Mikey?’

‘Nah,’ Joey says. ‘Paul’s older than us – thirteen. He’ll be in S2. Maybe Kit can look out for him?’

My brother, Kit, is a pain in the bum, but he’s funny and streetwise and popular with the other kids. And, in spite of the teasing, he’d do anything for Joey.

‘Why don’t you ask him?’ I suggest. ‘I think he’d do it.’

‘I will. Paul’s starting school today, but Eva drove him in early to get the paperwork done, and to talk to Mr McKenzie and the guidance teachers and everyone.’

The bus lurches to a halt and a sea of rackety teenagers rolls down the aisle. Joey and I take our time. It’s January. It’s only just light out there, and definitely sub-zero, so what’s the hurry? When Joey stands up, my brother, Kit, just happens to be in the aisle behind her.

‘Fancy seeing you girls,’ he says carelessly, as if he hasn’t spent a whole week planning this exact moment. ‘After you, Josephine.’

‘Why, thank you, Christopher,’ Joey says sweetly.

Kit moves smoothly along behind her, bashing me in the arm with his rucksack, so I know this sudden attack of good manners doesn’t extend to me.

Joey is telling Kit about the new foster-kid, and by the time we spill out, shivering, on to the frosty pavements, she’s got him to promise he’ll keep an eye on Paul Slater.

Just until he finds his feet, y’know,’ Joey is saying. ‘He’s quite shy, I think, but he is from Glasgow. He must have a bit of street sense somewhere.’

‘Leave it to me,’ Kit replies. ‘I’ll look after him.’

‘Oh, Kit, thanks,’ Joey says, fluttering her eyelashes and laying it on thick. ‘I knew I could count on you.’

By the time she turns away from him, my brother is bright pink and grinning like a madman. No change there, then.

We link arms and mooch up towards the school gates, giggling.

‘Your brother blushed,’ Joey tells me, although just about everyone south of Aberdeen must have spotted the beacon that is Kit’s face. ‘D’you think he likes me?’

‘Just a bit.’

‘Whoa.’ Joey laughs. ‘Don’t know if I can handle that’.

‘Don’t know if I can!’

Then we spot Mr McKenzie, the Head, patrolling the school gates. We stop dead in our tracks. Mr McKenzie and Joey Donovan do not see eye to eye. His aim in life is to stamp out all signs of rebellion, disorder and individuality. School uniform offences are punishable by death, or week-long detentions, anyhow. Joey does not stand a chance.

‘We’ll sneak in through the staff car park,’ I decide, dragging Joey along the pavement, away from the main gates.

Joey looks glum, because she enjoys arguing about uniform with Mr McKenzie. Since she started at Kirklaggan High School last August, he’s had to write two new clauses into the school uniform list. The first outlaws black PVC miniskirts, the second declares that dog collars and studded wristbands may not be worn on school premises.

‘Freak,’ spits out an S3 lad as we dodge past him.

‘Loser,’ Joey responds automatically.

When I look over my shoulder, I can see Kit giving the S3 kid a row for picking on Joey, and I have to smile.

We sneak through the teachers’ car park and skirt round the back of the dinner halls. A heady aroma of boiled cabbage and custard assaults us from the kitchens, even though it’s barely ten to nine.

‘What’s that noise?’ Joey demands suddenly, frowning.

‘Can’t hear anything. C’mon, Joey, we can’t be late.’

Joey is standing still, her face anxious, eyes scanning the kitchen yard with its skip full of cardboard, the piles of plastic crates and the trio of dustbins huddled together near the wall.

‘I heard something,’ she insists.

‘I didn’t,’ I huff. It’s so cold the words seem to gather in the air before me; a small white cloud, like dragon’s breath. Joey, it’s freezing. Can we just go now?’

She shakes her head, putting a finger to her lips. Exasperated, I shiver inside my duffel coat.

‘What kind of a noise?’ I ask. In the stillness I can hear the sound of kids shouting in the distance, and someone scraping a pan inside the kitchen. Behind us, Miss Quinn’s clapped-out VW Beetle wheezes across the car park and shudders to a halt.

‘Shhh.’

The school bell clatters out then, and Miss Quinn rushes past us, pink scarf flapping, on her way to the art block. ‘Hurry up, girls,’ she grins. ‘You’ll be late. Later than me, even!’ She disappears round the corner, but Joey still won’t budge.

And then I hear it: a thin, mewling