3

ALICE

Violet and I walk back to the tube station in silence. My body feels heavy and my brain aches. Even the hum of central London doesn’t cheer me up.

Finally, Violet speaks. ‘Surely he can’t let someone else write the third book. I mean, we invented new characters for God’s sake, a whole new plot line. He can’t just give it to someone else to build on. Wouldn’t it be theft?’

‘You’d think so.’

‘What did the contract say?’ she asks.

I remember the contract well. Violet was so cut up about Nate, she left all the legal stuff to me. I had Olivia, our agent, look over it. She said it was fair, that someone else could write the sequel if the publishers and Sally King’s estate wanted. The concept wasn’t ours.

I swallow down an unfamiliar bitter taste. ‘Dunno. Bloody agents, hey? They’re worse than editors.’

‘Maybe we should talk to Olivia,’ she says.

Panic flickers in my chest. ‘Does it matter now? It is what it is.’

‘But there must never be a third book, Alice. It doesn’t matter who writes it. I can’t explain it, but I feel like the world of the Gallows Dance should be left alone. We wrote them a lovely ending, regardless of what that bastard review said. It was an ending filled with hope and possibilities, and now they’re free to live their lives.’

The passion in her voice unsettles me. Why does this matter to her so much? She said she can’t explain it. And truth is, I’m afraid to ask. Afraid to pick at those unanswered questions. Afraid to pick at that scab. I up my pace, the concrete reassuringly hard beneath my heels. ‘Violet, I know you get pissy when I say this, but they’re just characters. Even Nate. Sure, we based him on your little brother, but that was because we knew how chuffed he’d be when he woke up.’

‘Yes, well, in case you hadn’t noticed, he hasn’t woken up yet.’

It feels like she’s punched me. ‘Of course I’ve noticed.’ I drop my voice. ‘I love him too.’

We turn a corner and the tube sign comes into view.

‘I know you do.’ She touches my hand, her voice softening. ‘Sorry.’

I sling an arm around her narrow shoulders and hug her against me. ‘It’s OK. We both miss him, it makes everything a bit . . . raw.’ My eyes struggle to adjust to the lack of light as we drop down the steps into the tube station. I leave my shades on all the same.

‘I still think we should ring Olivia,’ she says. ‘Just to make sure Timothy isn’t bluffing.’

Oh crap, oh crap. That bitter taste is back. Maybe it’s my conscience, repeating on me like a bitch. I should have told her about the contract. We reach the bottom of the steps and I catch her by the hands so we face each other. I take a deep breath and force myself to speak. ‘He isn’t bluffing, Violet.’

Her face drops. ‘You knew about this? You knew someone else could write the sequel if we refused?’ She looks like she did when she was four years old, getting knocked into the prickly hedge outside nursery again and again by Gary Walsh. Too hurt to even cry. Back then, it was me who saved her, me who scared away the bad guys. This time, I’m Gary Walsh. Worse, I’m the pigging hedge.

‘Olivia said there wasn’t much we could do about it.’ My voice sounds cold, which is strange because my chest burns red hot with the effort of holding back the tears.

‘Well, you could have told me,’ she says.

‘And what would you have done?’

‘I don’t know. But I would have at least tried to get the contract changed.’ She begins to walk again. I don’t think she’s freezing me out, she just can’t bear to look at me.

‘I didn’t think it was a big deal,’ I say, catching her up.

‘You knew it was a big deal to me.’ She suddenly stops, as though a terrible thought has smacked her round the head. ‘Did you plan this?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You knew the threat of someone else writing the third book would make me agree to write it.’ She slaps her bank card on to the reader.

Wow. Another punch in the gut. ‘Jeez, Violet. I’m not some evil mastermind.’

We reach the platform. The grumble of an approaching train creeps through the soles of my Jimmy Choos.

She gazes at the open mouth of the tunnel. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she whispers.

The air begins to stir, lifting my hair from my neck. And suddenly, Violet doesn’t look like Violet any more. She looks like every other girl who judges me on the height of my heels. Anger swirls in my stomach. I grab her arm, forcing her to look at me. ‘Why are you even my friend? You clearly think I’m a cow.’

She’s looks as mad as I feel. Her jaw bone sticks out and her nostrils flare. The train approaches and the wind chucks her hair around her face. She’s in full-on Carrie mode. Thank God there’s no crucifix nearby. She shouts over the din, ‘So if I refuse, will you write another sequel without me?’

The carriage windows ripple past as the train pulls alongside us. I see my own face gazing back at me from the windows. Mascara-stained tears run from beneath my sunglasses. Dad would not approve, but I’m past caring. ‘Of course not, how could you even think that?’

‘Because you’ve betrayed me before,’ she screams.

Her words stun us both. We stand still, jostled by the tourists getting on and off the train.

‘When?’ I say. ‘What are you on about?’

She shakes her head quickly. Carrie has officially left the building and Violet looks completely lost. Bewildered. I’m about to ask her again, but she wriggles from my grip and steps into the tide of passengers, allowing herself to get swept through the carriage doors.

I don’t follow her. ‘When?’ I mouth at her through the window.

She stands close to the door, gripping the yellow pole like it’s the only thing real in her life.

‘Violet, when?’ I mouth.

But the train pulls away and she doesn’t even look at me.

VIOLET

That night, I dream of the strange old lady again.

I stand in an orchard. It’s filled with leaves and gold light and the thick scent of summer. The branches waver above me and a changing web of lights and darks crosses my skin. I’m just starting to think how familiar this place is, when I see the old lady again. She has her back to me, and when she turns, I see just how green her eyes are.

She blinks slowly. ‘Violet, my child. It’s so good to see you again.’

‘Where have you been?’ I ask. When I first woke from the coma, she visited me most nights, talking in gentle tones, calming my nightmares. But it’s been months since I’ve seen her.

She smiles. ‘You haven’t needed me for a while, my child.’

Without warning, the sky darkens, clouds gelling together to form a grey, dense canopy which sucks any warmth from the air. She moves far quicker than her old body should allow, grabbing my wrists and squeezing hard. The strength in her fingers surprises me.

I suppress a yelp. ‘You’re hurting me.’

But she doesn’t stop. ‘There must never be a third book, Violet. You and Alice excelled yourselves, you gave us back our freedom, in more ways than one. You broke the loop, and finally we’re happy.’

‘It’s just a book,’ I say, trying to wrench myself free.

‘Do you really think that?’ Rain spots her face.

My wrists crack. I twist my arms, pumping them back and forth, trying to shake her off, but she’s too strong, and eventually, I fall still.

I trace her line of sight and find myself looking up, through leaves and twigs and fruit towards the angry sky. What is it about this place? I’ve been here before. I get the feeling I’m reaching deep into my memories, leaning as far as I dare over a pool of confusing sounds and smells and images, and yet still, there’s something just beyond my grasp – something of vital importance, some missing puzzle piece. Is it just a book? I shake my head. ‘No. It’s more than that.’

Her mouth yawns open – I can just make out the shape of her teeth under her gums. ‘It feels like things have already started to turn, like the winds have changed and there’s nothing I can do about it.’ The breeze lifts her hair and shakes her skirt, carrying on it the scent of lilies and woodsmoke.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask. The clouds collapse beneath their own weight, releasing a torrent of water. My clothes stick to my skin within seconds.

‘My powers are not what they were,’ she shouts, her voice struggling to overpower the thwack of rain against earth. ‘Nate’s safe, at least for now. But I sense trouble ahead, trouble in both worlds.’

And just before my head reels, just before the colours of the orchard melt into the quiet hues of my bedroom, she lays her hands on my sodden temples and says: ‘It’s time for you to remember, Little Flower.’

I wake with a start, covered in sweat, heart thrumming, ears ringing, one singular thought clear in my brain: The old woman is Baba.

Not book-Baba or film-Baba. Not some fictitious character. Actual, real-life, air-breathing, thought-sucking, riddle-talking Baba.

I sit bolt upright, heaving in mouthfuls of air.

Baba’s real.

Of course she is. It seems so obvious now. I remember her soft, doughy skin, her gummy smile, the ache of her palms as they rested on my temples.

Baba’s real.

Then it hits me.

‘The Gallows Dance is real,’ I whisper. It sounds ridiculous, so I say it again, this time louder. ‘The Gallows Dance is real.’ I fling back my duvet, my sweat-drenched pyjamas transforming from cotton to cling film. ‘I was there.’ And for the first time since I woke from that coma, thinking doesn’t feel like swimming through porridge. That patchwork of disjointed pictures, sounds and aromas begins to knit into something meaningful and seamless.

A map.

No. More than that.

A story.

My story – with climaxes and twists, loss and joy, terror and betrayal.

I remember everything.

Rose died. I took her place. I fell for the boy with eyes the colour of winter. Ash is real, I think to myself. Ash is real.

I try to stand, but instead sink into my carpet.

‘I ate a rat,’ I tell my bedside rug.

I see the Duplicates, so clear in my mind’s eye, the space where almost-Willow’s legs should have been. I see a scythe, raised high and glinting in the sun. Nate nearly lost his hands. I rotate my own wrists, seeing my veins as if for the first time. I feel the scratch of the twigs on my skin as I climbed that bastard tree, see bronzed limbs wrapped together – Alice slept with Willow. I knew she’d betrayed me. I see the cerise light of the Meat House, inhale the scent of roasting flesh, caught in the blaze of a Gem helicopter. And I hear the unforgiving bleat of the flatline, Nate bleeding out on my lap, his taupe eyes gazing at the stars. The bullet wound. I always said there was something special about that scar. I touch my stomach, the place where Nate was shot, and tears spill down my face. Suddenly, I can feel those twisting metal tentacles wrenching me from the river. I met President Stoneback. He told me about the infinite loop. The Fandom.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ I whisper. ‘The Fandom. The collective conscious. They made it real.’

I stood on the gallows with a noose around my neck.

‘I love you too,’ I whisper to my bedroom walls, my fingers grazing my split-heart necklace. Alice sacrificed everything for me.

And then I fell.

I died.

My eyes fall upon the framed cover of The Gallows Song. It all makes perfect sense. Baba brought me into their universe so I would return to ours and write a pro-Imp sequel, breaking the loop and allowing the Imps to prevail. I start to laugh, only vaguely aware of how unhinged I must look, kneeling on my carpet, snot pouring from my nose, chuckling to myself.

But I don’t care. Because if the Fandom created an alternate universe, if The Gallows Dance is real, then everything Alice and I wrote in The Gallows Song is real too.

I wrap my arms around myself, afraid to let myself believe in case I’m wrong.

Somewhere far, far away, my little brother is awake and well.