Today I will hang.
I will hang for my friends, my family, and above all else, love. But not for the love of one man. No, I will hang for more than that. I will hang for the love of my people. For the love of the Imps. For Ash, Saskia and Matthew. For Katie and Nate . . . even Alice. For every imperfect fluke of nature who has the right to call themselves a human being.
A team of flamboyant, manicured stylists arrive in my cell just like they did in canon. They attack me with powders and blushers and various paints, stick bits to my eyelashes, paint my nails, buff my skin till it glows. They look me up and down with probing, critical eyes, and I fidget beneath my dressing gown.
One of the stylists smiles, causing her red lipstick to crack. ‘Well, she certainly looks a little less ape.’
I guess Stoneback doesn’t trust Willow to declare his love if I look like a dirty street rat. They shove some underwear in my hands and watch me try and slip it on under my dressing gown. I’ve only just secured it when they yank off my gown and wrap this metallic girdle around my waist. It seems to contract of its own accord, forcing my stomach into my chest. They squeeze my breasts into this magic bra that adds two cup sizes. This definitely didn’t happen to Rose. In spite of my impending death, I still feel a little annoyed that my figure needs more help than hers. I pull on my overalls and look in the mirror. I barely recognize myself.
Two guards arrive. I remember them from canon. They clutch my shoulders with rough hands and propel me across a large, concrete expanse towards the hovercraft. The sun has reached its highest point in the sky, glinting off the metal of the craft and the loops of barbed wire which crown the barricades. I frantically search for Ash, but he is nowhere to be seen.
They shove me up the ramp into the craft.
‘Dead man walking,’ one of the guards says.
‘Dead ape walking, more like,’ the other replies.
The craft looks just like the one from canon. The air feels cold, tainted with the tang of antiseptic and gunpowder. They lead me to the holding cell at the back of the craft and slide back the door. That’s when I see him, the curve of his neck, the point where the black of his hair meets the white of his skin. Ash. His arms are raised high, his wrists pinned to a metal rail, and in that instant, he reminds me of a bird, wings outstretched.
The guards cuff me in the same manner, forcing me on to my tiptoes, the metal cuffs slicing through my skin. The door slides into position and we sway to the rhythm of the hovercraft, side by side.
The stylists seem to have bypassed him completely. His hair looks matted with dirt and blood, and his bruises are really starting to come out; a swirl of purples and yellows wrapping around his left eye like a bizarre monocle. I nuzzle deep into his neck; his skin and overalls retain the stench of the river and his skin feels clammy and hot against my forehead. But when I finally look up into his face, his eyes remain the coolest of powder blues. I feel a moment of peace, nestled into him. I think briefly of Rose, standing in this cell alone, travelling to her death with no company, and I feel sad for her.
He kisses my temple, so gently I barely feel it. ‘I’m so sorry, Violet. If I hadn’t followed you, you would never have told Thorn about the Meat House . . . None of this would have happened.’
‘This isn’t your fault.’
He exhales suddenly, and I can tell from the acidity of his breath that he hasn’t eaten or drunk anything since our arrest. I feel a pang of guilt, thinking about my shower and tray of hot food.
I push my wrists along the rail and manage to stroke my finger against the back of his hand. ‘Try not to worry. I promise everything’s going to be OK.’
He smiles his lopsided smile, the skin on his lips splitting in the centre ‘Who says I’m worried.’ He tries to look brave, I think for my sake, but his voice sounds like a fragile version of itself and a tear hangs on his eyelashes. It looks like a drop of oil, refracting the colours of the bruising.
All I want to do is make him feel a little better, to try and ease the pain. I kiss his lips, the chapped skin rough against my own. ‘I wish I could somehow explain, but this isn’t the end for either of us.’
‘I didn’t realize you were the spiritual type.’
‘It’ll be over so quickly, and then . . .’
‘And then?’
I push my lips against his ear, all pale and curved like a sea shell. ‘If I told you, you would think I’m completely mad, but nothing is as it seems.’
He turns to me, his nose bumping into my cheek. ‘You’ve already told me you’re a time travelling assassin, what could possibly trump that?’
My mouth finds his again. And I feel every indentation of his lips, the one-off pattern of ridges. Like swirls in a fingertip. I think I might cry again, so I pull away.
He smiles. ‘Hope starts with a Little Flower.’
The lines of the poem turn over and over in my head. I feel like I’m missing something, something really important, but every time I come close, it sinks from view.
He sees the confusion on my face, and says, ‘What I mean is, the world came to life when I met you.’
The clasp of grief tightens around my throat again – a reminder of further loss. I speak earnestly, a touch of desperation brightening my words. ‘Have you ever had any feelings of déjà vu? Any echoes or reflections, like you’ve already lived your life?’
His brow knots. ‘Are you getting all spiritual again?’
I try to mask the disappointment. But it feels like my chest has been punctured with something sharp and long and unforgiving. When I die, when the canon resets, he won’t remember me.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I study every line on his face, every pore, every fleck in those winter eyes, trying to burn his image into my retinas, because an even more heartbreaking thought has arrived.
I won’t remember him either.