by Anna Day
A tray of coffee and bourbons has been laid out in anticipation of our visit. I sit beside Violet, recline in my chair and push my sunglasses on to my head. The key with Timothy is to act cool, to never show your weaknesses. Masks matter, that’s what Dad always says. The impression you give the world defines you, and once you let that mask slip, there’s no going back.
Timothy sits opposite us. ‘Alice, you look amazing.’ His smile is so bleached I consider replacing my shades. ‘When The Gallows Song is turned into a film we must see that you’re an extra, a Gem, obviously. It will drum up some lovely publicity for you.’
I smile politely. We all know the offer is futile; Violet and I have barely left the house in a year and now we’re starting university degrees.
He looks at Violet. ‘And Violet, my sweet Parma Violet, how’s that brother of yours?’
‘No change,’ she says.
I squeeze her hand. Mostly for her benefit, but also for mine. I miss Nate so much, it makes my stomach ache.
Timothy’s smile melts into an expression of sympathy. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, really, I am.’
The puppy-dog eyes vanish and he switches to business mode so seamlessly it’s a little unnerving. ‘So . . . I asked you here to discuss something very important, something I didn’t want to put in an email.’ He picks up the coffee pot, ready to pour, but stops just at the crucial moment. ‘Your next book,’ he says.
Excitement fizzes in my stomach. ‘Oh yes. Violet and I have had a few ideas. One of our mates plays the cello and we thought an orchestra might be a good backdrop—’
He laughs. ‘No, no. The next book in The Gallows Dance trilogy.’
Violet and I stare at each other. An expression crosses her features which I can’t quite place. Book three is a sore point for her. I’ve never worked out why, but with Nate in a coma and her parents close to a meltdown, I haven’t pushed it.
I wait for her response, aware that this is her battle, but when she freezes, I step in. ‘It isn’t a trilogy.’
He hands me a cup of coffee. It’s really bloody hot, but I’ll be damned if I let him see how bad it burns.
He watches me. ‘Come now, Alice. This is dystopia. Bad things happen in threes.’
Violet finds her voice, even though it shakes slightly. ‘There isn’t going to be a third book. It was written as the last part of a duology, you know that. It’s why we called it The Gallows Song, because it sounded a bit like swansong. Alice and I left the characters in a world they’d want to live in. A world Nate would want to live in. I know it sounds crazy.’
Timothy widens his eyes like he’s dying to shout: Hell yes, crazy lady.
‘There’s nothing crazy about wanting a happy ending,’ I say.
Violet throws me a grateful smile.
‘At least hear me out,’ Timothy says, clapping his hands together. ‘The Gallows Song has only been out a couple of months, but it’s already an international success. You turned a dystopia into a utopia. But there’s one small problem.’ He sips his coffee, giving him the excuse to leave a dramatic pause. ‘Utopias suck.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Violet says. She sometimes does that when she’s taken aback, ages fifty years and sounds like my gran.
‘It’s a fact,’ he says. ‘I take it you saw that review yesterday. I mean, the Daily Dystopia is one of our biggest platforms, we need to take heed.’
‘Review is just another word for opinion,’ Violet says, channelling Katie’s fight.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘But they’ve got a point. The world is a scary place, our futures are full of uncertainty. Sales of 1984 and The Handmaid’s Tale are through the roof for a reason. Readers don’t want an unattainable, fairy-tale ending which can never be achieved, they want a book which explores their fears, reflects their concerns, captures the current milieu.’ He picks up a plate and shoves it in front of Violet’s face. ‘Biscuit?’
‘Uh, no thanks,’ she says.
I take the plate from his hand and place it back on the table. Nobody force-feeds my bestie. ‘Did you rehearse that speech in front of the mirror, Timothy?’ I ask, my tone clipped.
‘Several times. Was it that obvious, my darlings?’ He always does this. Wraps up bad news in charm, like little shit parcels. You undo the big red bow, carefully fold back the tissue paper, only to discover a turd. ‘Our researchers have been tracking your Fandom carefully online, trawling through chatrooms, fanfic, bloggers and vloggers and so on. Everything points to the exact same thing.’ He stands and walks to the piano-shelf. I can make out the dark hairs shaved close against his chin. ‘The Fandom is hungry. And when something is hungry, what’s the obvious thing to do?’
‘Feed it,’ I say.
He nods. ‘And this Fandom seems to want a healthy portion of conflict.’
Violet speaks out. ‘OK, so the world’s scary, but surely that means the readers want something good to hold on to. That’s why fairy tales were so popular in difficult times, they promised a better life filled with love and friendship and comfort. They gave people hope.’
He begins to pull books from the shelf. ‘You’re talking about stories written for infants, Violet. Your Fandom is predominantly young adult.’ He places the books on the table, fanning them out with one smooth motion so I can read the covers. Divergent. A Clockwork Orange. The Handmaid’s Tale. 1984. The Hunger Games. ‘Young adults want paranoia, because Big Brother is watching them. They want violence and retribution, because that’s what they see in the media every day. They want sex, because their bodies are overflowing with urges and hormones.’ Finally, he pulls out The Gallows Dance by Sally King and places it on the top of the pile, triumphant. ‘They want this. Tragedy, passion, loss . . . that’s why the Daily Dystopian changed their rating, my darlings; they were feeding the beast. And you need to do the same.’
‘But we told you,’ Violet says, her voice a little shrill. ‘We told you right from the start we would only write one book. You promised us that would be it.’ All of the colour has drained from her face. Why does this matter to her so much? I need to find out, but now is not the time; she looks like she’s about to puke.
Timothy breathes out, long and slow. ‘Look, why don’t you come to Comic-Con on Saturday. I’m doing a panel with Russell Jones, the actor who plays Willow.’
‘We know who Russell Jones is,’ I snap.
Timothy ignores me. ‘Come and meet your Fandom, sign some books . . . think about what that third book would mean to your readers. Comic-Con is, well . . . it’s where the Fandom is at its strongest.’
Just the thought of going back to Comic-Con makes my heart race and my head spin. It makes me think of earth tremors and waking up in hospital one week later. It makes me think of Nate still sleeping. And it makes me think of . . . of . . . things I can’t even begin to make sense of. Things which gnaw at the edges of my dreams and bring tears to my eyes from the sheer effort of NOT thinking about them.
No. I can never go back to Comic-Con.
I put my shades back on, just in case I’m tearing up, and stand from my chair. Then, pushing back my shoulders and summoning my best ‘screw-you’ voice, I say, ‘Look, Timothy, Comic-Con is absolutely out of the question. And if you need to ask either of us why, then frankly, you are not entitled to call yourself a human being.’ I’d planned a dramatic exit, head held high, Violet beside me mentally giving him the finger. But the desk blocks my way.
He takes the opportunity to clasp my palm in his dry, steady hands. ‘Please do think about it, my darlings.’ And just before we leave, he drops a final, parting shit-bomb on us from a great height. ‘You’re both so talented and I would hate to have to ask another of my authors to write it.’
3
ALICE
Violet and I walk back to the tube station in silence. My body feels heavy and my brain aches. Even the hum of central London doesn’t cheer me up.
Finally, Violet speaks. ‘Surely he can’t let someone else write the third book. I mea
n, we invented new characters for God’s sake, a whole new plot line. He can’t just give it to someone else to build on. Wouldn’t it be theft?’
‘You’d think so.’
‘What did the contract say?’ she asks.
I remember the contract well. Violet was so cut up about Nate, she left all the legal stuff to me. I had Olivia, our agent, look over it. She said it was fair, that someone else could write the sequel if the publishers and Sally King’s estate wanted. The concept wasn’t ours.
I swallow down an unfamiliar bitter taste. ‘Dunno. Bloody agents, hey? They’re worse than editors.’
‘Maybe we should talk to Olivia,’ she says.
Panic flickers in my chest. ‘Does it matter now? It is what it is.’
‘But there must never be a third book, Alice. It doesn’t matter who writes it. I can’t explain it, but I feel like the world of the Gallows Dance should be left alone. We wrote them a lovely ending, regardless of what that bastard review said. It was an ending filled with hope and possibilities, and now they’re free to live their lives.’
The passion in her voice unsettles me. Why does this matter to her so much? She said she can’t explain it. And truth is, I’m afraid to ask. Afraid to pick at those unanswered questions. Afraid to pick at that scab. I up my pace, the concrete reassuringly hard beneath my heels. ‘Violet, I know you get pissy when I say this, but they’re just characters. Even Nate. Sure, we based him on your little brother, but that was because we knew how chuffed he’d be when he woke up.’
‘Yes, well, in case you hadn’t noticed, he hasn’t woken up yet.’
It feels like she’s punched me. ‘Of course I’ve noticed.’ I drop my voice. ‘I love him too.’
We turn a corner and the tube sign comes into view.
‘I know you do.’ She touches my hand, her voice softening. ‘Sorry.’
I sling an arm around her narrow shoulders and hug her against me. ‘It’s OK. We both miss him, it makes everything a bit . . . raw.’ My eyes struggle to adjust to the lack of light as we drop down the steps into the tube station. I leave my shades on all the same.
‘I still think we should ring Olivia,’ she says. ‘Just to make sure Timothy isn’t bluffing.’
Oh crap, oh crap. That bitter taste is back. Maybe it’s my conscience, repeating on me like a bitch. I should have told her about the contract. We reach the bottom of the steps and I catch her by the hands so we face each other. I take a deep breath and force myself to speak. ‘He isn’t bluffing, Violet.’
Her face drops. ‘You knew about this? You knew someone else could write the sequel if we refused?’ She looks like she did when she was four years old, getting knocked into the prickly hedge outside nursery again and again by Gary Walsh. Too hurt to even cry. Back then, it was me who saved her, me who scared away the bad guys. This time, I’m Gary Walsh. Worse, I’m the pigging hedge.
‘Olivia said there wasn’t much we could do about it.’ My voice sounds cold, which is strange because my chest burns red hot with the effort of holding back the tears.
‘Well, you could have told me,’ she says.
‘And what would you have done?’
‘I don’t know. But I would have at least tried to get the contract changed.’ She begins to walk again. I don’t think she’s freezing me out, she just can’t bear to look at me.
‘I didn’t think it was a big deal,’ I say, catching her up.
‘You knew it was a big deal to me.’ She suddenly stops, as though a terrible thought has smacked her round the head. ‘Did you plan this?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You knew the threat of someone else writing the third book would make me agree to write it.’ She slaps her bank card on to the reader.
Wow. Another punch in the gut. ‘Jeez, Violet. I’m not some evil mastermind.’
We reach the platform. The grumble of an approaching train creeps through the soles of my Jimmy Choos.
She gazes at the open mouth of the tunnel. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she whispers.
The air begins to stir, lifting my hair from my neck. And suddenly, Violet doesn’t look like Violet any more. She looks like every other girl who judges me on the height of my heels. Anger swirls in my stomach. I grab her arm, forcing her to look at me. ‘Why are you even my friend? You clearly think I’m a cow.’
She’s looks as mad as I feel. Her jaw bone sticks out and her nostrils flare. The train approaches and the wind chucks her hair around her face. She’s in full-on Carrie mode. Thank God there’s no crucifix nearby. She shouts over the din, ‘So if I refuse, will you write another sequel without me?’
The carriage windows ripple past as the train pulls alongside us. I see my own face gazing back at me from the windows. Mascara-stained tears run from beneath my sunglasses. Dad would not approve, but I’m past caring. ‘Of course not, how could you even think that?’
‘Because you’ve betrayed me before,’ she screams.
Her words stun us both. We stand still, jostled by the tourists getting on and off the train.
‘When?’ I say. ‘What are you on about?’
She shakes her head quickly. Carrie has officially left the building and Violet looks completely lost. Bewildered. I’m about to ask her again, but she wriggles from my grip and steps into the tide of passengers, allowing herself to get swept through the carriage doors.
I don’t follow her. ‘When?’ I mouth at her through the window.
She stands close to the door, gripping the yellow pole like it’s the only thing real in her life.
‘Violet, when?’ I mouth.
But the train pulls away and she doesn’t even look at me.
VIOLET
That night, I dream of the strange old lady again.
I stand in an orchard. It’s filled with leaves and gold light and the thick scent of summer. The branches waver above me and a changing web of lights and darks crosses my skin. I’m just starting to think how familiar this place is, when I see the old lady again. She has her back to me, and when she turns, I see just how green her eyes are.
She blinks slowly. ‘Violet, my child. It’s so good to see you again.’
‘Where have you been?’ I ask. When I first woke from the coma, she visited me most nights, talking in gentle tones, calming my nightmares. But it’s been months since I’ve seen her.
She smiles. ‘You haven’t needed me for a while, my child.’
Without warning, the sky darkens, clouds gelling together to form a grey, dense canopy which sucks any warmth from the air. She moves far quicker than her old body should allow, grabbing my wrists and squeezing hard. The strength in her fingers surprises me.
I suppress a yelp. ‘You’re hurting me.’
But she doesn’t stop. ‘There must never be a third book, Violet. You and Alice excelled yourselves, you gave us back our freedom, in more ways than one. You broke the loop, and finally we’re happy.’
‘It’s just a book,’ I say, trying to wrench myself free.
‘Do you really think that?’ Rain spots her face.
My wrists crack. I twist my arms, pumping them back and forth, trying to shake her off, but she’s too strong, and eventually, I fall still.
I trace her line of sight and find myself looking up, through leaves and twigs and fruit towards the angry sky. What is it about this place? I’ve been here before. I get the feeling I’m reaching deep into my memories, leaning as far as I dare over a pool of confusing sounds and smells and images, and yet still, there’s something just beyond my grasp – something of vital importance, some missing puzzle piece. Is it just a book? I shake my head. ‘No. It’s more than that.’
Her mouth yawns open – I can just make out the shape of her teeth under her gums. ‘It feels like things have already started to turn, like the winds have changed and there’s nothing I can do about it.’ The breeze lifts her hair and shakes her skirt, carrying on it the scent of lilies and woodsmoke.
‘What do you mean?’ I
ask. The clouds collapse beneath their own weight, releasing a torrent of water. My clothes stick to my skin within seconds.
‘My powers are not what they were,’ she shouts, her voice struggling to overpower the thwack of rain against earth. ‘Nate’s safe, at least for now. But I sense trouble ahead, trouble in both worlds.’
And just before my head reels, just before the colours of the orchard melt into the quiet hues of my bedroom, she lays her hands on my sodden temples and says: ‘It’s time for you to remember, Little Flower.’
I wake with a start, covered in sweat, heart thrumming, ears ringing, one singular thought clear in my brain: The old woman is Baba.
Not book-Baba or film-Baba. Not some fictitious character. Actual, real-life, air-breathing, thought-sucking, riddle-talking Baba.
I sit bolt upright, heaving in mouthfuls of air.
Baba’s real.
Of course she is. It seems so obvious now. I remember her soft, doughy skin, her gummy smile, the ache of her palms as they rested on my temples.
Baba’s real.
Then it hits me.
‘The Gallows Dance is real,’ I whisper. It sounds ridiculous, so I say it again, this time louder. ‘The Gallows Dance is real.’ I fling back my duvet, my sweat-drenched pyjamas transforming from cotton to cling film. ‘I was there.’ And for the first time since I woke from that coma, thinking doesn’t feel like swimming through porridge. That patchwork of disjointed pictures, sounds and aromas begins to knit into something meaningful and seamless.
A map.
No. More than that.
A story.
My story – with climaxes and twists, loss and joy, terror and betrayal.
I remember everything.
Rose died. I took her place. I fell for the boy with eyes the colour of winter. Ash is real, I think to myself. Ash is real.
I try to stand, but instead sink into my carpet.