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minders, stylists and gurus. They weren’t around much, but that was the global way. But the glitz and the glamour had filled the space, until the dark stuff kicked off, poisoning everything.
    The whiteness and underwater stillness of the panic room pressed in, squeezing the breath from me, as if I were swimming in arctic waters; my heart was slowing and I was drifting into a trance-like state. I punched the wall again, firing up my fury once more. I’d had it with their lies and schemes. I stood up, went into the bathroom and splashed cold water onto my face. Why would I want to be a Gold, anyway?
    As I became less shell-shocked, I focused on the positives. Okay, I wasn’t the Golds’ daughter. But was that really so bad? I had another mother. Unbelievable! And if I wasn’t their daughter, they had absolutely no right to mess with my face – turn me into some kind of brand-bot. I pictured the woman in the hallway again, her beautiful face framed by Dad’s heavies. And in the silence of the panic room, I realised that this woman – if she were my mother, as she claimed – could offer a solution to my problems, if, and it was a very big if, I could track her down.
    Squinting at my reflection in the mirror, I wondered why she’d described me as baby 9614. That struck me as weird.
    At last I heard the bleep, bleep of the code being tapped in.
    The buzz of the door opening. Big Stevie entered.
    â€œFalse alarm, Dasha.”
    â€œWhat, like everything else in my life?” I spat the words out.
    He shrugged, puzzled by my tone. “Your dad has given me your schedule for tonight. We’ve got to leave in thirty.”
    I ignored him and started walking back to my bedroom. I could hear his footsteps padding along, ten metres behind me, as per usual.
    I gripped the side of the bridge, anger flashing up again at the memory.
    Big Ben struck eight. A reality check – like the bongs at the beginning of the news. Two hours had passed since the train crash. I pictured Mum pacing her penthouse office mad with worry while Dad was on his mobile calling in favours. I focused on the London Eye, wanting to sync my racing thoughts with its slow spin. I could live a different life if I held my nerve. The measured turn of the wheel steadied my thoughts. The pavement felt firm beneath my feet. I was grounded now and, despite everything, I felt strangely anchored. The crash had given me the chance to realise a dream. Could I do it? Doubt zapped me. Although I had been thinking about finding my real mother more or less constantly since that night, it took the form of daydreaming rather than concrete, practical plans, because, I guess, I had never imagined even in my wildest dreams that I would ever escape the Golds. But against the odds I had given Big Steviethe slip. Like the spin of a bottle or a roulette table, my number had miraculously come up, and I couldn’t blow my good luck. I had to give it my best shot.
    Keep calm, deep breaths, this is your one chance, Dash. Okay? Okay? I had to get to the adoption agency. But how? I clutched at the silver locket, which I always wore round my neck, and considered the options. Hidden inside the locket was the address of FuturePerfect. That was a step in the right direction, at least. I had something, somewhere to aim for. I glanced up at Big Ben. But it was too late to do anything tonight.
    So what now? Think straight, Dash. Calm thoughts. THINK! THINK!
    I looked helplessly at the massiveness of London stretched out before me, overwhelmed by my cluelessness. How the hell was I going to get round the city when the only Tube map I’d ever studied in detail was the lithograph, ‘The Great Bear’, which was hanging in Dad’s bathroom. The artist had replaced the tube stations with the names of famous people, so I could get to Albert Einstein, Michael Caine or Charles Darwin, but what the dib-dab-scritch use was that?
    Think! I could head