The Fandom(39)

We pick up the pace and march down a long corridor. A large, sterile room awaits, with thirty or so Imps lined up inside. We join the end of the row and the door slams shut. I lower my head, linking my hands together, afraid their shaking may betray me.

Several guards begin running their hands up and down the Imps, feeling for lumps that don’t belong, any weapons which may be smuggled into the Pastures. They move further down the line towards me and Nate – every inch of my body freezes as though blinking or breathing might somehow attract attention. I stare at my boots until my eyes itch, listening as the steady clunk of their step intensifies.

The footsteps pause.

‘You,’ a guard says. ‘Come with me.’

I lift my head and see his finger, pointing straight at me. He has steel-grey eyes and a moustache.





Everything goes muffled and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. The guard from canon stands before me, the one the Symp warned Rose about. He leads me to a separate chamber – an inspection booth with unpainted walls and a Perspex screen – and pushes me forward so my palms push into the plaster. Then, he grasps my ankles from behind and winds his hands quickly up my calves. I fight the instinct to kick out and run. His hands move to my front and he pushes his palms over my thighs, around the back and up the insides. I’ve never been touched so intimately by a man. And it doesn’t feel loving or tender. It feels brutal and quick. I think I might cry, so I bite down on my lip, so hard I can taste blood beneath the caustic tang of the chemical spray. Briskly, he stands and slips his hands up the sides of my chest and over my breasts. A scream catches in my throat.

‘Arms up,’ he says.

I raise my arms and begin to shake. At any moment he could notice my tattoo, still raw and fresh and irritated by the spray. But he spins me around so I face him, snaking his palms across my back.

Only now do I meet his eyes. The hatred there makes me gasp.

He grips my shoulders and pins me against the wall. ‘We’ve got ten minutes.’ His breath tastes of stale coffee.

I feel like a moth in a display case, pinned beneath a sheet of glass, totally exposed and unable to move. ‘I – I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t act all innocent, Imp.’ He pushes my hair from my face. ‘There’s some Gem coin in it for you. Extra if you smile.’

Every one of his muscles pushes against me. I feel sick.

‘Come on, this can’t be the first time, a pretty Imp like you. Now step out of the overalls.’

‘But – but, you’ve already searched me.’ Tears well in my eyes.

In one sudden movement, he throws me into the Perspex panel – the breath rushing from my lungs. Beyond my ghostly reflection lies a vast dimness strewn with movement, shapeless figures forming a line. I squint into the gloom and realize the shapes are people, a line of naked bodies, clutching at each other’s hands so they look like one of those paper doll chains we used to make when we were kids.

‘Do as I say or I’ll put you in there,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘With the rebels and the wannabe slaves with fake tattoos.’

I hear the disjointed beat of gunfire, the sound of muffled groans. The chain crumples and bodies slump to the ground. I think I say Oh God, my breath clouding the pane.

‘OK,’ I whisper – the word stings my lips.

I begin to unzip my overalls with numb, trembling fingers. It feels like I’m removing my skin.

The door opens and a squaddie with eyes the colour of cornflowers appears. The Symp. I could cry with joy.

He examines me for a moment and scowls. ‘We’re about to load them on to the bus.’

Coffee-breath freezes. ‘Go ahead.’

‘We need all the Imps.’

They glare at each other for a moment.

‘Now,’ the Symp says.

Coffee-breath responds by taking a step back and lowering his head.

I follow the Symp down the corridor, my fingers scrabbling with my zip, tears leaking down my face.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks, his voice quiet and soft.

‘Yeah,’ I manage to say. I want to tell him he’s magical and mythical and brave and wonderful. I want to throw my arms around his neck and tell him thank you over and over. But all I manage is a weedy, ‘Thanks.’

By the time I re-enter the waiting room, I’m all zipped up and I’ve wiped my cheeks dry. Nate risks glancing at me, a terrified look hanging on his face. I offer a little nod – I’m OK, it says.

The guards march us outside on to an expanse of concrete, segmented by yellow markings and encircled with stone barricades crowned with loops of barbed wire. The sky may look drab, but it’s vast and limitless and the same as back home. The fresh air of the Pastures fills my lungs, carrying scents of roses and bark and pulling me back to holidays in the Lake District. I suddenly feel this huge sense of relief.

A line of parked Imp-buses vanishes into the distance, their uneven windows shimmering in the ever decreasing sunlight. We follow Saskia to a bay marked 753 and approach a rusting bus. The scent of bleach sends my heart into overdrive.

‘This bus will take us straight to the manor,’ she whispers as we climb the steps.

The driver is clearly an Imp, but two Gem guards sit on the front seat, pistols docked in their holsters. Panic takes hold again; each of my muscles tightly coil like a snake before it strikes. But the guards simply ignore me. I move down the bus and slump into an empty seat next to Nate. The seat feels hard and the stink brings tears to my eyes, but just knowing we’re about to leave the decontamination block and the guard with the steel-grey eyes makes my bottom lip quiver like a toddler’s.