The Fandom(8)

‘The fire door . . .’ Alice says, her voice stretched with panic.

And somehow, a unit of four, we stagger towards the exit sign, stumbling over metal and equipment. We burst through the door, hacking and spitting and clinging to each other. The daylight stings my eyes, and I feel like some kind of ghoul, squinting and recoiling. I can’t help but notice how cold it’s become, my skin growing coarse with goosebumps. We slide on to the paving stones, backs pressed against the cool of the stone walls.

‘Where the hell are we?’ I say. At least, my mouth forms the words, but I hear only this deafening noise, like I’m standing in a tunnel with a train storming past – rumbling and groaning and kicking up dust. At first I think it’s a bad case of tinnitus, my brain objecting to the movement, but my eyes slowly make sense of the colours and shapes. People. Thousands of people. All tall and slim and dressed in tailored clothes. Fists pumping the air, voices raised, the vibrations of stamping feet travelling through the backs of my thighs.

‘We need to get help,’ Nate shouts, pulling his phone from his pocket. His eyepatch must have fallen off at some point, because I notice both his eyes glisten with tears. ‘No signal,’ he says.

I nod, which I immediately regret, the pain kind of sloshing around my skull like toxic goop. ‘Russell and Julia are still in there . . .’ And the security guards, and Clipboard Lady . . . I try to say, but my voice sinks beneath a fanfare of trumpets.

‘Is this some kind of cosplay event?’ Alice shouts.

I wipe the blood from my face with my sleeve and blink quickly. I recognize the scene now. We’re in the Coliseum from The Gallows Dance, ground level, right at the back. The raked auditorium, filled with perfect, symmetrical faces, surrounds us on all sides, leading the eye upwards to the crest of the circular stone wall, dotted with armed Gem guards. Before us, an angry crowd pushes forward with a life of its own, perfect bodies topped with thick, glossy hair. I can’t see, but I know the stage and the gallows rest at the front, hidden by the throng.

‘It’s like the best role play ever.’ Alice removes her broken heels and stands to get a better view.

She’s right – they’ve even got the smell right. The Coliseum rests on the border between the Imp city and the Pastures, and I can smell the sweetness of the Pastures battling the filth of the city. Pollen and freshly mown grass colliding with dead meat and vinegar.

‘Screw role play,’ Katie shouts. ‘We need to find security.’ She leaves the safety of the fire exit and dashes towards the back of the crowd.

‘Screw security,’ Alice says. ‘We need to make sure Russell posts that photo.’

Nate helps me stand, and even though my head feels like it may dissolve, the thought of Russell and Julia trapped and wounded forces my limbs into action. I grab a tall, broad shoulder, briefly noticing the blood on my fingers as they splay before me. A man turns to look at me. The symmetry of his features makes my words jar in my throat.

‘We need help.’ My voice comes out scratched and damaged like an old analogue recording.

He looks confused for a moment. ‘Get lost, Imp, or I’ll call the guards.’

‘Look, I know you’re in role,’ Nate says, ‘but there’s been an accident. The blood’s real.’

The man easily shoves Nate to the ground. ‘I said, get lost, Imp.’

‘Jesus, Nate, are you OK?’ I drop beside him, brushing the dirt from his hands.

‘And I thought I was a Gallows Dance fanatic,’ he says. ‘This fandom is hardcore.’

I jump to my feet and grab another person. This time a woman in her forties, maybe even older, it’s hard to tell. She’s still beautiful, her skin kind of smoothed over her face like a veil, her auburn hair curling to one side. She looks at me and her almond eyes narrow with disgust. ‘Don’t touch me you . . . you filthy Imp . . . you ape. Guards!’ She begins to shout. ‘Guards!’ But her voice gets swamped by the crowd and the fanfare and the stamping feet.

‘Forget it,’ Nate says, pulling at my arm.

We loop around the back of the crowd, eyes darting from side to side, trying to find someone . . . anyone . . . who looks like they may be vaguely official. Katie doesn’t seem to be having any more luck, her mouth drawn tight with confusion as a slender blonde woman shouts in her face. But a group of concerned cosplayers gather around Alice, nursing the small cut on her forearm, smoothing her gold hair from her face. For once, Alice actually blends in. They must have contacted every model agency in London . . . Britain . . . to make this role play seem so real.

I climb the bottom few steps which lead to the raked seating at the back of the Coliseum, Nate beside me. We can just about see over the crowd. Sure enough, at the front, I can see the stage. A rickety, wooden construction topped with a broad beam. Nine loops of rope dangle, surrounding the necks of the nine condemned Imps. Their faces flash on a giant screen behind. I can make out every imperfection. The slight crookedness of their features, the odd grey whisker, the mishmash of yellow teeth. But their imperfection stands out even from a distance. Their physiques aren’t quite right – too skinny, slightly stooped, broad in the wrong places. I actually feel a little relieved, just seeing their humanity staring back at me.

‘It’s the first scene,’ Nate says, excitedly. ‘God, they’ve pulled out all the stops. The condemned Imps look just like the actors from the film.’