by Anna Day
A MESSAGE FROM CHICKEN HOUSE
Violet, Alice, Katie and Nate face the very real consequences of fan fiction in this dramatic and pacy sequel. They left a burgeoning utopia – but now, the story is continued by a mysterious writer online . . . and it’s turning dark. Alice is the only one able to find the rogue writer and save the lives of her friends, trapped in a story that’s trying to kill them. Hold on tight: this is a heart-pounding roller coaster of a thriller from Anna Day – and watch out for a TV series in the making!
BARRY CUNNINGHAM
Publisher
Chicken House
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Copyright
For Mum and Dad
PROLOGUE
In less than a week, my brother will die. I’ve said these words to myself over and over, yet somehow they don’t seem real. Because while Nate lies in that hospital bed, laced up with tubes, chest rising and falling, there’s still hope I can save him. Even if it means doing the thing I fear the most: returning to that God-awful place.
1
VIOLET
Alice looks at the list on my desk. ‘I can’t believe you wrote a list, it’s ages until uni. You’re such a planner.’
I swipe the sheet of paper from beneath her nose, annoyed at myself for leaving it in plain sight, especially with the words ‘Jumbo tampons’ scrawled at the bottom. ‘Lists stop me worrying so much, you know that.’ I’m starting university in September and I’m bricking it. This is the twenty-fifth list I’ve made, and it’s only July.
‘What’s there to worry about?’ Alice says. ‘We’ll know each other and we’re totally going to hit freshers’ week.’ Her mouth slides into a half-smile. ‘Especially armed with those jumbo tampons.’
But I can tell she’s bricking it too. The skin around her eyes tightens and she fiddles with her hair.
Katie lounges on my bed, clutching her iPad and scrolling through NME. ‘I hope it’s more than jumbo tampons you’ll be introducing to your vagina this year, Violet.’
‘Will you stop with all this virgin crap,’ I say. ‘It’s like being back at school.’ I tug the curtains shut, hiding the remnants of dusk, hoping my friends will take the hint and leave so I can go to bed. Since the weird dreams stopped – the ones featuring the strange old woman with apple-green eyes – I’ve been binge sleeping. It’s been so good, not feeling tired all the time.
Katie laughs, the freckles on her nose widening with her smile. ‘I’m only teasing. I know you’re saving yourself.’
‘Some day my prince will come,’ Alice sings in a high-pitched Snow White warble.
‘I don’t want a prince,’ I say. ‘I want the exact opposite, an anti-prince, someone real and honest . . .’ I tail off before those familiar images worm their way into my brain again, images which confuse the hell out of me, stirring up my insides with a muddle of excitement, fear and longing. Images of feathers bursting into the air, eyes the colour of winter, black hair against translucent skin.
Alice spins in my swivel chair, clearly bored now Queer Eye has finished. ‘Well, freshers’ fair will be awash with teenage boys lacking in personal hygiene and social graces. You’ll find your anti-prince there.’ Her phone pings. She pulls it from her pocket and starts tapping and swiping, her nails clacking against the screen.
‘Do you think it will be weird?’ Katie asks. ‘What with us being a year older than everyone else.’
‘Nah.’ I perch on the foot of my bed. ‘There’ll be loads of students who took gap years.’
‘Can we call it a gap year?’ Katie asks.
‘We can call it what we want,’ I reply.
‘Fred,’ she says. ‘Can we call it Fred?’
I laugh. ‘You’re bonkers. No wonder you’re in therapy.’ It jumps out of my mouth before my brain can stop it. But fortunately, Katie doesn’t take offence. I would hate her to think I’m mocking her for seeing a therapist. She has nightmares and flashbacks, that’s all she’s told us. Though we all know why, we just try not to talk about the super-sized elephant slumbering in the corner.
All three of us sat our A levels late, somehow passed, and took a year out. Alice and I were approached by a publisher right after we woke from our comas – the combination of her fan-fiction popularity and the media attention surrounding the incident at Comic-Con, I suppose. We co-wrote and published The Gallows Song, sequel to The Gallows Dance, in record time. It gave us the excuse we needed to hide in our rooms and dream about Nate, alive and well.
I glance at our novel’s jacket, framed and hanging on the wall behind a frowning Alice so that it looks like a rectangular thought bubble sprouting from her head. The book’s cover always reminds me of Nate, or more precisely, the loss of Nate. Not that he’s dead. But it sometimes feels like he’s in some halfway house, stopped at the motorway services between destinations. Life . . . over-priced refreshment break . . . death. And it reminds me how stupid I was, actually believing that creating a character in his likeness would somehow breathe life into his waxy, half-dead body. So every time I look at that jacket, I get a double whammy. Nate’s loss. My stupidity. I only leave it up because it was a gift from my parents.
‘Do you think people will know who we are?’ I ask Katie.
‘Of course they will,’ she says. ‘You both wrote a bestseller, and Anime Alice here has shagged Russell Jones.’
‘I bloody wish,’ Alice mutters, still scowling at her phone.
Katie laughs, sweeping her red hair over a shoulder. She’s grown her bob out and it really suits her. ‘We know that. But the rest of the world doesn’t.’
Alice looks up, fixing us with her inky-blue eyes. ‘I stood next to him at Comic-Con. Once. Unless he has a super-stealthy, bendy knob, I can’t quite see how that would work.’ She returns to her screen.
‘Now there’s a headline,’ I say. ‘His knob was so stealthy, it didn’t even rustle.’
‘Ha!’ Katie says. ‘Good one. You’re going to walk this creative writing degree, both of you. I don’t know why you’re bothering, you’ve already written a bestseller.’
‘To feel normal, I guess,’ I say.
We fall quiet. My words nudge a little too close to the strangeness we went through last year.
Alice sighs, shoving her phone in her back pocket. She looks like she’d quite happily punch someone.
‘What was that about?’ I ask her.
She forces a smile. ‘Nothing.’
I immediately know it’s a bad review. She always tries to hide them from me, ever since I burst into tears at our first one-star rating. But I’ve grown immune to them now. ‘It’s OK, I can cope.’
‘It kind of sucks,’ Alice says. ‘I mean, they tagged me in it, who even does that?’
I hold out my hand, de
termined to show how strong I am now.
She stands her ground. ‘Seriously, Violet, I don’t think you should read this one. It’s kind of . . . personal.’
I keep my hand where it is, hovering before her, demonstrating my grit.
She sighs, reluctance weighing down her movements as she unlocks her phone and finds the page for me.
My eyes scan the screen. ‘Daily Dystopian,’ I mutter. ‘They reviewed The Gallows Song when it was first released.’ They’re one of these big fan-based websites. They have followers in the six figures, and their shining review really helped our sequel fly.
Alice shrugs. ‘I told you it sucked. They’ve changed us from five stars to one star.’
‘Can they do that?’ Katie asks, standing beside me so she can read the screen.
‘They can do what they want,’ Alice replies.
I scan the lines; the grit I so clearly felt rapidly dissolves, turning my insides to slush.
As you know, we adored Sally King’s novel, The Gallows Dance, a book in which genetically-enhanced man (the Gems) subjugate non-genetically-enhanced people like you and me (the Imperfects, or the Imps.) We reviewed the sequel, The Gallows Song by Alice Childs and Violet Miller, when it was first released and, if you remember, we gave it a big thumbs up. Well, we’ve since had a reshuffle here at the Daily Dystopia and wanted to update our review. Sadly, it isn’t good, folks. The Gallows Song is completely off-key and out of tune.
‘Oh, you leave music out of this, you two-faced nipple-ache,’ Katie says, reading over my shoulder.
Following the tragic death of Rose, Willow joins forces with some of the other characters from Sally King’s much adored novel: Ash, Baba and, of course, Thorn. Well, the tensions within this group run high, resulting in what can only be compared to chain-watching Jeremy Kyle episodes. But somehow, they manage to lead a revolution and overthrow the dastardly Gem President, imprisoning him somewhere hi-tech and Gem-like. The government is reformed with new players, such as Willow’s dad, and each major city is given an alliance to oversee Imp emancipation. The London alliance is formed by Ash, Willow, Baba and Thorn, which I can only assume paves the way for more Jeremy Kyle magic.
The only breath of fresh air is a new character, Nate. A young Imp with exceptional wit and intelligence, who becomes part of the London alliance. His lack of family is a bit of a well-worn trope, but we loved his fresh take on everything. Sadly, even Nate couldn’t save this sequel. And frankly, Miller’s attempt to milk her brother’s long-term condition left a bad taste in our mouths.
A hurt little noise catches in the back of my throat. Katie squeezes my shoulder, obviously reaching the same bit.
The book ends on a strange open note, a failed attempt at developing a utopia. The sole concrete change is the removal of the Gallows Dance, which was probably the most entertaining part of King’s original novel.
In summary, Childs and Miller got rid of all the good bits of dystopia. They essentially took the diss out of dystopia, and left us with soggy nothing. I bet Sally King is turning in her grave right now.
I feel sick, really sick. Alice and I put everything into The Gallows Song, we built ourselves back up from our comas word by word. This review feels like I’m standing naked in a huge room and everyone is pointing and laughing. And what they said about Nate, about milking his accident, it makes this black anger rise inside me. ‘How could they say that about Nate?’ I manage to say, tears brimming in my eyes.
Alice takes the phone from my hand and hugs me. ‘Oh balls, I knew this would upset you. Ignore them, Vi. They’re just trying to generate conversation, up their views, it’ll be someone else they’re bashing tomorrow.’
Katie hands me a tissue, and I feel a flush of embarrassment that I’m crying over a crappy review again. But Alice was right, this one felt personal.
‘It’s OK to feel upset,’ Katie says. ‘Sit with the emotion, go through it, not round it.’
This makes me smile, I love how she comes out with her therapist’s lines sometimes. It’s like I’m getting second-hand counselling.
‘I better get home,’ Katie says, gathering up her things and shrugging on her cardigan. ‘I’ll see you after my cello lesson tomorrow though, yeah?’ She pulls me into a hug. ‘Review is another word for opinion, you remember that.’ An extra squeeze and she’s gone, leaving Alice and I alone with the hateful words hanging between us.
Alice’s phone pings again. I’d forgotten I was still holding it. I hand it back to her with sweaty, trembling hands.
‘Text from Timothy,’ she says.
Timothy’s our editor. Alice holds up the screen so I can read it too.
Meet me at my office tomorrow,
2 p.m. Very important. I will provide
biscuits.
T x
I check my phone, even though I already know he hasn’t texted me too. I briefly wonder if he means for me to go as well, but Alice and I come as a pair, so if he’s trying to squeeze me out, he can sod right off. ‘Do you think he read the review?’
‘Maybe,’ she replies.
‘Does he really think biscuits will sway us? I swear sometimes he thinks we’re five-year-olds.’
She laughs. ‘Are you in or out?’ Her finger hovers over the screen, itching to tap out a reply.
I can’t help noticing that she didn’t say, Are we in or out? which makes me think she’s going regardless, so I say, ‘In.’
She flashes her beautiful smile. ‘It was the biscuits that did it, wasn’t it?’
‘Every time.’
Her nails frantically click out a sentence.
Agreed. But only if they’re bourbons.
A x
‘Shall I just meet you there?’ she asks. The publisher’s office is near the Natural History Museum, and she knows I like the excuse to drift around it, sipping on a latte and pretending I’m with Nate. It was his favourite outing when we were little. He’d stuff his sandy head full of random facts, hoarding them carefully away, only to spout them off at inopportune moments, like when Aunt Maud came for tea and learnt all about the mating rituals of Pigmy hippos. Pigmy hippos. Funny how the airy ceilings and cool walls of that museum fill me with warmth, yet my own book, The Gallows Song, leaves me hollow on the inside and cold all over. One day I’ll figure it out.
I nod. ‘Yeah, I’ll meet you outside. Don’t go up without me though, the receptionist hates me.’
‘Don’t sweat it, that bitch hates everyone.’ She blows me a kiss and says, ‘Sleep tight, and promise me you won’t read that poisonous gobshite again.’
I blow her one back. ‘I promise.’
2
ALICE
I’m hogging the only full-length mirror in Karen Millen, pressing a lavender dress against me. It’s Mum’s birthday in a few weeks and I want to buy her something she’ll love, something that will make her fling her arms around my neck, exclaiming, ‘Oh Alice, you’re the best daughter in the whole wide world!’ The birds will sing, rainbows will fill the sky . . . you get the idea. We’re about the same build and we’ve got the same colouring; she actually calls me her ‘Mini-me’. If it looks OK on me, it’ll look OK on Mum. Problem is, it doesn’t look OK on me. It drains my skin and emphasizes my veins.
I catch the shop assistant’s eye and she smiles. I look away. I can tell she’s thinking I’m a vain cow. That I’m so narcissistic, I may as well gaze into a river until I die. Well, maybe Narcissus was insecure. Maybe Narcissus was thinking how badly his eyebrows needed waxing. Maybe he died longing not for himself, but for a pair of tweezers.
I wander to the till, feeling a little lost. This is the fourth shop I’ve tried, and I’m yet to find that perfect rainbow-summoning dress. Defeated, I slop it on the counter and offer the assistant my card and a half-arsed smile.
While I’m paying, my phone rings. It’s Violet. ‘Alice, where are you? Timothy is expecting us in ten minutes.’
I glance at my watch. ‘Shit. Sorry, I’ll be there in a s
ec. Tell him I’ve got my period or something, you know, make him blush so bad he can’t get pissed. Hang on a mo.’ I grab the shopping bag and mumble my thanks to the shop assistant. ‘OK, I’m just leaving the shops.’ I weave my way around the autumn collection and step into the air-conditioned dome of the shopping centre.
‘You’re shopping?’ Violet hisses.
‘Maybe. Just a bit. But I’m literally minutes away.
See you soon, love you.’ I slip my phone into my bag.
I pass a group of lads on the escalator. They’re practically drooling, but thankfully, they don’t say anything. I’m so over the whole man thing. Something about Comaville changed me. Since puberty, I’ve been defined by my relationship with boys. If I slept with them, I was a slag. If I didn’t, I was a prick tease. If I was single, I was fair game. If I was in a couple, I was Alice and *insert name*.
I think I forgot how to be just Alice.
As promised, I arrive at Timothy’s office ten minutes later, bang on time. I’ve already rammed the lavender dress into my handbag so Violet doesn’t give me that look. She’s my bestie and I love her, but sometimes she can sit on the judgey side of sanctimonious.
She sees me and grins, visibly relieved at not having to see Timothy alone. I suddenly feel way less bothered about my inability to find a mother-pleasing dress.
‘Good morning,’ I say to the sour-faced receptionist.
She offers me a stiff smile. ‘Good morning. Timothy is ready to see you.’
Timothy’s oak-panelled office always reminds me of the inside of a coffin. A grand, luxurious coffin, but a coffin all the same. A shiver creeps up my spine even though it’s so hot I could fry an egg on his desk.
He sees us and beams. ‘Darlings,’ he says, embracing us each in turn. He pretends he’s late twenties, but me and Violet reckon he’s closer to forty. There’s a full-on dad bod hidden beneath that designer shirt, and Violet said she once made out the beginnings of a comb-over.
‘It’s so wonderful to see you both, please, do sit.’ He gestures to a cluster of leather chairs in the corner of his office, right next to the ceiling-tall bookshelves. One of the shelves is a reconditioned grand piano, tipped on to its side, strings and hammers replaced with rows upon rows of books. It looks like the kind of pretentious crap my parents would buy.