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over to Scarlet’s apartment, tell her about my situation and swear her to secrecy. That was a plan of sorts, although she was about as useless as me when it came to the civilian world. Scarlet was my oldest friend. We’d known each other for twelve years, and we were close, although not as close as we used to be since I’d been attending the Academy. But we hung out together most weekends.We were partners-in-crime on the party circuit. We’d had zillions of sleepovers, shared buckets full of ice cream and watched a million movies together. She knew all my secrets – well, almost. Luckily she lived alone in a secure Gate on Royal Hospital Road because her parents were out of the country most of the time, which meant I could hide out there without raising parental suspicion. Her Gate was about fifteen minutes upriver by limo, so I guessed it couldn’t be more than an hour by foot – not that I fancied walking, but as I’d never taken the bus or the Tube in my life, and I reckoned taking a cab was too risky, I didn’t have much choice.
    A siren burst into life on the other side of the river – another reminder.
    I took a deep breath. My skin prickled with excitement. London twinkled and pulsed around me. I drew myself up to my full height, blew a kiss to GoldRush Image HQ and murmured, “Who’s in control now?”
    Figuring it would be a smart move to avoid the roads and CCTV cameras where possible, I scooted back down to the river walkway, taking the last few steps at a gallop. The section across the river from the Houses of Commons was deserted and dark – no clowns, no Disney characters, no tourists; nobody, apart from a couple kissing on a bench.
    At intervals the walkway was lit by old-fashioned lamps, which cast a murky glow. The gloom gave me goosebumps. Glancing over at the Houses of Parliament, I imagined MPs, or ‘my people’, as Dad liked to call them, watching me from the Houses of Commons. I shivered and walkedon purposefully. Up ahead, a gang of skaters were mucking about. Their boards whizzed and zipped as they did stunts. A police boat sped downriver, its hull crashing against the water like a warning drum. For a second, the darkness pressed in on me. I hesitated, but telling myself not to be so jumpy, I shoved my hands into my pockets, quickened my pace, slotting in behind the zigzagging skaters. A guy with a blond mop of hair turned around, clocked me and grinned. I smiled back, but kept my distance. I followed them over Lambeth Bridge, past Millbank Tower on the north side of the river and up to Tate Britain, where they picked up their boards and mingled with groups of arty-looking kids drinking beer and smoking outside on the steps.
    Above the entrance a white neon artwork stated: EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT . I knew it was stupid, but I crossed my fingers and repeated the phrase under my breath. I couldn’t help myself: it was just something I did. I was always looking for signs to reassure myself: magpies, shooting stars, lucky numbers, pennies to pick up or a vapour-trail kiss up in the sky. It was the way I was – superstitious.
    The partygoers looked as if they were having such a good time that, for an instant, I was tempted to stay, but I rejected the idea at once, realising it wasn’t exactly the cleverest move when you’re about to trend worldwide on social media. Anyway, I’d had enough of parties for a lifetime, so I carried on walking, adrenalin spinning through me like a supernova sugar rush.
    The stretch of river beyond the Tate was deserted. A great hulk of a restaurant stood empty, its roof stripped of slate. Next door, there was a boarded-up petrol station covered with graffiti. Red neon spelled out Dolphin Square across a block of art deco flats. A car swished past in a rush of steel and blank eyes. On the other side of the river, Battersea Power Station loomed like a ghostly ocean liner.
    It was a