7

VIOLET

The Olympia centre looks exactly how I remember. Two semi-circles of glass suspended at either end of a giant tunnel; dark pillars stretching towards white metal lacework, like the entire structure’s been decorated with fragments of the Eiffel Tower. And that smell – hot dogs and sweat and perfume – makes my heart jump into my throat. I take in the giant posters fluttering from the balconies, the huge balloons hovering in the space above us, the colourful mass of cosplayers.

‘It’s exactly how I remember,’ Katie says, as if reading my mind.

‘Yet I feel completely different.’

She nods. ‘Completely.’

We watch Gandalf play-fight Harry Potter, and I briefly wonder if Katie feels jealous too. We should be dressed up and having fun, pointing our wands at each other, swishing our cloaks, not clutching each other’s hands, our heads bursting with horrific memories, our cheeks wet with tears. A group of stormtroopers march past, hiding the wizards from view. Their replica guns look scarily real and I get a twisting sensation in my gut.

‘So now what?’ Katie asks.

Her words spur me into action and I begin weaving between the partitions, clocking the various stalls. ‘We go where the Fandom’s at its strongest.’ My eyes settle on The Gallows Dance stall and I make a beeline towards it, accidentally knocking Wonder Woman out of my way.

‘What do you mean?’ Katie asks, catching me up. ‘Why does the Fandom need to be strong?’

‘Because it’s the Fandom that made their world real. The power of the collective conscious. And I think we crossed over last time we were here because Comic-Con somehow magnified it – the Fandom, I mean.’

She pauses for a moment, and I drop my pace to match hers.

‘What do you mean when you say the Fandom made their world?’ she asks.

‘I don’t know, it’s complicated . . . it’s like, so many people believe in The Gallows Dance, they’ve actually brought it to life.’

She blinks a few times in disbelief and we begin to move towards the stall again. Suddenly, she grabs me. Even through the laughter and the theme tunes and the whir of the vending trucks, I hear her gasp. She must have seen him before I did. Thorn. At least, a beautiful young man dressed as Thorn.

‘Shitbags, shitbags, shitbags,’ she mutters. I can see why she’s losing it. He’s a pretty convincing cosplayer – dark skin, perfect smile, eyepatch breaking up his even face. But his physique is obviously Imp; he’s just shy of six foot and has narrow shoulders, unlike the taller, broader and genetically enhanced rebel leader. And, of course, he looks way too friendly to be Thorn.

‘Ladies.’ He pushes a couple of flyers into our hands.

‘What the funk?’ Katie whispers.

‘So you’re a Gallows Dance fan, huh?’ he asks, obviously clocking Katie’s strange response. ‘It’s OK. It’s just a costume.’

I pull her away, forcing a laugh. ‘Yeah. She knows. She’s just got a thing for eyepatches.’

I continue to march towards the Gallows Dance stall, and as we draw nearer, Katie drags her heels. She’s gone that whiter-than-white colour again, and I can feel the muscles in her arms are all knotted up. I have a sudden rush of guilt, dragging her into this. If this doesn’t work, I’ve just retraumatized her for no reason. And if this does work, I’m pulling her into a dangerous, unpredictable, violent universe, with no guarantee of ever returning home. I stop in my tracks. Rapunzel and Steampunk Cinderella walk into us. They mutter their apologies, even though it was clearly my fault, and I manage a casual wave of my hand.

I turn to Katie. ‘Look, I shouldn’t have asked you to come. I don’t mind if you want to leave. Maybe this is something I need to do on my own.’

Her hair looks even redder in the mid-morning sun, making her washed-out complexion all the more alarming. She narrows her pea-green eyes. ‘Don’t be a jizzmonger. I’ve just bumped into a man whose throat I watched get slit. I’m not about to leave you here on your tod.’

A smile creeps up my body and into my mouth. ‘So you believe me now? The Gallows Dance is real.’

‘Maybe. Sometimes. Blah.’ She sticks out her tongue and feigns vomiting. ‘Anyway, even if it is real, that doesn’t mean we’re going to cross over again.’ But she doesn’t sound convinced, and we walk the last few metres to the stall really slowly because I’m worried she may vom for real.

Several Rose lookalikes surround me and that top-to-toe bruised feeling returns. Somewhere in the distance, a camera flashes. Then another, and another. It’s this shimmer of light far away – the twinkle of a Christmas tree in my peripheral vision. I get an irrational sense that it’s happening already, that we’re beginning to cross. I squeeze my eyes shut. Order my stomach not to empty its contents. But nothing happens. The cameras stop and the sense of some impending drama slips away.

‘So this is the Fandom at its strongest?’ Katie asks.

I scan the T-shirts, the mugs, see my own name emblazoned across the front cover of The Gallows Song; I skim Russell Jones’s face, which looks all wrong now I’ve met the real Willow.

‘I guess,’ I say.

‘It’s not working.’

‘Yeah. I noticed.’ I’m not sure if fear or disappointment turns my voice into something sharp and irritable.

‘So are you going?’ someone asks. He’s dressed as Ash. At least I think that’s who he’s supposed to be. He wears Imp overalls and has black hair. I get a tugging sensation in my chest.

‘Are you going?’ he repeats.

At first, I think he’s asking if I’m crossing over, so my mouth just hangs open. But then he gestures to the flyer in my hand. I look for the first time at what fake-Thorn handed me.

‘Katie, look,’ I say.

She reads the purple letters in a nipped voice. ‘The Gallows Dance. Russell Jones and Timothy O’Hara in conversation. Comic-Con. Saturday, 11 a.m.’

‘This is where the Fandom will be at its strongest,’ I say.

‘We’ve got five minutes,’ Katie replies.

ALICE

I grab a black cab. It costs a fortune and I can smell the driver through the Perspex screen, but the traffic is light and it wins me some time back. We stop outside Olympia and I perform my public duty for the day – tipping the cabby enough for a can of deodorant. I glance at the queue and groan. I haven’t got time for this. I need to find Violet ASAP. I have to be the friend she clearly needs right now. So I suck in my stomach, stick out my tits, and own the stretch of concrete which separates me from the main gates. Nobody challenges my shameless queue jump, at least, not until I reach the door.

‘Ticket?’ the woman at the door says.

‘I’m Alice Childs, author of The Gallows Song, I’m here to meet my editor.’ Thank God my voice isn’t shaking as much as my hands.

I thought she’d be difficult, but she just smiles. ‘One second, Alice.’ She shuffles through the name tags. ‘Hmmm, Alice Childs. I can’t seem to find you, are you on a panel?’

‘I’m doing a signing. It was very last-minute.’ It’s a barefaced lie. But sometimes lies can be a good thing.

She locates a lanyard with the word ‘Guest’ hanging from it. ‘This should do the trick. Sorry about that.’

‘It’s fine,’ I reply, slightly embarrassed that she’s apologizing when I’m the one lying my tits off.

I hook the lanyard over my head and hurry as quickly as I can towards the main hall. I glance at my watch. It’s just before eleven. I’ve no idea where Violet and Katie will be, though the Gallows Dance stall is a sensible place to start. Then I’ll check out the dystopian panels and the green room.

I step into the main hall. The smell makes my head buzz. Not that it’s particularly unpleasant (though a pop-up Lynx stall wouldn’t go amiss), it just brings back those terrifying memories. I don’t have time to figure it out, or to marvel at the beauty of the hall. Christ, I don’t even have time to check out the hot cosplayers. I’ve got to find Violet and stop her holding some batshit crazy séance for Nate’s lost soul.

I stride through the crowds towards the humungous Russell Jones banner, but I’m walking faster than my heels think is reasonable, and before I know it, I’m hurtling into Deadpool and face-planting on the tiles. The pain is completely eclipsed by the humiliation, and I just pray that if there is a God, he isn’t stood beside me with a camera phone, logged on to YouTube. I try and summon the strength to leap up like it never happened, but I just lie there looking at the costumed feet around me, feeling dazed, stupid and utterly alone.

‘Alice?’ I roll over and expect to see Deadpool, but it’s Gandalf who stares down at me. I blink a few times. How does Gandalf know my name? Beneath the grey beard and pointed hat, there’s heavily lashed brown eyes and a concerned half-smile. He helps me into a sitting position. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah. Just embarrassed.’

‘Don’t be,’ he says. ‘Deadpool came off worse.’

I raise an eyebrow and Gandalf laughs, revealing teeth a little too big for his mouth. ‘Don’t worry, I hear he has remarkable self-healing powers.’ He removes his beard and hat. He has dark brown skin, wide-set eyes, and black curls which skim his ears. ‘You don’t recognize me, do you?’

Even though I’m shaking my head, I recognize him all right. My ego’s bruised from my epic tumble, and there’s no quicker way to build yourself back up than making someone else feel small. I hate how much I’m like my dad sometimes.

‘It’s Danny,’ he says in a matter-of-fact tone, like he never expected me to know. ‘Danny Bradshaw from sixth form.’

I always liked Danny. He was a complete geek at school, really into IT and boring crap like that. But he never once gawped at me, and he loaned me his spare calculator on several occasions. You see what I mean? He had a spare calculator: #nerdfest.

‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘Course it is. Sorry, the costume threw me.’

‘I knew I should have rocked this look at school, my bad.’

I can’t help but smile. He helps me stand and I dust off my jeans. My eyes return to scanning the hall.

‘Looking for someone?’ he asks.

‘Violet and Katie. Remember them?’

‘Yeah, course I do.’

‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen them?’ I say, aware that it’s a long shot.

‘No, but they may be going to see that Russell Jones idiot; he’s doing some sort of Gallows Dance talk with a book editor dude. I suppose you might know them, actually.’ His cheeks flush. ‘Sorry.’

I wave a hand, showing my lack of offence. ‘When?’

Danny glances at his watch. ‘I think it started a few minutes ago. I can take you there if you want, protect you with my massive staff.’ He slaps the palm of his hand to his forehead. ‘Jesus, stop talking, Danny.’

‘That would be great,’ I say, stifling a giggle.

Together, we head deep into the throng of cosplayers.