I reach the shore. I think I’ve made it. But the joy of saving my friends is completely overshadowed by the fear of facing the Gem soldiers. I begin to run along the bank, waving my arms, trying to attract the Gems’ attention. ‘Don’t shoot,’ I shout. ‘I surrender.’ They want me alive, at least for now, but the sight of the guns still makes me want to puke.
I hear a shot. I don’t know who fired first; the Gem soldiers or my friends in the boat. It doesn’t matter. Once the bullets start flying, I lose control of the situation. I turn to see Matthew, caught by a bullet. He falls over the side like a bag of sand, tipping the boat. Every one of the passengers falls into the water, pulled beneath the surface. I forget about the soldiers – I only know I must reach Matthew. Shot and sinking. But then another thought finds me, even more terrifying, even more paralysing. Imps can’t swim. Which means Ash is likely drowning at this very moment.
I run towards the upturned boat, flinging my body into the water. I take a large breath and squeeze my eyes closed, just before a thousand nails drive into my skull. The river may look like tar, but it is undeniably water – ice cold, endless. I kick my legs and force my hips to twist, propelling me upwards. The surface breaks over my head and I take one enormous gasp of air. For a moment, I feel disorientated. I can’t see anything – the stars, the torches, the soldiers. But I can hear. Muffled gunshots, the echo of my own breath, lapping water. My hands paddle and bash against something solid. I realize I’ve emerged beneath the upturned boat.
‘Violet?’ I hear Katie beside me, panting and treading water.
My eyes adjust, and I can just pick out Saskia, clinging to the upturned seat, holding the boat as though it’s a giant shield. Her head bobs under the water until Katie pulls her up again, looping an arm beneath her chin.
‘Imps can’t swim.’ I spray river from my mouth. ‘Stay with Saskia.’
I dive back into the cold and power through the black, not entirely sure which way is up or down, manically swimming in circles, my arms reaching for imaginary shapes. But there is no Ash. No Matthew. Only grey, watery phantoms. My lungs feel ready to burst, and I know I desperately need more air, but panic drives me on, reeling, spinning, groping through the dark.
An intense light pushes its way into every corner of the black, like angels have ripped a hole in the clouds, letting the heavens burst through. The underwater world can no longer hide. I see every piece of driftwood, every murky stone, every strip of seaweed carried in by the tide, my own hands, pale and hopeless before me.
My eyes find Matthew first. He lies motionless. His mahogany skin already part of the riverbed, his lifeless eyes like two freshwater pearls. A dark cloud billows from a hole in his chest. And although this is not what I wanted, the last thing I wanted, I feel thankful. Because I only have one pair of arms, and now I don’t have to choose who to save.
Next, I see Ash, suspended and flailing, wrestling an invisible sea beast. Bubbles spiral from his hands, and his black hair fans around his pale, bruised face. I’ve never seen him look so scared, and for a shard of a moment, I feel completely flooded with love. Within seconds, I reach him, slot my hands beneath his armpits, and drive us towards the surface.
We break into the heavenly light, coughing and spluttering. I flip him over so he looks skyward, hook my elbow under his chin and begin to swim towards the boat. I hear a strange noise, a low, whirring hiss combined with Ash’s spluttering. As far as the eye can see, the surface of the river begins to wrinkle, the water almost vibrating, droplets sucked upwards like it’s raining in reverse.
‘Violet,’ Ash manages to say.
I think he’s trying to warn me, because he’s already seen what I can’t.
The light doesn’t belong to angels.
It belongs to the four glossy stones hanging above us.
Next come the tentacles – scary when I read the book, even scarier on TV, horrifying in real life. A motorized arm snakes through the sky with strong, sinewy movements. There’s no point even trying to escape, it moves with such speed. A large metal cuff girdles Ash’s middle and rips him from the water, so quick and brutal I don’t get the chance to look into his face one last time. He floats high above me now – a tiny version of himself – and disappears into the belly of a hovercraft.
I bob for a moment, completely alone, just water and panic and brilliant lights. It comes from nowhere, the second arm, winding through the river like a metal sea serpent. A shot of adrenalin, a burst of horror. It clamps around me, forcing the air from my lungs, and yanks me upwards with such speed my neck cracks. The wind rushes through my wet clothes, and I watch the boat below shrink to the size of a child’s toy. Saskia and Katie remain concealed from sight. At least they are safe for now.
The arm sucks me into the craft and dumps me on the floor. Before I can catch my breath, a team of squaddies descends, jerking my arms behind my back, cuffing my wrists and ankles. I don’t bother fighting. I just search frantically for Ash – my eyes find him; a mound leaking river across the floor.
This is just like the scene from canon, only it isn’t Rose and Willow coughing up silt on to the metal floor – it’s me and Ash. I hear the buzz of a walkie-talkie. ‘We got her, sir. Her and another gutter monkey to throw in the mix.’
I’ve done it. The canon is back on track. Tomorrow, I will hang. But I feel no relief, no sense of achievement. Because just before I feel the bite of a hypodermic needle sinking into my neck, just before I lose consciousness, I hear the walkie-talkie spew out its response. ‘Good work. A double act for the Gallows Dance.’
It won’t just be me dangling from a rope tomorrow.
Not Ash, I try to say. Not Ash. But my tongue just flops hopelessly around my mouth.
I wake alone, the taste of dirt in my mouth. The remnants of several nightmares swim in my head: blood reaching across concrete, two freshwater pearls staring from the riverbed, metal snakes moving through water. My eyelids flicker and the walls of a white, sterile room throb in and out of focus. A cell, similar to the one Rose woke in. I try to sit, but my arms bow under my weight. Not nightmares – memories. The images continue to hover in my line of sight, transparent and ethereal, like they’re printed on the finest of silk sheets.
The door opens and a couple of squaddies enter. They set various things beside me – a towel, a hot drink, a white dressing gown, a tray of food. They leave the room and the lock clicks into place. Soon, I will meet President Stoneback. The man who makes Thorn seem like Santa Claus. Whose nephew’s death I witnessed back at the bolthole. I close my eyes and take deep, steady breaths.