The Fandom

by Anna Day

  Our upper arms nudge against each other. He seems happy not to pry, to walk beside me, his arm resting against mine like we belong.

  We see fewer and fewer overalls. The plain-clothed Imps look lean and desperate, even for Imps. Recessed eyes, angular cheekbones, fingers like twigs. I remember this from canon. The Imps who work in the Pastures live nearest to the gates and are the rulers of the city. The ones who are fed and clothed and given a small allowance. But the Imps nearer the river look close to death, their lips tinged blue.

  I watch as the sun slips down the sky. Back home, it’s springtime—the air tastes balmy and sits easy in your lungs. Here, it’s early autumn, and the cold begins to worm its way beneath my tunic and into my bones. I briefly wonder what time it is back home, whether Mum and Dad have set the table for tea, waiting for me and Nate to return from Comic-Con. I imagine their anxious faces as time ticks by, and I get this lump in my throat like I’ve swallowed a piece of shrapnel.

  The air changes and the wind picks up, delivering a pungent odor of fish and sewage.

  “We’re getting nearer to the river,” Ash says. “I need to get back to the city gates. If I run, I can still make the last bus.” He cups my elbow with his hand—a spot of hot sun. “I hate leaving you here, you nearly got hung in the nice part of town.”

  “That was nice?” Alice says.

  He smiles his crooked smile. “Just keep heading south and you’ll hit the river soon enough. Just stay away from the rebels, yeah? They’re bad news. I know it’s a worthy cause, Imp emancipation and all that, but they’re a bunch of ruthless bastards—they’d kill their granny if they thought she was a Gem.” He gestures briefly to Alice. “And you’ll have trouble convincing them that Bigfoot here hasn’t had her helixes tampered with.”

  Alice sighs. “Jesus, will everyone stop going on about how hot I am?”

  He turns to leave and catches my cheek with his lips. A weird feeling gathers in my stomach; a twist of longing.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He cocks his head to the side and holds me for a moment with those amazing frosted-blue eyes. Then he turns and jogs back up the street.

  “I need a hero,” Katie sings, just loud enough for me to hear.

  “Oh, piss off,” I say.

  Alice joins in. “I’m holding out for a hero till the end of the night—”

  “Guys, seriously!” I say.

  Katie clutches her heart and throws her head back. “And he’s gotta be strong and he’s got a big dong …”

  We start laughing, really loudly, like we’re back home, the three of us lined up on my sofa, watching horrible television and throwing popcorn and insults at Simon Cowell. But something about our laughter sounds so out of place in this strange, concrete world—like birdsong in a war zone—and gradually it tapers into silence.

  “I guess we keep on walking,” Alice says.

  I reply by moving my feet, the monotony of the tarmac bedding into the soles of my boots.

  “Alice?” I ask.

  She grunts.

  “When you wrote all your fanfic, did you give all the Imps backstories?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  I struggle to order my thoughts. “It’s just, Ash’s got this rich history that is completely new to me, and most of the Imps we’ve seen aren’t from the film or the novel …” I trail off.

  “That is weird,” Katie says.

  Alice nods. “I know what you mean. I don’t think fanfic has the answer, though. I think maybe Nate’s right.”

  “Alternate universe?” I say.

  Alice laughs a breathy laugh. “This is mental.”

  “So what happens next?” Katie asks.

  Alice pulls at her ragged hair as if trying to make it grow. “Bet you wish you’d listened to Violet’s presentation now.”

  “I did,” Katie says, looking at me, concern registering on her neat features. “Honest I did, Vi. It’s just everything here is such a mind mush it’s hard to remember it all. And you said something about the canon haunting us, so it might help hearing it again.”

  “Then try reading something other than Dickens,” Alice says.

  I step in. “So Saskia and Matthew took Rose to meet Thorn at Rebel Headquarters. Which is where we’re going now, to find Nate. Then Thorn took Rose to see Baba.”

  “The psychic zombie?” Katie says.

  I nod. “Baba read Rose’s mind, and told Thorn that Rose would be the one to save the Imps.”

  “Through self-sacrifice and love,” Alice says, unable to resist butting in.

  I push on. “So Thorn trusted Rose to take the lead in the biggest rebel mission to date—the Harper mission.”

  “And that’s where she met Willow?” Katie says.

  Alice nods and sighs. “Ah, Willow. To think we’re breathing the same air, standing beneath the same sky.”

  I get that same tremor of excitement, like we’re back at Comic-Con thinking about Russell Jones. With all the commotion, all the worry about Nate, I’d completely forgotten about Willow.

  Eventually, the road opens up. Bombed-out buildings sit on either side, the shadows of their foundations remaining. Weeds push through the cracks in the tarmac and, for a brief moment, I feel relieved just seeing the green. And then I notice them. Thistles. Hundreds and hundreds of thistles. Forcing their way between the paving slabs, nestling between bricks, peering from mounds of rubble.

  “The symbol of the rebels,” I say.

  “Cut us down and we come back stronger,” Alice replies, a little dreamy, like we’re back at the cinema watching the film.

  I nod. “We’re nearly there.”

  Rose walked this very path with Saskia and Matthew on her way to meet Thorn for the first time. The thrill of her first successful mission was fading and nerves were setting in. I recall how she saw the thistles and said, “Is he as spiky as his favorite weed?” And Saskia smiled and replied, “Even spikier.”

  Now it just seems ridiculous that Rose felt nervous. She hadn’t destroyed the thistle-bomb mission, and she hadn’t lost her little brother, and she hadn’t been transported to a different universe. That piece of shrapnel is back and I start to feel sick again.

  Alice must be thinking the same, ’cause she squeezes my hand. “He’s not that spiky. Remember, he loved Ruth, didn’t he?”

  “Who’s Ruth?” Katie asks.

  Alice turns to me. “You tell her, before I scream.”

  “She was a main part of Thorn’s backstory,” I say. “She was the love of his life years ago, when he was our age, but she was hanged at the Gallows Dance before they could elope. Thorn never recovered.”

  Katie gasps. “That’s tragic. Poor Thorn.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “And watching the love of his life hang at the hands of the Gems did wonders for his anger issues. He’s a ruthless psycho.”

  Alice cackles. “Ruth-less, get it?”

  Katie manages a half smile. “That would be funny if we were still talking about a book.”

  But I can’t even force a half smile. All I can think about is the fact my little brother may already be at headquarters with Thorn.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Alice grumbles.

  We continue to head south, keeping the ever-fading sun to our right. The bunches of thistles increase, the stench of rotting fish overpowers us, and, finally, my eyes fall upon the church. It stands among the devastation, ragged and tired yet mostly intact. Proof of divine intervention, the book said.

  “Nate.” I start to run toward the church.

  The tarmac blisters and curls as the road reaches an abrupt end. I come to a halt. The term broken bridge is an understatement. The bridge isn’t broken, it’s gone. Bombed into nothingness. Seeing it for real and not behind the pane of a television screen—encircled by creature comforts—really knocks the air from my lungs. I look along the river; not a single bridge, the city carved in two by water. No evenly proportioned buildings illuminating the skyline, their lights reflecti
ng off the water like lanterns on a lake. Just the jagged remnants of what used to be. I can’t help feeling this sense of loss for the city I know and love.

  Katie and Alice reach my side.

  “Jesus,” Katie whispers.

  I feel an overwhelming urge to sink to my knees and sob. But I think of Nate, possibly with Thorn at this very moment, and my strength returns. I swallow down a mouthful of fish-tainted air and continue running toward the church.

  “Violet, slow down,” Alice yells.

  I don’t stop. The smell of fish and sewage gain strength, filling my lungs as I leap over stones and cracks and thistles.

  I step into the shadow of the church and the air temperature dips a degree or two. I’m there—Rebel Headquarters. Without the thumping drums and violins blaring in my ears, it looks kind of serene. It’s based on the church of St. Magnus the Martyr, a real church that Alice and I visited after we’d watched the film. The porthole windows have been replaced by plastic and rags, and part of the roof is missing, but without the surrounding high-rises and the bluish glint of The Shard in the backdrop, the church seems bigger, more imposing.

  The wooden doors stand before me, sturdy and closed. I try the iron handle. Locked. I slam my fists into the wood and begin to shout. “Nate!”

  Alice grabs my hands and tries to silence me. “Violet! Are you mad? You can’t be hammering down the rebels’ door. They’ll kill you.”

  I bash the wood harder. “Nate? Are you in there?”

  Katie and Alice try to drag me away, but the adrenaline fills me with strength.

  “Stop it, you nutter,” Alice says. “Do you even remember Thorn? The way he scalped that Gem for insulting his dead girlfriend?”

  “Yeah, let’s not piss off the psycho,” Katie says.

  Panic winds around me again, a serpent constricting my chest, crushing my heart. “What if that psycho’s got my little brother?” I lay my palms against the wood, close my eyes, and try to sense Nate. It feels like my body gives up—throat closes, lungs freeze, mind empties. Finally, my arms dissolve beneath my weight, allowing my cheek to press against the door. Cool and coarse and real. I wish I could just sink into it. But the door has other ideas. It creaks and falls away from me. I see a woman’s face peering through the gap, an unmistakable stain on her forehead.

  Saskia.

  “You found us,” she whispers.

  Before I can jam my foot in the gap, she darts outside and pulls the door shut. I try to move around her, but she clasps my body in an awkward embrace. I feel so surprised, so desperate, I just let my arms hang limply by my sides.

  “We’ve been worried about you,” she says.

  “Is Nate OK?” I attempt to sidestep her, but she won’t budge.

  “Yeah, ’course. He’s fine.”

  I feel like I’ve been tossed high into the air, like I hover at the point where I can’t go any higher—the peak of my arc, magenta trampoline below—just waiting for gravity to kick in. Suspended, weightless, free.

  “Really?” I whisper.

  “Yeah, he’s fine. He’s just meeting the rebels. Come on, I’ll show you in.”

  “I don’t like this,” Alice says. “You’ve never been nice to us before.”

  Saskia throws her a stern look. “Shut it, princess.”

  “Alice is right,” Katie says. “Something weird’s going on.”

  I wipe my eyes on the back of my sleeve and laugh. A strange, shaky warble that doesn’t belong to me.

  Saskia steps aside and gestures to the door. “Just go on in,” she says, smiling.

  I feel strange, like my feet no longer connect with the ground. But I command my body to move. I heave open the door and step forward. Katie stands beside me, her hand clutching mine, and I barely notice Alice hanging back, her trembling voice begging us not to enter.

  The church is a vast, open space. Elegant pillars reach toward a pale, scalloped ceiling, and the late-afternoon sun trickles through the portholes, worming through the gaps in the rags, softened and marbled by the plastic. I see no pews, only rows upon rows of desks. It looks so similar to the film version, yet certain details make it alien and new—the smell of stone infused with incense, the way the dust hangs in the air like specks of gold, the stone flags pushing into my feet. My skin pricks with sweat.

  “Violet!” I hear Nate’s voice. He runs to me, arms outstretched, and almost knocks me over with the strength of his embrace.

  He repeats my name, but he doesn’t sound happy—he sounds terrified.

  That’s when I see the other Imps. Standing in the shadows. Smiling and holding out their arms like they carry presents. But they don’t carry presents. They carry firearms. And every flash of metal is aimed at my head.

  A tower of a man steps from behind the rebels. Thorn. He wears his signature eye patch; perhaps because his remaining eye is so intense, so piercing, it appears to do the work of two. He smiles this perfect, grid-like smile, catching me off guard with his beauty. He’s even more striking than the actor from the film, even more formidable. His skin the color of Demerara sugar; his hair so black it almost looks blue. And he wears different clothes—the leather trousers and trench coat have been replaced with a tattered gray blazer and black jeans, making him seem less pantomime.

  Katie grips my hand. “That has to be Thorn.”

  I nod. He walks toward us, his step as lazy as his smile. “Well, well. What have we got here? Two more so-called spies. You have a lot of explaining to do.”

  He looks from me to Katie, and something crosses his face, something tender and vulnerable and fearful all at once. He lifts a hand, and for an awful moment, I think he’s going to strike her. But instead he touches the backs of his fingers to her cheek. Katie pulls back, heaving in a mouthful of air like his skin’s poker-hot.

  Nate tugs at my sash and opens his mouth like he wants to speak, but the sound of Alice screaming silences him. An Imp forces her through the arched doorway.

  Thorn reclaims his lazy smile. “And here she is. The Gem who thinks she’s an Imp spy.”

  Alice tries to say something—my name, I think—but the Imps smother her words, teeming around her, wrenching her slender arms behind her back and forcing her to her knees.

  “Alice.” I try desperately to reach her, but the Imps shove me against the slabs.

  “Stop it, stop it,” Katie screams, pulling at their shirts, trying to heave them off me. But Thorn wraps his giant arms around her, and I’m left pressed into the stone, my eyes trained on Alice. I writhe and twist and scream like I’m possessed, but it’s no use. And just before an Imp cracks me across the head and everything melts to black, I hear Saskia’s voice.

  “I told you they were worth waiting for.”

  I WAKE IN A small ocher room. The floorboards feel hard and unyielding beneath my body, cords bind my wrists and ankles, and a rag that tastes of alcohol plugs my mouth. I manage to ease myself into a sitting position so I face the door—my back pressed into the peeling wall—and I feel a little less defenseless. There’s a large window to my right, so caked in grime it may as well be bricked up, but the odd splinter of dying afternoon light pushes through, suggesting our prison is not underground. This makes me feel a little better.

  Alice sits beside me, the imprint of her body warm against mine. Nate sits opposite; a gag contorts his mouth into an eerie, fixed grin, and he holds his body as though his left side aches. I look into his eyes—sore and inflamed—and we blink a slow, teary greeting. At least we’re both alive. Next, my eyes find Katie—same gag, same eerie grin. She winks. But a tear rolls down her cheek, magnifying her freckles and soaking into her gag. I bet she’s wishing she never moved to London, never laid eyes on me, never even heard of The Gallows Dance. I feel a pang of guilt and let my head fall back against the wall. A reassuring thud. I hear this constant drone like a swarm of bees, and a tar-like substance clogs my left eye—my own blood, I suspect.

  I don’t know how long we sit in that room. We stare
at the walls, our feet, exchange the odd sympathetic glance. And of course I start to deliberate how we got into this mess. It started with the accident at Comic-Con. An earthquake? A bomb? An experiment gone wrong? I press my eyelids shut, my thoughts knotting together. I desperately want to be able to talk it through with the others, but I can’t quite spit the rags out.

  I turn my thoughts to the canon instead. Although we can change it, we still seem to keep crossing back into it. We’re like two pieces of thread, running side by side, then twisting into each other only to separate again. So, at this point in canon, Rose had entered the church and was talking to Thorn about how she released the thistle-bomb at the Gallows Dance earlier in the day. I’ve watched the scene so many times; the main body of the church filled with night-lights as the sky darkened and the other rebels left. Thorn tried to work out whether she was the right Imp for the Harper mission, and he was much nicer to her than to me—he didn’t crack her over the head and lock her in a room, for a start. “Spiky” was definitely an understatement.

  Eventually, I fall asleep. I know this because I have a strange, muddled dream of the city—not my London, but future Imp London. Broken walls, crumbling buildings, a bleak sky imprinted with battered rooflines. I scream and waver on the edge of a barrel. The freckly controller stands beneath me, pointing, laughing, pulling back his boot. Ash cries out and wraps his arms around my thighs. He lays me on the ground like I might crack and leans over, I think to kiss my forehead. His eyes look the exact same color as the sky behind, giving the impression he has two holes in his head. And suddenly, it isn’t Ash anymore, it’s Nate. A dark chasm opens across his chest.

  You did this to me, Violet, he says.

  I push my palms into the black hole, but I can’t stem the flow. Blood streams down my arms and spots my face. I’m sorry.

  He rests his lips on my skin and whispers, his breath as cold as snow. If only you’d looked after me better, none of this would have happened. He sits back and his eyelids flicker.

  Nate, stay with me, I say.

  His body dissolves into a red mist, hovers for a moment—a piece of gossamer cut into the shape of a boy—and disperses into the atmosphere like ashes. Like thistledown. I reach out, pawing helplessly at the air. But I feel only a smattering of droplets and the ever-increasing spaces in between.