by Anna Day
Nate leads me through the door and down a stone corridor angled downwards. It’s the same corridor from The Gallows Dance film, the corridor which led to Baba’s cell. My heart still burns when I think of her, how I failed to help her as she’s helped me so many times. The air thins in my lungs and cools against my face. If we can get that canister, if we can find an antidote, we’ll be going home. I imagine my parents’ joyous faces when Nate and I both wake up. I can almost feel the warmth of their arms folding around me. I swallow down the lump in my throat and order myself to focus – there are still a lot of ifs.
We enter a stone cavern, similar to the one Ash and I were held prisoner in last time we were here. Nate lights a torch and the flames illuminate the walls, dappled with moss and pitted with time. He seems to count the bricks and then slips his fingers into a gap in the mortar.
‘It’s in here,’ he whispers, easing out a stone.
We both peer inside the black hole.
The canister has gone.
The stone chamber seems to shrink, walls and panic closing around me until even my skin feels too tight. If we can’t make an antidote, then we can’t save the Imps . . . We can never go home. And it isn’t just about going home. I can’t bear the thought of all the Imps dying a horrible death. Of Ash dying a horrible death.
Of genocide.
But when Nate turns to me, his eyes hold a spark of excitement. ‘There’s still hope,’ he says. ‘If I can’t make an antidote, I’ll stop the launch.’ He begins to jog upwards towards the main body of the church, and I follow, my head reeling.
‘You can do that?’
‘I know where the launch site is. We should hang fire till tomorrow morning though – word is, the President himself is coordinating the launch, so if we wait till then, we can cut off the head of the snake.’
Tomorrow is Nate’s birthday. Which means one thing – his life support will be shut off and I’ll lose him for ever.
Should we really cut it that fine? But Nate’s right, killing President Stoneback is the only way of guaranteeing another virus won’t be made. It’s the only way of truly saving the Imps.
So, feeling completely torn, riddled with anxiety and fear, I whisper my response: ‘OK.’
We burst into the main body of the church, Ash and Katie waiting for us with hopeful looks on their faces.
‘Change of plan.’ I’m about to continue, when the sound of distant shouting cuts me off. We spin to the source of the noise. It’s coming from outside, behind the great, wooden doors. The shouting grows louder. It’s Daisy. Another voice joins her, deep and gruff, clearly angry. Thorn.
My skin hardens with fear, every hair on my neck raised.
The door opens and Daisy runs to Ash. Her face is soaked in tears. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasps, falling on to him as though she’s trying to shield him. ‘I was so upset about you and Violet . . . I didn’t know what I was saying. I must have let slip that Nate betrayed us . . .’ She looks behind us, eyes settling on Nate. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says again.
Thorn raises a dark green box in front of him.
‘The canister,’ Nate whispers. ‘But how did you . . . ?’
Thorn smiles. ‘Looking for this?’
ALICE
My face must fall. Russell Jones is Fanboy. My heart begins to pound.
‘Are you OK?’ Russell asks.
I force myself to smile. ‘Yeah, yeah. It’s just . . . my mum. Sorry, I better ring her back. She’s freaking out about something.’
Russell rolls his eyes. ‘Bloody mothers.’
I head to the toilet and ring Danny, my fingers trembling so badly I almost can’t hold my phone to my ear.
His voice sounds urgent. ‘Al, thank God. Are you still with Russell?’
‘Yeah. Well, I’m in the ladies.’ I glance around the tiled room. I’m in luck, there’s nobody else here. ‘What do you mean, Russell is Fanboy?
‘OK, so I was Twitter stalking him, not being jealous at all. I saw him tagged in a photo snapped by a fan. He was at the internet café the other day.’
‘What?’ My tongue turns into cardboard. I put the phone on speaker so I can scroll through my apps and still talk to Danny. I locate the photo quickly. It’s several days old now. Russell’s wearing sunglasses, but it’s undeniably him. He’s bent over a computer, surrounded by modern desks and sage-green walls. Danny’s right; it’s the same café he traced the IP address to.
‘It can’t be a coincidence,’ Danny says. ‘He wants publicity, he’s helping promote your site – the fanfic war between Fanboy and Anime Alice is just a publicity stunt.’
My heart rate soars and I can feel my dress sticking to my skin with sweat. ‘Jesus, Danny. Do you think Russell broke into my house and wrote that message on my mirror?’
There’s a pause. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. It doesn’t make much sense though, why would he want to freak you out? That might make you stop posting on Fandom Rising, and that would be no good for him.’
He’s probably right, but I can’t think straight. ‘But what if he is? Maybe he hoped I’d tell the press and that would boost publicity even more. What if Russell’s the stalker and he’s poisoning my cocktail right now? I mean, that would be some pretty good publicity right there.’
‘Ok, you’ve got a point. Which bar are you at?’
‘The Willow Tree.’
Danny scoffs. ‘Wow, he really is a dick. Look, stay put, I’ll come get you.’
‘No, that will take too long.’ I scan the room. Why didn’t I leave the cocktail bar instead of coming to the bathroom? Now I can’t leave without Russell seeing. And I can’t face him right now. I’m a gibbering wreck. My eyes settle on the window. It’s cranked open slightly. ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’ve found my escape route.’
By the time I get home, there’s ten missed calls from Russell. He’s probably never had a girl bail on him before. The thought makes me smile, but only briefly. I’ve just lost my best means of publicizing Fandom Rising, and Nate’s life support is turned off tomorrow. A tight ball of grief forms in my stomach.
My only hope is stopping Russell. Stopping him from posting on Fandalism so that the virus isn’t released, killing my friends. Even if he is my stalker, I need to speak to him and beg. I’ll offer him a trade – I’ll write the third book so long as he stops posting.
Mum shouts up the stairs. ‘Alice, a parcel just arrived for you.’
I grab my phone and head down the stairs. It’s nine at night. Who leaves post this late? The package sits on the kitchen table, a brown paper envelope. I turn it in my hands. There’s no stamp, no return address. Just my name. I assumed it was from my publishers, but this must have been hand-delivered. My legs begin to tremble.
‘Mum,’ I ask in a small voice.
‘Yeah.’
‘Who dropped this off?’
‘Dunno. It was left on the doorstep. I hope you haven’t started mail ordering make-up again, you remember it was knock-off last time and gave you spots.’
‘It was one spot,’ I mumble.
She rolls her eyes like she’s the teenager before leaving the room.
I’m left alone holding the package, thinking it could explode any moment. But still, I don’t put it down. I’m that clueless girl in the movies, the one that makes everyone shout, Don’t do it, don’t do it, step away from the envelope. But I have to know what’s inside. My hands are shaking and my heart is banging. Somehow, I manage to tear the paper open. I hold my breath. It doesn’t explode. Quit now while you’re ahead, I’m screaming at the stupid bimbo with the envelope. But instead, she peers inside.
It isn’t a bomb. It looks more like the top of a pen or something.
I tip the contents of the envelope on to the table, too afraid to touch it.
It’s the knife I cut Violet with.
My very own telltale heart.
Russell must have watched me put it in the bin.
Vomit rises up my throat. I’m about to chuck the
knife back in the envelope before Mum reappears, when my phone rings.
It’s Russell.
Probably not the best time to speak, because I’m sure only bats and dogs will hear me, but I need to know. So I answer the call and try not to puke into the speaker.
‘Alice, beautiful,’ he says. ‘What happened? Are you OK?’
I look at the bloodied knife on my kitchen table. ‘Why were you at an internet café the other day?’
‘What? What does it matter?’
‘I need to know. Just tell me.’
He laughs, taken aback, the first time I’ve ever heard him anything other than smooth. ‘OK, OK, if it matters that much. I was just looking at my emails, looking at naked people on the internet, you know. Why do you care?’
‘So you’re not Fanboy?’
‘Fanboy, as in your rival fanfic writer?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Is that why you did a runner?’ He lets out a sigh. ‘Thank God for that, I thought maybe I became less charming or something.’
‘Russell, I’m serious, why were you at that café?’
‘I was waiting for someone.’
‘Who?’
‘Alice, you’re behaving kind of strangely.’
Russell’s either lying about not being Fanboy, or he knows who Fanboy is. I’m about to press him further when ‘call waiting’ beeps in my ear. It’s Danny. ‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘I’ve got another call.’
Russell starts to speak, but I cut him off.
‘Danny? Danny, what is it?’
‘I tracked down the new IP address. I had a look on Google Maps and it’s most likely a block of flats. Didn’t you tell me Russell’s staying in a hotel?’
‘Yeah.’
‘In that case, I don’t think he’s Fanboy.’
27
ALICE
Danny pulls up outside my house. I offered to collect him, but he was having none of it. He’s so gallant, definitely the kind of prince that wipes the blood from his face before kissing the princess.
I smell Mum’s Chanel as she creeps up behind me. ‘Good for you,’ she says. ‘Don’t fall for a boy just because he drives a Porsche.’
‘You did,’ Dad shouts from the sitting room.
‘And look how that turned out,’ she mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
Dad marches into the hall, newspaper hanging from his right hand. ‘Is it the computer nerd again?’ He stands beside us and glares out of the window. ‘I hope he’s got airbags in that tin can of his.’
We watch as Danny undoes his seat belt. He’s not going to message, he’s going to come to the door.
Pants. Suddenly, his gallantry seems less appealing.
‘His name’s Danny,’ I reply, tight-lipped. ‘And I’m sure he’s got airbags, he’s very responsible.’ I pull my shoes on, fast as I can, desperate to avoid that awkward parents-meet-boy moment at the threshold.
‘Well, Porsche or not,’ Mum says, ‘he’s lasted longer than most of your boyfriends. This is what? Your second date?’ She chuckles at her own joke and peers out the window. ‘He’s kind of cute.’
‘See you later then.’ I dash out the door.
I jump into the passenger seat, tingling with excitement. It’s like my body is filled with electricity. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m sitting beside Danny, I’m about to meet Fanboy, or because my mum and dad are watching me drive away in the anti-Porsche. I think it’s all three.
‘You ready?’ Danny asks, pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket.
I take it from him. It’s an address – Fanboy’s address. The excitement turns into nerves. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’
He jabs the postcode into an old sat nav. ‘So what’s your plan?’ he asks.
‘I don’t really have one. I guess I’ll meet them and just ask if we can work together, or maybe if they’ll tone down some of the stuff they’re writing.’
‘What if he’s dangerous?’
The car splutters into life. I think of my parents, still watching from the hall window, and smile. ‘Yeah, I’m not going to lie, that’s a major worry, but it’s a risk I’ve got to take. Nate’s life support is switched off tomorrow and I’m running out of time.’
The car bunny hops for a few metres, before accepting its fate and settling into a dull trundle. Funny to think that only a few days ago, Danny was just some bloke I used to vaguely know, and now I can tell you exactly how many times he’s touched me, how he smells, how many curls he has escaping on to his forehead.
‘So you’re not going to mention the fact your friends are in comas?’ he asks.
I stare out of the window, hoping the question will disappear. But it doesn’t. I let it hang there for a few more seconds. ‘Nope. It’s too bonkers,’ I finally say.
‘I like bonkers.’ He offers me a shy smile. I think he noticed the crack in my voice.
We drive in silence. When I’ve been driven by boys before, they’ve always tried to impress me, revving the engine and accelerating from junctions like twats. One guy actually tried to woo me with a series of doughnuts in Tesco car park. I think he expected a blowjob, not a pint of vomit on his lap. But Danny drives like a dad. I love it. The evening sun catches his profile, lighting up his stubble and eyelashes. I inhale deeply. The scent of paper, mint and diesel make me feel safe, and I allow myself to run through the various scenarios when I reach Fanboy.
They all end with a door slammed in my face, or worse.
But I have to at least try and convince him to stop writing his blog, so my friends stand a chance.
Even the smell of Danny and his car can’t stop me bricking it.
Danny must notice, because he says, ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ I answer on autopilot.
He keeps staring at the road ahead, but answers simply, ‘No you’re not.’
This makes me smile. It’s like he doesn’t even notice the Gucci or the fact I exfoliate. I’m still smiling when the sat nav tells us we’ve arrived. Danny pulls up in front of a block of flats. I say block of flats – it’s a load of converted warehouses, and they’re stunning. Fanboy either lives with his parents, or he’s old and minted.
I turn to Danny. ‘The thing is, somebody left a knife in an envelope at my door.’
His mouth drops open. ‘What? Are you OK? Did you ring the police?’
I shake my head.
‘This has gone on too long, we need to ring the police. Now.’
I stare at my hands. Some lies are good. Some lies are bad. But Danny should know the truth, regardless. ‘I’m the sicko.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The sicko who hurt Violet. It was me.’
Danny seems to flatten himself against the car door, like he’s trying to merge into it or he’s planning his escape. ‘What? You cut Violet’s arm? Why?’
‘Because I needed to get her a message. I needed to let her know when the Taleter meeting was so she could learn about the virus.’
‘You mean . . . the stuff on Fandalism?’
I nod.
‘Alice. They’re fanfic sites. They’re not real. You assaulted your comatose friend.’
‘I know, I know. But it is real, Danny. The earth tremors, the medically unexplained comas. They’ve happened twice now at Comic-Con, you don’t think that’s more than spooky?’
There’s a long pause. ‘OK. You’ve got a point. But cutting Violet’s arm?’
Tears spring to my eyes. ‘Please don’t think badly of me. I couldn’t bear it if you did. Everyone thinks I’m this stupid vain cow, but not you. Even my parents don’t like me that much.’ I sound pathetic, perhaps even a little manipulative, but I mean it. Every word. And I couldn’t stop crying if I tried, the way Danny’s looking at me right now.
But his expression relaxes, his dark eyes soften. ‘It’s OK, it’s OK. It just goes to show how much strain you’re under right now. I don’t think badly of you, but I do think you need help.’
I
swallow. ‘I’ll get help, I promise. When this is over and my friends have woken up, I’ll get help. But right now, I need you.’
I don’t think I’ve ever said these words before. Not even to Violet. I need you. I’m the neediest person I know, yet I’ve learnt never to ask for help. Never to show weakness. I watch his face, anticipating the rejection.
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ he says.
I walk up the path with Danny. My legs shake with every step and I find myself noticing all sorts of random things. The path is cracked, the grass has been recently mowed, the street lamp is flickering overhead, the air smells like it might rain soon.
‘How will we know which flat belongs to Fanboy?’ Danny asks.
I shrug. ‘We start by knocking on doors, asking questions, and seeing if someone acts suspicious.’
‘And if that doesn’t work?’
‘We cry.’
My brain turns the thought-volume back up on my internal radio and my head floods with questions. What does Fanboy look like? How old is he? Will he know who I am? Is he actually a she? And what am I actually going to say to this genderless, ageless, faceless person who could be a psycho-stalker? Please stop writing your fanfic, it’s messing with the alternative universe where my unconscious friends currently reside. Deep breath. At least this plan doesn’t involve maiming my bestie, and at least Danny’s here.
We arrive at the double doors which lead into the foyer. I try the handle, and unsurprisingly, it’s locked. I run my finger up the bronze mounted grid of flat numbers.
I can barely look. Any of these names could belong to him.
A name jumps out at me.
‘Jesus,’ I whisper.
That’s who Russell was waiting for at the café.
Timothy O’Hara.
My bastard editor.
‘Alice?’ Danny says. He sounds a million miles away. ‘Alice, what is it?’
I watch my finger quavering over the bell, unable to press it. ‘That arsehole,’ I whisper. ‘He’s Fanboy. Timothy is Fanboy.’
‘Who’s Timothy?’ Danny asks.
‘My bloody editor, that’s who.’
I watch my finger push against the buzzer, which releases a long, flat drone. I press for a long time, letting the anger pass through me into the metal. No reply. I pull my phone from my pocket and try ringing him. No reply. This pattern repeats a few times. Drone. No reply. Ring. No reply. Eventually Danny covers the buzzer with his hand.