The Fandom Rising

by Anna Day

  What with everything that’s going on, the message on Violet’s arm, the last thing I need is police in my business. ‘Please, Danny, I don’t want the police involved.’

  ‘Do you know who did this? Are you protecting them?’

  ‘No, no, of course not, I just . . . don’t want the police here.’

  He exhales slowly through his nose. ‘OK, scary Alice. But you need to tell me exactly what’s going on.’

  ‘I will,’ I say, my eyes flicking back to the greasy red letters. ‘But can we get out of here first?’

  Danny’s house isn’t that far from Violet’s, so I immediately feel safer. The house itself is small, clean and fragranced with delicious cooking smells. We kick off our shoes and his mum welcomes me into the kitchen. She has the same slight build as Danny, the same heavily lashed eyes set against the same dark skin. She smiles at me with her soft mouth, a smile which reminds me of Jane. She does exactly as Danny promised, piling chicken high on to my plate and launching into a series of embarrassing stories. My favourite one is about Danny painting a piece of sweetcorn with Tipp-ex so he could con an extra quid out of the tooth fairy. Mrs Bradshaw was so proud of his initiative, she left him a fiver.

  It feels so natural, sitting here with Danny and his mum. I don’t even resent their bond. For the first time ever, I actually pity my mum. We could have had this . . . if she’d only spent less time at her spin class.

  By the time we’ve polished off dinner, the sky is growing dark. Mrs Bradshaw doesn’t ask me or Danny where I want to sleep, she just tells Danny there’s extra bedding in the cupboard and leaves us to it.

  ‘Thanks for dinner,’ I say to her as she leaves the room.

  She smiles at me with her lovely soft mouth. ‘Any time, sweetie.’

  Danny makes up the couch and lets me have his bed.

  I finish using the bathroom and find his bedroom. It’s an ode to all things Fandom. I’m talking Lord of the Rings figurines, Game of Thrones posters, Dr Who memorabilia.

  He pokes his head round the door. ‘You got everything you need?’

  ‘Yeah. Me and Frodo are just fine, thanks.’ I pause. ‘Will you sleep in with me?’ I don’t mean sex. It’s the last thing on my mind, well, maybe not the last thing, but Danny’s flushed cheeks make me clarify. ‘Just for company, you know. I’m still a bit freaked out.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll sleep on the floor,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He reappears a few seconds later with the duvet from the couch. He wraps the covers around himself and sits cross-legged on the carpet. ‘Sorry about Mum.’

  ‘What? Your mum is lovely.’

  ‘God, but those stories.’

  ‘Seriously, when my mum saw you, she asked me what protection we were using.’

  ‘Norton spyware?’ he says.

  I laugh. ‘That’s exactly what I said.’

  He lies down. ‘Al, don’t forget, you said you’d tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘I will,’ I mumble. ‘I promise, when my head isn’t so mashed.’ I nestle into Danny’s bed. It smells of him, and sleep closes around me quickly.

  VIOLET

  The next evening, we wait till the sky darkens and the house falls quiet, then shakily pull on Daisy’s clothes. The tops have hoods, which will come in handy if we want to hide our faces, but most importantly, they aren’t fitted with trackers.

  I’ve clearly got better at climbing down the drainpipe; it’s like my feet know how to find the holes in the wall, freeing up my brain to concentrate on my hands. By the time I reach the ground, I’m overflowing with adrenalin. My knuckles and shins have been scraped by the bricks and the river-tainted air is pricking at the inside of my nose. Katie jumps down a few moments later. We head down the street, striding as quickly as we dare, careful not to wake the Imps with the slap of our feet against the tarmac. But it’s like every noise is magnified by the night – my heart thumping in the gaps between my breaths – and I remain convinced every window we pass will light up, followed by the cry, ‘What are you doing out of bed?’

  Katie grabs me by the hand and begins to pull me down a side street.

  ‘This isn’t the way to Bank,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, I know. We can’t very well rock up unannounced – we haven’t a clue what we’re getting ourselves into. We have to sneak along the tunnels, we’re less likely to be spotted.’

  I nod, impressed by her sudden metamorphosis into Nancy Drew. ‘And you know the way through the tunnels how exactly?’

  ‘When we moved from Liverpool, Mum made me learn the map, she was so paranoid about getting lost.’ She taps the side of her head. ‘It’s all up here.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll find out what was in that canister Nate planted at HQ,’ I say.

  ‘Do you think it’s a bomb?’

  I nod, afraid to even whisper the word yes, afraid to admit what my brother has got himself into.

  We walk until we approach a giant mouth, yawning across the street. It looks like there used to be a building over it, the shadow of foundations just visible in the dark, but any recognizable walls have long gone. A carefully constructed heap of rubble suggests the opening was cleared fairly recently, within the past few years at least. Steps lead down into the blackness, even darker than the sky above. It must be an old tube station.

  ‘This must be what’s left of Moorgate,’ Katie says, switching on a torch she pinched from Thorn’s house. I’m not sure if it’s super powerful or if my eyes have just grown unaccustomed to light, but it makes me wince all the same. The triangular beam reaches into the black mouth with precise yellow edges, illuminating the steps before us. We begin to climb down. The stairs seem to go on for ever, and the lower we go, the louder my heart beats, until I swear it matches my footsteps in volume. My breath quickens and I worry that between us, Katie and I will steal every lungful of air from the tunnel, until we’re left mouthing helplessly, gaping like fish out of water.

  The temperature drops and the air grows dank as we enter the cavern which used to be the station. I used to love the smell of the underground – oil and paper – it smelt of travel, of possibilities. But now it smells of rot and sewage and dead meat. Katie swings a torch around the walls. A couple of the mounds slumped against the wall move and we both gasp. They’re Imps – sheltering, hiding, dying. It’s best not to ask.

  Katie leads me to the right platform, her hand slippery with anxiety sweat. I imagine I can feel the waft of air against my face as the ghost of a carriage moves towards us. But no trains have run down here for centuries, and I doubt the air has moved either. It sits, stagnant, like water in a blocked drain.

  It’s counterintuitive, crossing the line where the platform ends and the tracks begin. I’ve stood on platforms many times, my toes inches behind the yellow line, marvelling at Alice as she stands so confidently close to the edge, even in her killer heels. I never thought I’d purposefully be dropping on to the tracks. But I do it all the same, the concrete ledge crumbling as quickly as my nerve as I lower myself down.

  We walk between the metal tracks, until the platform’s behind us and a tight tunnel closes around us, reflecting the torch beam so it feels like we’re walking in a bubble of light. And even though I know it’s silly, I keep expecting a tube to come hurtling towards us.

  We walk until my feet ache and my nose finally accepts the stink in the air. Eventually, Bank station sits before us – a giant chamber smelling of earth and burnt wax, and cast in an orange glow. We creep closer until I can see hundreds of tea lights lining the platform, the odd torch angled upwards and spotlighting the ceiling. It’s strangely beautiful, and I suddenly feel like a small child approaching a Christmas window display in the depths of winter. Only the sound of distant voices, of Katie’s breath increasing in speed, reminds me of the imminent danger.

  Katie kills the torch and we crouch low, still concealed by the gloom of the tunnel. There’s a rusted old carriage halfway along the platform, leaning slightly to on
e side and looking more like a sunken shipwreck. Dark shapes move inside, no more than shadows behind glass. Katie and I pull our hoods up and begin to sneak along the side of the train, tiny curls of ancient paint brushing our cheeks and catching on our clothes. The voices inside sound hushed, secret, like they know the walls have ears. My pulse drums in my ears and Daisy’s jumper moistens from my sweat.

  I suddenly wish Alice were here. I remember leaving her on the platform only days ago, having bitten her head off about the contract. I wish we hadn’t parted on such bad terms. The thought of never returning home and never seeing her again fills me with dread and sorrow in equal measure. I push her from my mind. I need to focus on Nate right now.

  Katie turns and looks at me. She tries to smile, even though it looks more like a grimace. You got this, she mouths. I nod and we continue to creep until we come to a crack in the metal shell.

  We peer through, the tinny scent of rust filling our nostrils, forcing us to hold our breath. The light of several flashlights whizz by, causing shadows to dance and my eyes to water. Still, I can just make out a blur of cloaks and faces. There must be about thirty people crammed into the carriage, some sitting on seats, others milling around. Most of them are Gems, I can tell from their height and build.

  ‘What is this?’ Katie whispers. ‘Some sort of secret Gem society?’

  Oh Nate, what have you got yourself into?

  Through the smeared window, I see a figure approach the carriage. My heart stops. Even though his face remains obscured by darkness, I know that it’s Nate; I’d know that walk anywhere. The cloak drowns him, so that he looks like a kid playing dress-up for Halloween – so small in comparison to his Gem counterparts. He holds out his arm and a cloaked figure runs a scanner over his loop tattoo. The rat eating its tail . . . it must be some sort of identifier.

  Nate makes his way to the back of the crowd, stooped and slow like he wishes he wasn’t there. My chest hurts with yearning. Suddenly, the whispers fade and everyone turns to face the front of the carriage. A hooded figure takes centre stage. He stands tall and throws back his hood, revealing a mass of blond curls.

  Howard Stoneback.

  I bite down on my lip until I taste blood, a familiar rage throbbing in my gut.

  The audience pull back their hoods one by one, revealing a sea of perfect Gem faces. Howard raises his voice, addressing the crowd in an infuriatingly sonorous voice. ‘Welcome to the thirteenth meeting of the Taleters. A meaningful number for some. My uncle, President Stoneback, apologizes for his absence, but he felt it was too risky to attend. Still, the news of his escape is wonderful.’

  Katie and I share a worried glance. The President has escaped from the prison Alice and I wrote him into. This is bad news. Clearly the government are keeping a lid on it, not wanting to panic the Imp masses.

  ‘Who the hell are the Taleters?’ Katie whispers.

  As if to answer her question, Howard continues. ‘We have been meeting ever since the Imp–Gem treaty was put in place, and we are mere days away from fulfilling our shared goal.’ He raises his voice. ‘We shall rid this planet of its Imp infestation problem. Permanently.’ The next word which falls from Howard’s mouth both shocks and incenses me. ‘Nate.’

  The Taleters turn and stare at my brother. I can barely keep myself from screaming at him: Run away, Nate. Save yourself. But I dig my fingers into my palms and order myself to remain quiet and still.

  ‘Do the London alliance have any suspicions?’ Howard asks.

  Nate shakes his head. ‘None. They’re clueless, as ever.’

  A light chuckle ripples through the crowd.

  Howard pushes his hair from his eyes. ‘Excellent. Same as the government, it seems. I will hand you over to Oscar, who will reassure those of you who expressed concerns to me. Sadly, he couldn’t be here in person due to the approaching deadline, but we have a live call.’ Howard retrieves what looks like a marble from inside his cloak and throws it into the air. It hovers before him and projects a beam of light upwards. We watch as a 3-D image begins to form just below the ceiling of the carriage.

  Katie leans into me and whispers, ‘This is our most desperate hour. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi.’

  ‘Katie,’ I hiss.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mutters. ‘I’m just so creeped out right now.’

  I find her hand and squeeze it. The image sharpens – it’s a Gem, in his late twenties at a guess, but it’s hard to know with Gems. He’s stunning, butterscotch hair waving around his face, and these amazing grey eyes. He’s in some sort of laboratory. The clean lines of the white surfaces, the blank stretches of wall and the carefully arranged equipment only serve to heighten the sense of something more organic, something grimy, lurking just out of shot. A sense of dread fills my chest, freezing up my lungs.

  He begins to speak with his full, wolfish lips.

  ‘Greetings, fellow Taleters. Apologies for my absence, but my work must take priority, I’m sure you understand. Some of you have worried about the impact of our weapon on your loved ones. I am no fool and I realize that some Gems have inadvertently married Imps, perhaps have Imp lovers, or half-blood children. So you can now rest easy knowing I have found a solution to this little problem. Our weapon can be used effectively against the Imp population, with your Imp loved ones now being protected. And Nate, this will be your reward for helping us. It will give you what you want most in the world. But enough talking, allow me to introduce Subject 21.’

  He leans forward, giving a quick close-up of his beautiful lips, and then scoops the camera up. Slowly, he pans around the room. I was right, something organic was lurking out of shot. I see a line of beds, and lying in each bed is an Imp, strapped down and fed by tubes.

  The camera moves to the nearest Imp. She has long, mousy hair which spills across the pillow, allowing only glimpses of the crisp, white cotton below. She can’t be much older than fifteen. She’s crying, but she has something in her mouth so she can’t scream. She wears a white robe which reminds me of NHS hospital gowns.

  Oscar approaches her. ‘So, a simple injection. I find intravenous is the quickest and most effective, though I am very close to achieving an oral solution.’ He leans over the girl and swiftly sticks a needle into her neck. Her body arches and begins to convulse. Oscar turns to the camera. ‘This is the worst bit. So far, I have about a seventy per cent success rate, but I’m hoping this will reach about ninety. The unsuccessful die. But the successful benefit from all DNA reconfigurations internally. Improved immunity, slower aging, increased muscle density and synapse speed. The external must be left to surgery and growth hormones, obviously, but that can be sorted at a later date. I’m aware, though, that some of you are less concerned with the general use of this serum, and more concerned with the specifics. And the answer is yes. Any Imps retrofitted into Gems will survive the Imp-targeting viral attack.’

  I turn to Katie, my eyes wide, my throat tangled with panic. An Imp-targeting virus? I mouth.

  She shakes her head, horrified, like she can’t quite believe it.

  The girl continues to convulse behind Oscar, but he doesn’t even look, like she’s nothing to him. Then, just like that, she stops. The machine continues to beep. The girl opens her eyes and Oscar strokes her hair. ‘It’s OK, little one, don’t be afraid. You made it. You’re a Gem.’

  An Imp-targeting virus.

  That’s what is in the canister Nate planted.

  ‘That’s it,’ I whisper to Katie. ‘That’s the ending. Baba said I had to save the Imps again; I have to stop that canister from exploding, then we can go home.’

  Katie’s about to reply when a series of footsteps strike terror into us both. They’re coming from outside the carriage. We pull our eyes away from the crack and begin slinking along the side of the train, unable to blink or breathe from panic. We reach the end of the carriage, only metres from the mouth of the tunnel. The safety of darkness beckons. Katie makes a break for it. I follow, but my feet catch in the metal track
s. I stumble. Pain envelops my ankle and I release a strangled cry. And suddenly, strong hands are pulling me back, gruff voices shouting in my ear: ‘Come here, spy.’

  Katie turns. Even in the murk of the tunnel, I can see her mouth’s open, like she’s about to scream.

  Go, I mouth. Get help.

  She darts into the darkness, as I’m hauled back into the light.

  23

  VIOLET

  The Taleters shove me into the carriage. The smell of the Gems – money and privilege, aftershave and port – makes my stomach cramp.

  Howard approaches, his twisted leer stuck to his face. ‘And you are?’

  I begin to see double. I open my mouth but no noise emerges, so I settle on blinking, hard.

  ‘Nate, do you know this Imp?’

  Nate walks towards me, dumbfounded. ‘She’s one of the visitors I told you about back in No-man’s-land.’

  ‘Pull back your hood, girl,’ Howard says in a stony voice.

  I obey, my hands trembling and the fabric of the hood sticking to my forehead. I really didn’t think this through. Any of the Gems here could have enhanced memories and remember me from when I pretended to be Rose, and here I am, hood pulled back, face revealed, standing in the lion’s den.

  As if to prove my point, a voice rings out. ‘Wait.’

  My head swivels, trying to find the owner of the voice.

  ‘I recognize this Imp,’ he says. ‘The President will want to meet her . . . very much.’

  The voice is coming from above. It’s Oscar, the light-projected scientist. He must have an enhanced memory. Shit. My eyes immediately scan the carriage for exits.

  Howard tilts his face towards Oscar. ‘What do you mean? How do you know this girl?’

  Jeremy Harper steps forward. ‘Who cares. She’s clearly an alliance spy. She looks like she’s about to soil herself. We should just kill her.’

  ‘No,’ Nate shrieks. ‘There’s some mistake.’ Everyone looks at him.

  ‘I know this Imp,’ he says. ‘I mean . . . I really know her. I’m just not sure how.’