That September, we joined the local comprehensive school. We didn't like primary school, but at least we had privacy there. Privacy was something that was difficult to get hold of in the big school. There were hundreds of more children there. We were the youngest there. It was all so new, so scary. So we made a pact.

"I, James Moriarty, solemnly promise to always be there for you and be your best friend forever, no matter what."

"I, Rebecca March, solemnly promise to always be there for you and be your best friend forever, no matter what," we each held an army knife to our left index finger.

"Ready?" He asked quietly and I nodded, "okay." Then we both cut our fingers. I flinched and breathed through my teeth sharply but he didn't react at all. Blood oozed from our flesh and we held our fingers together so it mixed together. He looked at me, reassurance in his eyes that the pain would be over soon and I would be okay. Then we said in unison: "no matter what life and secondary school throws at is, we will always be best friends. No matter what."

The pact may have been slightly dramatic, but that's an excellent adjective for the both of us. Plus, it meant a lot to us. 'No matter what' became our mantra. It kept us going. We told and convinced ourselves that secondary school would be a horrible, terrible thing. But, in reality, it was far worse for Jim than it was for me. I managed, by some miracle, to make some halfway-decent friends, but he, on the other hand, wasn't as fortunate. We were in separate classes so we'd meet up and go to the library, just like we used to. I could tell that he didn't like school. He'd sit by himself in lessons and people would never talk to him unless it was to be cruel. As much as I felt sorry for him and wanted to help, there was nothing I could do expect offer a shoulder to cry on, not that he ever cried anyway. We still, almost ritualistically, went to the secret hiding place. It was far away from our new school and well off and road to get hime, but nevertheless we went there.

"I hate this school," he told me one day.

I folded my page in my book and looked at him, "why?"

"They're all so stupid and boring. It's driving me mad!" He grasped at his hair like he was trying to rip the thoughts out of his head. I frowned and pulled his hands away gently.

"It's okay. I'm sure it'll get better. We won't always be in school," I said because I didn't know that else to say: I didn't know what to do to make him feel better. It wasn't often he opened up like that.

"But what if it doesn't? What then? What if I always feel like -" he cut himself off suddenly. That was when I realised he wasn't just talking about the school any more.

"Like what?" I prompted him but he just shook his head.

"Nothing, don't worry. Forget I ever said anything."

Regardless of how much I tried to get it out of him, which somehow ended in a tickle fight, he wouldn't tell me.

But I would soon find out anyway.

A few weeks later came the day that is forever tattooed on my memory like the anniversary of something horrible – it rises to the surface of your mind occasionally and pains you to think about but you can't get rid of it no matter how hard you try and you just have to wait for you to be able to stop reliving it.

An assembly was called for the entire school, which never ocured normally, so we knew that something bad had happened. The Headmistress stood at the front of the hall, head bowed.

"I have called you all here today because a dreadful thing has happened to a pupil of this school. Carl Powers, a year 8 student, passed away a few days ago. He suffered an allergic attack and died. I ask you all to show respect and sympathy in this dark time to those who knew him. We will now have a 2 minute silence."

I couldn't believe that someone had died so young, so close to home. Nobody I knew I had ever died before so Carl's death was a shock, even if I hardly knew him.

That afternoon after school, I talked to him about it, "that so horrible... poor, poor Carl," I shook my head.

"I never liked him, he never liked me, so why should I pretend now he's dead?" He shrugged and I gasped.

"Jim! How can you say that? Have some sympathy! He suffered a horrible death, show some compassion," there was a silence.

"Becks..."

"Yeah?"

"I need to tell you something and I need you to promise not to tell anyone, even if you hate me for it and never want to talk to me again, okay?" The big, dark eyes that I had gotten to know very well had a look that I'd never seen before and it terrified me. My heart was dropping with anxiety of the revelation and I almost didn't want to know. Ignorance is bliss after all.

"I promise."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what," I confirmed. He looked at the floor and then back to me.

"I did it. I killed him. I killed Carl Powers."

That was the moment that my world started to collapse, each layer of everything I thought was okay falling to the abyss below one by one, never to be seen again. His words hit me like bullets and they hurt, ripping a hole through me that felt like ti couldn't heal with all the time in the world. I began to cry red hot tears. I couldn't understand how this boy, my best friend that I had know for 4 years, could do this. I felt like I didn't know him any more. I sobbed, speechless.

"He used to pick on me, Becks. He'd call me a freak and then everybody else would too. He laughed at me... so I stopped him laughing," the way he looked at me terrified me. It sent shivers down my spine, "please don't cry, Becca, it's okay, I promise."

"If," I managed to speak over my blubbering, "you could do that to him, kill him, what's stopping you doing it to me?"

He looked horrified, "Rebecca, I would never, ever hurt you. Ever. You're the most important thing in the world to me and I mean that. I would never hurt you, no matter what."

I believed him completely. I had never seen, and still haven't seen, such a look of sincerity and sureness. I nodded at him, "okay," I whispered, "okay. I believe you," after I wiped my tears away, he hugged me close.

"I'm sorry," he murmured in my ear, "you don't deserve to be put through this. You deserve someone better than me as a friend and I'm sorry you've got to put up with me."

I pulled away to look at him, "don't be silly, Jim. I don't put up with you, I enjoy your company," I wondered to myself why I was being so kind to a killer, "but I need you to tell me a few things, I need you to answer my questions honestly. Absolutely no lying."

"Sure, sure, anything."

"Why did you do it? How did you do it? Would you do it again? How long have you felt-"

"I did it because he was a horrible person. I did it by putting a lethal drug in his eczema medication that killed him while he was swimming. Would I do it again? I couldn't say, maybe. It's not out of the question. And how long have I felt like this? My whole life," his eyes burned into mine like they were lava, "and there's nothing I can do to get rid of it."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

A small smile flickered on his lips, "because if I told you if would upset you. And I didn't want to upset you because I care about you. I didn't want to burden you with my problems."

I couldn't help thinking that if he's tole me before I could have helped him and possibly saved Carl. Jim told me that there was nothing I could have done and that I shouldn't blame myself. I obviously still did because I'm human and that's what we do. We came to an agreement that day: Jim wouldn't kil anyone without talking it over with me first and if he felt that way again he had to tell me so that I could help. We agreed that if he broke those rules, I could stop bothering with him completely. He understood that it was hard for me to deal with, so was kind when I lashed out at him or became upset. In the months that followed, he came to me quite a few times and spoke of his homocidal urges. I helped him the best I could, but a 13 year old isn't equipt to be dealing with those sorts of problems. One day, though, he came to me with a different issue.

"Becks, can we talk? I need to tell you something."

"Sure," I forced a smile, silently dreading what was to come, "what's up?"

"Dont' worry, it's not like that," he quickly put my mind at rest and took a deep breath before saying: "Becca, I think I'm bisexual."

I smiled, "Jim, that's great."

"Really? I thought you'd be... I don't know..."

"No, I think it's good that you're discovering this. I'm happy for you," I grinned and patted his back, "really."

"Thanks," he smiled that smiled that I still see today, "just don't tell anyone else, okay? I know what other people can be like."

"Of course, of course," I hugged him quickly, "no matter what."