Wolf Island. Darren Shan

who need them. The photo of me is a few years old. I don’t recognise it.

      “Where’d you get this?” I ask.

      “I found it on the web,” Timas answers. “You were photographed when committed to an institute for the mentally unbalanced. After your parents were killed?” he adds, as if I might have forgotten.

      “No wonder I look like a zombie,” I mutter, running my thumb over the face in the passport, remembering those dark days of madness. I used to think life couldn’t possibly get any worse. How little I knew.

      We sit in pairs on the plane, splitting up so as not to attract attention. I’m with Timas. I’d rather have sat with Meera, but James moved quickly to snag the seat next to her. He’s chatting her up. I try keeping an eye on them, but as soon as the engines start, my stomach clenches and I grip the armrests tight, flashing back on my most recent experience in a plane.

      “Do you want to know the statistics for global aeronautical accidents for the last decade?” Timas asks as we taxi out on to the runway.

      “No,” I growl.

      “I only ask because you look uneasy. Many aeroplanes crash every year, but they are usually personal craft. Statistically we are safer in the air than on the ground. I thought familiarity with the facts might help.”

      “The last time I was on a plane, demons attacked, slaughtered everyone aboard and forced it down,” I snarl.

      “Oh.” Timas looks thoughtful. “To the best of my knowledge, there are no statistics on demon-related accidents in the air. I must investigate this further when time permits. There are blanks to be filled in.”

      He leans back and stares up at the reading light, lips pursed. After a minute he switches the light on, then off again. On. Off. On. Off. The engines roar. We hurtle down the runway and up into the sky. Timas’s eyes close after a while and he snores softly. But his finger continues to operate the light switch, turning it on and off every five seconds, irritating the hell out of me.