The Devil doesn’t always wearBalenciaga, writes Katherine Bennett

During my teens I fell in with a crowd of disaffected older youths.  We skipped school and spent our days in the underpass smoking cigarettes before moving on to harder drugs.  I lied to my parents and went clubbing at weekends to notorious goth clubs in the city looking like Morticia Addams. 

I could feel myself falling into a hole that I knew would be hard to get out of, even at the time, and I was frightened.  After a vision of me in a black wedding dress and veil, my mum went to our parish priest and asked for his help. She was right to be concerned and she rightly knew the source of the threat.