So, as soon as the medical staff and the parents left the ward to have a private, ‘grown-up’ chat, I pulled out my remaining tubes and stumbled to his bedside. Alice and Katie were pressing their buzzers like mad, trying to get the nurses to help, begging me in rasping voices to get back into bed before I fell. But I reached him all the same.
He looked like he was built from wax, all these wires and tubes and pieces of tape holding him together. But that little monitor was pipping away and I could finally see with my eyes what I could not believe with my heart.
The doctors were right.
He was alive.
Before the guilt and grief and anger arrived (and boy, did they arrive), I felt only relief. I wanted to kiss him and hold him and laugh all at once, but instead, I did an odd thing. I pulled back his covers and lifted his pyjama top. And there it was, no bigger than the size of a penny piece; a red, circular scar on his abdomen. A healed bullet wound. And the strangest thing? It didn’t surprise me, not in the least. I looked from Alice to Katie, and they didn’t look surprised either. And I knew we were all thinking the same thing – it was my responsibility to reach him, to wake him, to bring him home.
Later, Mum told me that Nate had died the day before I awoke, that he’d flatlined for three minutes before they’d managed to revive him. Three whole minutes. I can’t even hold my breath for two. I remember Mum’s face, draining of all colour as she whispered the words: I will never forget the sound of that flatline, Violet. And I remember thinking: Neither will I.
Alice hands me her Kindle and I finally sink into the chair beside him. I rest one hand on his arm, which feels surprisingly warm, and with the other, I load up the first page of our manuscript. The Sequel to The Gallows Dance – The Gallows Song.
Alice peers over the bed at the screen. ‘No,’ she blurts out. ‘Go straight to the good bit, you know, the bit he’ll really love.’
‘Yeah, don’t make him listen to the set-up,’ Katie says, perching on the bed. ‘The poor thing must be bored out of his tree as it is.’
We never talk about it, my friends and I – why we fell into comas in the first place, why we woke within minutes of each other, Nate’s mysterious bullet wound – but I sometimes wonder if they have strange post-coma dreams too, if they’re busy piecing together their own patchwork of disjointed memories. Because it’s like they know Nate can really hear us, like they know there’s something a bit different – a bit special – about the Comic-Con Four.
I drum my finger against the page-turner button, jumping through the electronic words until I find the right place. The entrance of the boy. The only character Alice and I could agree on one hundred per cent from the get-go.
Then I squeeze Nate’s warm flesh, and I begin to read.
‘Thorn circled the boy, looking him up and down. “And you think you can help us why?”
The boy smiled – his face all angles and mischief – and pushed his sandy hair from his forehead. “Because I may look like a dumb Imp kid, but I’m as clever as your average Gem. That makes me perfect spy material, don’t you think?”
“OK, you think you’re so clever . . . prove it.”
“You’re a Gem,” the boy says.
Thorn scowls. “That’s not so difficult to work out. I’m tall and I have symmetrical features.”
“It wasn’t that. Imps can be tall and attractive too. Your voice gave you away – you try too hard to flatten your vowels.”
Thorn adjusted his eyepatch, pretending he wasn’t rattled. “Well, you’re certainly braver than the average Gem, I’ll give you that. What’s your name, Imp?”
The boy grinned his pixie grin. “Nate.”’
Firstly, to my wonderful parents. I grew up in a house filled with stories and love, sci-fi and music, laughter and kindness and freshly made cakes. I carry those things in my heart, always. You provide me with endless love and support. You’ve made me who I am.
To my fabulous readers: Lucy Fisher, Liam Gormley, Jenny Hargreaves, Steve Lee, Helen Spencer, Heather Thompson, Len and Gill Waterworth (Mum and Dad), Isobel Yates, and Helen Yates. You are some of my dearest family and friends; my cheerleading squad of wise Yodas. Thank you!
To my awesome friends. You’ve dried my tears, distracted me and made me laugh. You’ve given me the strength I’ve needed during the past few years, and I love you all for it.
To the Times and the Chicken House for holding the Times/Chicken House Children’s Fiction Competition every year which gives random, unknown writers (like me) the amazing opportunity to be published.
To everyone at Chicken House – what an amazingly supportive group of people. To Barry Cunningham and Rachel Leyshon for their generous encouragement, guidance, creativity and their constant faith in me as a writer. To Jazz Bartlett for insisting Barry read my first manuscript, and for her brilliant publicity ideas. To Elinor Bagenal for doing such a fantastic job selling The Fandom all around the world. And, of course, to my editor, Kesia Lupo, who has been a joy to work with. I honestly don’t know how I ever wrote before I met you, Kesia. You provide endless ideas, clarity and containment. And thank you for convincing me not to kill you-know-who!
To the Big Idea Competition, for recognizing the potential in Angela’s idea, and of course, to Angela McCann, for having such a big idea in the first place. The stars definitely fell into line the day you entered said competition. Thank you!
And finally, to Ajda Vucicevic, for all her help with my first manuscript, the novel which caught Chicken House’s eye. Her encouragement and faith in me at the beginning of my writing adventure gave me the confidence to carry on and I will always be eternally grateful to her.
Thanks again, guys. I couldn’t wish for a better fandom!