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Since her mother’s death when she was seven, fifteen-year-old Jem has kept a secret. When her eyes meet someone else’s, a number comes into her head – the date on which they will die.

Knowing that nothing can last forever, Jem avoids relationships, until she meets Spider, another outsider, and her life takes a happier turn. But on their first day-out together, waiting for a ride on the London Eye, Jem realises something terrible - everyone in the queue has the same number – and her world is about to explode.

Reviews:

'Even the idea of this book gave me chills! How would you like to know someone's fate just by looking in their eyes? Creepy and original!'  R.L. STINE, AUTHOR OF GOOSEBUMPS

'Intelligent and life-affirming.' PHIL ARDAGH, GUARDIAN

'Numbers is a true pulse-racing narrative, leaving you breathless after only the first chapter.'  JOHN LLOYD, WATERSTONES, BATH

'A gritty, fast-paced powerful thriller which takes the idea of an individual's 'number being up' to a shocking and dramatic level.' THE SCHOOL LIBRARIAN

'Utterly compelling.' THE SUNDAY TELEGRAPH

Suddenly, she jerked the pushchair to a halt and swung it round to face her. She crouched down and held both sides of the frame with her hands, making a cage with her body, clutching so tightly I could see the cords in her arms standing out, the bruises and pinpricks more vivid than ever. She looked me straight in the eye, the fury clear in hers.  

“Listen, Jem,” the words came spitting out of her face, “I don’t know what   you’re going on about, but I want you to stop. It’s doing my head in. I don’t need it today. OK? I don’t need it, so just…bloody…shut…up.”  

Syllables stinging like angry wasps, her venom fizzing all around me. And all the time, as we sat there eye-to-eye, her number was there, stamped on the inside of my skull, 10101998. 

Three years later, I watched a man in a scruffy suit write it down on a piece of paper, “Date of Death: 10.10.1998.”

I’d found her in the morning. I’d got up, like normal, put my school things on, helped myself to some cereal. No milk, because it stank when I got it out of the fridge. I left the carton on the side, put the kettle on and ate my Cocopops while it boiled. Then I made Mum a black coffee and carried it carefully in to her room.   She was still in bed, kind of leaning over. Her eyes were open, and there was stuff, sick, down her front and on the covers. I put the coffee down on the   floor, next to the needle.

“Mum?” I said, even though I knew she wouldn’t reply. There was no one there. She was gone. And her number was gone too. I could remember it, but when I looked in her dull empty eyes I couldn’t see it any more.