CHAPTER TWELVE
VIGGO RASSMUSSEN
You must prepare yourself for the absolute worst, Lila.
LILA MURPHY
Have you ever considered motivational speaking?
Vampire Falls. Season one, episode four – “Bury Me”
Some of us (me) consider ourselves somewhat expert in the art of convention queuing.
Some people (me) might use the word gifted.
There is much to consider when one joins a queue.
Which queue, for a start. Assess who is waiting in your queue options.
Bored-looking, handsome type, holding lots of bags?
He’s holding the space for his girlfriend and possibly even her friends, so your queue size will likely increase.
Middle-aged, pony-tailed man holding folder and wearing backpack with pin-badge covered straps?
Seasoned pro: efficient. Get behind him.
What we are witnessing, however, is not a queue, and goes against all my convention training.
Swathes of bodies push towards the stage, and with the music blaring and lights flashing it looks like a mosh-pit at a concert, but with low fantasy superfans clambering over each other instead of metal heads.
Four sweaty and frizzy stewards try to maintain some kind of order, plus one more on stage next to a large cauldron with two red handles made from intertwined snakes.
It’s the Cauldron of Metallica, the first step towards Comic Con – and my destiny.
“Let’s do this, babe!” Roxy shouts over the music.
I nod, and we clink our bottles together and rush across the dance floor, to the edge of the furore.
Another steward at a small table implores, “PLEASE RETURN THE PENS” above the music.
They hand us a sort of parchment with instructions to write our name, phone number and convention badge number.
We fill them out, then Roxy grabs my hand and we head into the eye of the storm.
“Why is it so insane?” I call from behind Roxy to nobody in particular, elbowing a tall tuxedo-wearing vampire who’s trying to use my head to gain traction.
“There’s only three minutes left to enter!” someone from low down responds.
A white-haired woman who looks a lot like my nanna, is crawling on the ground next to me, trying to get through people’s legs. Nice tactics. Her glasses dangle from a chain around her neck.
“Three minutes?” I repeat, peering round Roxy then looking back down at the old woman. “It’s not supposed to start for another half an hour?”
“Yes! Three fucking minutes! The organisers have pulled their usual last-minute shit.” she shouts. OK, Nanna enjoyed the odd swear but never the F-word. “Keep your eyes on the prize, curly.”
Good point. The steward next to the cauldron looks at his watch then holds two fingers up in the air. I squeeze Roxy’s hand and she pushes forwards. There’s a yelp from behind me and I look round just as the old woman sinks her teeth into the ankle of Tuxedo Vampire.
“You crazy old lady!” he screams.
“You stepped on my finger!” she shouts back. “I have arthritis!”
I swallow. It’s like The Hunger Games in here.
We keep pushing forward but the crowd is at least ten deep, and I can tell from Roxy’s tense shoulders we might not make it.
There’s another shout and the pressure from the crowd behind me lessens.
I look round and Tuxedo Vampire is on his back, on top of the old lady.
Fake McKinley leans over them trying to help her up.
I frown at the three of them; it’s possibly the strangest thing I’ve seen at one of these conventions and, let me tell you, you see a lot of stuff.
Fake McKinley manages to roll Tuxedo Vampire off the old lady, but they’re getting jostled so much she can’t get up. He hunches over and shields her from everyone. She spots me watching.
“Curly! Curly!” she calls, her voice shaky.
She’s holding something up in her hand. I glance at the steward on stage.
He’s holding one finger up. One minute to go.
The crowd pushes harder and Roxy and I move closer with it.
People clamber onto the stage, cheering and jumping around after they drop their name in the cauldron.
I swallow and look back at the woman. She looks smaller now.
“Curly!” she calls again.
I let go of Roxy’s hand and push my way through the bodies back to the old lady. I reach out to her, and Fake McKinley nods at me. I put my arm around her shoulders and he takes her wrist, but she shakes us off, holding up a piece of paper.
“You came back for me,” she says, her eyes watery.
“Come on, let me help you,” I say, glancing over my shoulder.
“It’s too late for me,” she says. “You’re young; you still have a chance.”
“I won’t leave you,” I say, trying to pull her up, but she feels so small, so fragile.
She shakes her head and pushes the paper into my chest.
“Take this. Please,” she says. “You’re my only hope.”
I look down: it’s her entry form. Her name – Dorothy Churchman – written on it in beautiful curvy writing.
I glance at Fake McKinley, who’s watching me (I think) through the mesh on his mask. He’s managed to get Dorothy into a sort of sitting position and she’s put her glasses on.
“Eliza!” Roxy frantically waves me forwards, her eyes darting around in panic. “Eliza, what the fuck?!”
I take a breath and look back at Dorothy, her eyes, now giant behind her glasses, pleading with me. My fingers tighten around her entry form and I nod, my resolve as strong as my crowd-dodging thighs.
“OK,” I say, then kiss Dorothy on top of her soft white hair. I nod at them both. “Mind your hip, Dorothy!”
I stand and assess the crowd. There are less people around now, some have given up and are floating towards the bar, and others are making a final push to the stage.
“Twenty-nine, twenty-eight . . .”
The countdown starts without warning. Roxy is standing a few people ahead of me, a mix of anger and confusion on her still beautiful face.
There’s no way we’re getting to that cauldron through this lot.
My mouth is dry and my heart clangs in my chest. I take one last look at Dorothy, who nods at me, her eyes full of hope, and I know I have to find another way up onto that stage.
“Twenty-three, twenty-two . . .”
There’s nobody behind us now; everyone is at the front, scrambling over each other. I race over to Roxy and, ignoring her protests, rip her entry from her hand and run back towards Dorothy and Fake McKinley, where the Tuxedo Vampire is still sitting, slightly bewildered on the floor.
“Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen . . .”
I step up on his shoulder and jump onto the table where people were filling in their forms, ignoring the steward who looks like his head might implode.
I still have my beer in my hand, so I finish it off and put it down gently on the table (it’s glass and there are people around; I’m not a sociopath) then leap onto the big round table next to it, still hearing Roxy screaming my name.
“Fourteen, thirteen . . .”
There’s a row of stacked chairs along the wall, lined up all the way to the stage. I back up as far as I can on the round table, smooth down my dress and take a breath.
“This is for you, Dorothy,” I whisper.
I run across the white tablecloth and leap from the edge, my hands out ready. I hit the top of the chairs and grab at the plastic, but I can’t get my grip and I fall, feeling the stack of chairs wobble ominously as I cling to them, falling backwards.
“Ten, nine . . .”
“No!” I cry out, Dorothy’s big, wrinkly eyes clear in my head.
I’m going backwards. I’m going backwards and the stack of chairs will land on top of me and crush me, but probably not as badly as Roxy will because I expect she’s livid with me right now.
It’s over. It’s all over.
“Eight, seven . . .”
I look towards the stage, trying to pull myself up, when I feel someone suddenly take my weight and push me upfrom my feet. I gasp and climb up until I’m standing on the top chair, and look round, my heart overwhelmed with hope.
“Go!” shouts a voice. Someone dressed as Masquerade Ball Orion waves his arm towards the stage, jumping up and down a little. “You can still make it!”
I nod, then turn and leap along the stack of chairs until I get to the last one – but there’s a gap in front of me.
I’m not going to make it.
“Give me your hand!” another voice calls from the edge of the stage.
I look up, but the lights are blinding and the sound of people counting down is disorientating, so I can’t see who’s standing across from me. Plus, I probably shouldn’t have just chugged that beer.
“Give me your hand!” they shout again.
It’s a girl’s voice, I think, and I reach towards her outstretched hand.
I clasp my fingers around hers and she grabs me firmly.
I jump across the gap and land safely in front of her.
She lifts up her jewel-encrusted mask, the rubies co-ordinating with the floor-length gown she’s absolutely rocking, and she smiles down at me.
I look into her green, feline eyes, and realise, with horror, who she is.
“You’re welcome,” says Vivian Erikksen, Queen of the Awfuls, looking me up and down.
“Six, five . . .”
She reaches into her cleavage and retrieves a folded piece of paper. I mean, who does that? Vivian, apparently. She turns towards the cauldron and flicks her long hair over her shoulder, getting me right in the eye in the process.
“Four, three . . .”
She strides across the stage and drops her entry into the cauldron, and I gape at her as she takes a little curtsey before jumping off the stage and actually crowd-surfing away.I mean . . .
“MOVE YOUR ARSE, CURLY!”
Dorothy’s voice snaps me back to the present and I spot her in the audience with Roxy and Fake McKinley, all three of them waving their arms like windmills.
“Two . . .”
I blink and stumble across the stage, falling a few feet from the cauldron, but dropping the three entries in as I tumble to the ground.
“ONE!”
The crowd erupts and I roll my head to the side, smiling back at Roxy, Dorothy and Fake McKinley who are jumping up and down (if their hips allow) and clapping.
A fourth person stands next to Roxy, and I smile at Masquerade Ball Orion then mouth thank you to him, because it seems like something a hero would say to an innocent bystander in a film.
He mouths back you’re welcome, then smiles back at me.
My stomach lurches. That’s not the smile of an innocent bystander.
It’s the smile of my arch nemesis (or one of them.
I feel like they’re multiplying every hour I’m here).
I lift my head, just as he reaches up and pulls his mask off.
Roxy’s eyebrows fly up when she realises Masquerade Ball Orion is actually Charlie Chamberlain.
Roxy looks back at me, clapping even harder, and I drop my head back to the ground, totally exhausted and now a little confused.
Did Charlie Chamberlain just help me get up those chairs?