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happened next. The girl jumped as if zapped with an electric prod, and leaving her half-full trolley, scurried off down the pasta aisle.
    Mrs Winslow’s left eye twitched madly and she went red in the face. 'Help! Help! Get the manager! There’s a pervert here! Security!'
    Several other shoppers started walking towards the commotion. Turner had no idea what was going on. His head whipped between the bellowing fat lady and the retreating young woman. This is why I don't try to pick up girls, he thought.
    The girl had reached the front of the store. Turner realised with a shock she hadn’t reverted back to an old woman. ‘Wait!’ he yelled, and ran after her.
    ‘He's after old Mrs Ashton's money!’ Mrs Winslow yelled from behind him.
    The girl strode quickly to the store entrance. Turner raised his hand, palm out. ‘You can't leave!’ Incredibly, she stopped; the sliding doors wouldn't open.
    The girl stepped back, and then forward again trying to make the doors open to no avail. Abruptly she spun on her heel and glared at Turner, her eyes wide and fierce. She then flung her arms together as if pulling giant curtains closed. Packets of pasta and rice erupted from the shelves. Turner ducked and covered his head, just as a loud crash came from the front of the store. Someone nearby screamed, and from further away in the store the cry, ‘Get down! Get down!’
    Turner rose up on his knees to see the girl walk over the blown out remains of the front sliding doors, and run into the car park.
    ‘Was it a bomb?’ asked an old man who had been standing next to Turner, but who now knelt on the floor. He grasped at two long strands of spaghetti that stuck out of his neck, like some misplaced insect antennae. His hand came away smeared with blood. ‘Oh,’ he said faintly, ‘neck spaghetti blood,’ and fainted to the ground. Turner dived and grabbed the old man’s shoulders just in time to stop his head from hitting the floor. 
    When he gently lowered the old man’s head onto the tiles, Turner noticed the mess. The old man was covered in pasta and rice, and there were piles of packets, boxes of rice and pasta strewn across the floor. Turner wondered how he had escaped being struck by anything. For although the shelves around them were empty, where Turner had been standing there was an empty circle, completely devoid of even a grain of rice. 
     A state of chaos gripped the supermarket. People pointing, yelling, running. Many had tentatively began to gather around the remains of the front doors. Half a dozen customers and staff now stood around Turner and the old man on the floor.
    Turner’s head spun. Shopping. Potatoes. Pretty girl. Old lady. Pasta and ... bang? Something astonishing had just happened, but for the life of him he had no idea what it was.
    ‘That's him! That's the terrorist!’ Turner looked up to see the fat old woman stab her chubby finger at him. He hardly knew her, but Turner already hated Mrs Winslow. A lot.
    *
    Ember ran across the car park, startling people who had never seen an octogenarian sprint like that. Chloe, who had been sitting in the Land Rover disguised as the male gardener, was already running towards Ember. ‘What the hell is going on, Em … Mrs Ashton?’
    ‘No time, Chloe. Skorn! Get in. Drive!’ Ember ran past her sister to the car and yanked open the passenger door.
    She was so glad her sister didn’t stop to argue, but jumped straight back into the driver’s seat. Within moments they sped from the car park, just narrowly missing a woman pushing a stroller, whose scream of abuse could be heard even over the screech of the tyres. Safely out onto High Street, Chloe, eyes straight ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel said, ‘A Skorn? You sure this time?’
    Ember leant hard back into the seat, and let out a long breath. ‘Yes. No. I think so. It was the same guy, and he saw through my fell. He saw through my fell, Chloe! And he had powers. I’ll tell you all about it