The common room is empty except for me, Sarah and Courtney. I wouldn't have come in if I'd known they were there. For now, though, they ignore me – more concerned with bitching about one of the other girls in our year. I'm thankful.

I quietly sit at a table at the other side of the room and begin my English homework. I'm there for about twenty minutes before Rebecca saunters in. She plants herself into the seat opposite me causing Courtney and Sarah to look up. They begin to snigger.

I determinedly look at my papers, feeling heat in my face.

"You read the file?" she says.

I don't look up.

"No."

The sniggering from across the room increases in volume.

"Just... Just go away, Rigor," I hiss.

Rebecca looks at the two girls then makes a long, dramatic, overdrawn show of raising her middle finger at them. Then she turns back to me. The two girls fall silent for a moment then resume their whispering.

"Freaks," Courtney shouts.

I squirm, looking down at the table. I feel Rebecca's eyes on me.

"Why do you care what they think?"

"They were my friends," I say quietly.

"No, they weren't. They were your accessories; you all used each other to make yourself look better," she leans forward, her glassy blue eyes locking onto mine. "Friends don't treat each other like shit."

I can still hear them whispering across the room.

"Just leave me alone," I say. "You're making it worse."

Rebecca exhales heavily then plants a scrap of paper down in front of me. I glance at it. It's a flyer. Pussy Wagon is written in big letters above a photo of four angry looking females – one of whom is Rebecca.

"What's this?"

"My metal band are playing over at the Meat Market Friday night. You should come along."

Unlikely...

"My number's on the back if you want to contact me." She stands up, "Oh...and read the damn file."

Then she wanders back across the common room, blowing a kiss at Courtney as she goes.

"Lezza!" shouts Sarah.

Courtney however turns bright red, the colour clashing horribly with her bleach blonde hair. I look at her confused a moment before she angrily catches my eye.

"What you looking at, weirdo?"

I hurriedly avert my gaze and go back to my homework.

***

That night, after an uncomfortable dinner with my parents, I find myself back at my dressing table. The file stares up at me.

Read it, a voice in my head tells me.

I don't want to. But I know I will. 

I sigh then open it.

Daisy stares emptily out of the photograph. Left arm? has been scribbled in black pen across it. At the top of the image manifestation of skills? is scrawled.

I take a breath then turn the page. Before me is a printed criminal record, the Metropolitan Police logo imprinted at the top. A black and white mug shot of Daisy sits in the corner of the page. Below it is listed a number of minor offences; criminal damage, vandalism, shoplifting.

On the next page is a criminal report about a man called Gareth Malone who was caught for gun possession. The same handwriting is scribbled across the page; Daisy's father. Access and ability to use guns? Skill manifestation?

The next page is a missing person's report. It lists Daisy's last known whereabouts as Ink Stains – a tattoo parlour in East London.

Then I turn to the last page and I think I'm going to be sick. It's a grainy photograph of a black bin bag filled with body parts. Found in a bin in Brixton is written below it some identified as belonging to Daisy Malone.

I slam shut the file, feeling suddenly dizzy. Dots cloud my vision and I blink hard, forcing them away. Then the sickness is replaced by anger, my heart pumps fire through my veins.

Someone killed her, chopped her up, and put her in a dustbin as though she was rubbish.

And someone took her arm and gave it to me.

We are connected – whether I like it or not.

We are connected the voice in my head agrees, we are all connected. 

I pull the crumpled Pussy Wagon flyer out of my jeans pocket, smoothing it out to read Rebecca's number on the back. My fingers linger over my phone.

Then I shake my head. I think of the sniggering girls, of Carter and Rebecca's crazy talk of demons, of Jared's disgusted expression. I glance at tattoo on my arm – on Daisy's arm – then shove my hand into my pocket.

I am insignificant. Pointless. Carter is wrong – I have no power, no abilities.

There is nothing I can do.

Yet as I climb into bed I can't stop thinking of the girl in the photograph. And when I think of her I feel angry. And when I feel angry I don't feel hollow. And that is something new.

It makes me feel alive.