rolled her sleeve back down and put the blade back in the safety of its special bag before shouting back to her mother that she was on her way. They were about to embark on the annual seaside trip that she really had no desire to join. But it was happening yet again, a ritual that her step-father Dave had brought into her life when he had arrived on the scene ten years before. He’d spent a week of every year since he’d been born in one of the static caravans close to Selsey and seemed determined to help Emily share this experience. All she could hope was that Bran would be there again, Emily’s beacon of hope. Her escape. She’d met Bran when she was twelve, the two of them the same age. Bran stayed there, from one of a small number of families that lived permanently on the site, and 2, Bran knew all the good things to do. And the bad ones. Without her, Emily didn’t think she could get through another week. She grabbed her bag and checked her sleeve was definitely back in position. She dared not let her mother or Dave see the cuts, let alone the small pentagram tattooed further up her arm. Emily hastily scanned the room one more time then headed down. They were out in the car straight away, an anonymous saloon. Dave drove of course, a creature of manly habit despite his youth compared with her mother. Not that you’d know as she betrayed her punkish past with dyed blonde hair pushed up high that dared not touch a fish net top that she wore over a black bra. Bright red lipstick
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