Along the curiously named Coursing Batch, that stretch of main road which cuts across the lower slopes of Glastonbury Tor, a plump figure with a mass of curling, carrot-coloured hair, strained at the pedals of her bicycle.

      Lauren Humphries scrunched up her face as yet another heavy lorry thundered by, and wobbled unsteadily in the buffeting draught of its passing.

      ‘Thank you!’ she growled through gritted teeth, her cheeks spattered with dirty water thrown up from the wet road. The lorry roared away and the girl gently squeezed her brakes, stopping beside the narrow pavement to wipe herself clean.

      Although she was now seventeen, she had lost none of the chubbiness that had made her childhood so miserable. There were just so many unkind names for idiots to choose from when shouting abuse, it was like a sport that anybody could play. Lauren had grown used to it, from an early age she had taught herself to ignore the cruel taunting, but that did not make it hurt any less. No matter how hard she tried, sometimes the insults hit their mark and stung her.

      Mopping a handkerchief about her freckle-covered features, she glowered at the receding, rumbling lorry, her hazel eyes lost amid the fleshy expanse of her round, pink face.

      It was a treacherous road – so much for escaping the traffic and pollution of the city, this was almost as bad.

      Pulling away from the kerb, she set off once more. Past the gates of the large boarding houses whose rooftops screened off the view of the Tor, to where Coursing Batch seamlessly became the Edgerly Road.

      Here, only the hedgerow separated her from the great green bulk of the strangely shaped hill which rose high upon her left.

      Glastonbury Tor, with the solitary tower dedicated to Saint Michael spiking up from its summit, was a singular, stately sight.

      A holy place, venerated down the ages by countless pilgrims seeking for truth and enlightenment, it rose from the Somerset levels like an enchanted, enduring symbol of faith. Deep were the foundations of Glastonbury’s magical appeal and like a magnet it attracted things esoteric and occult from all over the globe. Obscure sects of enigmatic religions founded temples there, people sought healing from its ever-flowing springs and legends both Christian and pagan abounded.

      Nowhere else was quite like this small town, it was a special, haunting place and the powerful vision of the Tor presided over all.

      Lauren hated it.

      She had only lived there for four months but already she loathed the district and, as she cycled homeward, did not take her eyes from the road to even glance at the Tor’s majestic, imposing outline.

      Hoping that her father would be back before she arrived home, she sailed by the high banks of the reservoir and saw in the distance ahead a group of five boys larking about at the roadside.

      Still dressed in their uniforms, they had obviously just left school and Lauren pitied them. There was little for young people to do in small towns such as this. It was fine for the tourists who came to see the ruined abbey, investigate the legends, climb the Tor and explore the beautiful countryside, but to grow up in such a place had to be difficult. Holiday makers and seekers of wisdom could leave when they wanted to, but for a child born into a bleak rural landscape that was impossible.

      Yet as Lauren cycled closer to the group, a furrow creased her brow and any sympathy she had felt vanished as her small eyes stared at them suspiciously.

      Their voices were jeering with laughter and that was a sound the girl knew only too well.

      ‘Barmy Tommy!’ they cried. ‘Barmy Tommy!’

      Only then did Lauren see that in the centre of the gang was a pitiful looking old man and, with anger bubbling up inside her, she began to pedal furiously.

      Surrounded by the group of twelve-year-olds, the man known locally as Tommy, laughed good naturedly, nodding like a donkey at everything the boys shouted in his ears.

      ‘Do us yer teapot, Tommy! What do dogs do, Tommy?’

      The white haired old man crooked one arm in compliance and waggled from side to side, pouring imaginary tea from the pretend spout of his hand as he yapped like a terrier.

      ‘That’s right, Tommy!’ the boys goaded, pushing him roughly. ‘What else do dogs do? Cock your leg – go on!’

      Like a performing monkey he obeyed them, acting out stupid and humiliating tricks for their callous delight.

      ‘Give us yet hat, Tommy,’ one of them called, reaching across and grabbing the battered cloth cap from his head.

      ‘Pyeeuuurrgh!’ the boy cried, mangling it in his hands. ‘It stinks – you dirty old beggar! When was the last time you had a bath?’

      The old man grinned, revealing an almost toothless set of gums. ‘Was a Tuesday,’ he declared.

      ‘What year?’ the gang shouted back.

      ‘Tommy doesn’t know,’ came the mild reply. ‘Can he have his hat back now?’

      ‘You’ll have to catch it first!’ they taunted, throwing the cap from one to another.

      ‘Please,’ Tommy asked politely. ‘It’s getting dark. You lads should get yourselves home. Give Tommy his hat, he’s got to get going an’ all.’

      In front of his ruddy face they dangled it, only to snatch the cap away as soon as his large, red knuckled hands rose to claim it.

      The old man staggered to and fro as they threw the cap over his head and back again, yet not once did he lose his temper or cry out in despair.

      ‘Hey!’ Lauren’s angry voice interrupted the cruel game. ‘Stop it! Leave him alone.’

      Propping her bicycle against the hedge, she pushed her way into the middle of the group and pulled the thoughtless boys away.

      ‘Let go!’ they yelled as she yanked them aside until only one was left, the cap still in his hands.

      Graham Carter, the oldest of the bullies, glared at the girl and a horrible leer twisted his face that was already pocked with the first flush of acne.

      ‘What do you want, fatty?’ he asked with a snigger.

      Incensed, Lauren dashed forward and knocked him into the hedge but, as he fell, Graham threw back his arm and let the cap go sailing into the road.

      ‘Get off, you fat cow!’ he bawled when she pushed him even further into the thorns. ‘Get your sweaty, lardy hands off me!’

      ‘Least I haven’t got a face with craters in it like the moon!’

      ‘Better than being as big as the moon!’

      Lauren stared at him as he squirmed in the hedge, then stepped back – ashamed that she had allowed herself be drawn into a slanging match. ‘Just clear off,’ she said gruffly.

      Graham tried to pull himself from the thorns, but two of his accomplices had to help him to his feet.

      ‘You wait, blubber mountain!’ he warned, inspecting his blazer for holes. ‘We’ll be waiting for you next time.’

      Lauren shook her head. ‘Oh, drop dead,’ she told them.

      Grudgingly, the boys walked off singing out a string of insults.

      ‘Tubby or not tubby – fat is the question.’

      The girl ignored them and looked around to see if the old man was all right. At once all thoughts of the stupid boys were flung from her mind as she saw Tommy go doddering into the centre of the road to retrieve his cap – wandering right into the path of a speeding juggernaut.

      ‘Watch out!’ she screamed.

      Stooping, the old man glanced up as the driver of the lorry gave three warning blasts upon the