by Anna Day
She nods. ‘I know. Christ, I’m glad I’ve read the books this time.’
‘It will still suck though.’ I feel like it’s my responsibility to tell her this, so she knows what she’s letting herself in for. ‘There’s still violence and poverty and disease. And Baba seemed to think bad things were starting to happen.’
‘What do you mean, bad things?’
‘I don’t know, she didn’t say. But I think it may be related to the mark we found on Nate’s body. I think someone in this universe may have started writing the third book.’
‘OMG. Who?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. Timothy said he had other authors. Maybe one of them has started drafting something, maybe a few people have started to read it, a kind of mini-Fandom, and the changes are manifesting in the world of The Gallows Dance.’
I close my eyes and try not to think about all the terrifying things which await us if this works. The brutality, the hatred, the stench of rotting bird. Instead, I focus on the feathers, the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen and, of course, my brother’s face.
The theme tune to The Gallows Dance begins to play. Violins, cellos and bass drums fill the room. For obvious reasons, I haven’t watched the film since I woke from my coma, and hearing it now is like hearing the voice of an ex-lover, not that I’d know. A combination of nostalgia and anger wells inside.
The theme tune ramps up a notch and the crowd begins to clap. Katie and I are sitting in the middle of a row. I feel kind of trapped, and panic builds on panic, layering inside in my stomach. Timothy climbs on to the platform, his suit shiny and blue beneath the glare of the emerald stage lights. He sits beside a small table, a glass of water waiting for him. Russell Jones follows. He’s as handsome and smug-looking as the first time we met him. The crowd begin to whoop and cheer, and he does a little bow as he makes his way to his chair at the front.
The theme music dips but doesn’t die completely. Timothy waits for the clapping to fade – grin plastered across his tanned face. ‘Hi there.’ His voice sounds like it comes from behind us. He must be wearing a mic. ‘Thanks for coming today everyone. It’s my absolute pleasure to welcome Russell Jones, otherwise known as Willow Harper.’
Russell begins to wave and the room erupts into applause again. A couple of people cheer, and the Nate lookalike behind me begins to whistle. It hits my ear like the discordant call of a steam train.
Timothy again waits for the applause to die down. ‘We wanted to talk about what’s next for the Gallows Dance franchise, both in terms of books and films. Unfortunately, the authors Alice Childs and Violet Miller couldn’t make it,’ he says.
The crowd groans, and I feel a flush of something pleasurable. A room full of people want me. Maybe I should stand up and shout ‘Surprise!’ But I never was great at public speaking, and I want to see where this is going.
Timothy looks serious. ‘They avoid Comic-Con like the plague, understandably. It’s nothing personal, you understand.’
The light above him must be on the blink; his cheeks oscillate between tan and green. And those bloody violins have really started to grate – they begin to sound like they haven’t been tuned in a while.
Timothy doesn’t seem to notice. ‘But first, I have an exciting announcement to make . . .’
This doesn’t sound good.
The pause lengthens and the crowd collectively holds its breath. Timothy clearly loves the power. The flickering of the bulbs increases, like they’re impatient too.
He sits forward in his chair. ‘There’s going to be another instalment.’
The room begins to cheer and clap. A couple of Thorns are bashing their feet against the floor so it feels like a stampede. I begin to feel sick again. Sick with anger, sick with confusion, sick because that bastard light won’t quit.
I turn to Katie, my voice frantic. ‘Alice and I haven’t agreed this, he must have another author.’
But Katie doesn’t even look at me. She’s studying the ceiling, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘Something isn’t right,’ she says. ‘I feel kind of giddy.’
That’s when I remember. The flickering lights – the same as the first crossover. The scent of medicine and burning fabric fills my nostrils.
I try and focus on Katie, but her face seems to shift suddenly to the left.
‘It’s happening,’ I say.
And through the droning violins, the clap of the crowd, the thud of boots, I hear Timothy. Loud and clear and smug. ‘There will be another instalment, my dear Fandom. And rest assured, there will be betrayal, death . . . There will be conflict.’
The crowd erupts into a loud applause. I open my mouth to shout: There must never be a third book. But the words lodge somewhere in my throat.
Somehow I manage to stand, steadying myself on the chair in front. The cosplayers are starting to look at me now, but I don’t care. I have to reach Timothy before I cross over. I have to make him understand that there must never be a third book. Not ever.
I begin to edge my way towards the aisle, my body coated in sweat. The room begins to spin and I think that gasping noise is coming from me, yet still I keep moving. I step on a Thorn lookalike’s toes, lunge over a couple of wannabe Gems, and end up ploughing into another Nate lookalike. My heart aches at the sight of him, and I’m so confused, I begin to think maybe I’ve already crossed over, that maybe this is Nate. But before the excitement can take hold, I hear Timothy’s voice, merging into the screech of the violins.
‘Violet? Violet? Is that you, my darling?’
I can hear the crowd now, murmuring to each other, the applause fading to a mere smattering. I don’t think they quite know how to respond – I must look an absolute sight.
There must never be a third book. The words rise up my throat, but it’s like they’re stuck on my tongue and I can’t for the life of me spit them out. I’m about to enter the world of The Gallows Dance, Katie is about to enter the world of The Gallows Dance, and Timothy’s talking about death and betrayal and conflict like it’s nothing more than a book or a film. I have to make him understand.
I reach the aisle, tripping over my own feet. A security guard appears from nowhere and places two firm hands under my armpits. I think it might be a gentle restraint, but I’m hugely grateful to those hands, because they’ve just saved me from an almighty face-plant.
Timothy chuckles. Over the sound system, through the fug of my brain, he sounds really sinister, and I’m momentarily reminded of the villain from a pantomime. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks.
I force my eyes to his face. Green, tan, green, tan.
I watch as his mouth opens into a huge yawn, the white of his teeth cast in an emerald glow. ‘Let’s hear it for Violet Miller, the co-author of The Gallows Song.’
The sporadic applause strengthens and the ground thunders beneath my shoes. The security guard guides me to the front of the stage, and the stench of medicine makes me want to gag. I’m so close to Timothy now. Maybe I can manage the faintest of whispers. There must never be a third book. Maybe I can tell him before I cross over. But my head is about to explode and a series of images unfold before my eyes: the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen; a scythe raised high and glinting in the sun; Nate bleeding out on my lap; a noose closing around my neck; my feet dancing, searching for solid ground.
The room fills with feathers and bubbles and thistledown. If I wasn’t so confused, so seasick, I would enjoy the beauty of it all – the air alive and swirling like I’m caught in the strangest of snowstorms. But my heart is slamming into my chest, my mouth filling with bile, and it doesn’t help that President Stoneback is staring at me, his face distorted by a passing bubble. Has it happened? Have I already crossed? No. It’s just another cosplayer. I can still hear the theme tune, the rumble of the crowd. I’m still in the real world, and I can still reach Timothy in time.
I smell his aftershave – honey and spice – and he’s leaning from the stage, his grin shining at me through more feathers and thistledown. But beneath t
he grin lies desperation. He knows he’s busted. He reaches towards me and the security guard hoists me on to the platform.
‘Violet, darling, come and meet the Fandom,’ he says.
And just before I hear Katie scream my name, just before I tumble forward, snatching at the backdrop and dragging it from its mount, the words finally emerge. Loud and clear as they catch in Timothy’s mic.
‘There must never be a third book.’
And then there’s only black.
ALICE
Danny leads me up some stairs, towards a door. There’s a poster announcing the Gallows Dance panel and a massive photo of Russell Jones looking like a fairy-tale prince, the kind of prince that would slay the dragon and kiss the princess with blood still warm on his cheeks.
I feel the ground move just as I reach towards the door handle.
‘Whoa,’ Danny says, ‘did you feel that?’
I nod, fear building in my chest.
‘Probably nothing to worry about,’ Danny says. ‘Not like last year.’
Nothing to worry about. Sure. Suddenly, my legs take over and I’m racing through the door. I know exactly what I will see: darkness and smoke, the flicker of a smashed-up light, fallen scaffolding, my friends, sprawled and bleeding.
I enter the room, my heart hammering like crazy inside my chest.
It looks completely unscathed. There’s no smoke, no smashed-up light. It’s just a regular room, filled with chairs and cosplayers. But something isn’t quite right. A crowd gathers, and between the collection of legs and shoes, I can just make out two people lying on the ground.
‘Alice?’ Danny says. ‘Are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
I wish I’d seen a pigging ghost. A ghost I could cope with. Somehow I manage to push my way through the crowd, even though my legs feel like they’re about to give way and I can’t catch my breath. In the centre of the crowd are Violet and Katie. Someone has already put them in the recovery position so that they look like they’re taking an afternoon nap in a rather inconvenient place.
Oh my God. Violet was right, it was real. How could it be real? It’s a book, a film. It simply can’t be real. But I remember last year’s accident at Comic-Con like it was yesterday. I remember waking up in the Coliseum.
The guilt comes quickly, filling me with self-loathing and regret. I release a loud sob, my mask ready to finally slip.
I was too late.
9
VIOLET
I hear a strange, animalistic noise – halfway between a rasp and a cry. Hot breath fills my ear. I try and open my eyes, try to move my hands, but it’s like my brain has been cut off from my body. I wonder if I’m dreaming; trapped in that moment between sleep and waking up. The scent of medicine hangs in my nostrils, thick as smoke . . . maybe it is smoke. Am I dreaming of fire? I hear the strange, animalistic noise again. It’s someone coughing.
The cough becomes a series of words. ‘Please, Vi, you need to walk.’
I recognize the voice. Katie? I try to say, but I can’t move my tongue.
‘You’re too heavy,’ she says. She’s pleading with me – pleading and dragging. I can feel her hands, knife-sharp under my armpits. My foot hits something jagged. Pain shoots up my calf.
‘Bollocks,’ she says, followed by another cough.
I manage to open my eyes. My eyeballs itch from the smoke and I can see only black. I hear this whirring noise, the repetitive clack of something spinning loose, the clang of metal against metal: noises pulled directly from my nightmares. A light flickers high above – a green strobe – and I begin to pick out a tangle of chair legs, the fallen backdrop, and the twinkle of broken glass against the dark boards, like a night sky.
The chairs, the backdrop, the glass . . . I’m at Comic-Con. The room was full of cosplayers, of the Fandom, but now there’s only Katie and me. This strikes me as odd, even in my confused state. I think this happened the first time we crossed over. Russell Jones and Julia Starling just vanished . . . or rather, we vanished.
It dawns on me. Holy shit, we’ve done it – we’ve crossed over again. I get intense palpitations, driven by excitement or terror, or maybe both.
‘For Christ’s sake, Vi. What have you been eating?’ Katie lugs me over another bump. The jolt and the blast of adrenalin shocks my body into action; my feet suddenly respond, aligning under my bulk so they can take my weight. I turn so Katie can wrap an arm around my waist and we flounder towards the fire door, coughing and stumbling, trying not to fall.
Katie leans against the doorframe and catches my eye. Even through the fuzz of smoke and panic, I can tell what she’s thinking: there’s no going back.
And together, we open the door.
ALICE
I feel numb. It’s like I’ve become the mannequin everyone thinks I am. I stare at my two best friends and all I can think is: I should be there too.
A voice cuts over the buzz of the crowd. ‘Alice? Alice? Is that you?’
I squint into the distance, my vision clouded with tears. Timothy strides towards me. I’ve never seen him look so rattled before. ‘Oh Alice, thank goodness you’re OK. I don’t know what happened, really, I just don’t know . . .’ he tails off.
Russell appears beside me. He raises his voice and speaks with sincerity, as though playing a role in a film. ‘An ambulance is on the way. Please, clear the room and don’t take any pictures.’ He holds out his hand to a nearby Thorn wannabe, who hands his phone over with a sheepish grin. Russell deletes the image and hands it back.
The security guards begin shooing people away and the crowd thins. I kneel between my friends, touching them both on the hand. The guilt is crushing. I can barely breathe.
I was too late.
A pair of strong arms wrap around my shoulders. My first instinct is to sink into them, but my rational brain quickly kicks in. Someone is touching me and I don’t know who. I spin to face the owner.
It’s Russell.
He smiles sympathetically. ‘Anime Alice, how on earth has this happened again? I mean, I thought the whole Comic-Con curse thing was a joke.’
My bottom lip begins to quiver.
‘Sensitive,’ I hear Danny mumble.
Russell catches himself. ‘God, I’m so sorry, me and my big mouth.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, trying to stand with a little dignity. ‘It is one hell of a coincidence.’
The paramedics arrive, a blur of green uniforms and precise movements.
Danny takes me by the arm and guides me to a nearby chair. ‘Come and sit down before you faint.’
I let him usher me into a seat, and I clutch at my knees, trying to stop them shaking. Danny gives me a reassuring smile. I try to smile back, but my face isn’t doing what I want at the moment. The paramedics tend to my besties, attaching oxygen masks and checking vitals. Within minutes, they’re loaded on to stretchers and wheeled away. There’s so much to think about, so much to figure out. But I press the pause button on my brain. I just need to get to hospital with them.
‘Can I ride in the ambulance?’ I ask a paramedic.
He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, you’ll have to get there under your own steam.’
I’m too shocked to even think about sticking out my lady lumps and working my magic. I turn to Danny. ‘What should I do?’ I sound like a child.
‘We’ll get a cab. I’ll come with you.’
‘Thanks.’
Russell steps in. ‘It’s OK. I’ll ask my driver to take you to the hospital.’
‘I’ll come too,’ Danny says.
Russell offers him a lazy smile. ‘Sorry, buddy. What with Timothy coming along, car’s full.’
Danny looks at me, determined, his Gandalf beard still gripped in his left hand. ‘I’ll meet you there, then.’
But Russell’s already steering me in the direction of the door.
‘It’s OK,’ I call over my shoulder. ‘I’ll text you later.’
It’s only when I reach Russell’s SUV I rea
lize I don’t have Danny’s number.
The journey to the hospital is totally surreal. I ring Violet and Katie’s parents and let them know what’s happened. Somehow, I manage to sound calm; I don’t even break when Violet’s mum starts crying.
We follow the ambulance, so we make good progress even though the traffic has thickened. The siren and the flashing blue light are the only things that really get how I’m feeling right now, everything else looks so peaceful, like it’s just another day and my world isn’t falling apart, even though my eyes are aching from the effort of not crying and my throat is on fire.
Timothy looks anxiously at his phone as it lights up in his hand for the millionth time (I’m guessing the press have heard about the second bout of comas) and Russell is yabbering on about something Hollywoodrelated. I wish he would just shut up.
‘Alice?’ he says. ‘Alice?’
‘Sorry, what?’ I say, gazing out of the window.
‘What do you think then?’
‘About what?’
‘About when you’re going to write the third book. Like I was saying, I could really do with a third film to look towards.’
Idiot! I can’t believe I fancied him. ‘Now’s not really the time,’ I snap.
He smiles. ‘Of course, sorry, that was so selfish of me. I’m such a loser sometimes.’
‘It’s cool,’ I say.
Timothy looks up from his phone. ‘Do you want me to ring someone for you?’
‘Who?’ The three most important people in my life are unconscious.
‘Your parents?’
‘Ha!’ I say.
‘Your . . .’ He falters. ‘ . . . sister? Or your brother?’
‘I’m an only child.’
He puts an arm around me and squishes me against his man boobs. ‘They woke up once, they’ll wake up again. I promise.’
Timothy’s being nice. This surprises me. Not that he’s awful or anything, we’ve just always had a business relationship. I suddenly think maybe he’s trying to get into my knickers. But he’s never given me that feeling before. I kind of assumed he was gay. He’s literally never stared at my rack. Not once.