James moved his hand from my seat and leaned back. He stared the conductor out for an uncomfortable minute.

“James, what's taking so long?” Justin's arm was around Tamsin's shoulder and he was stretched out on the back seat, apparently relaxed, but his eyes were steady on us. “We've got stuff to discuss. You're holding us up, man.”

Finally James sucked air between his teeth, a long hiss of displeasure, then he stood. With a final smirk at the conductor he trailed his fingers along the back of my seat. “See you at school, China.” Then he bent to put his mouth against my ear. “You'd have liked it,” he whispered.

The conductor jerked his head and James held his hands up and loped up the bus. Tamsin giggled excitedly as he sat next to her.

Pete followed, with relief in the set of his spine.

The conductor watched until they were settled, then he sat down himself.

“Thanks,” I muttered and he nodded.

Gratefully I huddled into my hoodie, counting down the minutes until I could change buses.

When the Routemaster reached my stop, the conductor waved me off. My shoulder blades itched as the vehicle drew away and I turned. James was standing at the back, watching me. As the bus drew away the streetlights set his eyes on fire. The otherworldly glow pursued me until Justin appeared behind him and tugged him back down.

I shivered and pulled my hoodie close. I couldn't waste any more time on James. I was still an hour from home and there was a city full of the dead to avoid.

As I dragged myself round the corner of our road, my limbs felt like china, fragile with fatigue. The only thing that kept me moving was the knowledge that I would soon be in bed.

But halfway down the street I realised the lights in our flat were on. No way. I checked my watch. If Dad was waiting up, it was because he wanted to talk to me.

I sighed so deeply my chest hurt and moved into the light cast by the living room window. Movement inside told me that Dad had seen my approach. I glanced at his chair-lift, considered it briefly then climbed the stairs slowly as an old woman.

“Where’ve you been?”

“You know where.” I kept my back to him as I peeled off my hoodie and hung it by the door. There was a small rip in the arm. I didn’t even remember doing it. His silence pricked at me. I shook my hair out till it brushed my shoulders, then turned round. I held up my hands to show him the unblemished palms.

“No black mark. So you’re well at the moment. No hallucinations?”

“They're not–” I stopped and shook my head. “I’m fine.”

He held up a syringe. “I need another sample.”

“Why now?” I wrapped suddenly aching arms around myself.

“Cameron suggested your blood may change when you're ill. I need to take a sample now and when the blackness next appears so I can compare them.”

“You’ve got loads of samples.”

“I don’t know which are from when the illness has hold of you.” He frowned and rolled forward in his wheelchair. “Don’t be difficult, Taylor.”

I took a step backwards. “Can’t we do this in the morning?”

“You don’t know when the stain will next appear.”

“The ghosts can’t come into the house, Mum made sure of that. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.” He stopped his advance and I stared down at his greying hair and bloodshot eyes. He looked as tired as I felt. “You know how I feel about you going out after so-called killers. The only reason I’ve let you up till now, is that you don’t seem to be doing anything dangerous and after you’ve done it you feel better for a while. But I’m beginning to think this thing you do is feeding your illness, not improving it.”

I stared at his serious frown. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t think you should go out like this any more.”

My cheeks went cold. “You remember what happened last time you kept me in? How dark the Mark got?”

“Yes, and I know your mother told you this Darkness would come for you, but this story she fed you – it’s only a story.”

“It isn’t.”

“Maybe you need to let the Darkness come. Cameron says it could be a psychological symptom of the cure that you don’t really want.”

“Dad. You met this guy in a chat room.”

He set his jaw. “I don’t want you doing this any more.”

I licked my lips. “How are you going to stop me?” My voice was so quiet he had to roll nearer to hear.

When he worked out what I’d said, his wheelchair wobbled. Then his face reddened and stubble stood out on his cheeks like shadows. “As long as you live under my roof, you’ll do as I say.”

I shook my head. “I do as you say. I give you sample after sample.” I pulled my sleeves up until he could see the livid bruises inside my elbows. “I don’t dare get changed with the others for games in case they think these are track marks.”

Dad closed his eyes briefly and his fist tightened around the syringe in his hand.

“I took those anti-psychotic medications you found on the Internet.” I shuddered and choked into silence as the memories slid up, blurred as if Vaselined, vague and full of holes. Memories of being so dazed that I could barely identify the ghosts that Marked me.

“I know that prescription made you worse–”

“No, Dad. I’m not taking anything else. I’m not giving up the only thing that makes it better. I’m not going to let you do this to me.” He opened his mouth but I bulldozed over him. “I know you’re trying to find a cure but you can’t stop me avenging the dead.”

“You enjoy it,” he spat. “Cameron’s right, you want this illness. It makes you feel close to your mother.”

I gasped and for a moment we gaped at each other.

“You believe that?” I whispered.

“I… I don’t know.” His hands dropped to his lap.

“You think I enjoy this?” Suddenly tiredness stole my voice. I couldn’t fight any more.

Pete's face floated in front of mine, his expression a match of the one from earlier, revealing his disgust at my touch. Swiftly I closed my eyes, banishing the cruel reminder of our lost friendship. We'd been close once, before Mum had died. Back then I was top of my class at school and I had a life. Now what was I? A soon-to-be drop out. A social leper who spent more time with the dead than the living. A freakish embarrassment to the people who had once cared about me.

I had one friend left, Hannah, and I had no idea how long it would be before she tired of my strangeness. One day I'd lose everything. I had no future and it hurt to think about my past. What was the point of talking about how much I hated my life?

I held out my arm. “Take your sample. I’m going to bed.”

Dad shook his head. “Not here. In the study.”

He turned his wheelchair awkwardly in the narrow hallway and rolled swiftly ahead of me, as if afraid I’d suddenly change my mind.

Dad pushed open the door and gestured me past him. Inside, the room looked more like a lab than ever. The only thing of Mum’s I could see was the book that I secretly called The Tale of Oh-Fa. She had first read it to me when I’d started seeing ghosts, then every night after that for two years. It was the diary of one of my ancestors, a recount of his experiences on a doomed archaeological dig in Egypt, translated into English by his granddaughter. A true account of where our curse came from.

Dad had taken it away from me after the accident, but by then I had it memorised anyway, just as, I suppose, Mum had intended. Initially the story had squatted like a toad in the back of my mind, but now I was grateful for every twisted word. Through them I could hear Mum’s voice and feel her hand over mine.

Sit me in front of an exam paper and my mind can go blank, yet The Tale of Oh-Fa, unseen for three years, clung to my memory with an unshakable grip.