The Fandom Rising

by Anna Day

  I freeze, my right foot poised in the air, ready to pull on my boot, and I’m suddenly aware of my nakedness. ‘What do you mean?’

  He smiles. And then he says four words. Words I spoke to him a lifetime ago. Words whispered across the bow of a rowing boat. I still don’t think he remembers exactly, but they must have lodged somewhere in his brain, because he says them back to me as his own. ‘It’s always been you.’

  ALICE

  In the morning, Danny drives me home and helps me clear the lipstick from my mirror. We use some water and a Mr Muscle window spray Mum has stuffed at the back of the cleaning cupboard.

  I’ve been mulling over that message from Russell all morning, and I finally come to a decision. I’ll help my friends, even if it means spending an evening with the delight that is Russell Jones. Danny heads to the bathroom and I whip out my phone, quickly tapping out a message.

  Great, I’m free tonight.

  Danny returns just as the phone rings. It’s Russell. I hadn’t expected him to call. I mean, who even does that these days? Caught off guard, I answer.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Hey, beautiful. Just thought I’d see what you fancied doing tonight.’

  ‘Dunno.’ I glance at Danny, who studies me with curiosity.

  ‘OK, well, I know a lovely little place in Hammersmith. I’ll get my driver to pick you up. Message me your address.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘He’ll pick you up about seven. Is that OK?’

  ‘Yeah. Great, thanks.’

  ‘Wear something lovely,’ he says.

  ‘I will.’ I hang up pretty quick, worried that I’ll back out if Russell keeps talking.

  ‘Who was that?’ Danny asks, picking up the red-stained cloth.

  ‘Russell Jones,’ I reply, trying to sound casual.

  ‘The Russell Jones? The twat from Comic-Con?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re just organizing a meeting to discuss publicity stuff.’

  Danny’s face falls a little. ‘Like, a date?’

  ‘God no, nothing like that. I just need him to help me publicize Fandom Rising.’

  ‘Makes sense, I guess.’ He plonks the cloth on my dresser. ‘So, are you going to his apartment or something?’

  ‘He’s staying in a hotel actually,’ I reply, bristling slightly.

  ‘OK. Well, I’ll head off now and try and track down the IP address. Enjoy publicity and stuff.’ He walks towards the door without making eye contact.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ I say, folding my arms like I’m a stroppy kid.

  He closes the door, louder than is necessary.

  I lie on my bed feeling like shit. I’ve pissed off Danny. The only person who can help me find Fanboy. Worst thing is, I don’t even want to see Russell. A year ago, I would have been totally hyped if he’d asked me out, but now, a stern nipple waxing would be preferable. In fact, that isn’t the worst thing. I take that back. Worst thing is, Danny was a complete knob right now.

  The door reopens. It’s Danny, looking very sheepish. ‘I’m sorry, that was stupid of me. I think . . . I think maybe I felt a bit . . . jealous. But that’s just ridiculous, you don’t belong to me or owe me anything.’ He meets my gaze and manages a shy smile. ‘I just wanted to tell you that it’s great you’re meeting Russell tonight. And, you know, make sure you wear your cap. It will pull your whole outfit together.’

  ‘Thanks, Danny.’

  ‘Are you OK in the house on your own now?’

  ‘Yeah, Mum and Dad are due back any second.’

  He nods. ‘OK, see you soon.’

  He closes the door.

  OK. It’s official. I’m totally into Danny.

  Even though I can’t see those red letters any more, it’s like they’re still glaring at me from the glass. I move to Mum and Dad’s room and shove a chair under the door handle. I only go in in my parents’ room to raid Mum’s perfume collection or borrow (steal) her expensive moisturizer; I never go in and just sit. It’s beautifully decorated, a sea of duck-egg blue, but it lacks the personal touches of most rooms. There are no photos on the walls, no everyday clutter on the surfaces. It could be a showroom.

  I settle on to their bed with my laptop, my eyes flicking to the door every other second. They should be home soon, then I’ll feel less jumpy. I try and focus on the task at hand: another post for Fandom Rising. I rub my temples, the responsibility pressing in on my skull. Think like a writer, Alice.

  OK. I’ve built empathy for Nate, showed why he went to the dark side. I’ve planted seeds for his redemption. Now it’s time for a Snape-inspired U-turn.

  NATE

  I dream of my sister. Even though I know she must be an adult now, in my dream she is still a child. She’s handing me her blanket and stroking my hair and telling me everything will be OK. Then, something changes in her face. Her eyes grow red, her nose begins to stream, her lovely, peachy skin begins to mottle with the beginnings of a rash.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask her.

  But all she can do is cough.

  I hear another voice. ‘It’s the virus, Nate.’ Yan appears before me. He hands my sister a tissue and touches her lightly on the head. She coughs into the handkerchief and pulls it away to reveal a patch of blood.

  Tears begin to fall down my face. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Yan holds my face in his elegant hands. ‘It isn’t too late. You can stop this.’

  I wake as my sister begins to spasm, yellow froth spewing from her rosebud lips.

  I’m sweating and screaming, trying to rid myself of the image.

  I can’t let this happen, I can’t. Not to my sister, not to anyone.

  So I’ll retrieve that hateful canister and I’ll smuggle it back to my lab.

  I will find an antidote.

  It finally makes sense: I wasn’t born to belong with my people, I was born to save them.

  I check over it a few times, then hit the update button.

  The doorbell rings. I freeze. Mum and Dad wouldn’t ring their own bell, and I’m not expecting anyone. I consider just hiding in my parents’ room, door wedged shut. But maybe that would be worse, making people think there’s nobody at home. I’ll answer the door, phone behind my back, ready to dial 999. And if there’s nobody there, I’ll head straight over to Danny’s house. For God’s sake, Alice, it’s probably just the postman.

  I head downstairs, ignoring the nerves which flutter in my chest.

  When I open the door, two police officers are waiting. A tall lady with light brown skin and pretty eyes, and a shorter man with red hair. They smile in stereo. Two police officers standing on your doorstep would freak you out even if you hadn’t just knifed your bestie’s arm and received threatening messages about it. In light of my current situation, I’m just about shitting my Victoria’s Secrets. Maybe the stalker has told the police it was me who sliced Violet.

  At least they’re not going to murder me . . . I slip my phone back into my pocket – no need for 999 now – and make sure my mask is firmly fixed to my face.

  ‘Alice Childs?’ the lady says.

  I nod, trying not to look in the least bit suspicious, guilty or anything other than completely calm.

  ‘I’m Sergeant Singh,’ the lady says, before gesturing to the male officer, ‘and this is Constable Turner. We just wanted to ask you a few questions about your friend, Violet Miller.’

  They both flash their ID, still smiling their reassuring smiles.

  ‘Oh . . . OK.’ I fish around for more non-suspicious, guilt-free words. ‘Do you want to come in?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Turner says.

  I lead them into the kitchen.

  ‘Nice house,’ Singh says. ‘Do you live here with your parents?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘They’ll be back any second.’ I don’t know why I said that, like I need a chaperone or something.

  ‘Well, it’s you we wanted to speak to,’ Singh says.

  I smile. ‘Yeah, sor
ry, you said.’ More sensible words please, Alice. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  Singh nods. ‘That would be lovely, thanks. We both take it with milk and one sugar.’

  I begin filling the kettle. The officers sit at the kitchen table. I play a little game in my head, pretending they’re just really convincing cosplayers. All I need to do is role play the shit out if this, and they’ll leave me be.

  Turner flips open his notebook. ‘We just wanted to ask you about the assault against Miss Miller the other night.’

  Do I act dumb? No, that would definitely be suspicious. I’m her best friend, I would know. I turn to get the cups from the cupboard, pleased for an excuse to hide my face. ‘Yeah, terrible thing, her mum told me what happened.’ Too far, Alice, don’t mention anyone else.

  Singh nods. ‘So you haven’t seen Violet since the assault?’

  ‘No,’ I say. Which is true.

  ‘Do you know what happened?’ she asks.

  The kettle begins to hum. They’re testing me, seeing if I slip up and know more than I should. I keep it vague. ‘Yeah. Some whacko cut up her arm.’

  They leave a long pause, probably hoping I’ll fill it. But I busy myself with putting teabags in cups.

  ‘Do you know anyone who would want to hurt Violet?’ Singh eventually asks.

  I begin to pour the water. ‘No, everybody loves Violet. It was probably some sick fan.’

  ‘A fan?’ she says, her voice piquing with interest. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You know, who else could it be?’ I grab the milk, aware they can see every guilty line creased into my forehead beneath the glare of the fridge light. I slam the fridge door shut, quick as I can.

  ‘Bank, Monday, 12 a.m. A,’ she says. ‘Mean anything?’

  I turn to face her. ‘No. Should it?’ This is a risk. What if they’ve read Fandalism? And what if they’ve seen Fandom Rising and they already know that I’m in some weird fanfic war and therefore it must mean something to me. But that doesn’t mean I cut Violet’s arm, it just means I’m lying now. But why would I lie? All of these thoughts rush through my head even though my face stays completely still . . . I hope.

  Singh shakes her head. ‘No, it’s just a strange thing to write. We thought it might mean something to you, what with you being her best friend.’

  I shake my head, relief flooding my system. ‘Nope, I’ve got nothing, sorry.’ I bin the teabags and begin to pour milk into the cups, impressed by how steady my hand is.

  ‘Did Violet ever work at a bank?’ Turner asks. ‘Or any other connection to banks we’re missing?’

  I pop the tea in front of them with the sugar. ‘No, I mean, she used a bank I guess, but she never worked at one.’

  Singh nods thoughtfully. ‘OK. Thanks, Alice.’ She stirs some sugar into her tea and sips it tentatively, like she knows it’s going to scald.

  ‘Well, I hope you catch them,’ I say. ‘Poor Violet, she’s going to wake up with some butt-ugly scars now.’

  ‘She certainly will – the cuts were deep and angry,’ Singh says, studying my face.

  I begin to make myself a drink, just so I can turn away again. The guilt is crippling my insides and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to keep my mask fixed.

  Turner pipes up. ‘And where were you Sunday night?’

  Oh shit. The alibi. I forgot about the alibi.

  ‘I was with Danny. Danny Bradshaw,’ I say without thinking. Probably because he’s the only person I’ve spent any time with recently who isn’t in a coma. Still, it’s stupid. They’re bound to check with him, and I’m not sure how far his loyalty will stretch. Even if he covers for me, I don’t know how believable he’ll be. That boy is built from honesty.

  They take Danny’s details from me and finish their tea.

  I watch them leave, my throat knotted with panic, then I ring Danny.

  ‘Hey,’ I say.

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘Danny? Are you there?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘What’s up? You sound . . . different.’

  There’s a long pause. I can hear him breathing so I know he’s there. Eventually he says, ‘I read your post about Nate’s sister.’

  Shit. Of course he did. He knows that I blatantly used his brother’s death as fanfic fodder. Why did I not think this through? I open my mouth to reply, but I can’t think of anything to say which doesn’t sound pathetic.

  ‘I don’t expect everything I tell you to end up on the internet,’ he says.

  ‘I know. I’m so sorry, it was stupid . . . your story really got to me and I . . . I wasn’t thinking.’

  Another pause. Long enough for me to think he’s about to hang up. Then he says, ‘Well, I guess I should be flattered I provided you with inspiration.’

  ‘You’re my official muse. But seriously, I promise I won’t pull a stunt like that again.’ Now it’s my turn to pause. ‘Danny, the police were just here.’

  ‘About the mirror?’

  ‘No . . . somebody cut Violet’s arm while she was unconscious.’

  ‘They did what? What kind of a sicko would do that?’ The disgust in his voice makes the guilt almost unbearable.

  ‘Danny, they think it was me.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, why on earth would you do that? She’s your best friend.’

  ‘Thing is, I needed an alibi . . .’

  ‘And you gave my name.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Shit, shit, shit. I hate talking on the phone. All these pauses are doing my nut right now.

  ‘When did it happen?’ he finally asks.

  ‘Sunday night.’

  He sounds practical, in control. ‘OK. We went for a walk that night, you were bummed over your friends being in comas. We chatted it through and stayed out late. Nobody else saw us.’

  I want to cry. But instead I just whisper, ‘Thanks.’

  25

  VIOLET

  When Ash and I enter the church, all eyes are on us. I feel my cheeks swell with embarrassment. Katie rushes to me. ‘What the hell were you thinking, you tit-turnip, worrying me like that?’ She pulls me to her in an aggressive hug. ‘We stick together, you and me.’ Her gaze flicks between me and Ash, and her face bursts into a massive cheesy grin.

  Ash squeezes my hand and darts off to talk to Willow. I can tell even from here that Willow’s pissed at him, folding his arms and answering with pinched head-nods.

  Katie leans into me. ‘Sooooo, Violet the Virgin. Have fun getting down in the underground, did we?’

  ‘Oh Katie, it was awful. Daisy found us, she was so upset.’

  Katie chews her lip. ‘Hmm, yes, I imagine that would dampen the mood.’

  ‘Have you seen her this morning?’ I ask.

  ‘Not since yesterday.’

  I drop my head into my hands. It feels strangely heavy. ‘I feel just horrible.’

  ‘Let’s face it, Vi, nobody could compete with a good old time-loop romance. Girl meets boy. Girl hangs. Boy has memory wiped. Girl returns to boy. Boy is mysteriously drawn to girl. Girl humps boy. It’s a classic. Poor cow didn’t stand a chance.’ She starts to laugh, it fills the church like a wind chime, and I find I’m laughing too.

  But Katie’s laughter comes to an abrupt stop. ‘Jesus, Vi. You did use . . . you know?’

  ‘Protection?’ I ask. ‘Yes, course we did.’

  ‘Phew. I mean, imagine waking up in our universe, pregnant with Ash’s baby. That would be all sorts of wrong.’

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  I head to Nate’s house. Ash handed me a crumpled note with a map sketched on it. The map’s pretty clear and I reach Nate’s house in about five minutes. Nate moved near to the HQ as soon as he introduced himself to Thorn and was recruited as part of the alliance. He lives in a modest bedsit, part of one of the buildings which hasn’t fallen down on that street. I’m surprised he hasn’t got somewhere a little nicer, a little more like Ash or Thorn’s p
lace. I don’t think I wrote his accommodation into The Gallows Song. I wish I had now; I would have written him somewhere way nicer than this.

  The door inches open from the pressure of my knock. I call out softly. When I get no reply, I slip inside. He sits at a desk in the corner of the room. There isn’t much furniture, but the desk still seems too big and cumbersome for the room, like Gandalf moved his stuff into Bag End. Nate huddles over a very modern-looking computer. An incubator, half filled with soil, sits on the ground by his feet.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  He doesn’t startle, nor does he look up from what he’s doing. ‘Welcome to my humble lab; it isn’t much, is it?’ 3D images hover before his eyes, and he inflates and contracts them with nimble fingers. A helix spins at the side of the image, modifying slightly with every one of his movements. ‘I’m working on a new strain of crops which would need less light and water. We could grow them in the disused buildings, then make use of the land we’ve got. It would make the Imps more self-sufficient . . . and less hungry.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ I say.

  He nods, accepting the compliment without thought.

  ‘Why were you helping the Imps if you wanted to betray them?’

  He removes the helix with an angry flick of his hand. The other images fade before my eyes.

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’ He swings in his chair to look at me. ‘It wasn’t just maintaining my cover or anything. I really wanted to sort this out and help with the food shortage in the cities. It’s not like I woke up one morning and thought, I know, I’ll betray my people.’

  He stands from his desk and looks at me. But his defiant expression is completely undone by the tears in his eyes. ‘It happened gradually,’ he says. ‘The feeling of isolation, of being different, just seemed to grow inside me.’ He looks at his feet. ‘Sorry, you don’t need to know—’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, cutting through his apology. ‘Go on.’

  He sighs. ‘I knew I’d only fit in if I became a Gem. And they offered me a solution, in exchange for my services. Of course, the need to help the Imps didn’t just die inside me. I just carry two conflicting goals at once. It kind of sucks.’