So I sat in my last class of the day, English, with over a grand in my pocket and wondered what I could spend it on. I really wanted a pair of Printed Steez Trainers, but I couldn't just turn up at home with them on, mum would want to know where I got the mega wonga to buy them. She'd already questioned where I got the spare cash to buy a pair of jogging bottoms.

What a dilemma, having money but not being able to spend it on what you want; it almost made the money worthless.

The sudden shrill of the bell sounding the end of the school day pulled me from my mulling mind.

I checked my phone, still nothing from Dylan. I rang him; it went to voicemail, again.

'How could he just shut me out, like this?' I thought to myself, as I left the school gates. Feeling conflicted, confused and hurt. I decided to go to the clinic where Polly was being treated and confront him.

Looking at my phone, I saw it was 3.30 and I knew that visiting hours started at three.

Picking up speed I wondered if I was acting a bit like a bunny boiler, and should I just drop it and wait for him to contact me? But when I saw the number twelve bus pass me, I thought 'go for it Benita' and I sprinted toward the parking peasant wagon.

###

On the bus, I felt more comfortable that I was doing the right thing. My conversation with Joshua earlier in that day came back to me, and his assertion that we three needed to talk made me determined to see Dylan at the clinic.

###

The clinic reception was deathly quiet and the faint smell of antiseptic reminded me this was a medical facility as well as a remedial centre.

"How can I help you?" Asked the middle-aged reception lady. "My friend Dylan Goodie's here, visiting his sister Polly, I just wondered if you could let him know I'm here and will wait for him, in reception?" I asked.

Her fingers tapped the keyboard and she leaned in to see the response of her input on the screen. She leaned back and looked at me, "No, he's not here. Polly's supervisor received a text from Dylan to say that he won't be attending as he is currently incapacitated." She returned to her computer in an obvious dismissive gesture.

"Incapacitated. What does that mean?" I asked, with a raised voice.

She looked at me with a flash of irritation, "You'll have to ask your friend, Dylan. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a job to do," she said, shutting me out.

###

On the bus back I pondered; I knew Dylan well enough to know he wouldn't use the word 'incapacitated.' But then I thought it's the kind of 'official' word a professional person would put on their computer system to mean 'unavailable' and I relaxed a little, into the bus journey home.

I texted him several times on the bus, and his lack of reply began to turn from hurt and anger, to worry. I recalled the panic on his face when I mentioned going to the police. Was there something I didn't know, had I frightened him into silence, or hiding? Was it me that had caused him to become 'incapacitated?'

That word began to really bother me.

The bus was crawling in rush hour traffic, forcing my frustrations to rise. I had no one's number: Granny Grace, Joshua, Dylan's dad. These people were just enigma's to me, turning up when I least expected them. Now, when I needed them most, I had no way of contacting them. I was also 'incapacitated!'

That word, again?

I leapt off the bus and began to run, putting on my breaks as I cruised past the dilapidated party shop where Dylan and I were meant to meet Pastor Abadom. I made a mental note of the woman's horror when she heard my surname: Badoe, I needed to discuss this with Joshua and GG. I needed to find them.

Taking off my breaks, I shifted up a gear and sprinted toward Paddock Field.

I arrived breathless but determined, pounding the door of number 12 with my fists, desperately hoping Joshua would answer. But my despair deepened when no reply came. Leaning against the wall, I phoned Dylan, willing him to answer: voicemail.

My instinct drew me to number 13, and against my better judgement, I pounded on the door.

The door flew open and the woman's fist just clipped my cheek, "GO, GET AWAY FROM US – YOU IS FULL OF BAD JUJU!" She wailed. It was the woman Dylan and I had encountered with Carla in the stinking stairwell. I noted the violence in her intent, and feeling lucky I'd missed the full force of her punch, I took off, again.

###

I pounded onwards towards the café, fuelled by the thought that I'd see Granny Grace and Dylan, enjoying a cup of tea and have them both happy to see me, explain everything; and then we'd continue our fight with the bad force, together again, a tight team.

But no, they weren't there. "Has Granny Grace been in today," I asked the frazzled man, multi-tasking behind the counter. "Not today. Hope she's alright," he said. "Do you know where she lives?" I asked. He looked up from the steaming coffee machine, "Round here, somewhere. Has something happened to her, you look panicked?" He asked. I was half way out the door when I shouted back, "I'm sure she's fine, she's a fierce old girl."

###

By the time I made it to Petal Road, I was physically exhausted.

The door was slightly ajar, which filled me with hope, as Dylan did tend to keep the door open when he was home.

Feeling optimistic, I entered the now familiar hallway. I knew if Dylan was home, he'd be in the cellar. So I headed straight for the basement, checking for any suspicious signs on the way.

All seemed fine. Nothing was out of place or gave me cause for concern.

Until I turned toward the cellar door, and froze.

Painted on the door were the words: 'Vengeance has visited.' Swiping my finger through the words, I noted the blood was still warm.

A surge of adrenaline flooded me and I kicked the door open, taking the steps three at a time and screaming, "DYLAN!"

The dread that sat in the pit of my stomach, rose and I began to feel nauseous at the sight that met me.

Blood. Everywhere. Blood.

My legs began to tremble and my knees became weak. I sat on the bottom step and took deep breaths to prevent me from spewing up. Strangely, I felt no fear. Instead I had a deep sadness at the thought of Dylan, being held somewhere, harmed and alone. I didn't want my raging tantrum to be his last memory of me; I had to have him know I cared for him; I couldn't leave it like this.

I pushed the negative thoughts away and stood up and forced myself to think rationally. It was then I noticed that although there was blood everywhere, it wasn't carnage like, with blood splattered about the place.

No.

It was blood that had been placed. Or to be more precise, sprinkled.

Sprinkled almost artfully on every Mac screen.

It was as though every dormant Mac screen had been used as a canvas, and delicate droplets of blood had been almost tastefully sprinkled on each one.

Wandering around, it occurred to me that these sprinkles were almost ritualistic. Yet the words on the door to the basement were painted with an angry violence.

Violence and ritual: two things that didn't bode well for whatever situation Dylan was in.

###

I placed a small stone at the base of the front door of Petal Road and pulled the door so it looked closed, but was still accessible.

Joshua and Granny Grace: I had to find them.

That word 'incapacitated' popped into my head again, but this time another word with the same rhythm, popped up beside it: decapitated!

###

On Petal Road, I didn't know which way to turn. But the Camberwell Chorus screamed from the high street, and I followed it.

I had to find Granny Grace and Joshua, because I knew I couldn't save Dylan's life, without them...