The Fandom(46)

I slump into the bunk above Nate.

He pokes his head up so it’s level with mine. ‘So, how did it go with Ash?’

‘Rubbish. I think he may hate me.’

‘Well it doesn’t matter whether Ash likes you or not, he’s just a side character, it matters whether Willow does.’

I know Nate’s right, but it kind of matters to me that Ash likes me. ‘I guess,’ I reply.

Nate pats my arm. ‘Get some sleep, heroine extraordinaire, gotta look your best.’

It makes me smile when Nate goes all nurturing on me, like he’s the older sibling. ‘Thanks,’ I say.

He bobs back down, and I soon hear the rhythmic pattern of his breath as he falls into sleep.

The Day-Imps begin to arrive, and their movement, combined with the light seeping through the cloth dividers, keeps me awake. Plus, my mind is just a whirl of conflicting thoughts and emotions: I think of Katie, back in the bell tower, at the mercy of a patch-wearing sociopath with a bit of a crush; I think of Alice, wherever she may be; I think of Ash and those winter eyes; I think of the way Dad always touches Mum’s hand as she pours milk on his cereal; and finally, I think of my feet, dancing mid-air, searching desperately for solid ground, never to find those ruby slippers and return home.

In five days, I will hang.

I roll into the foetal position and imagine all these thoughts pooling in the side of my head, seeping into the pillow below. Finally, I fall into an uneasy sleep, punctuated with twisting shadows and screams and a feeling like I want to move but can’t, like rope binds my limbs. The dream changes, and suddenly I can move again. I feel surprisingly free, like all of the weight has been lifted from my chest. It’s summertime – the smell of lupins and freshly cut grass, the sound of children playing mixed in with birdsong.

I’m seven years old, stood in my parents’ garden with Alice and Nate. Alice looks so young – her feet not yet crammed into heels, her hair free to kink around her face. And Nate, he’s only four years old. His legs still have that lovely, chubby fold at the ankle and the knee, and his shorts drown his petite frame. I’m blowing bubbles, watching them sprout from the wand and float into the air, perfect spheres shining in the sun. Alice and Nate run this way and that, trying to catch them, squealing as they pop in their cupped hands. More, Nate cries, more bubbles, Violet, more bubbles please.

I aim the wand upwards and spin in a circle. The bubbles fly high into the sky, hovering just out of reach, carried by the breeze and catching on the tops of the buddleias. Too high, Alice cries. Too high, Violet. But I keep on spinning, keep on blowing, spurred on by their laughter and the sense of freedom. Suddenly, Nate screams, Look, Violet, look! Alice and I freeze and track the invisible line travelling from his finger. A single bubble survives the buddleias, climbing higher and higher, bobbing over the garden fence, beneath the telephone cables, up, up and over the tops of the sycamores.

We watch that bubble until it is no more than a tiny dot, floating into the horizon. Nate turns to me. He grins so wide I can see all of his baby teeth, all pearly and wet. Will it land in the stars? Alice and I laugh. Yes, Nate, it will land in the stars. And that’s when I hear it, the rhythmic pip of a hospital machine, like the ones you hear on Holby City. Pip. Pip. Pip. The scent of Dettol and washing powder replaces the perfume of summer.

Alice turns to me. What’s that noise? We look across the lawn, under the flowers, behind the wooden bench. But we can’t find the machine. Pip. Pip. Pip. Nate nuzzles his head into my stomach. I don’t like it, Violet, make it stop. I climb on the stones, peer into the neighbours’ gardens, check the windows into our house. But still no machine. That sense of freedom makes way for a growing sense of dread. Pip. Pip. Pip.

The pips begin to mutate, changing into the hollow tap of knuckles against wood. I wake to Saskia’s stern face, her fist rapping against the edge of my bunk. ‘Come on, Violet. You need to use your charms on that useless hunk of a Gem.’

I’m covered in sweat, my pulse banging repetitively in my ears. ‘Willow,’ I say, my voice muffled with sleep.

She frowns. ‘Yeah, I know his name.’

I blink the grit from eyes and tell myself those pips were just the sound of Saskia’s impatient knocking, or my own blood gushing through my body. There’s no other explanation.





I shove some tasteless gruel down my neck and grab another shower, almost enjoying the way the cold hammers into me – freezing the anxiety, transforming it into a shimmering block I can step away from and leave behind.

I walk to the manor with Saskia and Nate. I can feel the worry taking over – the next part of the story requires more than just reciting lines and avoiding farting. This is when I really fall short of Rose’s ghost, because the next part of the story requires physical activity. And there’s a reason I’m always the last one to get picked for the netball team.

‘So how are you going to get lover boy to notice you this time?’ Saskia asks me.

‘Last night, he asked me my name. Tonight, I’m going to show him.’

She raises an eyebrow so it meets the dark stain on her head. ‘What d’ya mean, show him?’

‘I’m going leave a rose on his windowsill,’ I reply.

Nate pulls a rose from his overalls and hands it to me. The plumpest, reddest one he could find in the rose garden earlier that evening. I take it from him and rotate it in my fingers. We both look at Saskia, awaiting her excited response, the one she gave Rose in canon: That’s a brilliant idea, lure him out of that bastard manor house. But instead she scrunches up her face like she’s just smelt something really bad. Maybe I did fart.