In school the following day, I felt weird. Bu it was a good weird. The other kids see me as different, and that morning as I walked the empty school corridor on my way to maths class, late, I knew I really was different. I mean, how many teenagers do you know who've met the Devil? Not many, is my guess. Because we're a rare breed, Dylan and I.

Dylan and I – that makes us sound like a couple: boyfriend and girlfriend. But we're not; we're something a whole lot different. We're partners, Dylan calls us, "Partners in kind." And I like that description, it fits what we do, what we fight for. We constantly battle: bad, evil, despicable, and to do that you need a whole lot of strength mixed with huge human kindness. Dylan and I are London's youngest, DEMON HUNTERS.

"Benita, Benita, Benita, it's the third time this week that you've been late, pull your socks up young lady," said Mr Lacey, as I sloped in with my head hung low. "Sorry sir," I said, sitting at the back of class and ignoring the snarky remarks from the other kids.

I like Mr Lacey, he never asks me why I'm late. That morning I almost wished he had; can you imagine the reaction if I told the truth, "Sorry sir. I was up most of the night, making sure the Devil didn't posses me or anyone else in the school." That would really confirm my 'freak' status amongst the cool crowd.

One lunchtime, last summer, I was staring out of an open window from inside the art room when the in-crowd passed by. Gabby, the leader of the group, caught my eye and stopped, "Her eyes are so freaky," she said, really loud. Of course the rest of the girls recoiled in mock horror. Mr Lacey was returning from lunch, he witnessed the scene and said calmly, "Get real Gabby, Benita's eyes are stunning, really unique." It worked, they all stormed off in a huff. Mr lacey popped his head through the window, "They're so jealous Benita. They all know you're one of the prettiest girls in the school, and don't you ever forget that." It was one of the kindest things anybody, other than my parents, had ever said to me. I'll always respect Mr Lacey for making me like myself a little on that day.

###

As the claxon sounded the end of maths class, my phone buzzed, making me jump. I was tired and fidgety from the events and revelations of the night before. Looking at my phone, I saw the message from Dylan: 'Can we meet in the library at lunchtime? I need to talk to you about a sighting.'

'Sighting's' are what Dylan calls suspicion's. It means he's seen or heard tangible evidence of possible demonic behaviour that needs our attention, and possible in depth investigating.

When I saw his message my tiredness dropped away and I became immediately psyched about the possibility of my first real investigation with Dylan.

Dylan was waiting for me in the horror section of the library, "Getting yourself in the right mood?" I joked, as I pulled up a chair and sat next to him. He glanced at the books, "This is all fiction," then he looked down, "we're dealing with fact." When he looked back up at me, I noticed he had a fresh and vicious looking cut on his nose.

It visibly shocked me, "What happened?" I asked, too loudly, as people turned and looked disapprovingly at us.

He put his mouth to my ear and whispered, "It was the sighting that caused this wound."

"What kind of sighting are we dealing with here, if it can inflict such violence?" I whispered back, eager to get straight on it. Dylan stood up, "Let's go for a walk, too many ears in here."

We both flinched when we were smacked by a blast of freezing cold air as we left the warmth of the library. Dylan suddenly stopped, unwound the thick woolly scarf from around his neck, and wound it around mine, tucking it inside my coat. "What about you?" I asked, touched by the selfless caring in his gesture.

"I've got a hood, you haven't. Now come on, let's power walk to Paddock field."

Paddock field, is not a field. No, it's a huge concrete jungle of a housing estate in South London. That said, it doesn't have any houses, instead it's made up of towering grey, brutal blocks of concrete apartments that look a million miles away from anything that could be called a home.

Dylan talked as we walked, "I was on the bus, on my way home from dropping Polly off at school."

"Who's Polly?" I interrupted.

"My little sister."

"I didn't know you had a sister."

"You know about the events of Petal Road, how me and my sister were survivors."

"Oh, of course. It's just that you never mentioned her last night."

"I have now."

I know this sounds odd, and kind of makes me sound like a mean person, but I had a pang of jealousy when I found out about Polly. I liked the idea that Dylan was like me, an only child. I thought that kind of gave us a connection, a bond. And it was with a low level disappointment that I continued to listen to him tell of his experience on the bus and his explanation of the sighting.

"There was a woman sitting opposite me, she had one of those cat boxes on her lap, like the type you use to take a small animal to the vet."

"Nothing unusual in that," I said.

"But it wasn't a cat."

A curdling chill that wasn't from the wind, coursed through my body.

"The box kept on jolting on her knees, I knew whatever was in it was struggling to get out. The woman looked un-easy, like she was inpatient to get to wherever she was going. I immediately became suspicious."

I stopped him, "Dylan, what was in the box?"

He gently stroked his nose, then looked at his finger, "Good, its stopped bleeding." He took my hand and pulled me onwards, "Everyone got off the bus at Walworth Road. It was just the two of us, so I bent down to peek into the slatted openings; I was making those stupid noises we all make to cats; when an ear shattering squawk was followed by a chickens head flying out with force, its beak sliced my nose so hard, it floored me. I was lucky it didn't get my eye, it would have blinded me."

I stopped and looked at his nose and saw it was quite a deep wound, "Lesson learned, don't go looking into pet vet boxes on ladies laps."

"Too right. I was on the floor, trying to get back up and the woman was going ape shit, cussing and cursing me as she stormed off the bus."

###

Our walk continued. When we turned off the main road, we were met by the architectural brutalism of Paddock field.

Dylan continued as we slowed our pace toward the entrance of the estate, "In that instant I knew that chicken was for a sacrificial ritual, she completely gave her intention away. So I followed her, here."

My eyes followed his outstretched arm to the tip of his pointing finger, touching a black door at the base of a tower block. I noted the number: 13 Paddock field.

"13, lucky for some," I said. Dylan stepped closer, "I'm not sure good luck is something that happens behind this closed door," he said, stooping down.

"Erm Dylan, what you doing?"

He looked at me, with a puzzled expression, "I'm going to peek through the letter box."

I pulled him back, "You so are not, you need your nose to be on your face and fully functioning. No more risky peek-a-boos for you, today."

He laughed – but then we both ducked and turned against a searing icy blast that bombed through the estate, the concrete slabs affected searing screams as the wind ricocheted off, of them.

The wind stopped as suddenly as it started, replaced with an eerie, still quiet. We stood and listened, you could hear a pin drop. The quiet was unnatural. We were in the middle of an estate housing thousands of people in one of the world's most densely populated cities, yet there was not one sound to be heard.

I looked at Dylan, hoping for an explanation, when then the silence was broken, by a soft sobbing sound.

We both instinctively walked to where the crying came from. Several doors down from number 13 was a grim concrete stairwell that led to the upper apartments. The sobbing sound came from deep in its recess. Dylan and I both flinched at the overpowering smell of stale urine, "The residents obviously use this as a toilet," said Dylan. His words caused an intake of breath from within the stairwell and the sobbing suddenly stopped.

"Hey there, can we help you?" Asked Dylan, putting one foot inside the stinking stairwell. I grabbed his arm and nodded a firm 'NO.' He nodded an 'ok' and stepped back. I leaned in slightly, "Don't be frightened, we hear your distress, we can help you," I said.

A heaving sob was followed by a frightened, heavily accented plea, "Please go, please. You cannot help me."

It was a girl's voice, and I recognised the accent as West African. She was most probably Ghanaian  as she sounded just like my dad's family. I immediately felt an empathy and affinity for this terrified girl.

"We can help you; tell us who you're frightened of, what are you hiding from?" I asked.

Her response was hurried and dripping in terror, "Juju, bad juju, I cannot hide from juju. They will kill me."

I was about to ask her what Juju was and who would kill her, but Dylan put his finger on his a mouth in a 'be quiet' gesture and with a gentle 'let me handle this' look on his face. When he spoke, it was with understanding and knowing, "I can help you with Juju. There are people and pastors who can help you. Please reveal yourself to us and allow us help you," he said, with a gentle pull in his voice.

Her response was frightened but firm, "Go, save yourself from Juju."

Eager to know what she feared so much, I asked Dylan, "What's Juju?" He gently guided me away from her earshot and whispered, "It's witchcraft, voodoo, most commonly practiced in West Africa." He looked back towards number 13, "But it's becoming a problem, right here, in South London."