The Fandom(16)

Tears sparkle in her inky eyes, but she stops struggling and squeezes my hand. ‘OK, OK, I get it. I’m just too beautiful for this dump.’ She kneels, demonstrating her cooperation.

Saskia pulls the sheet of gold taut and begins to lop off great chunks. They float towards the ground like yellow feathers. When Saskia’s done, Alice runs her fingers through her cropped hair, her face rigid. She then puts her hands over her face and begins to weep.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Saskia says, tucking the knife back into her belt. ‘You keep crying like that and you’ll wash away the dirt. Then I’ll have to rub your face in the mud.’

Katie and I help Alice up. It’s as though she’s wounded on the inside, as though she’s Samson from the Bible. Even Nate must understand how hard this is for her, cos he smiles and says, ‘You look great, Alice, honest.’ Though he can’t resist adding, ‘And if the career in writing fails, you can always get a part in the next Lego movie.’

‘It suits you,’ Matthew says.

Saskia frowns and plonks her hands on her hips. ‘Right, keep quiet, all of you, if you make a break for it, you know what I’ll do, yeah?’ She knots her long, streaked hair into a loose bun like she’s getting ready for business. She did this in the film, and it strikes me as odd that in spite of the changes caused by our arrival – Rose’s death, the hanging of the nine Imps – we still seem to be in sync with canon. My thoughts topple like dominoes: in canon, a controller lurked behind that tavern door. I know the passage from the novel backwards. Controllers – self-appointed enforcers of Imp-city law. Of course there is no law, only their greed and their twisted desires. They took a shine to Rose, got a little too friendly, and she had to use her last thistle-bomb as a decoy so she, Saskia and Matthew could make their escape. They ended up hiding in a bricked-up doorway down some alley to avoid being lynched. At least Rose isn’t here to catch the controller’s eye – only Alice. My heart sinks.

Saskia’s about to lean into the door.

‘Wait,’ I say.

Nate’s eyes widen and I can tell he’s connected the dots too.

‘What now?’ Saskia pauses, half in, half out.

‘We don’t know who’s inside . . . they may be dangerous,’ I say.

Saskia’s scowl deepens, causing her stain to halve in size. ‘Stop talking crap, or I’ll chop more than just your locks off.’

Before I can object, Matthew’s hustled us through the door.

A wall of stench hits me – that smell Dad gets when he’s drank the night before. Stale beer. But mingled with other odours: cabbage and onions and something else, I think it might be urine. Certainly, the room looks like it should smell of urine. The sawdust on the floor, the mildew on the walls, the tattered cushions, all discoloured and mustard yellow. It looks like an older, jaded version of the film set.

Several Imps stare at us from their stools. Most of them wear grey overalls to signify their slave status, but some wear plain clothes – faded jeans and threadbare shirts. Their chatter drops as we follow Matthew and Saskia to the bar. I’ve been in a few pubs before, clutching my fake ID, but the anxiety I felt when illegally ordering vodka and Coke was nothing compared to this – my heart feels like it’s going to hammer a hole in my chest.

I search for the controller, but I see no sign of him. My muscles begin to loosen.

The Imp behind the bar wrings out a cloth with nicotine-stained fingers. Zula. She has skin so lined it swallows up her expression so I can’t tell if she smiles or frowns. I swear she was never that wrinkled in the film.

‘What happened to you?’ she asks Matthew.

‘War wound,’ he replies.

She nods and leans forward on the bar, allowing the tops of her breasts to sag over her corset. ‘And who are your friends?’

I open my mouth to reply, but Saskia cuts over me, her voice deceptively light.

‘They’re just some new Night-Imps, Zula. They work in the Pastures with me and Matthew.’

Zula studies our faces. ‘Oh yeah?’

I fidget with my hair. ‘Yeah.’

She looks at Alice and narrows her eyes. ‘I don’t want no trouble, yeah?’

‘We’ve had a long shift,’ Saskia says. ‘We just need to get Matthew bandaged up, then we’ll be on our way.’

Zula smiles, a matrix of wrinkles swamps her eyes. ‘You wanna pop round the back, honey? I can sort that out for you.’

Matthew grins like it had never occurred to him. ‘Thanks, you’re the best.’

‘I ain’t doing it for you . . . you’re dripping on my floor.’

He lifts his hand so the blood leaches into the front of his shirt, and follows her into a back room.

Saskia leads us to a counter at the rear of the bar, putting as much distance between us and the other Imps as possible. She leans in. ‘When Matthew’s fixed up, we leave – we’ve got quite a hike to headquarters.’

I recall the bombed-out church from the film. Home to Thorn and Baba, general meeting place for the rebels. I feel this pull in my stomach as I swing between excitement and fear. I can’t believe we’re going to the actual, real-life headquarters, that we’re going to meet the actual, real-life Thorn and Baba. It’s like finding out dragons are real. You run outside and watch them circling the sky – awe-inspiring, mind-blowing – until they set you on fire and swallow you whole.