Ever since I could remember, I could tell how dangerous people were. Not like a police officer, picking out the criminal amongst a large ...

Ever since I could remember, I could tell how dangerous people were. Not like a police officer, picking out the criminal amongst a large crowd and they just so happened to be black. I mean actually tell those who could rip your heart out and feed it to you through your nostrils, and those who still sleep with their teddy bears.

It appears as a number. Everyone that I see has a number above their head.

I was seven when my parents first realised every person I drew had a numeral above them. I thought that's how people looked. I was eight when my mum sought help. I'd drawn a couple of super-villains with loads of sixes above them and Mum thought I was the anti-Christ.

I saw every specialist in the country. A Mr Wang from China, and an American who believed the numbers were my subconscious trying to contact the ghost of Tupac Shakur. Would you believe he supposedly studied at Harvard and roomed with a former president?

It was Doctor Javier who finally believed me. After a further six thousand pounds, as my dad always points out, he realised what the numbers represented.

Mum wanted everything kept a secret. She grew up reading Marvel comics and worried her son might become a government weapon. Dad did what all husbands in happy, stable marriages do and agreed with Mum. Doctor Javier had worked with a whole heap of 'keeks' (his word not mine) and agreed silence was the best policy. He also agreed that wicker shoes, chequered chinos and linen shirts went well together, but I liked him.

According to Doctor J, the numbers were scores out of ten and showed a person's potential for danger. For example, little old ladies walking their dogs are usually ones, except for Miss Jaeger on Argyle Street. She's a three. Apparently, she grew up on the wrong side of town and learnt how to sever limbs before she could tie her own laces.

When I see petty criminals, they might be a four/five. A trained soldier is usually a six. You get my drift? The highest numbers are reserved for the proper dangers to the world like politicians and bankers. They come in with sevens and sometimes eights.

I remember going home after my diagnosis and understanding what I could do. It was a huge weight off my shoulders. It was real, and not a possible brain tumour as that idiot Mr Wang stated, before asking for ten grand to heal me with green tea and acupuncture.

Mum wedged it in my head what would happen if anyone else found out. So, I stopped drawing numbers above heads and never spoke about it to anyone else.

I was annoyed I couldn't tell anyone but it was awesome being a 'keek' at school. Imagine being able to spot the dangerous kids a mile off. I remember my first ever altercation. I accidentally tripped this kid and he wanted to fight. He was a foot smaller than me and looked like he did chemotherapy for a hobby. I'm a selective pacifist, which means if I can take pummel someone, I select to waver my pacifism. So, I chose to give this punk a lesson. All the other kids circled around us and turned it into a real playground cauldron of chanting. Testosterone and bad ideas swirled as one. Next thing, a four appeared above the kid’s head - an actual four. After I scraped my jaw from the floor, I used every excuse in the book to avoid getting my head smashed in. I lost some street cred' but kept my teeth. Good thing too. A week later, he put Butch Rivera, school bully and most likely to become a bear, in hospital.

My powers weren't just for self-preservation though. Dad realised he could make some money from them too. We would wait for a boxing match to be announced. Drive down to the press conference, to see the boxers promoting the fight and I’d see their numbers. Dad would then put money on the higher number, and they'd win every time. It's like my powers understood the sweet science behind boxing and could tell who was the most dangerous with their fists. We went to Tokyo, first class, off the back of one of Dad's bets.

By the way, my powers only work on people I'm near. Everything on the television is numberless.

My powers also work on animals. You know those big muscular guys that walk around with those huge dogs with muzzles on them? Guess what? They're all ones, every last one of them. The real vicious ones are those little terriers. Twos and threes some of them. Vicious little things! Squirrels are ones, pigeons are ones and spiders are ones. Lions are 5s, even the cuddly ones in the zoo. I’ve never seen a lion with less than that.

I love my powers, I really do. I just wish they helped me with the ladies. A little flying or super strength, now and then, wouldn't go a miss.

Take this new girl that's started working at my store. She is something else. Her hair is perfection, like every God ever created sat down and worked together to sculpt it. Her walk spits in the face of every runway model ever! And her face... Honestly, I hear music when I stare at her for too long. It’s real deep classical stuff with harps and lyres. Probably be too mushy for Keats and Shelley.

But… she doesn't even notice me. Nothing.

-->

And I'm not sure how to say this but she might be a ten. It popped up above her head the first morning she walked in. It has to be a mistake though, a consequence of her hotness. She's messing with my radar somehow. I mean a part from teenage heart attacks and men fighting to the death for her love, how could she be the most dangerous creature on the planet?