As I flail in mid-air, the audience gasp in sudden horror. Using all my strength, I get both hands back on to the bar and swing towards Dmitry. He’s ready for me, arms out, fingers splayed for the catch.

  ‘Trust me!’ he shouts. ‘Your life with mine, as always.’

  But as I leap for his outstretched arms, the frayed rope snaps and the fly bar drops. I scream in terror. I see Dmitry immediately release his knee grip on the catch bar to hang solely by his ankles. He reaches out. His hands go to clasp mine –

  Our fingers brush against one another –

  But I slip from his grasp and plummet to the ground.

  2

  ‘I’m falling … falling … endlessly … no ground beneath me … just a terrifying black void …’

  A click of fingers and my eyes flicker open. My pulse is racing, my breathing fast and shallow.

  ‘Calm yourself, Genna,’ soothes a gentle voice. ‘You’re perfectly safe.’

  I glance around nervously. I’m lying on a leather couch in a pastel-green room with sunlight filtering through a set of bamboo blinds. There’s a tall flowering pink orchid in one corner and on the far wall a framed picture of a snow-capped mountain with the words: You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.

  ‘That was most enlightening, Genna. Tell me, how are you feeling now?’ asks a man with slate-grey hair. Reclining in an armchair opposite my couch, he peers at me over his wire-framed glasses. A notebook rests in his lap, his slender fingers clasping a silver fountain pen.

  ‘Erm … a little disorientated,’ I reply, sitting up. He makes a note of this. My mind is clearing now and I recall that I’m in my post-trauma therapy session with Dr Larsson at his counselling clinic in west London.

  ‘That’s understandable,’ he says kindly. ‘For those receptive to hypnotherapy, it can be quite a profound experience, as well as a very effective treatment, of course. Can you see now how those past lives – or Glimmers as you call them – are the products of your subconscious?’

  I frown deeply, shaken by my first experience of hypnosis. ‘I imagined all that?’

  My therapist nods.

  ‘But I’ve never been a circus acrobat, let alone visited Russia!’ I argue.

  ‘Your subconscious works in metaphors,’ Dr Larsson explains. ‘Don’t you remember, before I put you in a trance, we talked about your gymnastics training? It’s quite reasonable to assume, considering your success in inter-school competitions, that in your mind you identified yourself as an acrobat. Have you ever been to a circus before?’

  ‘Yes, but years ago, when I was a little kid,’ I say.

  ‘There you go,’ he replies with a self-approving smile. ‘You’ve also told me you read lots of historical novels. Is there one in your collection about Russia?’

  I visualize the bookcase in my bedroom. ‘Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. It’s set in … St Petersburg …’ I trail off. I’m just proving his point.

  Dr Larsson leans forward in his chair. ‘Genna, these past lives you believe you’ve had are conjured up by your mind to help you cope with a stressful and traumatic experience. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Anyone who’s been through what you’ve been through is bound to develop coping mechanisms. And, may I say, you’ve coped wonderfully.’

  My throat tightens and hot tears prick my eyes as I recall the attack by Damien and his gang in the London park, how he tried to kidnap me for his so-called master, Tanas, and how that evil and twisted priest almost murdered me in a horrific sacrificial ceremony. Even now, six months later, I can still taste the bitter wax potion that Tanas poured into my mouth; feel the deeply unsettling separation of body and soul as he performed the ritual; and recollect my sheer terror as he attempted to cut out my heart with an ancient jade knife. A shudder runs through me at the nightmarish memories.

  Dr Larsson hands me a tissue and I dab away the tears. ‘Are you all right to continue?’ he asks.

  I nod. ‘It’s just hard when I think back to that moment in the crypt.’

  His tawny eyes soften with sympathy. ‘And it will be, for some time,’ he says. ‘But you’ve come a long way, Genna. You’re far tougher and more resilient than the frightened and confused girl I first met. The circus vision you just experienced proves that.’

  ‘How?’ I ask.

  Dr Larsson settles back in his chair. ‘Well, this is how I see it,’ he begins. ‘The vividness of your dream is a result of the intense emotions associated with your trauma. As I’ve already indicated, the setting is influenced by what you’ve read, by your childhood experiences of the circus and your talent for gymnastics. From our previous sessions and today’s, it’s evident that being a gymnast is when you consider yourself to be strongest and most capable. So your role as an acrobat in the vision shows a positive mental shift from seeing yourself as a victim to a survivor and, given time, on to being a thriver.’

  I sit up a little straighter on the couch with a sense of empowerment that I’ve not felt in a long while.

  Dr Larsson glances down at his notes. ‘The boy, Damien, no longer seems to feature in your thoughts, unless he’s represented by the dour-faced woman you described seeing in the front row. But, even if that’s the case, he’s merely an observer and no longer an active participant. Most significantly, though, you’ve started turning your greatest fear, Tanas, into something comical – a clown.’

  ‘He was still terrifying,’ I point out.

  ‘Yes,’ concedes my therapist. ‘However, the audience were laughing at him and you were actively fighting back. That’s another positive sign of progress. Finally, the boy you say rescued you –’

  ‘Phoenix,’ I interrupt, and a smile immediately blossoms on my lips. In my mind I picture his long waves of chestnut-brown hair, his high, defined cheekbones and his worldly-wise, knowing grin. Above all, I remember his unusual dazzling eyes, as blue as sapphires against his olive-tan skin. Phoenix Rivers, the Latino boy from Arizona who declared himself to be my Soul Protector. The boy who almost laid down his life to save mine.

  Dr Larsson returns my wistful smile. ‘Yes, Phoenix. Well, he appears to be represented by the trapeze artist, Dmitry. He was there to catch you, but he didn’t –’

  ‘Phoenix did save me, though,’ I say, somewhat fiercely. Even now I feel protective of him, despite it supposedly being his role to protect me. ‘In this life and in my other Glimmers – I mean visions, or whatever they are.’

  ‘That may be the case. But in this particular circus vision he didn’t,’ reminds my therapist. ‘And I interpret that as a good sign. Perhaps this is your mind finally letting go of the past.’

  I lean back on the couch, allowing its soft leather to cradle me, and stare up at the ceiling as I absorb my counsellor’s assessment. Over the past months, I’ve resisted much of what he’s said, preferring instead to believe in my own perceived truth and the experiences I shared with Phoenix. But, with the benefits of time and therapy, I’m beginning to gain perspective on what happened and how it may have affected me and even altered my grip on reality. As the pain and trauma dissipate, so too does my attachment to the idea of past lives. Maybe it is all in my mind, I think.

  ‘But it seems so real,’ I say.

  ‘Doesn’t a dream seem real when you’re sleeping?’ suggests Dr Larsson. ‘And I assure you, these visions you’ve experienced are no more real than a dream.’

  ‘Maybe … But dreams fade,’ I say, ‘whereas these Glimmers remain in my mind like memories.’

  Dr Larsson taps his pen thoughtfully on his notebook. ‘Aside from the one just now, have you had any other visions in the past six months?’

  ‘None,’ I admit, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice. Despite their unnerving intensity and their often fraught and frantic nature, the Glimmers also give me great comfort, like I’m reuniting with a missing part of me. ‘The last one I had was when I said goodbye to Phoenix at the airport.’

  ‘Which implies two things,’ says Dr Larsson. ‘One: that such visions are triggered by a state of heightened emotion or extreme stress. And two: that this boy Phoenix – who first convinced you these visions were past lives – is the one influencing and implanting them, in a similar manner to how I induced the Russian circus through hypnosis.’

  I bite my tongue to stop myself immediately leaping to Phoenix’s defence. The doctor’s argument is persuasive. I can’t deny that Phoenix’s sapphire-blue eyes do have a mesmerizing quality. Indeed, some of the most intense and early Glimmers occurred when we were eye-to-eye. Nor can I ignore the fact that I haven’t had a Glimmer since he returned to the United States. I find myself wondering whether Phoenix hypnotized me and feel almost conned at the thought.

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ I concede with a sigh, and a weight seems to lift from me. ‘What you’re saying about my subconscious processing the trauma makes sense – at least a lot more than believing I’ve lived a load of previous lives!’

  Dr Larsson closes his notebook and sets it aside. ‘Well, Genna, I think you’re making excellent progress. In fact, I’ll be recommending to your parents that we reduce your sessions to once a month going forward.’

  Feeling I’ve made a breakthrough, I swing my legs off the couch. ‘Thank you, doctor, for all your help.’

  He points the tip of his silver pen at me. ‘No, it’s you who helped yourself.’

  With a lighter step than when I entered his office, I head for the door. However, as I reach the threshold, I stop and turn back to him, seeking a final confirmation. ‘So … I really just imagined all my past lives?’

  Dr Larsson takes off his glasses and studies me hard. ‘In my professional opinion, yes, you did,’ he says. ‘But that’s no bad thing, Genna. It enabled you to survive.’

  3

  ‘We’re so proud of you,’ my mum enthuses as my dad pulls away from the clinic in our silver Volvo. Turning in her seat, Mum reaches over to gently touch my knee. ‘For a while I didn’t think we’d get our Genna back,’ she admits, tears welling in her soft blue eyes. Then, like a ray of sunlight on snow, a tender smile warms her face.

  I clasp her outstretched hand and give it a squeeze, reassuring her that, yes, her daughter is back. But I can’t quite manage to say it out loud. While I may have recovered from the worst of the trauma, I’m not the same as I was and I never will be. Like a scar, the wounds to my psyche have healed but will never completely disappear. And, even though I’ve come to accept that the Glimmers were created by my subconscious, I can never forget them either.

  Now, however, the idea that I am a reincarnating soul from the dawn of humankind – a First Ascendant tasked with carrying the Light of Humanity, as Phoenix claimed – does strike me as somewhat far-fetched. So does the thought that there is a worldwide network of Incarnates – Soul Hunters and Watchers – who are searching for me in order that their leader, Tanas, can tear out my soul and extinguish this so-called Light. I smile at the absurdity of it all. Thinking back to the explanation Phoenix gave me in that air-raid shelter, I really should have trusted my own instincts rather than what a stranger told me.

  Dad glances in the rear-view mirror and catches my eye. ‘We’re so glad you stuck with the programme, Gen,’ he says. ‘I know it’s not been easy for you. It’s not been easy for us either, for that matter. But together, as a family, we’ve pulled through.’

  ‘Thank you, Dad,’ I reply, thinking of all the sacrifices they’ve made: the multiple trips across London for my counselling sessions; the many sleepless nights they endured comforting me from my dark nightmares; the hours of desperate research to find a way to heal my trauma; their helplessness as they watched me fall apart time and time again, both of them at a loss what to do. ‘I’m just sorry –’

  ‘No, there’s no sorry,’ my dad interrupts. ‘Life is meant to test us. But remember this, Genna: when you walk over a mountain, your legs get stronger. And you’ve walked away from this ordeal stronger and more resilient than ever. So, whatever challenges you face in the future, you’ll be more prepared, more capable of tackling them.’ He beams a proud smile at me in the mirror. ‘In my eyes – although you’ll always be my little girl – you’re growing into a truly fine young woman.’

  I feel a glow in my heart at his words. Seeing both my parents happy and genuinely smiling for once is a great relief. For so long they’ve been strained and stressed, unable to hide their fear that the trauma I suffered may have run too deep to be treated and that I might regress and plunge back at any moment into depression. But the months of therapy have paid off, and the whole family seem to have healed with me. Perhaps we’re even closer now than we were before.

  Mum looks at me, a twinkle playing in her eyes. ‘So, to celebrate your recovery, we have a surprise for you,’ she announces.

  ‘What?’ I lean forward eagerly in my seat.

  She performs a dramatic drum roll on the dashboard, before announcing, ‘Weeeeeee’re … off to Barbados!’

  For a moment I just stare at her as the news sinks in, then I yelp: ‘Barbados!’

  Dad nods. ‘Yes, a two-week holiday, and we’ll see all my family while we’re out there,’ he says, his grin now as broad as mine. ‘Your great-grandpapa can’t wait to see you. Nor can your cousins.’

  ‘I’ll see Papaya again!’ I cry, delighted. The last time we visited Barbados I was a toddler and couldn’t pronounce ‘Great-grandpapa’, so I ended up calling him Papaya instead and the name stuck. Dad has often talked about returning to his roots, but we never seem to have had the money. I frown at him. ‘But I thought we couldn’t afford fancy holidays … especially after the expense of my therapy sessions.’ A twinge of guilt twists my stomach. I’d caught a glimpse of the private doctor’s bill when my dad was paying and the final figure was by no means small.

  Mum waves away my concern. ‘Life’s too short to be worrying all the time about how much it costs to live it,’ she replies. ‘What’s happened has reminded us of that. So we’ve dipped into our rainy-day savings –’ she glances through the windscreen at the grey drizzle falling outside – ‘and it sure looks like a rainy day to me!’

  ‘When do we go, then?’ I ask eagerly.

  ‘The weekend after next,’ replies Dad. ‘I’ve already reserved the plane tickets and will confirm our booking as soon as we’re home.’

  ‘It’s going to be the break we all deserve,’ says Mum, affectionately patting my dad’s thigh and planting a kiss on his cheek. ‘Darling, I’ll need a new swimsuit …’

  ‘Of course. I’ll need new swim shorts too!’ He laughs, slowing down to a stop at a set of traffic lights.

  As my parents chat away excitedly, I lean back in my seat and gaze out of the window at the rain and passing traffic. My reflection gazes back at me, my thoughtful expression framed by ringlets of light brown hair. I still look like the young, smooth-skinned teenager I am, but I know my hazel eyes have noticeably aged. They appear older, wiser and more world-weary. I peer closer, searching … but there’s no blue-white sparkle to them like I glimpsed in the roadside cafe mirror when I was on the run with Phoenix. My amber-brown complexion, an even mix between my mother’s and father’s skin tones, masks the weariness I feel deep inside. After a long therapy session I’m always a little drained, and today’s was more demanding than usual. But the thought of heading to Barbados on holiday lifts my spirits. Warm sunshine, golden sands and crystal-clear seas are just the therapy I need right now. A smile breaks across my face at the thought of being among my extended family again, and my hand instinctively reaches for the amulet round my neck.

  Tugging on the slim gold chain, I pull out the Guardian Stone that Phoenix gave me. This protective amulet saved my life during Tanas’s ritual, or at least that’s what I thought it had done at the time. But its power – if it had any to begin with – is now spent, a crack fracturing its circular blue marbled gemstone. It’s my one and only keepsake of Phoenix and I have kept it close ever since he was deported back to the United States. Whatever the truth of my strange ordeal, whether I imagined past lives or not, I didn’t imagine the connection between me and Phoenix. That was real … wasn’t it?

  But if it was, then why hasn’t he contacted me? I know he doesn’t trust technology or have a mobile phone, but that’s no excuse not to even write a letter. Phoenix said he was returning home to Flagstaff, Arizona, or else going to hang out on a beach in LA. Neither place is exactly in the middle of nowhere. Surely, if I did mean something to him, he would have sent a message to at least say he’d arrived safely.

  A heavy, heartbroken sigh escapes my lips as a painful realization hits me. If my past lives were all just a fantasy, then maybe our connection was too. Early on, my counsellor diagnosed that my intense attachment to Phoenix was a result of Stockholm syndrome, and that my positive feelings towards him were another means of surviving and coping with my situation. Perhaps he’s right about that as well …

  I yank the chain from round my neck. For a moment I consider tossing the amulet out of the window, but, not wanting to alarm my parents with any erratic behaviour, I stuff it into my back pocket instead.

  It’s time for me to move on.

  Thinking of our imminent holiday to Barbados, I force a smile back on to my face and imagine being reunited with Papaya and the long hugs and chats we’ll share –

  A loud toot from the car horn snaps me out of my reverie. ‘Get out of the way!’ mutters my dad irritably.

  There’s a man in a hooded raincoat standing in the middle of the pedestrian crossing, solitary and still. Dad hits the horn again, but the man refuses to move, despite the rain spitting down on him. Cursing with annoyance, my dad spins the steering wheel and drives round the stubborn pedestrian.

  As we pass him, my smile drops. His cloaked appearance and dark demeanour remind me of Damien and his gang. From within the shadowy cowl of his raincoat, the man’s gaze seems to follow me. Rain drips down his beaked nose and glistens on his unshaven chin. As my dad drives off, I turn round to look out of the back window. The man is still standing there in the middle of the road, his hidden eyes never leaving me.