I hear the noises in the street before I see what’s happening. Loud sirens. Shouting.

I feel my heart beating faster in my chest. This is not good. I try to slow my breathing. I try to calm my mind. But I can’t.

I struggle with the unexpected. I like routine. No, I need routine. But sometimes you have no control of what’s happening in the world.

I move over to my bedroom window. It’s only 7:30 AM. I haven’t had my breakfast yet.

I’m dressed in my school uniform, and I’ve brushed my hair. The fringe is getting long now. Mum says I look cool. I’m not so sure.

Dad doesn’t really mind about my hair. He notices the other things about me more. Like my routines.

Outside in the street, there are flashing blue lights. I can see two police cars and one ambulance. There are 15 people standing nearby. More people are standing on their doorsteps watching.

I can see Mr. Edwards, our next-door neighbour. He’s waving his arms and talking to a paramedic. An ambulance driver.

I like the word paramedic. Para-medic. It feels nice to say. This paramedic looks like they don’t want to talk to Mr. Edwards. They want to do their job.

The cars and police and paramedics are coming and going from Mrs. Warren’s house.

Mrs. Warren is nice. She lives in the house next door to Mr. Edwards. Next door but one to us. Number 17 South Marlborough Street. We live at number 21.

Mrs. Warren is always kind and sometimes gives me 50p to buy sweets. I don’t really like sweets, so I put the money in a glass jar on my windowsill.

I look at it now. I know that there are 78 50ps inside. I remember things like this. I know how much money that makes. £3.90.

I like sums. They always have a right answer.

I watch as the people move around outside. I look at my watch and it’s nearly time for breakfast. I eat my breakfast at 7:45 AM every school day. I have two Weetabix and a banana. Separately.

First, I pour the milk onto the Weetabix so that it’s just enough to cover them. Then I eat the Weetabix. I cut each Weetabix into three pieces with my spoon.

I try to eat them as quickly as I can. They go soggy very fast. They’re not nice when they’re soggy. Once they are gone, I drink the milk with my spoon.

Then I peel my banana. Average-sized bananas take four bites. Smaller ones three bites. And some really big ones take five or even six bites. Sometimes there’s a mushy black bit, usually at the bottom of the banana. This can spoil my breakfast.

I’m about to stop looking out of the window when I see two paramedics coming out of Mrs. Warren’s house. They’re carrying a stretcher with a sleeping bag on it. It’s got something in it. It looks heavy.

The paramedics’ faces look sad. Although, I can’t really see clearly from here. Suddenly I get the feeling that something is wrong. What’s in that bag?

It looks big enough and heavy enough to be a person. I know that they only put dead people in bags. They call them body bags. I saw it on a TV programme.

I want to move away from the window now. I feel scared. My heart’s beating faster and I’ve got a lump in my throat. Like when I have to stand up and talk in class, but worse.

I like Mrs. Warren. She’s kind. I hope she’s not in the body bag. I hope she’s not dead.

But she is old. She’s at least 80. I remember my mum telling me. I remember her family coming for her eightieth birthday.

I watch the paramedics put the stretcher into the ambulance. Mr. Edwards makes a sign with his hands. He touches his head, then his chest twice. This is something to do with Jesus and God. I know because I’ve seen footballers do it after they score a goal. They thank God that the ball went into the net.

I don’t know about God. The idea is scary.

One of the paramedics gets into the back of the ambulance with the body bag. The other one closes the door. I hear it bang. It sounds too loud.

The paramedic says something to Mr. Edwards. He shakes his head and moves away. The paramedic goes around to the other side of the ambulance, and I can’t see him anymore.

There are fewer people in the street now. I count 12. There aren’t as many people on their doorsteps, either.

The ambulance slowly moves away. Its lights are off and there’s no siren. This means that it isn’t an emergency anymore.

Mum has put my breakfast out for me. A bowl. A spoon. The Weetabix box. A four-pint plastic carton of semi-skimmed milk (half full). And a banana.

She smiles at me when I come into the kitchen.

"Morning, Jay, did you sleep well?" she asks.

She always asks me this. Not long ago, I couldn’t sleep. When I tried, I just felt more awake. This was when I first started high school.

I didn’t like it at first. There were too many people. It was too loud. It’s OK now. I have a routine. I’m better at sleeping now. I have a good routine.

I nod to my mum.

"What’s happening outside?" I ask her.

She’s thinking before answering, so I know that she’s trying to think of the best thing to say. I know that she’s going to tell me a lie. I don’t like lies. They make life complicated.

People lie all the time. They tell you that they’re OK when really, they’re sad. They tell you that they will come to your birthday party but really, they won’t. They tell you that if you try hard, you’ll do well at school, but not everyone can do well at school all the time.

"I think there’s been a burglary," she says.

I’m surprised at this. I didn’t expect her to say that. This isn’t a lie.

"How do you know?" I ask her.

"Mr. Edwards came round earlier and told me," she says.

I think about this for a second. I didn’t hear him. But I was in my bedroom with the radio on. I have a radio alarm clock. It wakes me at 7:00 AM on school days.

I listen to Chris Coombes on breakfast radio for 15 minutes, then I get up and get dressed. Chris Coombes is funny. He’s loud, but he makes me laugh. He has the same first name as Dad.

"Was it Mrs. Warren's house that was burgled?" I ask my mum.

"Yes, it was, Jay," she answers.

"Is she dead?" I ask.

I watch Mum’s face. It goes very pale.

"Why would you say that, James?"

Her voice is shaky and she’s using my full name. That means that either she’s shocked, angry, upset, or emotional in some way. I don’t think she’s angry with me.

"I saw the paramedics with a bag," I tell her.

I wait for her to say something, but she just stares through me.

"I think that Mrs. Warren was in the bag," I say. "The paramedics looked serious. And they didn’t put on the lights or the sirens, so it wasn’t an emergency. If she was dead, then it wouldn’t be an emergency anymore."

Mum is very still. I can see her hands shaking slightly. I want to say something to make her feel better, but I don’t know what.

"It’s OK, Mum," I try. "I know that she was old. She’s had a good, long life."

I say the words, but I don’t mean them. I’m lying. It would have been true five minutes ago. But now that I know that Mrs. Warren’s house was burgled, it’s not true anymore.

Did the burglars kill her? I try not to think about it now.

Mum has sat down now. We have a small table in the corner of the kitchen. She’s sitting opposite me. I can see her face, but her body is hidden by the Weetabix box.

I don’t know what to do. I look at my watch and it’s 7:50 AM. Usually I have eaten my breakfast by now. I should be brushing my teeth. Putting on my shoes. Getting ready to leave the house.

"Mum." I speak, but my voice seems quiet.

The house is quiet now, and feels bigger than normal. The clock is ticking very loudly.

"Mum." I try again.

I watch her face. She looks a bit better now. She’s stopped shaking and is not as pale. She stops staring through me and looks into my eyes. Her eyes are wet. She nearly cried, but stopped herself. I think that she stopped herself for me.

"It’s OK, Jay, you’re right," she says. "Mrs. Warren was a lovely lady. And she had a long and happy life. I’m sure that…"

She doesn’t finish her sentence. The words mumble away to nothing.

Mrs. Warren was a lovely lady. That’s what she said. She was. Not Mrs. Warren is a lovely lady. She is not a lovely lady anymore. Because she is dead. Perhaps she has been killed.

We sit there looking at each other. I can hear the clock on the wall ticking. She doesn’t know what to say. I don’t know what to say. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. We both jump.

"Better eat your breakfast, Jay. I’ll go and see who it is," she says.

Mum gets up and goes to answer the door.

I look at the Weetabix in my bowl. I don’t feel hungry now. I feel like there’s something in my stomach. It feels like air. It feels like air that’s trying to escape.

I close my eyes and count in threes until I reach ninety. I think about Mrs. Warren. She was a lovely lady, but now she’s not. She was a lovely lady. Yes, she was.

I eat my breakfast. The pieces feel bigger than normal. They feel like they might stick in my throat. I drink more milk to stop this from happening.

It’s a small banana today. Still, I eat it in five bites. Five small bites to make sure that I don’t choke.

The door opens and my mum comes back in. She looks flustered. Like she doesn’t know what to do.

A large policeman comes in behind her. He’s very tall and looks very serious. He’s holding his helmet like they do on TV programmes when someone’s died.

"Hello, young man," he says to me.

I try to smile at him.

"What’s your name?" he asks.

"James," I say.

Usually, I say my name is Jay. But this feels more formal. Like I should use my full name.

"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, James?" He speaks in a kind way, but his words are hard. He’s not lying, but he’s very serious. He’s trying to be casual, but I know he’s not.

"OK," I say.

"Would you like a cup of tea or coffee, Mr...?" Mum asks.

"Oh, Robert is fine and no thank you, this won’t take a minute," the man answers. "I suspect you have to get to school James. Do you go to Park Vale?"

"Yes," I answer.

"A good school. My son used to go there, but he’s 20 now. Been in the army for two years. Stationed out in Germany at the moment," Robert says.

I wonder why he’s telling me this.

"OK, James," he says.

He looks at my eyes all the time. It makes me feel a mixture of uncomfortable and calm. I don’t know if I like him. I don’t know if he’s a good person. I think that he can be a very strong person. Perhaps a violent person.

He takes out a notebook.

"Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary lately in your street?" he asks.

I think about this for a minute.

I notice when things are different. I have my routine. I eat the same things for breakfast every day. I leave the house to go to school at the same time every day. But not today, I think, glancing at the clock.

I walk the same way to Dave’s house. I cross the road at the traffic lights on the corner of Park Vale Drive. We walk past the sycamore tree outside Olivia Jones’ house.

Olivia Jones is nice. She always says "Hey" to me. She’s got dark brown hair and a pretty face. She has very red lips and very white skin. She seems sad. I don’t know why. I’d like to ask her but I find it hard to speak to girls, except for Mum.

"James," my mother prompts me. She knows that I’m thinking about any unusual things I’ve noticed, but Robert is getting restless.

I can’t think of anything out of the ordinary. It’s strange, because usually I notice everything. Today, though, I feel dazed. I shake my head.

"Sorry," Mum says. "We’re both a bit shocked by it all. This is such a quiet street and all the neighbours really look out for each other. I think he’s still processing what’s happened."

Robert nods his head and slowly gets up. He looks like he’s thinking. He takes a card from his pocket and hands it to Mum.

"If you do think of anything, Mrs. Allen. And you, James. You can call me on this number. Any time, any day. OK?" he says.

I smile and nod. Mum follows him out of the kitchen.

I’m about to get up and call him back. I have thought of something out of the ordinary. Something very out of the ordinary.

A white van parked outside Dave’s house. It was last Tuesday. It was there every day. For three days. It’s not usually there. I know all the cars in our street. And their numberplates.

Ours is a grey Mondeo KL54 DTF. Dave’s family have a white Vauxhall Zafira BP12 TFR. He calls it a people carrier. This makes me laugh. The car has extra seats in the back.

Dave has three little sisters. Two of them are identical twins. I can’t tell which one is which. Dave says that Lucy has a dimple on her left cheek and Amy is 3mm taller than Lucy. I haven’t noticed these things.

The van was white. It was a Ford Transit LT56 YTJ. It was there last Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday. It was gone on Friday.

Dave said it was plumbers. They were working at the empty house opposite Dave.

That house is rented and people move in and out a lot. Our house and Dave’s are owned by a mortgage company. Our families pay them money so that we can live there. One day, we will own the house and stop paying the mortgage.

"Not unless we die first," Dad says, and Mum tells him not to joke around.

I don’t understand that joke. Is dying supposed to be funny?

I hear Mum shut the door and I think about the plumber’s van. It was out of the ordinary. I want to tell Mum, but there’s no time.

"Are you still sitting there, Jay? You’ll be late for school," Mum says when she comes back in. Then she adds, "Sorry, Jay, I didn’t mean it like that. Are you OK?"

I nod.

"I’m fine, Mum," I say.

I get up and go over to her. She hugs me, and I hug her back.

"I love you, Jay. I know that this has been a horrible shock. We can talk more after school if you want," Mum says.

"That’d be good, Mum, thanks," I say.

She kisses me on the cheek and I go out of the kitchen.