Just like a Watcher.

  Goosebumps creep across my skin as a deathly cold shiver runs through me. I try to shake off the unnerving feeling.

  It’s just my imagination … isn’t it?

  4

  ‘Barbados! You lucky thing!’ says Mei upon hearing my news. ‘Any room in your luggage for your best friend?’

  I close my school locker and smile. ‘Of course! Not sure you’d pass through security though.’

  ‘What are you saying, exactly?’ exclaims Mei in mock offence. ‘It’s not as if I’d take you over the excess baggage limit, is it?’

  I look Mei up and down. She’s as a slender as a vine, with long, black, arrow-straight hair and piercing tiger-brown eyes. ‘No, you’re more like a dangerous weapon,’ I say.

  ‘You’re right there,’ she says, springing into a kung fu stance. ‘My brother’s been teaching me some wicked Wing Chun moves. Did you know that Wing Chun was created by a woman? According to legend, an abbess of the Shaolin Temple called Ng Mui taught it to her student Yim Wing-Chun as a way to defend herself against unwanted advances.’

  ‘No,’ I reply, ‘I didn’t know that …’ Mei’s words, however, do stir a vague memory of a temple in the mountains and of monks in saffron orange robes – but I push it aside. Just another figment of my overactive imagination. I give my friend a searching look. ‘Since when did you become so interested in history, anyway?’

  Although Mei’s parents are famous archaeologists, she doesn’t share their passion for antiquities. For me, on the other hand, it’s a subject that holds great fascination; in fact, Dr Larsson considers my deep interest in history to be a possible explanation for the detailed and varied nature of my Glimmers.

  ‘Oh, I’m not really that interested in it,’ Mei admits. ‘But after what happened –’ she hesitates, then continues awkwardly – ‘to you, well, my parents insisted I join the kung fu club Lee goes to. Our sifu is keen on us learning the history and philosophy of Wing Chun, as well as its techniques. But, to be honest, I just want to know how to fend off boys.’

  As she chops and punches at the air, I glance around the locker area. A stream of students flows past. Aside from a few odd looks at Mei, no one’s really paying us the slightest bit of attention. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I can see we’re having trouble fighting them all off.’

  Mei shrugs. ‘Not our fault if none of them have taste, is it?’ She picks up her school bag and slings it over her shoulder. ‘Shall we head to lunch?’

  I nod and follow her along the corridor. As we turn the corner, we bump into a group of girls coming the other way. Anna’s freckled face is among them. Having not really seen or spoken to her since my return, I’ve got the sense she’s been avoiding me. I offer her a tentative smile, but she just ignores me.

  ‘Watch out, everyone – it’s the Teenage Terrorist!’ taunts a short-haired girl with a stud in her nose. She dramatically holds everyone back.

  ‘You’re so pathetic, Lozza,’ retorts Mei. ‘Why can’t you give it a break? Or is your brain stuck in reverse?’

  Lozza makes a face. ‘Ewwww, defending the Clapham Killer, are you? Careful she doesn’t run you over!’

  The other girls laugh, including Anna, and my cheeks flush hot. I know I shouldn’t get upset, but Lozza’s name-calling is a sharp reminder of everything I’m trying to forget. Unbidden, the memories flood back … Damien’s attempted abduction of me … Damien shooting an innocent bystander … his reckless pursuit of Phoenix and me through Clapham market in the white van … the driver knocking into people in her attempt to run us down …

  Suddenly I’m short of breath. My heart is pounding hard and fast. My hands begin to tremble as the girls’ mocking laughter rings in my ears. I haven’t had a panic attack for weeks, but I recognize the signs. With the emotional floodgates in my mind opening up, the fear and anxiety I’d experienced at being on the run comes rushing back – the police assuming the van was part of a terrorist attack and linking me to the incident; the newspapers, initially sympathetic to my plight, turning against me when it emerged I was fleeing with Phoenix of my own free will, and concocting headlines like ‘Teenage Terrorists’ and ‘Clapham Killers’, which they plastered all over their front pages along with my photo and those of the other suspects.

  ‘Genna didn’t kill anyone,’ says Mei fiercely as I battle to calm my chaotic thoughts.

  ‘Yeah, but her boyfriend did,’ Anna points out. You can tell she looks up to Lozza like a needy puppy seeking approval. ‘That’s why he was deported.’

  ‘Phoenix had no choice. He was saving my life!’ I burst out, unable to hold my tongue any longer.

  ‘So, he was your boyfriend, then,’ Lozza replies with a smug grin, then in a sing-song voice teases me with, ‘Genna and Phoenix sitting in a tree, K - I - L - L - I - N - G!’

  I clam up, my lower lip quivering. I don’t want to give that bully the satisfaction of knowing that her taunts are riling me. But it’s difficult. While the therapy may be helping me deal with the trauma, six months on from those events Lozza and her cronies still won’t stop goading me. Their constant needling is opening up the very wounds Dr Larsson is trying to heal.

  ‘Lozza, aren’t you depriving a village somewhere of an idiot?’ snaps Mei as she sees me struggling to hold myself together. ‘Ignore her, Gen – she ain’t worth it.’ And, taking my arm, she quickly leads me away. Jeers of ‘Teenage Terrorist’ and callous laughter echo after me down the corridor.

  Once out of view, I can no longer keep it in and the tears spill down my cheeks.

  ‘Genna, don’t let them get to you,’ says Mei, putting an arm round my heaving shoulders. ‘They’ve no idea what you went through.’

  ‘B-but Anna does!’ I sob, surrendering to her embrace. ‘I just don’t understand why she’s acting like that … She used to be my friend …’ I close my eyes and force myself to breathe deep and slow, counting to ten as Dr Larsson taught me to do whenever I feel overwhelmed.

  Mei’s grip on me tightens. ‘In a situation like this, Genna, you never lose friends. You simply learn who the real ones are.’

  Gradually the panic attack begins to subside, and I glance up at her. ‘You’re more than a friend to me, Mei. You’re like the sister I never had.’ On saying these words, I feel a profound love and deep sense of gratitude towards her, one that seems to fill an inexplicable hole in my heart. Just the idea of Mei being my sister gives me strength. ‘Thanks for sticking by me. I know I haven’t been myself these past months, but I –’

  My breath suddenly catches in my throat … Through the prism of my tears, I’ve glimpsed a tall boy standing at the furthest end of the corridor. His hands are clasped in front, his head bowed, his face concealed by a dark grey hoodie.

  ‘But you what?’ asks Mei, then she sees my shocked expression.

  ‘D-Damien!’ I manage to stutter.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she says, her back to the frightful figure. ‘That creep’s locked up in a young offender institution.’

  ‘But I swear that’s him.’ Furiously wiping tears from my eyes, I look again. Mei follows my gaze. The boy is still standing there, dark, dangerous and intimidating. I feel the panic rise in me again.

  ‘Oi!’ shouts a teacher. ‘Put that phone away and take that hoodie off! You’re in school!’

  The boy glances up from his mobile. Begrudgingly, he pockets his phone and flips back his hood to reveal a tangle of ginger-blond hair. As he’s briskly ushered out on to the sports field, I let out an unsteady, relieved sigh. No, it definitely wasn’t Damien. My tormentor’s hair is as black as a raven and his complexion is far paler than that boy’s sandy skin.

  ‘See?’ says Mei. ‘It’s just a sixth former.’

  I nod, swallowing back the lump in my throat. ‘Sorry. For a moment I was thought it was him.’

  Mei shakes her head in pity. ‘That stupid Lozza really upset you, didn’t she? Try not to let her drag you down like that,’ she advises kindly. ‘Remember, you’re safe now. It’s all in the past.’

  5

  With the hooded image of Damien still haunting me, I head into the lunch hall with Mei. We each grab some pizza, a bowl of salad and a juice before joining our friend Prisha at a table in the far corner. A waft of garlic and cardamom rises from her lunchbox.

  ‘Smells good,’ I say, peering at the steaming dish in front of her. ‘What’s on the menu today?’

  ‘Chole,’ Prisha replies, scooping up a spoonful of home-made chickpea curry.

  Having tasted her mother’s cooking, I can’t help but compare Prisha’s mouth-watering lunch to my limp piece of pizza, its appeal fading fast.

  But Mei isn’t put off hers; she tucks hungrily into it. ‘Have you heard? Genna’s going to Barbados,’ she mumbles through a mouthful of pepperoni.

  Prisha glances at me in surprise, then grins. ‘No, when?’

  ‘Next weekend, for two weeks,’ I reply, taking a sip of my juice. ‘My parents have permission to take me out of school.’

  The smile on Prisha’s face falters. ‘Oh … does that mean you’ll miss my birthday sleepover on the Friday?’

  For a second my mind goes blank. I totally forgot about it in the excitement of a Caribbean beach holiday. ‘No, course not … That’s still fine,’ I reply optimistically. ‘We don’t fly out until Saturday evening.’

  ‘Ah, good!’ says Prisha, happily resuming her meal. Then she notices my reddened, puffy eyes. ‘You all right, Gen?’

  Mei answers for me. ‘We just bumped into Lozza. She was her usual delightful self.’

  Prisha snorts her distaste of the girl and offers me a sympathetic look. ‘Oh, Gen, why won’t she leave you alone? That girl’s a nightmare! No wonder you’re upset.’

  ‘Not only that,’ says Mei, lowering her voice and catching Prisha’s eye over her pizza slice, ‘Genna thought she spotted Damien in school.’

  Prisha abruptly puts down her spoon. ‘Damien? I thought he was locked up.’

  ‘He is,’ I say. ‘It was just my imagination. I was having a panic attack and not thinking straight. Yesterday I even thought I saw a Watcher!’ I add, letting out a self-conscious laugh.

  Mei and Prisha exchange worried glances.

  ‘But I know that’s impossible,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Even if the whole past life and First Ascendant story was true, Phoenix said that when Tanas dies so does his hold over his followers. Any Soul Hunters or Watchers become inactive – at least until Tanas reincarnates again, and that won’t happen in this lifetime …’ I trail off under my friends’ troubled gaze.

  Reaching across the table, Prisha takes my hand, her gentle touch warm and reassuring. ‘Gen, I think this holiday is exactly what you need,’ she says kindly. ‘A break from it all. A fresh start. A line in the sand. When you come back, you’ll be as good as new.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I reply with an uncertain smile. ‘Dr Larsson says I’m recovering well, that I’ve progressed from victim to survivor. But I could do without these flashbacks of Damien and my kidnapping. In my last session, Dr Larsson managed to prove that my Glimmers are products of my subconscious.’

  Prisha’s brow furrows either side of her bindi. ‘He did? How?’

  ‘He induced a new one through hypnosis,’ I explain.

  ‘What was this Glimmer about?’ she asks, leaning forward with keen interest. Prisha has always taken my story of past lives more seriously than anyone else. So I recount my vision of the Russian circus, my act as a daredevil acrobat and trapeze artist, and how I fell to my death escaping Tanas.

  ‘That’s fascinating,’ says Prisha, breathless. ‘You describe everything in such detail. No wonder you believe the Glimmers are real.’

  I shake my head. ‘Not any more. I’ve accepted Dr Larsson’s explanation. Reincarnation isn’t real.’

  Prisha stiffens slightly. ‘Hindus believe in reincarnation,’ she counters, her tone a touch offended. ‘As do Buddhists and Sikhs.’

  ‘But that’s about belief, not proof,’ says Mei, finishing off her pizza and setting aside her plate.

  ‘No, it’s been proven,’ Prisha replies earnestly. ‘There was a girl from Delhi in the nineteen thirties who claimed to have had a past life. A commission set up by Mahatma Gandhi himself concluded her story was true. They –’

  ‘Prisha, you’re not helping,’ interrupts Mei, shooting her a warning glance.

  Stabbing at my salad with a fork, I push a tomato round the plate with no real desire to eat it. I’d read about that particular girl online when I was searching for answers to explain my strange visions with Phoenix. Shanti Devi was her name. The case was highly convincing and, when I read about it, it gave me great comfort. But now Shanti’s story only makes me question things all over again.

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbles Prisha with a contrite look, ‘but you can’t dismiss the possibility of reincarnation just like that.’

  ‘Nor can you trust one story from, like, a hundred years ago,’ replies Mei pointedly.

  ‘You’re both right,’ I say, picking listlessly at my salad. ‘But now I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘Look, there may be a way we can settle this, once and for all,’ says Mei with determination.

  ‘How?’ I ask.

  ‘With a bit of detective work,’ she replies, pulling out her laptop and booting it up. As we gather round her screen, Mei opens up her browser and types in a web address. ‘So, this supposed past life in the Russian circus,’ she says, turning to me. ‘When was it?’

  ‘In the early nineteen hundreds.’ I frown thoughtfully as I try to recall the exact date.

  ‘That’s good enough,’ says Mei, entering the period 1910–20 into the search box. ‘And you said the circus was in St Petersburg. What was the name of your act again?’

  With a slightly embarrassed grin, I reply, ‘Yelena, the Flying Firebird.’

  Mei raises an amused eyebrow. ‘Catchy! That shouldn’t be too hard to check out.’

  ‘So what exactly are you looking for?’ Prisha asks as Mei types in the location and key words.

  ‘Well, if Genna’s Glimmers are real – which I very much doubt – then her death as a famous acrobat should have been reported in the newspapers at the time,’ explains Mei, hitting the enter button and beginning the search. ‘My parents often use this archive website when hunting for clues to lost treasures. Every available paper from around the world has been scanned in, going back as far as the eighteenth century. If it made it to the newspapers, then we’ll find it on this site.’

  Within a few seconds a list of relevant hits fills the screen. My pulse races a little faster as we scan the search results. Most are references to performances of the ballet The Firebird by the Russian composer Igor Stravinsky. There are also a number of articles about a magical burning bird from Slavic folklore. My heart even skips a beat when I see the name Phoenix in a link, before realizing it’s just another reference to the mythical firebird. But there don’t appear to be any hits for a Russian circus performer called Yelena.

  Leaning back in her chair, Mei laces her fingers behind her head and declares in a satisfied voice, ‘There. Point proven. Genna’s Glimmer isn’t real.’

  Despite an underlying pang of disappointment, I can’t help but feel an immense sense of relief. Dr Larsson’s assessment really is beyond doubt now.

  But Prisha folds her arms and shakes her head. ‘This doesn’t prove it didn’t happen,’ she argues. ‘Just that it wasn’t reported.’

  Mei scrolls again through the long list of links. ‘This search is pretty comprehensive, though. And I’d have thought that such a dramatic death would’ve been mentioned in the obituary section of a newspaper somewhere at least –’

  ‘Hang on,’ I interrupt, my heart thudding as my eye catches a subheading. ‘Go back a page – stop! What’s that?’ I point to a reference within the summary of another link, titled ‘Famous Flamebird Fails to Fly’.

  Mei clicks on the link and a scanned article from an edition of The Daily Telegraph dated 23 October 1904 is highlighted on the screen:

  Famous Flamebird Fails to Fly

  In a tragic accident last month, renowned Russian acrobat Yuliana Petrovski, known to all as Yuliana the Flamebird, died during a circus performance in Yamburg, Russia. During her famous and death-defying trapeze act, witnesses say the line snapped and she missed her partner’s catch. Her funeral took place in St Petersburg five days later.

  A chill runs down my spine. I exchange a shocked glance with Prisha, whose eyes are as equally wide as mine.

  ‘Well … it’s not one hundred per cent conclusive,’ argues Mei, shifting awkwardly in her seat. ‘The name’s wrong, to start with.’

  Prisha gives Mei a look. ‘You have to admit they’re quite similar, though.’

  ‘OK, but there still are too many differences,’ Mei insists. ‘I mean, even the location is different.’

  ‘Granted,’ admits Prisha. ‘But the fact still stands: a famous acrobat died in Russia falling from a trapeze in the early nineteen hundreds. Just like in Genna’s Glimmer. That’s quite compelling evidence of a past life.’

  ‘Or it could just be pure coincidence,’ Mei shoots back. ‘I know how much you’d like this to be true, Prisha, but remember that it was Genna’s counsellor who induced this Glimmer.’

  Prisha shrugs. ‘So? He could have stirred up a past-life memory.’

  ‘Or, more likely, it’s a figment of Genna’s imagination,’ declares Mei emphatically. ‘We both know Genna’s a history buff, so she could’ve read about this story in one of her books, or heard it on the radio, or even seen it in a movie!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Prisha, relenting under Mei’s resolute glare. ‘Or perhaps accepting the Glimmers for what they really are is healthier than trying to deny or suppress them.’