under that 'worse for wear' umbrella, then.

"You okay Eve?" He crouches down in front of me. There's a try at a friendly smile but it ends up more of a grimace. I doubt he was expecting a call-out like this when starting his shift.

"I'm fine." It's a reflex to shrug things off, one I know annoys Tabby to no end, even though she's exactly the same. She nudges me now, waits for me to speak up. When I don't, she nudges me again.

"She said earlier she's got a headache and feels sick." Tabby explains, turning her eyes briefly to Owen's dad before returning to the white sheet.

"I bet everyone feels sick right now." I don't intend for my voice to sound as harsh as it does. "Sorry. I just..."

There's a pause, filled with a silence too complete to be anything but eerie. Tabby tightens her arm about me briefly, an offering of comfort I lean into. Owen's dad goes back to looking at my injury.

"I'm sorry you kids had to find him like this." He says.

"It's not your fault. Someone had to."

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He offers up a small, sad smile at that before his focus is back on my forehead: "Would you mind if I clean that up for you?"

I stopped the cut's bleeding a while ago with a wad of tissues I had to hand in my pocket. Didn't think about cleaning myself up properly at the time. All the dried blood probably makes me look far worse than I am.

"If you just give me some wipes, I can sort it."

He shakes his head, unzipping the medical bag and retrieving some equipment from it: gloves, antiseptic wipes, packaged gauze and tape. Voice holding a strained brightness, he says, "Nope, sorry kid. I need to check you over. How'd you do it?"

"Fainted." It's embarrassing to say, though it shouldn't be; I was far from the only one. A few others must have ended up banging their heads, too.

His gloved hands are cold enough I cringe as he starts examining the wound. "That hurt?"

I shake my head and let him continue. He asks some questions, trying to rule out a concussion. By the end of them, he's cleaned the wound, ensured it won't need stitches, and taped a gauze over it. "Have you got anyone who can watch over you tonight? Someone who can wake you up every few hours?"

“Catrin—" I stop short. "She'll be doing the autopsy, won't she?"

He nods. He seems to consider saying something but before he can, Tabby speaks up, her face still turned to the lake, "I can come over."

My surprise isn't at her words — it isn't unusual for us to stay at each other's place. If anything, it's more odd for us to be apart. It's the uncertainty and sheer urgency in her voice that sets me on edge; the flatness of it before slipped past me but it's emphasised now by how her tone wavers and the way her words rush out, as if expelled in a breathless rush. She's... frightened?

I slip a hand out of the pocket of her jacket, take one of her hands and give it a squeeze, aiming for reassuring and not bone-crushing but I think it ends up somewhere in between.

She turns to me, eyes glassier than usual. Not with tears this time but something else. "It's okay? For me to come over?"

"Always."

Nearby is a small group of girls and boys from the year below ours, calling out because one of them can't stop hyperventilating. As Owen's dad quickly zips up his bag and shucks his gloves, he runs through a few quick things for Tabby and I to be aware of: painkillers to take if needed, that Tabby needs to wake me every few hours to ensure my condition hasn't changed, what sort of symptoms to keep an eye on and seek further help for, et cetera, et cetera. The last few words are thrown over his shoulder as he dashes to the group and the boy curled up on the floor.

For a while Tabby and I just sit there. Quiet but not uncomfortable, providing comfort without words with the occasional squeeze of our still intertwined hands. Time blurs, only coming into focus when the crunch of gravel beneath tires fades into earshot. More vehicles are approaching, probably the coroner's ambulance and some police, maybe a few more regular ambulances to help the rest of us with shock.

Tabby says I have a tendency to refuse things — help, specifically. Earlier, when I accepted her jacket, I hadn't really felt the end-of-winter chill; I'd wanted it for the comfort more than it's warmth. Selfish of me, I can't help but think now. Tabby's white school blouse's sleeves don't reach past her elbows, leaving her arms bared to the winds that make that chill all the more harsh. The light hairs covering the backs of her arms stand on end, and her hand, still clutching mine, has barely warmed.

I loosen my grip on her and drape her jacket around the two of us. She murmurs a half-hearted I don't need it I won't even acknowledge. We have a promise to not bullshit each other, yet we can't help but break it sometimes. It's up to us to keep one another honest. A sigh later and her arm is back around me, mine is around her, and her chin rests on top of my head.

The sound of tires over gravel grows nearer. Most of the other students are quiet now, either whispering amongst themselves or just not talking at all. I'm okay with it, a lull before the oncoming storm and inevitable flurry of action. Tabby won't be.

I murmur, “Catrin put the DVDs in the loft.”

“What?” That gets her attention away from the river. She pulls away slightly to look at me. “Seriously?”

“Exams. She wanted me —well, us— to focus.”

Tabby grumbles. Not a word, just an odd little noise she makes sometimes when she’s annoyed. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

“Damn it. Think she’ll be pissed if we get them down?”

“Probably not today, given…” I stop myself there. Hold her gaze to avoid either of us looking where we shouldn’t. Where we can’t. Her eyes are lighter in this light, grey-green and specked with gold. The freckles dusting her cheeks are lighter at the moment, lack of sunlight taking their colour. They’ll be back in force come summer’s sun.

A police car chirps its siren once as it pulls up to the clearing, a cue for the ambulance staff to move those nearby to the side.

“Wanna risk it?” Tabby asks.

I nod; we need something to think about other than this. And if that thing is Catrin yelling at us, though I highly doubt it, I’ll take it.