The Imps plant my feet on to a barrel next to Alice and pivot me into an upright position. The other end of the rope whistles passed my ear like a bullet, arcing over a battered streetlamp and whacking the ground. Then it’s Katie’s turn. I watch them jostle her on to another barrel, her rope sailing after mine. I look down on the hateful faces and lock my legs, trying desperately to stand – I know that slumping will be the death of me. But the rope tightens against my throat, cutting off my air supply, and can only get tighter. I close my eyes and wonder if the noose will prevent the vomit rising any further. I wish my hands weren’t bound, just so I could hold my friends’ hands once last time.
An Imp with a hooked nose steps forward and raises his voice. ‘Silence, fellow Gems, this is your president talking.’
The crowd laughs and claps.
The president slices his hands through the air. The crowd falls silent.
‘Welcome to the Gallows Dance.’ He purposefully rounds his vowels, inflating his chest like a cockerel ready to crow. ‘We are here to witness the hanging of these . . . Imps.’
‘What are their crimes?’ someone shouts.
He looks to the sky as though communicating with a higher power. ‘Their crimes are scraping an existence, feeding their families, contending with your disgust, your persecution, your sexual advances.’
The crowd makes leering noises. One Imp lunges forward and tugs at my tunic. The barrel wobbles and I feel my body lurch against the rope.
The president laughs. ‘Their crime is poverty.’
I try to breathe, but the air is thin. My legs weaken with every passing second.
‘Their crime is disease.’
It’s strange what goes through your mind when you’re about to die. But my final thought goes something like this: What a shame to come all this way and not meet Willow.
‘Their crime is starvation.’ The president sweeps his hands in a giant circle. ‘Their crime is . . . holding up a mirror to the ugliness within.’
The crowd bursts into life, laughing and braying.
The president raises his hands in surrender. ‘But wait. These are no Imps. They are wolves in sheep’s clothing.’ He points an accusatory finger at Alice. ‘This one is a stinking Gem.’ He turns his attention to me and Katie. ‘And these two . . . God knows what they are. Imp by birth, but Gem by allegiance. Traitors through and through.’
‘She’s not a Gem,’ Katie rasps. ‘She got a C in her maths GCSE and she had a cold last week.’
‘Shut it, traitor,’ the president says.
I stare into his eyes, searching for a morsel of compassion. The compassion which shines from the eyes of the Imps in the film. But I see only loathing.
He sneers. ‘So what should we do with our stinking Gem and her stinking sidekicks?’
A chant begins, soft at first, but gathering strength with every word. Make ’em dance. Make ’em dance. Make ’em dance.
The president bows and the chanting stops. This is it. We’re about to die. The Imps remove their hands from my body and I teeter on the edge of the barrel. Somehow, I manage to squeeze some words past the rope. ‘We just want to go home.’
The controller laughs. ‘Tell someone who cares.’ He looks at the barrel and pulls back his boot.
‘STOP!’ This voice doesn’t travel through water. It’s strong and clear and hangs in the air like thistledown.
I squint into the crowd and see an Imp pushing his way to the front, his strong face set with determination. A shock of black hair spills on to his porcelain skin, and even from afar, blurred by movement, I can tell he owns the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
‘For God’s sake.’ He strides right up to us, his strong nose raised high. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? I know these girls, they’re Imps. All of ’em. You’re about to hang three Imps.’
The freckly controller runs an anxious hand across his brow. ‘The little ones are, but the tall one, she’s Gem for sure.’
‘She’s definitely Imp, I grew up across the street from her. She’s always been bloody gorgeous. I keep telling her, you need to break your nose or summit, or one day you’re gonna end up flipping on a barrel like a fish.’
There’s this awkward pause. A tense silence from the crowd.
Terry moves first, slapping the black-haired Imp on the back. ‘It’s OK. I know this kid – he’s all right, I tell you. He’s Ma’s boy, and if he says she’s an Imp, she’s an Imp.’
‘So where’s her tattoo, and why was she hiding a dress under her overalls?’ The freckly controller asks, his voice laced with disappointment.
Alice manages to croak a few key words. ‘I’m working for the rebels.’
‘Of course,’ the black-haired Imp says, catching on quickly. ‘She’s pretending to be a Gem so she can get us some secrets.’ His eyes flash an amazing pastel-blue. ‘She deserves a bleeding medal, risking her life to save you idiots, and what do you do? String her up like she’s a monster.’
The crowd begins to murmur, exchanging confused, sideways glances. The president circles his hands again, keen to watch the finale to his show. ‘Since when did innocence matter?’
But several hands have already sliced the ropes and helped us from the barrels. The black-haired Imp pushes his body under my arm and supports my weight, looping his spare arm around Alice’s waist. Katie’s fared better and manages to walk behind us, her hand resting on my shoulder like she’s lost her sight.
I can’t help notice how strong the black-haired Imp is, in spite of the knots of bone which push through his shirt and into my flesh. I can barely walk, yet he sweeps us along with ease. We begin to weave our way between the baffled spectators.
‘Just keep moving,’ he says.
Alice groans in response.
‘Nate. I need to go back.’ My words merge together, but the boy seems to understand.
He hoists me a little higher and shakes his head. ‘Do you have a death wish? Just keep moving before they change their mind.’
‘We’ll find him, Vi,’ Katie whispers from behind.
‘Who are you?’ I ask the black-haired Imp.
‘Your hero by the looks of it,’ he replies.
We vanish into a side street, and after several confusing turns, he pulls us through a doorway.
‘You’re safe here.’
Upon hearing those words, I sink to the ground and adopt the foetal position. I think I must retch because bile fills my mouth, and I guess I’ve started to cry, because I hear the sobs of a terrified girl. My hands flit between clawing at my neck and shoving away imaginary demons – a colony of ants crawling all over me, biting, nipping, burrowing down. Katie sits beside me and strokes my hand, and the black-haired Imp holds my hair from my face in case I puke. These kind gestures pull me from my pit. I struggle into a sitting position and lean against the wall beside Alice. I turn and take in her face, pale and drawn and streaked with mascara.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
I shake my head and register a new pain; the burning ring of fire encompassing my neck. I run my fingers across it and feel something warm and moist, oozing on to my split-heart necklace.
‘Violet’s noose was really tight,’ Katie says. ‘I could see it cutting into her skin.’ She’s trying really hard to speak in her normal, practical tone, but I catch the waver at the end of her sentence.
The Imp passes me a cup of steaming liquid. ‘Here, try and drink something.’