Love. People talk about it like it’s a mental illness. Crazy in love, addicted, lovesick, obsessed . . . And maybe they’re right. Alice has loved Willow for two years. And I don’t just mean the actor, Russell Jones, I mean the fictitious character, Willow. That’s verging on insanity, surely? And if anyone should know, it’s me, having suffered from the same affliction.
OK, so Alice has dated the odd footballer, the odd boyband (yes – the whole band). But she always returns to her keyboard, tapping out her fanfic, the only place she could enact her Willow-related fantasies . . . until now, that is. But would she really have her best friend killed in the name of love? Perhaps, if she’s lost her mind. I risked the canon because of Ash after all. But kill someone?
‘I’ve known her since primary school,’ I say.
‘I’ve known her since I was born,’ Nate says.
‘She’s . . . good.’ The image of those four bronzed legs wrapped in satin appears in my mind’s eye. ‘Well, she’s not a monster, at least.’
Nate nods. ‘You’re right. This place is making me paranoid.’
‘Come on, you two,’ Ash shouts. He’s already shoved the manhole cover to one side and a downward breeze caresses my face. My heart starts pumping again. We clamber from the hole, leaving a patchwork of soggy marks on the surrounding concrete – hands, feet, knees. Even though the night is cold and dark, just the movement of the air, the sense of space, makes it feel like we’ve burst from a grave into a summer’s day. Of course Alice didn’t tell the Gems about the raid. I feel guilty for even considering it.
I glance around. The bolthole from canon – just another stinking alley with an orange garage door. We flatten our bodies against the wall. Ash circles his weapon through the air as though searching for trouble, but the alley remains still, just like it should. We creep towards the familiar door, coated in blotches of flaking paint. I pull the latch and it swings open.
‘Bingo,’ Nate says.
I can see little in the dark, but the stagnant air tells me the door hasn’t been opened for a while. Nate runs the beam of his torch over the contents of the room. Shapes rise up from the ground, concealed beneath oil cloths and sheets. A forgotten museum. More like I imagined it when I read the book. In the film, the room was bigger, better lit, less claustrophobic. Quickly, we pull the cloth from the Humvee, flipping up dust and matted cobwebs. I stifle a cough. Ash finds a water bottle in a cabinet and hands it to me.
I hadn’t realized how dry my mouth feels – the inside of my throat caked in a fine layer of grime – until the cool liquid hits my tongue. I only think to stop swallowing when Nate coughs.
‘Sorry.’ I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and pass him the bottle.
Ash climbs into the Humvee and runs his fingers over the controls. ‘I’ve no idea how to drive.’
‘You didn’t know how to shoot a gun, but you managed that pretty well,’ I say.
Ash grins. ‘I missed. I was aiming for his balls.’ He flicks a switch and the headlights strike the alley wall, reminiscent of the helicopter searchlights.
We made it out of the sewers in record time thanks to the skipping rhyme; there should be plenty of time to get Katie and make sure they all reach No-man’s-land safely. So long as the canon keeps true to form, haunting us, pushing us down the right path.
Nate inspects the front of the car, his smile wide. ‘Still not the DeLorean, but it will do.’ He steps back into the alley to survey the vehicle as a whole. And the way the headlights fall on him – illuminating his skin, turning his hair to gold – lends him the appearance of some heavenly spirit. Something draws his attention, something in the alley hidden from my sight. Fright darkens the taupe of his eyes. The water bottle slips to the ground.
I hear his words, ridged with panic. ‘They’re here.’
I see the shadows first, three beasts reaching up the alley wall, a collection of frenzied spikes beneath the yellow glare of the headlights. I dash to Nate, thrusting his body behind mine. Only now do I see the eyes of the squaddies, shadowy beneath their helmets. Guns aimed at our heads. There were no soldiers at the bolt-hole in canon. How did they know where to find us? It can’t be a coincidence.
They drag Ash from the Humvee, twisting his arms behind his back, wrenching the pistol from his grasp. It skids across the ground, landing in a nearby gutter. I can hear the throb of a helicopter landing at the far end of the alley, stirring up the dust and the hairs on my neck.
Ash bashes into me, whirling from the force of a guard’s hands. I quickly do the sums. Three squaddies – heavily armoured, covered in weaponry, tall, broad and trained. Three Imps – all unarmed. Fear prevents me from crying, but I can still feel the tears forming in my lower lids.
‘On the floor or we shoot,’ a squaddie shouts.
We kneel, our movements disjointed, the lights of the Humvee burning our eyes.
A man runs from the chopper, initially no more than an outline, but he gains colour and form as he nears. He looks different from the squaddies. Something about the way he moves is more upright, more formal, and beneath his body armour he wears a pinstripe suit. He approaches me and a familiar leer twists his handsome face. Blond curls corkscrew from beneath his helmet. Howard Stoneback. It definitely isn’t a coincidence; Howard’s been gunning for me since the raid at the Meat House, and it looks like someone’s told him where to find me.
He stands over me. ‘There she is, the little bitch who drugged us.’
‘What shall we do with them, Mr Stoneback?’ a squaddie asks.
Howard takes his time, looking us up and down, prolonging the torture. Then, he leans in and strokes my cheek with a cold, dry finger. I feel like I’m standing back in that display room, zip clutched between my trembling fingers.
He straightens up. ‘I want to see this pretty thing spinning on a rope on prime time. I’ve just spoken with the President, and he’s reserved a special place for her at tomorrow’s Gallows Dance.’
This could work to my advantage. I’d hoped to see Nate, Ash and Katie safely to No-man’s-land before my capture, but I’m learning fast that things don’t always go to plan.
He pulls a pistol from a holster. I can see every line, every hair, on his hands, cast in the glare of the headlights, but his features become no more than a hotchpotch of shadows. His gun glints as his fingers lace around the trigger. ‘But I only need the whore.’ He looks at me. ‘Next time you piss someone off, make sure they aren’t related to the President.’
The cold water nips at the base of my gullet, threatening to climb higher. I push it down and find my voice. ‘Arrest me. But please, let the others go.’
He laughs. ‘An Imp issuing orders – interesting.’ He leans in close again. I can feel his breath against my cheek, hot and peppered with spit. ‘Do these Imps matter to you?’
I nod.
‘How sweet.’ He smirks and lifts the nose of his gun. ‘An important lesson in life: Imps don’t matter.’
I watch his finger compress the trigger. The noise rips through my head and bounces off the alley walls as though God himself is screaming. For a moment, I think I’ve been shot. I brace myself for the pain, glance downwards, awaiting the stain of crimson spreading across my stomach.
But I feel no pain, see no crimson.
I see only Nate – rasping, spluttering, clamping his hands to his abdomen.
A red patch spreads across his overalls.
I reach for him, but my fingers swipe only air as he topples to the side. The squaddies shove me into the ground and I watch as Nate’s blood colours the concrete, moving towards me like black, syrupy water.
My hearing goes woozy. I can just pick out Ash’s cries, travelling through a film of shock. ‘You bastards. I’ll kill you, you bastards.’ I see his face, mid-scream, splattered with Nate’s blood. The squaddies knock him to the paving with steel batons. I watch the steel shafts curving through the air, almost gold in the yellow lights of the Humvee. My gaze shifts to Nate’s body, slumped and bleeding. And something solidifies inside me. A singular Russian doll forged from anger and righteousness, a doll which belongs solely to the Imps. Its lacquered shell grows hard and strong, encasing me with a sense of purpose.
I see my opportunity. My muscles swell with rage, tight and curled and ready to explode. I leap towards Howard Stoneback, barrelling into his shoulder and catching him off guard. He falls to the ground, firing several futile shots into the sky. I hurl my fists at his chest, his face, anywhere I can reach, the rage pulsing through me, pushing out screams and sobs. But Gems are strong, and Howard quickly flips me away. I skid across the pavement, my fists still whirring before me like they don’t know how to stop.
I can still hear Ash’s voice, gurgling and weak. ‘Violet, no.’
Howard points his gun at me, disbelief unsettling his faultless brow. I know I will die now. My eyes flicker shut, and I wait for the bullets to pierce my belly, arms, neck.
Four shots in quick succession. Four thuds.
I open my eyes to see Howard and the squaddies littering the ground like scraps of paper. Those blond corkscrews dipped in red, and that perverse leer finally gone. Strong hands grasp my arms, hauling me to my feet and clutching me to a muscular chest. Matthew.
‘Are you injured?’ he asks.
I don’t reply. I can barely breathe, let alone speak.
Matthew hoists Nate over one shoulder and carries him to the Humvee.
Saskia dashes over to me. ‘Violet, I’m so sorry, Nate got away from us back at the Meat House.’
Again, I don’t reply.
‘We need to get out of here.’ She helps Ash up. ‘We only came back for the Humvee seeing as the Gems trashed our rides. Lucky for you we did.’
Matthew lays Nate in my arms. The weight of his body wakes me from my stupor. I support his fair head in the nook of my elbow, cradling him as though he’s newly born, and climb into the back of the car. I notice the slight movement of his chest, the blood fizzing from the corner of his lips as he tries to breathe.
Saskia and Matthew climb in the front of the Humvee.
Saskia turns to Matthew. ‘There’s obviously a mole in our midst. We torch the church before the Gems find it.’ She pops her face around the back of the headrest. For a second, I think a splash of Nate’s blood has reached her forehead, then I remember it’s just her birthmark. ‘Thorn’s gone. Dead or captured, so it’s up to us now,’ she says.
The thought that this news would sadden Nate crosses my mind, but I feel very little when I think of Thorn being dead. At least he can’t harm Katie now. I feel the movement of the Humvee as Ash manages to hoist his body beside mine. He helps me apply pressure to Nate’s side. The blood feels warm, oozing between my fingers.
‘I need something to stem the flow.’ My voice comes out a string of breathy words.
‘It’s a stomach wound,’ Saskia says. She doesn’t tell me Nate is dying, but I hear it, heavy in every word.
I look into Nate’s face, so pale it almost disappears beneath the starlight. His golden eyelashes quiver, his breath catches in his throat. And that’s when I first notice them, faint and distant, the rhythmic pips from my dream.
We burst from the garage, tyres screeching. Matthew cuts the lights, so I’m not sure how he can tell which way to drive, but he powers down the alley regardless. Pip . . . pip . . . pip. I trace Nate’s features with a finger. The pain ages him by at least twenty years, carving great trenches into his skin. I wonder if his face offers a porthole into the future he will never have. Nate as a man – perhaps with children of his own, my nieces and nephews. Tears fall down my cheeks and splash against his forehead.
This is all my fault. Alice must have told the Gems about the bolthole. How could I have been so stupid? My inability to doubt her led the soldiers straight to us – straight to my little brother. The guilt feels like a black hole, sucking everything from me. Hope, joy, love; dragged into a pit of nothingness.
Pip . . . pip . . . pip.
‘Violet,’ Nate whispers. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth, scarlet against the white of his cheek. ‘Tell Mum and Dad I love them.’
‘Tell them yourself.’
His eyelids flicker as he loses focus, and I notice the pips begin to slow, like a clock losing time.
‘Are you afraid?’ he asks.
‘Of what?’
‘Of hanging.’
I let out a loud sob, tears pouring into his face. ‘No,’ I lie. ‘Of course not. It’s just a story. We can’t really die in a story – Baba told me. When you wake up, you’ll be home with Mum and Dad.’
‘And real food, and football, and a nice soft pillow.’
‘Yeah.’ A moan grows in my stomach, threatening to rip me apart.
Pip . . . . . . pip . . . . . . pip.
I begin to feel strangely removed. I step outside my body and watch his features slowly settle. I grow increasingly aware of the space above me. An infinite sky – black and heavy and loaded with stars. And below, I see myself. Face warped, back curved, fingers plaited through strands of golden hair. I can almost see my love, a shimmering force field encircling our bodies, binding us together in a giant bubble. I could reach out and touch it if I wanted, but I’m afraid it may disappear.
Pip . . . . . . pip . . . . . . I wait for the final pip. I know what they are, what they mean, of course I do. Tinny and hollow and terrifying – echoing around a hospital room. I wipe my eyes and watch as our bodies move as one, swaying as the Humvee corners the endless side streets. Nate’s face now looks completely relaxed . . . . . . pip . . . . . . And finally, his chest is still.
The monotonous tone of the flatline hits my ears.
And I know that he has gone.