I sigh. I don’t need a doctor, I know I don’t. But if it means that Rav will start listening to me when I say things aren’t right, maybe I can suffer a quick ten-minute appointment. ‘OK,’ I say reluctantly, ‘I’ll make an appointment. For you though, I’m doing it for you. I know I don’t need to see him.’

‘Really?’ He turns to face me and for a minute he looks like the old Rav, the Rav I met on the beach. ‘And no more talk about witches or anything?’

‘Nope,’ I say, lies bitter on my tongue. I wonder if Rav and Naomi get that same bitter flavour when they lie to me. I saw Naomi’s keyring when she got her keys out of her bag. The keyring with a silver pentacle dangling from it, even though she says she doesn’t believe in all that stuff. The pentacle, that according to my book represents all the necessary elements required for witchcraft – earth, air, water, fire and spirit. If Naomi thinks witchcraft is all a load of nonsense, then why is she carrying a pentacle around with her? I saw the way their heads angled together at the door, heard the way they spoke about me when I wasn’t in the room. I know there is something going on and it’s all connected somehow to the vision – the memory – I keep having. I just have to figure out how.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The sensation of someone sitting on the edge of the bed wakes me, a similar sensation to before, only this time something is different. This time I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling, my scalp tingling as if someone is stroking a hand over my hair. Once, twice, three times. Goosebumps rise on my arms as the sensation fades to be replaced by the pressure of a hand on my chest, making me feel breathless, although for the moment I am still calm. I wait, my breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps as the pressure increases, as if someone is leaning over me, pressing down hard on my chest and the feeling of calm is replaced with panic, as I fight to catch my breath. I can’t breathe, I think, suddenly desperate to sit up, to heave in great gulps of air but my body doesn’t move. Distantly, there is the cry of a child, chilling and desperate, and I try to push myself up, to push back the covers and get to my feet but I can’t move my limbs, my hands and fingers are numb, as if I am frozen. My pulse soars, my heart crashing against my ribcage like a caged bird, and I open my mouth to gasp.