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All the same, I followed him.
    Serves her right
, I told myself.
I’ve only been a few minutes. I’ll go back soon
.
    Then the boy started running, really running, reaching back to take my hand, and I stopped thinking at all, his hand in mine. His skin still felt too cold, and for a tiny second I shuddered as if I’d just touched a frog. One last sensible thought came and went:
He really could be a murderer
. Yet I was running, too, legs burning, lungs tearing.
    The boy let me slow down when we reached the trees. Dark branches brushed my face, touched the back of my neck. I could hear music now. Now it all made sense: he was heading to one of those illegal outdoor parties. Old people moaning in the local newspaper afterwards. The police. A jolt of excitement shot through me. But as we got closer, still hand in hand, I realized the music wasn’t right. It was live, for a start: scratchy wild violin-type music – folky, the kind of stuff Nick listens to – a sort of flute or pipe, all mixed with something watery and silverish that might have been a harp. A
harp
? And the drums. A crashing, exciting roar of sound.
    It can’t have been much later than nine o’clock, but everyone was dancing, lithe figures moving among the trees. Fires blazed, fire was everywhere, hanging in lanterns from branches, flickering piles of flame dotted about, casting long shadows.
    He turned and spoke to me again but I couldn’t hear, just saw his lips moving, eyes like smudges of coal. So pale. And I danced with him. The music got inside me, the drumming. I had no time to worry about tripping over or looking stupid. He was holding me, leading the dance as the heavy cloak flew out around my legs. All the time I just kept thinking,
I can’t believe this is happening
. Everyone was gorgeous: laughing, smiling.
    I don’t know how long it was before I realized what was wrong with the rest of the dancers. There were so many of us, moving and swaying between the trees, whirling, stamping, heads thrown back, teeth shining in the firelight. The others were so tall and slender. It wasn’t right, like seeing a whole load of catwalk models all together. There’s a girl at school whose older sister is a model, Rebecca Dawlish. Rebecca stands out because she looks so different: pale and very thin, but here they were in the woods, these people,
all
looking like that. They had so much hair, and the smell: sugary-smokey, stale. I was noticing it more and more. As if none of them had washed in years. Years and years. Everything that had felt so exciting and wonderful now looked ragged and dirty.
    It wasn’t just that, either. No one spoke to us or even looked in our direction. It was like we weren’t really there, nothing but a pair of shadows dancing among the dancers.
    I had the strangest feeling of being cut off and deliberately ignored, just like at school with Tasha Bennett and her plastic friends. No matter how many times Alice tries to persuade me it’s because they’re jealous –
You’re
stunning,
Lissy
– being given the cold shoulder still makes me cringe. I’m used to it.
    Now it was like that here in the woods with a load of people I’d never even met.
Great
, I thought.
Clearly my natural charm at work once again. Why does this always happen to me?
    “What’s wrong?” The boy smiled at me, lightly holding both my hands, leaning back a little as if to see me properly. “Come, have a drink.” There was something strangely old-fashioned about the way he spoke. I couldn’t help looking at his hard, sharp teeth, bright in the flickering glow of a lantern hanging from a tree, a metal cup of fire.
    “I – I can’t—” I pulled my hands out of the boy’s grip, trying to ignore the coolness of his skin.
Not right
, something deep in my brain screamed at me.
Not right, not right. Run
.
    “Oh, stay,” the boy whispered, leaning closer. There was something ragged and desperate in his voice. “Please. It’s only just begun.” I