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dried bracken to steady myself, feeling it rip the palms of my hands. Damon pushes himself off the trunk and waits on the path. At this rate I’m going to barrel straight into him. I slip in my shoes, mud skate down, but I keep my balance somehow. As I get closer, he’s off.
    â€˜You won’t catch me like that!’ he shouts. ‘Faster!’
    At the bottom he turns left on to the bike trail and I’m quicker now after him, digging my toes into the soft ground. It’s more sheltered here, my shoes don’t skid so much. Damon runs backwards, watching me. If I catch him, I’ll make him listen to me. I’ll wipe that nasty, judging expression off his face. I launch myself at him and – almost – I get him. He raises his eyebrows as he stumbles back.
    â€˜You’re quicker than you look,’ he says, slightly breathless, maybe even a little impressed.
    His teeth are shining. When he darts sideways I’m with him, anticipating his moves. I reach out and my fingers brush his shoulder as he whirls away. There’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. Is he waiting to see when I’ll give up? He could easily take off and leave me here, but for some reason he stays, just out of reach, scrambling out of the way when I get too close. Is this how he gives all his detentions?
    â€˜Tag!’ I shout as I grab him.
    He shakes his head, shakes his arm from my grip. ‘You have to keep hold ten seconds. You must remember the rules from Junior School! Give up?’
    â€˜No!’ Though I’m sweating and panting hard.
    He shrugs. ‘Catch me then.’
    He runs faster down the bike trail. But I know where this trail curves, where there’s a shortcut I can use to head him off. It’s a shortcut I remember from ages ago, from when Dad had found an injured rabbit there. A few metresmore and I dart down it: I’ll be back on the bike trail before Damon even realises.
    I leap brambles and branches. This shortcut is so wildly overgrown I can only focus on being fast, not quiet, on getting back to the bike trail before Damon gets there. I don’t look to the sides, don’t want to remember the click of that rabbit’s neck as Dad twisted it dead, or the soft, limp warmth of lifeless rabbit in my palms straight after.
    â€˜It’s kinder this way,’ Dad had said. ‘Trust me. Put it out of its misery.’
    But I’d felt really sick at the way Dad had acted like that death was so necessary, that it was hopeless to even think about trying to save it.
    I keep my eyes straight ahead. I’ll grab Damon for longer than ten seconds and I’ll make him listen: see things from my side. Suddenly I’m bursting on to that trail and I’m spinning around left and I’m waiting. Damon’s coming straight for me, but he’s looking back over his shoulder. My chest heaves. When he sees me he skids in the earth, waving his arms about to slow himself, his mouth opening in surprise. He doesn’t have time to stop, not really.
    And I don’t think.
    I do something really stupid.
    I launch myself at him.
    I feel the hardness of his chest against me, hear the air leave his throat, and then he’s falling back against the ground and I’m on top, pushing. I get a flash of memory of what happened with Kirsty today, a twist of fear at whatI am. Then I’m pinning his arms, putting my knees on his shoulders. I’m doing what Dad taught me to do once: disable the enemy as quickly as possible.
    â€˜Dad wasn’t the only one in the woods that night!’ I scream it into his face. ‘And Dad couldn’t have chased anyone . . . not on these paths, not at night. He’s scared! When he’s in the woods, he doesn’t leave that bunker – there’s no way he could have stalked Ashlee!’
    I’m trying to make Damon see Dad as I do – make him see how Dad can’t be a killer, certainly not a