The paws of the silver beast push me under. Its yellow eyes are wild. Claws rake my skin. Water gushes into my mouth.

I gasp for air.

‘You are mine now, Ziggy,’ the river sings.

When I wake up, hot and sweating, there is still an echo of that whispery voice in my head.

It’s you or the beast, says the voice. Remember your dream. The beast drowns you.

The voice has to be my subconscious trying to warn me of danger, but it doesn’t feel like me. It’s a taste that is all wrong, like ashes in my mouth.

I rise with the sun. The trap. It’s the only way, I decide. I am fighting for my life.

The grass is slick and shiny, covered with dew and patterned with silvery snail trails that all seem to lead to the sycamore tree.

A dragonfly glints bright emerald as the light catches it in flight. For a moment it looks familiar and I watch as it darts over the vegetable garden towards the shed.

A woodchuck ambles across my path. He lives under our house so he’s not scared of me. He’s fat and flat with short legs and two big front teeth. Momma would like to get rid of him because he eats the spring flowers she plants. But I always remind her that the woodland animals were here first. And she shrugs. The woodchuck is safe for another year.

But not the beast.

I squat down by the trunk of the sycamore tree and inspect the ground. There are large paw prints in the mud. And three huge claw marks down the tree.

Mystic is wary. All his senses are on the alert – ears pricked, nose sniffing the air, his tread soft and slow. He snuffles around the base and sneezes. Then he lifts his leg to cover the scent of the beast with his own urine. He does this several times.

I look back at the house, to my bedroom. There’s a clear view of my room, and at night with the light on it would be like a movie screen. I shiver at the thought. Then another horrifying thought comes to me – the beast could smash right through the glass and attack me.

The trap, Ziggy. Get the trap.

Yes, the trap, I say to the whispery voice inside me.

The blue paint on the walls of the garden shed has blistered. It’s peeling like sunburn. The small window beside the front door is overgrown with ivy and covered in spiderwebs.

I slide the metal bolt to the side and open the door. As I do, Mystic growls and I jump back. There, on the splintered doorframe, is a clump of long silver hairs.

At first I don’t want to touch it. Could it hold some kind of magic? I just stare at it for ages until Mystic puts his nose to it. Nothing happens so I pick it off the wood. It feels oily between my fingers like sheep’s wool. I bring it to my nose and the musky wild smell makes me shiver.

I open the door to the shed. I haven’t been in here since Papa left.

A wooden work table is pushed up against one wall. Tools of different kinds hang in neat rows above it. On a smaller table are cans of oil, turpentine and tins of paint. The ride-on lawnmower sits in the corner along with rakes, shovels, brooms, flowerpots and other stuff for the garden. A spider’s web, like a fine fishing net, stretches across the corner.

I’ve always known where the trap is – hanging on the wall beside the ivy-covered window – but I’ve never wanted to look at it. It can cut through bone with a snap of its jaws. It makes me shudder.

But now everything is different. Now I’m fighting for my life . . . mine and Mystic’s. If I can get the beast before my birthday, then it would be impossible for the beast to drown me.

I have no choice.

I take a deep breath and push from my mind all thoughts of how cruel a trap can be. Standing on tiptoe, I lift it off the wall. Jagged teeth run along both sides of the metal jaws that are now safely shut. It looks like a monster’s smile. There’s a spring lever and a tethering chain for attaching the trap to a stake or tree so that the captured animal can’t run off. Jake and Pete showed me how to use it. That was three years ago. I wonder if it still works. It looks pretty rusty.

‘Mystic, out,’ I say, pointing to the door. Traps are dangerous and temperamental things. Mystic leaves with his tail between his legs.

I step on the spring to open the jaws but they won’t budge. To set the trap you need to open the jaws wide so that they lie flat on the ground. I look around and see a can of oil. Perfect. I spray the hinges and all the moving parts with oil several times. Then I work the jaws back and forth until everything swings freely. I’m feeling kind of proud of myself. A little more oil and a little more movement and before long I have the jaws spread wide open like someone waiting for the dentist.

Now to test it.

With the end of a broomstick I press down on the small plate in the centre of the trap. The two jaws snap around the handle, splintering the wood.