The Fandom Rising

by Anna Day

  I blink, confused. ‘Is that what this about? You’re trying to convince me I’m losing the plot just so you don’t have to write another book?’

  ‘Christ, Alice. This really matters. These people are real, and you’re forgetting something very important.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We wrote in a new character when we wrote The Gallows Song.’

  Her words smack me in the face. I can’t hear this. I can’t hear this. I swallow hard. ‘Nate,’ I manage to whisper.

  She looks at me with her big brown eyes. With Nate’s big brown eyes. ‘Please, Alice. I need your help.’

  But because I’m terrified, because I’m in denial, because I don’t want to drown in a wave of blood, I walk away.

  5

  VIOLET

  ‘Let her go,’ Katie says from behind me.

  I watch Alice walk away. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’ I ask Katie.

  ‘I don’t know, Vi. It does sound far-fetched.’

  I turn to face her. ‘But you saw me on the gallows, you saw me hang.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, and I do have a faint memory of Alice jumping on the stage and shouting out . . .’

  ‘“I love you, Violet”,’ I finish for her.

  She studies my face, I mean really studies it. ‘I’ll talk to Carol about it, see what she says.’

  ‘Carol?’

  ‘My therapist.’

  ‘She’ll ask you to pass on her number.’

  ‘Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.’

  Instinctively, we begin to walk towards the hospital.

  ‘I’m not having an episode, Katie, I swear it. We were really there. You, me, Alice and Nate, we were in The Gallows Dance. Please say you believe me.’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe.’

  We walk the rest of the way in silence.

  There’s always this moment before I walk into Nate’s ward when I expect his bed to be empty, the sheets pulled taut across the mattress, the machines beside him abandoned and quiet. And next to that smooth, unused bed, I expect to see him. Standing tall, eyes open, smiling. He never is, of course. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but whatever it is, it’s a form of self-torture, because as soon as my eyes fall upon his waxy skin and slack face, I can’t help but feel the slap of disappointment.

  But today, for the first time in over a year, I don’t feel disappointed. I feel bloody livid. Because I now know why Nate didn’t wake up when Alice, Katie and I did. He died when we were stuck in The Gallows Dance. Obviously, I don’t know the ins and outs, the scientific explanation. It would probably make my monkey brain explode, as President Stoneback once told me, condescending bastard. But I have a sense of it. When Nate died in The Gallows Dance, he died in the real world. The medics brought him back, but they couldn’t bring him all the way.

  I perch on Nate’s bed, my body shaking with emotion. If Nate really is awake and well in an alternate universe, what does that mean for this Nate, for the waxy, still boy lying beside me? Could this Nate somehow be linked to the Nate who Alice and I wrote? I study his face, and can’t help wondering what’s going on in his head; is he dreaming of broken cities and beautiful, symmetrical faces, or is it just a blank nothingness?

  I try and match the rhythm of my breath to the rasp of his ventilator – it makes me feel connected to him somehow. He looks older than he did when he got shot, even though his muscles are wasting. His face is perhaps more angular, his cheekbones more pronounced. He was fourteen when he fell into a coma, though he looked about twelve. I remember his fifteenth birthday, only a couple of months after I woke. I baked his favourite chocolate cake, same as every year, and held it beneath his nose in case he could smell it. Then me and my parents, Alice and Katie all sang ‘Happy Birthday’ in tear-pinched voices. Maybe he really could hear us.

  He’ll be sixteen soon, so it’s hardly surprising he’s finally starting to look more like a young man and less like a child. It’s just such a shame he isn’t awake to see it; he always hated the fact he looked so young. I know the kids at school used to call him ‘titch’, or if they were feeling mean, ‘the pubeless wonder’. I touch his cheek. It’s only a bit fuzzy, but he definitely needs a shave. I’ll ask the nurse if I can do it later.

  I’d hoped that seeing Nate would bring clarity, would allow me to see how the whole alternate universe thing would affect him. But I’m still clueless. Disappointment and frustration combine to form a heavy, leaden feeling throughout my body.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Katie asks. Her hand on my shoulder pulls me from my thoughts.

  I can’t figure this out on my own, I need her to remember too. I quickly check the nurse has gone – she has – so I pull back the sheets and lift up Nate’s pyjama top.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Katie asks.

  ‘You know what I’m doing.’

  The once-red circle has faded to a pearly scar, slightly raised and crinkled.

  ‘It could be anything,’ she says.

  ‘It’s a bullet wound.’ I tuck the blankets back around him. ‘He died in The Gallows Dance, that’s why he can’t wake up.’

  She frowns. ‘I remember a lot of weird shit, but I don’t remember Nate dying.’

  ‘You weren’t there when it happened, that’s why.’

  ‘Is that why you wrote him into The Gallows Song?’ Katie asks. ‘To give him life in another universe?’

  ‘Maybe. Although I didn’t know it at the time.’

  She slides her hand from my shoulder and I suddenly feel very cold. I stroke Nate’s arm, just wishing I didn’t feel so alone. ‘They tried to chop off his hands when we were there,’ I say, tracing the line of his knuckles with my fingers. ‘Just because he wasn’t wearing his regulation gloves.’

  ‘Violet, I really think you should talk to someone, a professional I mean. I know these memories seem real, but they can’t be.’

  I ignore her and lift his hand from the bed, pointing to his wrist. ‘They put tourniquets right here, I remember how scared he looked, kneeling on the ground with his arms stretched out in front of him.’ The image of the glinting scythe bursts into my head, causing my stomach to contract. I begin to sketch an invisible line around his wrist, the place the scythe would have cut had Alice not appeared. I slowly rotate his hand so I can see the underbelly of his wrist, so pale and smooth, the blue veins resting just beneath the surface like faint rivers on a map.

  And that’s when I see it.

  Several inches above his wrist. A small, dark mark. A mole perhaps. But the centre is missing so it looks more like a tiny, black polo tattooed on to his skin.

  I know that mark, I’ve seen it before. I squeeze my eyes shut, sifting through memories as fast as I can. Where have I seen that mark?

  ‘Violet? What is it?’ Katie asks.

  ‘This mark, it’s new.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She leans in to get a better look.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s just a mole, surely?’

  I run my finger over it. Completely smooth. ‘No, it has a slightly blue tinge, more like ink, and the middle is missing.’

  ‘Oh yeah, that is weird. Do you think one of the nurses did it?’

  I shake my head. ‘Why on earth would they do that?’

  She shrugs.

  ‘I’ve seen it before. I just can’t think where.’ I move closer, so my nose almost touches his arm. It isn’t a perfect hoop. Its edges are irregular and it thins right down before thickening up again. It’s too small to make any sense of. I sit up, frustrated. ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘It’s just a bit of ink.’ Katie says. ‘One of the nurses probably splattered him with their fountain pen when they were writing notes.’ But I can tell from the way her voice wavers she isn’t convinced.

  ‘Seriously, take a look. It’s some sort of symbol.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’ She sounds afraid, not defiant.

  ‘Katie, don’t be wet. I need you right now.’


  She blinks a few times. For a second, I think she’s going to walk away, but my words must do the trick, because she tucks her hair behind her ears, matter-of-factly, and bends down. ‘Yeah, it’s weird. What is it? A wreath, maybe?’

  ‘No, it thins out too much, just here.’ I point. It makes my fingertip look so fat. ‘It’s too bloody small, I need a magnifying glass.’

  ‘OK, Sherlock, I’ve got one in my pocket, right next to my pipe.’

  I grab my phone. It’s a really good one, I bought it with part of my advance, telling myself I would use it to write, but in all honesty, I just wanted a good phone. I zoom in on the mark, as close as I can without blurring the detail. Snap.

  ‘Genius,’ Katie says. She sits beside me on the bed and I can feel her thigh trembling against mine.

  I blow up the mark so it fills the screen. It’s a rat, curled in a circle.

  Katie tips her head to one side. ‘Is that a sleeping mouse?’

  I shake my head. ‘It isn’t sleeping.’

  ‘It looks pretty cosy to me.’

  ‘It’s eating its tail.’ I point to the open mouth, sure enough, swallowing down half of its tail.

  ‘Ew,’ Katie says.

  ‘Still think it’s a bit of fountain pen leakage?’

  She shakes her head, and I notice she’s gone white. I feel a jolt of guilt, thinking of how freaked out she must be. But I wasn’t lying, I do need her right now.

  ‘How did it get there?’ Katie asks. ‘Someone must have crept into his ward and tattooed him without anybody noticing, that’s totally bizarre.’

  I gaze into her pea-green eyes. ‘What if the someone wasn’t from this world?’

  Her skin fades again. I didn’t realize anyone could turn so pale, her freckles – usually fair – stand out dark russet against her cheeks. ‘What do you mean?’

  I try to talk slowly, for her sake, but the words pour out of me all the same. ‘What if this happened to the other Nate, the Nate in the alternate universe, and it’s crossed over on to this Nate’s body.’

  ‘What?’

  I begin to laugh, excitement pulsing through my veins. ‘They’re linked, Katie.’

  ‘Who’s linked?’

  ‘This Nate and the other Nate, the Nate who Alice and I created, Nate from The Gallows Song. They’re linked.’

  Katie covers her eyes with her hands. ‘Violet, this isn’t funny. I’ve had a year of therapy, a whole year.’

  I gently prise her hands from her eyes, as though I can help her see more clearly. ‘If Nate is really over there, then maybe I can bring him home. Maybe this Nate, the real Nate, will wake up.’

  I get home just before tea, exhausted from all the excitement and lack of sleep. The scent of roast chicken fills the hall and my stomach growls accordingly. I enter the kitchen-diner, and the checkerboard tiles and shiny surfaces make me feel calm, if only for a moment.

  Mum glances up from her saucepan. ‘I made your favourite, sweetie. Roast chicken with all the trimmings.’

  Today’s Friday. Mum only makes a non-Sunday roast when she’s trying to pull the family together over something – a poor test result, an argument between me and Nate, that sort of thing. Nate and I always used to joke that she thought she could glue things back together with bread sauce and gravy. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater instead of her work clothes, and the dark crescents beneath her eyes look painted on. Something isn’t quite right.

  ‘Didn’t you go to work today?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head, avoiding eye contact.

  Dad walks through the door, dressed in a Nirvana T-shirt which must date back to the last century. They’ve both taken the day off, and they both look knackered. A feeling of unease spreads through me.

  ‘Hey, pudding.’ He touches the top of my head. ‘What you been up to?’

  I shrug. ‘Just visiting Nate.’

  They glance at each other, their faces tight.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  Mum starts dishing up, moving around the pots and pans with the grace of a woman used to juggling kids and work and household chores. Dad starts setting the table, getting the knives and forks the wrong way around, same as always.

  ‘What?’ I say again, swapping the cutlery over so it makes sense.

  Mum sets food on the plates – carrots, chicken, roast potatoes – her cooking looks even better now I can recall my diet of dried bread at the Harper estate in The Gallows Dance.

  ‘Why don’t we eat first?’ Mum says, looking pointedly at Dad. I hate the way parents think they’re so subtle, like they’ve got this magic parent code that their kids can’t decipher, when in reality they’re just rolling their eyes, grimacing or winking in plain sight and it’s bloody obvious.

  ‘Tell me now,’ I say, irritated.

  We take our usual seats. Nate’s empty chair always seems bigger than the rest.

  Dad begins to cut up his chicken. ‘It’s about Jonathan.’

  ‘Yeah, I guessed that. You went all creepy-still when I mentioned his name. Have the doctors said something? Because I was there earlier and I didn’t see you guys, and nobody mentioned anything.’

  Mum takes a little too long tipping salt on her dinner, I can see the crystals shining from her carrots and melting into the gravy.

  ‘I think that’s enough salt, Mum,’ I say, reaching across the table and taking it from her hand.

  She laughs, stiff and brittle like she’s trying not to cry. I’ve come to know it as her ‘glass jar laugh’. This fragile, transparent container, unable to hide the sadness inside.

  ‘Has his GCS score deteriorated?’ I ask. The Glasgow Coma Scale is a measurement the doctors use; deterioration would be very bad. My stomach churns and the scent of chicken seems to transform into something vinegary and unpleasant in my nostrils.

  Dad stares at his plate. ‘It isn’t that, Violet.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Your mum and I had a really long chat today.’ He glances at her and tries to smile. ‘We made a really hard decision, a big decision, and I hope you’ll support us.’

  I don’t like the sound of this. I begin to feel full-on sick. ‘What?’

  He stares at his chicken. ‘We’re withdrawing Nate’s care.’

  My first reaction is to laugh, but it’s fuelled by shock and growing terror. ‘Withdrawing care? What does that mean?’

  He finally looks at me, tears glazing his eyes. ‘We’re turning off his respirator.’

  6

  VIOLET

  My fork clatters against the table, sending a streak of gravy across the table. ‘You’re what?’ Dad’s face doesn’t belong to him any more; it belongs to a much older man, a sadder man. All of the sparkle stripped away. ‘I’m sorry, darling. But it’s been well over a year and there’s no improvement.’

  ‘Mum?’ The word leaves my lips like I’m five again.

  She stands and moves around the table so she can clasp me to her chest. It’s warm and smells of star anise and jasmine. I can feel her heart beating really fast. ‘We need to let him go, Violet. We need to mourn our son.’

  I push her away. ‘But he isn’t dead.’

  Mum tries to hold me again, so I stand from my chair and take a step back. ‘He’s just sleeping.’

  She holds my gaze with those big, watery Mum eyes. Her hands begin to twitch and I can tell she’s aching to hold me. ‘He isn’t going to wake up. The doctors told us, we’ve been holding on for, I don’t know what . . .’

  ‘For a miracle,’ Dad says.

  ‘But miracles can happen,’ I say. ‘Alice, Katie and me, we all woke up suddenly, within minutes of each other. That was a miracle.’

  ‘Please, Violet,’ Mum says, her face pleading. ‘This is going to be hard enough without you fighting us on it. We need your support on this.’

  ‘I will never support you killing my brother.’

  ‘We’re not killing him,’ she says. ‘We’re setting him free.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ I shout. ‘Absolute bollocks.’ I s
wipe my hands through the air, the shock crystallizing into something hard and angry. ‘How could you even consider this? Murdering your own son, my brother. And what? You came up with this in a day? You both took the day off work and just decided this? Like you’re planning a holiday or a house move or something?’

  They both get this stunned look, like I’ve just reached out and smacked them. There’s a long pause, and I think maybe Dad’s about to change his mind – his hands playing anxiously around his face – but he doesn’t. ‘Please try to understand,’ he says.

  ‘You can’t kill him now,’ I say, my voice collapsing into a breathy rasp. ‘Not now. There’s something you wouldn’t understand, something I don’t really understand, but I’m figuring it out . . . I found this mark on his wrist, I don’t know what it means yet, but I think it means they’re linked.’ The words taste sharp and hot as they leave my mouth.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Dad asks.

  ‘I think I can bring him back,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Mum says. ‘Just don’t say that.’ She starts to cry. And not that delicate, feminine crying you see on the television; we’re talking snot and tears and a strange rattling noise like she can’t quite breathe, like that glass jar finally shattered, blocking her throat with tiny shards. ‘I can’t even bear to think it,’ she manages to gasp.

  I understand where she’s coming from, really I do – false hope can sting more than a straight, honest loss. And even though I’m still mad, still desperate, I love my mum and I can’t bear to see her so upset. I wrap my arms around her and she folds into me, like I’m the mother and she’s the daughter. Suddenly, Dad is behind us. I never even noticed him stand. He holds us both in a massive bear hug and rests his head on mine. His body sways as he takes great, jerky breaths of air.

  I take a second to order my thoughts: I can’t tell them about The Gallows Dance. They’ll never understand. They’ll probably have me committed, and then what use will I be to Nate? I have to buy some time. Think, Violet, think. And suddenly, sandwiched between my parents, held safe in a pocket of hot breath and tears, I have an idea.