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home, but at least I could leave a message.
    But I was wrong. Rather than being out, she was just back from her book club and sounded out of breath, unable to keep the shock from her voice. ‘Leah, are you okay?’
    My heart sank. She thought I was only calling because something was wrong. In a repeat of my earlier performance with Dr Redfield, I assured her I was fine, grateful she was not one for pushing. She had no energy left for any trouble, and I could sense her relief, even before she let out a deep breath.
    I listened while she rattled off a list of all the activities she had planned for the weekend, wondering how she had time to sleep. We were mother and daughter, yet our lives were polar opposites. We were polar opposites. Mum was rarely alone, while I craved solitude. I understood her need to be surrounded by people; it was a way for her to block out Dad’s death, and everything else, but I had honed better techniques, and learnt to block it out without needing anyone else to distract me.
    Until now.
    The microwave beeped and, even though I was sure Mum could hear it, she seemed upset that I had to get off the phone. ‘Will you come soon?’ she asked.
    I told her I would and that I loved her, ignoring the growing dread I felt at the prospect of going back to Watford.

    Before bed, I checked Two Become One again, but there was still no word from Julian. I hovered for a while in a chat room, reading a conversation about a reality TV show I’d never heard of, but he didn’t appear. He’d probably found someone else to talk to, maybe even met up with someone, so wouldn’t be interested in talking to me any more. But wasn’t this to be expected? I had fooled myself into thinking there was something between us, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
    I loathed myself for daring to think I could be anywhere near normal. That I could be like Maria, and take my chances with someone. I should have known that wasn’t possible.
    As I shut down the website I noticed an email in my inbox. I never got anything interesting sent to me, but I always checked my emails, quickly moving them to the trash bin when they invariably turned out to be spam.
    That’s what I thought I was looking at when I clicked open the mail from a sender called [email protected] . But again I was wrong. The page was blank apart from a hyperlink. I would normally have dismissed it but the name stood out, as if it was written in bold, flashing capital letters. I hadn’t seen it, or even heard it spoken, for years. I stared at it for a moment, then holding my breath, clicked the link.
    When it took me to an archived newspaper report, I quickly shut it down, feeling as if my chest would collapse. There was no way I could read that article. No way I could live that time again.
    But the woman’s picture accompanying the story was now firmly embedded in my mind.

FIVE
    The bell is still sounding as I race out of the maths block. I’m not alone; already kids are erupting from all the buildings, as desperate as I am to be free, even though it is January and bitterly cold outside. I never rush out when English is my last subject because I always want to talk to Mrs Owen about the latest book the class is reading. It is Lord of the Flies this time and I love it. I easily identify with Piggy because I’m always on the edge of things too, never quite fitting in. But at least I have Imogen. This place would be a worse kind of hell without her.
    I suppose, in a way, we have Corey now as well. Somehow – I can’t remember how it happened – in Year Eight he attached himself to us, and now we consider him a friend. Well, I do anyway. I can’t vouch for Imogen because lately I’ve had the feeling she wants Corey to be more than that. Perhaps I will ask her about it later. We’re having a sleepover at her house so there will be plenty of time to talk about anything we like.
    And now, as if I’ve conjured him up just by thinking of him, Corey