by Anna Day
She shakes her head. ‘I tried a couple of times, but he hasn’t picked up. I’ll ring him now, leave a message saying you’re looking for him.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter. I run out of the office, Danny close behind.
‘Now what?’ he asks.
‘We go back to his flat and kick the bloody door in.’
By the time we’ve made it across London, it’s well past 10 a.m. Panic is building inside me and I feel ready to blow. And this is so not the time for my crazy stalker to text me, so when my phone buzzes and I see the same unknown number, I’m unable to stop myself screaming, ‘Not now, you nasty, stalking arse!’
‘Jesus, Alice. It’s not your stalker again?’
I nod. ‘I can’t cope with this right now.’
Very gently, Danny takes the phone from my fingers. He opens the message and I watch his expression darken. ‘You better read it.’
They’re my Fandom. Back off, bitch.
Yours, The Fanboy.
Fanboy is the stalker. Timothy is Fanboy. ‘Holy shit,’ I say, fury coursing through my veins. ‘It was Timothy. He wrote on my mirror and sent me that knife. That sick bastard.’ He must have read about the wound on Violet’s arm in the papers and decided to spook me. But why? Was he really that pissed I refused to write the third book? And how did he know it was me who cut Violet’s arm?
Danny lays a hand on my phone, as though he can protect me from the message on the screen. ‘I’m ringing the police.’
But I’m out the car in a flash, running towards Timothy’s building, my heels clacking against the concrete. I try the buzzer again. Nothing. I take my phone out of my pocket and try ringing him again. No reply.
‘Al, we need to ring the police,’ Danny says, catching me up.
I’m all out of ideas when a man with a briefcase pushes through the door, probably leaving to go to work. Instinct, politeness, God knows what it is, but he holds the door for us. And as easy as that, we’re in the building.
I take the stairs two at a time. We reach Timothy’s flat and I ring the bell. It trills out in the stairwell. No reply. ‘Timothy,’ I call out. ‘Timothy, it’s Alice. I need to talk to you. It’s really important.’ I try to cap the anger in my voice. He’s much more likely to answer the door if he doesn’t think he’s going to get an ear bashing.
But he doesn’t appear, in spite of my logic.
I open his letter box and peer through it. This weird smell hits me. It briefly reminds me of the Imp city, a smell of decaying flesh and shit. My stomach clenches.
‘Timothy,’ I call through the letter box. I look at Danny. ‘Seriously, get a whiff of that.’
‘I can smell it from here,’ he says. ‘Smells like something died in there.’ He rattles the door handle.
One good thing about being a writer – I know people. Timothy keeps a spare just where I would expect him to, tucked on the top of the light outside his door. Not as obvious as a doormat or a pot, but easily accessible. I stick it into the keyhole with unnecessary force, and one key-turn later, we’re stepping into the hall.
29
VIOLET
The next day, Nate takes me, Ash and Willow to the launch site. The drive through the city passes in a flash, and I realize I’ve just been staring at my hands the whole time. Just staring at the soil which still lingers beneath my fingernails and in the grooves of my skin. Katie died yesterday. And today is Nate’s birthday. His life support will be turned off. I notice a large tear splodge on to my hand, magnifying the soil from Katie’s grave.
The Humvee pulls to a halt.
‘We’re here,’ Nate says.
We’re back at the Coliseum. The tall, circular walls fill me with dread. I imagine I can still hear the echoes of the crowds, baying for Imp blood. We step from the Humvee and the familiar scent of pollen sends my heart rate rocketing. I hold my breath as we push through the wooden side door, trying to force the image of the gallows from my mind. They won’t be there, I tell myself. Alice and I wrote them out.
I stumble forwards, taking it all in: the circular stone wall, rows upon rows of raked seating, the smooth stretch of tarmac beneath my feet. My head hurts and I can hear my own pulse. It looks so different from the first time we crossed over. Empty and still, not a Gem in sight. Despite the brilliant circle of sky suspended above, I notice how cool the air feels against my skin – it’s like I’m standing in a bowl of shadows.
I’m about to turn to Nate when something catches my eye – a tall, jagged shape at the front of the Coliseum. The gallows. Just the sight of those wooden posts, those dangling ropes, and my body disappears, swallowed up by a layer of sweat. ‘What on earth?’ I whisper to myself. I approach the wooden stage, feeling strangely drawn to it. I can almost see the ghost of Rose – of me – standing on a trapdoor. My hands automatically clasp my throat. And as I get nearer, I can see that something’s not quite right. The wood looks too clean – sanded down and slicked with varnish. I haul myself on to the stage with trembling arms.
‘Violet? Are you OK?’ Ash asks.
But I barely hear him. I kneel against the planks and run my fingers over the square outlines of the trapdoors. My nails bump up against globules of dried varnish, shining like amber beads between the gaps. The trapdoors are fake, no more than grooves, carved part-way into the wood and incapable of opening. I immediately look to the place where the hangman should stand, and I realize there’s no lever.
‘It’s a replica,’ Ash tells me. He gestures to the wall behind me. ‘Look.’
I turn to see a giant bronze plaque. Thirty, forty columns of numbers and names rise up against the metallic glow, giving it the appearance of a cityscape at dawn.
‘What are they?’ I ask.
I trace a number with my finger.
Nate jumps on to the stage beside me. ‘They’re Imp numbers, followed by their name. It’s a memorial for all the Imps that hanged here.’
I skim the nooks and ridges with my fingers, moving along the stage to the end of the list. ‘So many Imps.’ My voice catches. ‘Enough to fill a city.’ I kneel so I can see the very last number; my face reflects back at me from behind the digits 753811. The last Imp to be hanged in this spot. I read her name aloud. ‘Rose.’
Willow takes a sharp intake of breath.
I’m about to apologize when I hear a voice, smooth and calm, travelling from beneath the stage: ‘The government built you a memorial, and the Taleters used it to conceal their laboratory. Typical.’ Yan steps from behind the stage and leans against the structure like he’s part of the wood.
‘Who’s this?’ Ash says.
‘It’s OK, he’s on our side,’ I say, dismounting the stage and moving towards Yan. ‘He’s a precog, like Baba.’
Yan looks at Nate and nods. ‘Nate.’
Nate smiles back.
‘You two know each other?’ I ask, confused.
Nate smiles. ‘Yes.’
Yan doesn’t acknowledge the others, but looks only at me, a frown gathering on his brow. ‘Violet, what’s wrong?’ He brushes his fingers against my face. ‘Oh Violet, I am so sorry.’ Tears spring into his eyes as he realizes what happened to Katie. ‘The rhyme . . . I didn’t know . . .’ he tails off.
‘Did Baba plan it?’ I ask, my voice cracking. ‘Was Katie supposed to die?’
Yan shakes his head, a tiny tremor. ‘Maybe.’ He pauses. ‘I can help?’ It’s a question rather than a statement. He’s offering to calm me. But I want to carry the loss; it will keep me focused. We stop the bastard President and we save the Imps, we save my little brother both here and back home. It’s the reason we came here, and it’s the only thing that will make her death matter.
Yan nods like he understands. ‘Come then.’ He opens a real trapdoor, hidden from view, at the side of the replica gallows.
‘We must be careful,’ Ash whispers. ‘The President has a heart as black as they come. He’ll kill us in a moment.’
I remember Stoneback’s twisted grin. ‘I
know,’ I say.
Yan leads us down some stairs. I hold Ash’s hand, and I can’t tell if the sweat comes from my skin or his. Probably both. We turn down a corridor. I anticipate the damp, earthy scent of stone, but the smell is cleaner, more medicinal, and I wonder if I’m getting crossover from my real-world body again.
We approach a door, the texture of wood barely visible in the gloom.
‘The lab’s in there,’ Nate says under his breath.
Ash and Willow pull their guns from their belts. Yan follows suit. I begin to wish I was armed too, even though I’d probably shoot my own foot, I’d at least feel safer . . . stronger. Only a plank of wood separates us from President Stoneback. My legs begin to tremble.
Ash kicks the door and it flies open. ‘Stop what you’re doing!’ he bellows. We enter a windowless room. Stark light hits my eyes and the scent of antiseptic fills my nostrils. I blink the dark splotches from my vision, my blood thrumming in my ears.
And there he is.
President Stoneback.
His head is bent low; his fingers tap wildly against a screen and his hair falls across his face in waves — it’s grown since I last saw him.
‘Very slowly, step away from the computer, Stoneback,’ Ash says.
The man lifts his head, a wry smile stuck to his face.
A gasp catches in my throat. It isn’t the President. It’s the man from the light projection back at the tube station. The man who recognized me from the loop. Oscar.
He smiles at us with his full, greedy mouth. ‘You’re too late.’
‘What do you mean we’re too late?’ Ash asks.
‘Where’s the President?’ Terror forces my voice to spike as I realize the hateful snake of a man must be lurking somewhere nearby.
Oscar looks at me. ‘Ah, Violet. The wanderer has returned. How’s your friend? Alice, was it?’
The sound of her name on his lips sends a wave of nausea through me. I stride up to him, completely forgetting my lack of weapon. ‘How do you know Alice?’
‘I met her when she was here last time, though only briefly. I doubt she remembers me. I could tell she was an Imp straight away. Her thirst for perfection fascinated me. She gave me the idea for the serum.’
Ash puts an arm around my waste. ‘Ignore him, Violet, we need to focus on stopping the virus.’
‘As I said, you’re too late,’ Oscar says. ‘It’s launching in a few minutes. And nobody except me can reverse it, only I know the code.’ He glances at the gun in Willow’s hand. ‘Go on, shoot, then you’ll never know how to stop it, will you?’ His long fingers reach under the desk and push something, just before Yan barrels into his shoulder and sends him reeling to the floor.
‘He’s pressed a panic button,’ Yan mutters to himself. Then, louder, he says, ‘Hold him down.’
Ash sits on Oscar’s legs and Willow pins down his arms.
Oscar laughs at Yan. ‘Of course, the replacement for the old woman. Baba. And what’s your name, telepath?’
‘It’s Yan, if you must know,’ Yan snaps, kneeling beside him. ‘Are you going to give me the deactivation code, or will I have to force it from you?’
‘I’ll never tell you, Little Swallow Bird,’ Oscar spits. ‘And I’ve strengthened my consciousness against people like you, so you’ll never find out.’
‘Good,’ Yan says, laying his hands on Oscar’s temples. ‘I love a challenge.’
Oscar’s features screw into a tight ball as Yan starts to attack his mind.
Little swallow bird? I turn over the words in my mind. Something about it doesn’t sit right in my stomach.
Yan’s engrossed in the task at hand – but this feels important. I watch as Oscar’s left hand begins to twitch.
‘Yan,’ I say, softly, trying not to break his focus. ‘Why did he call you “little swallow bird”?’
Without moving, Yan manages to hiss, ‘It’s my name. Yan means Little Swallow Bird in Chinese.’ He applies more force to Oscar’s face.
Little bird. Something clicks into place: Thorn’s words. Let’s just say a little bird told me. Rage rushes through me. ‘Why did you tell Thorn about the canister?’
He doesn’t look up. ‘I needed you here, Violet. You and Nate. I needed you here in this lab, right now. It’s the only way to save the Imps, and it’s the only way to send you home. It will all make sense soon enough, I promise.’
I’m about to argue, about to press him further, when someone says my name. A sharp whisper in my ear even though nobody stands nearby. Violet.
I spin in a circle. There it is again. Violet.
‘What is it?’ Nate asks me.
‘Yan, is that you?’ I say.
But he’s too busy with Oscar to reply. And it isn’t his voice. It isn’t even one voice — it sounds like several voices, talking in unison.
Nate takes me by the arms. ‘What is it, Violet, what do you hear?’
‘I can hear someone whispering my name.’ I start to panic. Is it from the other side, from our world? I hear it again. Violet. But it doesn’t sound familiar, it definitely isn’t Mum or Dad, maybe it’s the hospital staff. Violet, come quickly. The voice is moving away from me. Violet, you must hurry. It sounds like it’s coming through the wall. I look in that direction. There’s a door. And coming from behind the door is a faint, bluish glow.
‘In there,’ I say.
Violet, Violet, this way.
I move towards the voice, anxiety and dread causing my stomach to cramp.
Quickly, Violet, there’s no time to lose.
‘Is it coming from in there?’ Nate asks, gesturing to the bluish light.
I nod, and without further thought, push open the door.
Behind it is one of the most disturbing sights I’ve ever seen: a vast room, carved from the stone like a crypt. And lined in neat rows, forming an endless grid, are Dupe tubes.
They stretch away from me, each filled with a body, floating in thick, transparent liquid. Some with limbs missing, some with patches of skin gone. Some, just children. Vomit fills my mouth as I notice much smaller tubes, some containing babies which have been transferred from one sack to another, never to open their eyes or their ears, stuck in a world of darkness.
The room hums with electricity, and the scent of medicine and blood is overwhelming.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper. ‘What is this?’
But I know the answer even as Nate replies. ‘It’s a Dupe storage warehouse,’ he whispers, as though talking may disturb them. ‘I had no idea it was here.’
‘Why store Dupes here?’ I ask.
‘An endless supply of subjects to experiment on. I doubt their Gem owners know.’
‘They were calling to me, Nate. The dupes were calling to me just now. They’re . . . aware.’ Tears slip from my eyes as I gaze from one tube to another. The people inside aren’t vegetables; they’re conscious.
Nate lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘Maybe they’ve formed some sort of hive mind – then only a few would need to be telepathic to be able to reach out to you.’
‘But why did they want me to find them?’ I ask. I stop dead in front of one of the tubes. A cry escapes from my lips.
‘What is it?’ Nate asks.
But I find myself replying not to Nate, but to the naked body floating in the tube before me: ‘You sneaky bastard.’
ALICE
Timothy’s flat doesn’t look how I’d expected. Unopened mail forms a little pile on the mat, and the door to the living room is half open, revealing stacks of empty pizza boxes and unwashed plates. God, and that smell.
‘Timothy,’ I call out.
Danny looks up from his phone. ‘He only posted about ten minutes ago, Alice. It’s his final post too, the finale. He’s definitely alive.’
I pick my way down the hall, stepping over a discarded jumper and a cup of what looks like cold tea. The milk’s congealed on the surface. God knows how long it’s been there.
‘Timothy? It’s Alice, are you OK?
’ Maybe blogging has been too much for him. Maybe the finale pushed him over the edge. Maybe he hit the ‘publish’ button, downed a bottle of vodka then passed out. I half expect to find him lying on the sofa with a needle hanging out of his arm.
Danny picks up the cup of cold tea so it doesn’t get knocked. ‘Shit, I’m definitely ringing 999.’ He looks around for a surface to put the cup on, gives up, and places it back on the floor.
‘To say what?’ I reply. ‘“My friend’s editor’s flat smells of dead cat, so we broke in.”’
‘He’s threatened you,’ Danny says, his voice low. ‘He broke into your house.’
I reach the living-room door and pause, bracing myself for the sight of my unconscious editor. ‘Timothy?’ I call out again. But where my voice had once been strong and challenging, it comes out wavering and scared. Danny must hear this, because he takes my hand in his.
We squeak the door fully open and step inside. It looks like a group of students had a party in one of their parents’ house. The antique coffee table is littered with cups and plates and screwed-up balls of paper. There’s a heap of clothes in the corner, and the telly has been left on silent. He must have been here fairly recently.
‘Something isn’t right,’ I say to Danny, finally voicing that niggling fear. ‘Timothy is not a slob, and that smell is not old pizza and cold tea.’
I pull my phone out of my pocket and call Timothy’s number. The sound of an iPhone ringtone fills the hall.
Danny’s hand tightens around my own. ‘It’s coming from the hall cupboard,’ he whispers.
Still holding hands, we shuffle towards the cupboard door. The ringtone chirps out, completely at odds with the growing sense of dread and the stench of decay. It’s beginning to feel like we’re starring in our very own horror film. I half expect some blood-crazed clown to burst out of the closet, brandishing a dagger and a fist full of balloons. But grief and lack of sleep form a kind of protective barrier for me, and somehow it feels more like a dream than a movie.
We stand side by side, facing the cupboard door. The ringtone stops and the flat falls into silence. All I can hear is my own breath, my blood pulsing in my ears.