by Anna Day
Katie looks blank. There’s a long pause.
Ash studies my features. ‘You can tell me when you’re ready.’
I stop myself breathing a huge sigh of relief.
I’m about to thank him for being so understanding, when he grips my arm. ‘What on earth?’ He’s pulled the wipe away and is now blinking fast and hard. He continues to rub my wound, this time a little more vigorously. ‘Katie, pass me another wipe.’ He chucks the first one on the floor and begins wiping again. ‘Violet, who did this to you?’
‘I must have cut it on some glass or something,’ I manage to say.
He fixes me with his bluer-than-blue eyes. ‘I don’t think so, somehow.’
He and Katie stare at me with such intensity, I start to feel a little on show. I see the shock in their faces before I hear their gasps. Immediately, I strain my head so I see what they’ve already seen.
Carved into my arm are letters. I blink rapidly, bringing them into focus, allowing my brain to catch up. It’s writing: BANK, MONDAY, 12 A.M.
‘What the hell?’ Ash says. ‘They’re letters, aren’t they? You need to tell me what’s going on.’
‘It’s a message,’ Katie finally says. ‘From the other side.’
‘Which other side?’ Ash asks. ‘You make it sound like you’re angels or something.’
Katie looks at him. ‘Angels would make a lot more sense.’
‘What does it say?’ he asks. He begins to spell it out, slowly. He’s been learning to read.
‘Please.’ I cover the letters so he can’t see. ‘I promise I’ll tell you, just not now. It’s not the right time.’
He studies my face, and then says reluctantly, ‘You need stitches. I’ll go get the kit. I’ll grab you some of Dee’s clothes too.’
I watch him leave the room, and I swear the ache deepens just a little. I hate not telling him the truth, especially when he seems so close to remembering me. But I need to focus on Nate, I need to focus on getting us home.
And then another searing pain hits me. Deep in the bone. And it appears before our eyes, a bright red line, opening across my skin as the blood springs up, at first in tiny scarlet balls, which quickly join together and tumble down my forearm.
‘What the hell?’ Katie whispers.
‘Make it stop,’ I scream. ‘Make it stop.’ I wriggle into an upright position and kick my legs so I’m pressed against the arm of the sofa, as though trying to get away from my own body. I stretch my arm out in front of me, as if I can distance myself somehow from the pain. Another line opens up so a small triangle is formed. And then another. It’s an A.
‘How is that happening?’ I shout.
Katie throws her arms around my neck. ‘It’s OK, Vi, it’s OK, remember, the tattoo, the bullet wound? It’s coming from the other side, from our world.’
But I’m too busy screaming, too busy kicking myself away from the blood to process her words.
Katie grips my hand, the one belonging to my bloodied, letter-emblazoned arm. In one firm motion, she clamps a wipe over it, and I feel the numbing lotion work its magic, the pain leaking away from me. ‘It’s OK,’ she says. And the way her voice sounds, sure and confident, makes me believe her. I stop writhing and nod. Slowly, she pulls back the wipe.
I study the marks like they don’t belong to me, like they’re written on a piece of paper.
‘Who would do this?’ she says. ‘Who could possibly know that marks transfer between our bodies?’
I look at that A and I begin to smile. ‘Alice. She’s trying to tell us something – maybe she’s found the third book. I think maybe she wants us to . . . go to the nearest bank, at midnight tomorrow?’
Katie laughs. ‘No, you giant dildo, she means the tube station.’
21
ALICE
I wake early, images of knives and blood flashing through my dreams. First thing I do is check behind the radiator. The knife is still there, wrapped in a pink silk scarf and shoved as far down as it would go. Eat your telltale heart out, Edgar Allan Poe. Soon as I’m dressed, I manage to retrieve it and zip it into a side compartment of my handbag. I know I could probably just wash it and pop it back it in the knife drawer, but I’ve watched too many crime dramas – there’ll be some fancy way of identifying blades from their incisions. And I just want it out the house. Out of my life. I had to cut Violet, but it is not a moment I want reminding of every time I slice an apple.
I leave the house and walk down the backstreets where the bins get left. Several streets on, I find what I need. A bin which is already full, the lid pushed up and overflowing with rubbish. I glance around me – there’s nobody to be seen, and I’m not particularly overlooked by windows. I work fast, unwrapping the knife and sliding it into one of the bags, careful not to slice the plastic. Then, avoiding the grime stuck to the rim of the bin, I shove the bag further down so it doesn’t fall out.
Except for my lack of hand sanitizer, I already feel better. It’s bin collection day tomorrow, and then the knife will be out of my life for good.
I wait for Danny outside the café. The traffic crawls past, windows wound down in the summer heat. The discordant sound of three different radio stations hits my ears. I feel unsettled, nervous. Last night I carved up my bestie’s arm. I’m officially a psycho-bitch. A fist tightens around my heart. I catch sight of my reflection in the glass of a double-decker; I look like one of those celebs sneaking out of rehab with my dark glasses pulled down, wearing a cap and hoodie. I even left my favourite lipstick at home. Mum would flip if she saw me.
Danny approaches. I’ve never noticed what an easy walk he has, like his leg joints have been oiled. Just watching him makes that fist loosen a little.
He grins at me. ‘Looking good, Agent Childs.’
‘I’m trying to blend, but now I’m thinking I’ve achieved the exact opposite.’
‘Maybe lose the cap,’ he says helpfully.
I clutch at my head. ‘But it pulls the whole look together.’
He begins to laugh.
‘No, seriously,’ I continue, spurred on by his generous smile, ‘it’s the focal point of the whole ensemble.’
‘OK, OK, leave the cap. Maybe ditch the glasses. It’s the double whammy that’s making you look a bit . . .’
‘. . . Britney circa 2007.’
He grins.
I pull the glasses from my face and he nods his approval. I follow him into the internet café. It’s painted sage green and has rows of super-modern desks. I love that it still smells of coffee and biscuits, in spite of the rows of monitors. We choose a computer at the back of the room, in the corner, so we have a good view.
‘Now what?’ I whisper to Danny.
He shrugs. ‘We wait and see if he posts. I can’t track the exact computer, but when we know he’s here, we can take a quick walk and check out all the screens. We’ll soon find out who he is.’
I order us a couple of drinks and we settle into the wait. We flick through webpages, chatting about our favourite movies, books, things which piss us off. Normal stuff. People underestimate the importance of normal stuff. It’s when we start moaning about parents that Danny tells me about his brother. ‘My parents separated a few years after my brother died. Dad moved out; I think being together reminded him of what he’d lost, if that makes sense?’
‘Your brother died?’
He nods, breaking eye contact. ‘Yeah, I was only little, he was a few years older. I don’t remember much about him to be honest.’
‘What do you remember?’
‘Daft things, things you can’t see in a photograph. Like . . . he would have sold his soul for a Crunchie, and he always smelt of Christmas.’ He presses his lips together. ‘And if I was ever cold, he would always fetch me a blanket. That’s how I picture him now, holding out a tartan throw with a smile on his face.’
‘Danny, I’m so sorry, that’s so sad.’
‘Yeah. But I forget to miss him sometimes, is that weird?’
&
nbsp; I touch his hand. ‘No, I don’t think that’s weird at all.’ There’s a really long pause, which gets a little too long and I start to feel like I have to say something. ‘Do you still see your dad?’
‘Yeah, all the time. Dad’s the best.’
‘I wish my parents would separate,’ I find myself saying.
He looks at me sideways. ‘Are you even allowed to think that?’
‘Better two happy homes than one miserable one.’
‘Is it that bad?’
I sigh, not wanting to whinge about my life when Danny’s just told me about his dead brother. ‘I’ll introduce you to my parents one day, then you’ll see what I mean.’
My phone buzzes in my pocket. For a second, I think it may be Violet, but then I remember she’s in a coma and my heart sinks. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter, checking the screen. It’s a message from a number my phone doesn’t recognize. I open it up and each word makes my heart beat a little faster.
Did you enjoy watching her bleed?
The world looks fuzzy, my palms bead with sweat. Someone knows. They must have seen me. But who? And how did they get my number? I blink the lines of my phone back into focus.
‘Alice?’ Danny’s saying my name. ‘Al? Are you OK?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, arranging my face into a smile. ‘It’s just . . . a fan.’
I can’t tell him the truth. Normal girls don’t get hate mail. Normal girls don’t hack messages into their best friend’s arm. Quickly, I shove my phone right to the bottom of my bag, beneath all my shit, wishing I could literally bury it. The image of the knife in the bin flashes into my mind.
‘Are you sure?’ he says, his brown eyes filled with worry. ‘You’ve gone kind of pale.’
‘Yeah, sure I’m sure.’
He opens his mouth, perhaps to challenge me, when my phone buzzes again. My heart flips. I desperately want to ignore it, but Danny is looking at my bag with interest. I try and act natural, pretending my face isn’t sweating, and retrieve my phone.
I check the screen. Relief floods my body. It’s just an alert telling me Fanboy’s posted again.
Then I remember the significance.
Fanboy’s posted again. He’s here, in the café, right now.
‘It’s Fanboy, he’s posted,’ I tell Danny. I scan the people at the computers. It could be any of them. There’s a middle-aged man in a cheap suit, a teenage girl with too many piercings, a group of young men who look like tourists. My money’s on cheap suit. Never trust a man in a cheap suit.
Danny’s already booted up his laptop, keeping it low and on his knee, presumably so Fanboy doesn’t see. He taps on his keyboard a few times, his frown deepening. ‘Nope, sorry, Childs. His IP address has moved.’
‘Moved?’
‘Yep. He’s blogging from somewhere else.’
‘Can you find him?’
He shakes his head. ‘He’s subnetting something rotten. It’s like he doesn’t want to be found this time. Dammit, this is going to take a bit of time.’
I think of Nate’s life support about to be turned off, about Howard Stoneback plotting the death of every Imp, including my friends. ‘I don’t have time,’ I whisper.
Danny looks at me, his dark eyes filled with concern. ‘Alice, please, tell me what’s going on.’
I want to tell him, I really do, but I can’t bear to watch his face as he realizes what a fruit loop I am. I shake my head. He’ll be angry, I reckon, or at least pissed off, but that’s better than the alternative.
He sighs. He doesn’t look anything other than worried about me. ‘I’ll find you that address, I promise. Now go home, get some rest, maybe write some more.’
I smile at him, though it feels strained. ‘Thanks, Danny.’
As soon as Danny’s gone, I log on to Fandom Rising, trying to think of a way I can help Violet. My mind reels back to Danny and the loss of his brother. It sparks off an idea. Nate had such a lonely backstory in The Gallows Song. No wonder his loyalty to the Imps dwindled. But what if he once had a sister? Surely his redemption would be more believable if he had a long-lost Imp sister. I position my fingers over the keyboard and begin to smile. What if I take it one step further? What if Nate’s long-lost sister looked a bit like Violet? Maybe when Nate meets Violet, he would want to help her.
I position my fingers above the keyboard and begin to type.
NATE
Forgive me. I lied when I told you I had no family. It’s true, I was orphaned when I was little, that I was raised by the streets of London, but one family member survived.
My sister.
I don’t remember much about her, as we were separated when I was only about five. I don’t even remember her name, but this is what I remember:
She was several years older than me. She had pale skin, brown eyes, and wavy, dark hair which always felt soft to touch and smelt faintly of flowers. She would give me her extra blanket when it was cold, give me her last bit of bread when I was hungry, and she would rock me to sleep whenever it thundered.
She made me feel like I belonged.
And sometimes I think that’s worse. Love and loss. For my heart never truly hardened like it needed to. Like I wanted it to.
Because I still pray that someday she will find me.
I arrive home feeling tired and desperate for a shower. I love central London, but it always seems to leave an invisible coating of pollution and sweat on my skin. Violet called it her second-city skin, and I always knew exactly what she meant. I’m halfway up the stairs when I notice how quiet the house is. Just the tick of the hall clock and the soft hum of a car passing outside. Normally at this time in the evening I can hear Mum’s favourite TV show, punctuated by Dad complaining about mindless tripe. I do a U-turn and check the fridge. Sure enough, Mum’s left a note. She always leaves them stuck to the fridge, appropriate considering how chilly they are.
Gone to the spa for the night. Use my tab for takeaway. Mum.
The lack of kisses makes me feel like an abandoned toddler. My eyes begin to prick. Not just because of the note, but because I hate being on my own in the house. It’s way too big for one person, and I’ve watched way too many slasher movies. It’s always the lanky blonde who gets hacked up first. That hateful text has made me even twitchier. My stomach sinks. I would normally go to Violet’s house, but I can’t for obvious reasons. Jane and Adam would probably welcome me with open arms, but I’m the last person they need to see, completely awake and alert. Talk about salt in the wound. So instead, I do something I haven’t done in a very long time. I get a pen out of my handbag – an eyeliner to be precise – and I draw three kisses at the bottom of the note.
Christ, I’m tragic.
I head upstairs for a shower, banning all thoughts of Psycho from my head. Maybe I’ll ring Danny later, see how his IP hunt is going. I pause in front of my bedroom door. It’s open. Strange, I’m sure I left it shut. Anxiety flutters in my stomach. Don’t be silly, Alice, Mum probably went in my room for some reason. But Mum never goes in my room, not even to clean or gather up laundry, she pays someone else to do that, and it isn’t the cleaner’s day today. Breath is trapped in my lungs. My hearing sharpens: a car passes outside, my alarm clock ticks . . . something creaks. My heart stops. Who’s been in my room . . . are they still there?
And I know I should turn around and run down the stairs. I’ve just received a threatening message off a random number, and now my bedroom door is mysteriously open. For Christ’s sake, Alice, you left your door open and forgot. Stop being so melodramatic.
So with my heart hammering against my chest and my mouth dry with fear, I step into my room.
Always trust your gut, especially when you’re the lanky blonde.
Scrawled across my dresser mirror in my favourite lipstick are the words:
22
ALICE
Someone’s been in my room, touched my stuff, written on my mirror. A boil pops in my stomach, releasing a load of poison into my system. I call out for my
parents, then remember they’re at the spa. I pull my phone from my pocket, shaking so badly I almost drop it. The realization hits me. I’ve got nobody to ring. Violet and Katie are in comas. I’m completely alone.
Except for Danny.
He answers the phone after one ring, almost as if he was ready and waiting. ‘Agent Childs,’ he says.
I try to talk, but only a strange noise comes out.
‘Alice?’ he says. ‘Al, what is it?’
I manage to speak. ‘Someone’s been in my room and written a horrible message on my mirror.’
‘What? Oh my God, are you serious?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Are they still there?’ he asks.
This sentence immobilizes me. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Where are your parents?’
‘They’ve gone away for the night.’
He pauses. ‘Go wait at your neighbours and text me their house number. I’ll be over straight away.’
I wait for Danny at the bottom of my drive. I don’t know my neighbours and I’m too shook up to make small talk. He pulls up about ten minutes later in a red Corsa. He rushes to me and places both arms around my neck. I lean into him, grateful for the warmth and the human touch. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like an age, he just rubs my back until I can breathe steadily again.
Finally, he says, ‘Do you want to stay at mine tonight? Mum’s making her famous spicy chicken wings. She’d love to feed you and tell you embarrassing stories about me. They’re her two favourite hobbies.’
I sniff. ‘That would be good, thanks Danny.’
He pauses. ‘Do you want to show me the message?’
‘OK.’
We head back into the house. Danny goes first, even though it’s my house.
We enter my room. The message is still there, blood-red on the glass.
He draws breath over his teeth. ‘That is messed up. I think we should phone the police.’
‘No,’ I reply quickly.
He glances at me. ‘Someone has broken into your home and threatened you. We should phone the police.’