Chapter 55
Mallory
Today is a wonderful day.
In fact, it is so wonderful that I had to take a brief moment to myself – a breather.
In what I think must be some kind of storeroom (but it is very dark, so I am not entirely sure).
I thought I might pass out, I think from all the excitement.
Everyone is very excited. But when I let myself in here, something strange started happening, because now I am surrounded by dragons.
I can’t see them – it is too dark – but I know they are here, because their smoke is filling my nostrils and clogging my senses.
I can taste it at the back of my throat.
The bitterness. The danger. It is searing into my bloodstream, threatening to topple me.
And the heat. It is suddenly so hot in here.
I don’t know where these dragons are from, but what I do know is that I don’t want to pass out. I can’t. Not now. Definitely not today.
Because today is exciting.
It is a great day. A wonderful day!
I hear something. A movement at the back of the room. I try to remain still, but I am shaking. Why am I shaking? Maybe I should be nice to them. I should be nice to the dragons.
Yes.
Yes. Be nice to the dragons and they will go away.
‘Hello?’ I whisper.
Nothing.
Cut it out, Mallory. You’re just overstimulated. Just get out of this room and—
But then I see them. Huge green eyes glaring back at me through the dark, flecked with yellow.
With desire. I push the palms of my hands into my eye sockets and try to rub them away but when I open them, they are still there.
In fact, there are more. So many more. And they are hungry.
Desperate to breathe flames across my body. To scorch my flesh.
We have been waiting.
Oh, God.
The dragons just spoke.
And there are so many eyes. So many dragons. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Scales wet, talons razor sharp. I feel them prowling around me, hemming me in.
We have you now.
No. Please—!
We will tear you apart.
‘Please don’t,’ I croak into the darkness. But my voice is tiny. Meek.
No. Not anymore.
‘Please don’t,’ I assert myself. To the dragons.
You do not belong in here.
‘I’m sorry.’ My head is spinning. Panic is rising in my chest. I need to sit down.
There’s nowhere to sit down. I need to breathe.
I cannot breathe. This room is unsafe. How did I get in here?
I suddenly don’t remember. How is this happening?
This room is not OK. It is teeming with danger.
I need to get out. I need to leave. ‘Help me—!’
‘Mal?’ A voice I know, from the other side of the door. ‘Mal, are you OK in there?’
There is something else in this room, though, as well as the dragons. I can sense it. It is small, barely a whisper. ‘Mal?’
Then I realise.
Magic. Magic is in here. I feel my excitement flicker back awake. This is so magical. But, something is off. No. It is not the magic I want. Not the magic I wished for as a child. This magic is different.
‘Seriously, Mal? Are you OK?’
It lacks something.
‘Mal?’
Hope. It lacks hope.
‘Mallory?’
‘I’m OK, Meghan! Just give me a second!’
‘Oh, thank God, babe. I thought I’d lost you for a moment.’
‘I’m fine. Just a little nervous!’
This magic is dark. Threatening. But it is thrilling too.
It is beautifully evil. I can feel it move towards me through the gloom, right into the darkest parts of me, then latch on.
It tries to pull, to take hold wherever it can.
It tugs at my shame, at the collar of my cashmere sweater, trying to draw me through the half-light and the fragments of dust, into oblivion.
‘You’re gonna smash it, babe.’ And I cannot say no. I don’t want to. I love it, the way it holds me. It is so powerful. The allure so strong. I want to go with it. ‘Just do your breathing exercises like we said.’
‘OK! Thanks Meghan!’
And I realise, it is endless. This room is completely endless. It is incredible in here.
Wait. Hold on. What is that?
There is a stench.
I try to place it. Rotten and bloody and dark. I know that smell.
Murder.
There is murder in here. I glance down, and gasp.
Slain bodies lie scattered at my feet. There are so many.
Throats slashed. Arrows protruding from chests.
Men in bottle-green army uniforms with missing limbs, guts spilling across the floorboards.
Women. Dead women in torn dresses, half naked, strangled and drowned and beaten, faces blotted blue and bruised.
Oh my God. My hand goes to my mouth. Children. Children lie at my feet. Dead children.
‘I don’t want to disturb you if you’re doing your box breathing, hun, but we really don’t have long now... Alice is asking for you.’
Something moves behind me. I spin round. It doesn’t seem...
What is that?
Emerging from the shadows. So tall. So slender. So beautiful.
Oh my gosh.
I hold my breath, stunned.
An elf.
Gliding over the maimed bodies that are sprawled across the floor, not once looking down.
Head up, tall and proud. There is a magnetism to it that is intoxicating.
An arrogance, a stillness. It looks at me and I inhale sharply.
In his eyes is a sexual desire so intense that my chest flutters. Something is written on his forehead.
Fantasy.
He speaks. It is so beautiful, like a song. His eyes burn with passion.
Does this elf want to have sex with me? In this storeroom? Now?
I’m not an elf, he sings.
I am a fairy.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
Sex. I suddenly notice the sex.
It is everywhere in here. Writhing in every corner.
Pulsating in every nook and cranny, clogging the place with sweat and a throbbing heat.
It drips between the floorboards and tangles itself within the cobwebs.
Each droplet is laced with passion. And something else.
Fear. I can hear the moans. The screams.
‘Mal, they’re saying three minutes. Have you got everything you need?’
Something else enters now, too.
A warmth. A glow.
It stills me, momentarily.
Love. Love is in here. I almost smile. I almost laugh. A whole abundance of it, in so many forms. I close my eyes and inhale. Love in all its glory. Tender. Bright. Naive. Pulsating. Confused. Twisted. Stagnant.
When I open them again, I startle. There is a man sitting cross-legged in the centre of the room. He is bald.
‘Hello?’ I say.
He smiles back at me.
I think he is a Buddhist. Some kind of monk. He lifts his eyes to me and places his hand on his chest. He exhales gently. Warmly. You will be OK, Mallory, he mouths. There is something written on his forehead.
I squint.
Self-Help.
I shift on my feet, suddenly uneasy. There is something beneath the warmth. Something sinister. I shudder. His eyes turn red. You are deeply fucked up, he mouths. You need to heal.
‘I will,’ I say. ‘I promise.’
‘Mal, right... I’m starting to worry.’ Shit. I can hear the anxiety in Meghan’s voice from the other side of the door. I should reply. I should.
But I am distracted by the monk.
I did heal. I have healed, I want to tell him, but it gets lodged in my throat. He is still staring right at me. His kind gaze burning right into my soul. I feel sick. Is it nerves? I don’t want to throw up on the monk. Not now.
Now is not the time to throw up on a—
‘Seriously, Mal, I don’t think we should be late for this, do you?’ I hear the door handle turn. ‘Hold on... Have you locked it?’
Oh. Yes. I did do that.
‘I’m OK! I am, Meghan, I’m just—’
Others appear. So many people start to fill the room.
People of all ages, all genders, all sexual orientations.
I should not be able to tell by looking at them, but I can.
I can because they have it literally written on their foreheads, stamped in ink, as if by a typewriter.
The black ink bleeds down their foreheads. Gay. Lesbian. Trans. Young Adult.
Is that... Jennifer Lawrence?
And a random astronaut? Snogging another astronaut?
But... something feels...
There is something that threads this place together.
‘Mal, what even is that room?’ I don’t know. I do not know, Meghan. ‘Can you let me in?’
I stand still, looking. Everyone, everything, suddenly disappears.
And I am left, in the darkness. And I suddenly feel incredibly empty.
Sad.
‘Right, that’s it. Open the door now, Mal.’
All I have is stitched into pages. Immortalised, embalmed by the sweet, chemical smell of vanilla. Of nostalgic newness.
Of fresh paper.
Unread words.
New money.
I turn and open the door to see Meghan, my twenty-two-year-old publicist, in a beautiful black dress, hair slicked back, gripping onto her mobile phone for dear life, staring at me, wideeyed. ‘Mal, you look unwell.’ She is very charming. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are the lights off?’
‘Oh...’ I don’t know how to answer that.
‘Mal, have you been standing in this...’ She looks at the tiny room I have been inside, and grimaces. ‘...this storeroom in the dark?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. Because I am. ‘I am.’ I go to check my hair, my messy bun, only to remember I cut it off two months ago for the author photos into a neat, short bob. It startles me every time. They say I look professional. Like I mean business.
‘How long have you been in here?’
‘I just needed a place to focus.’
I just needed a second, to gather my thoughts.
‘OK, babe. And are you?’
‘Am I what?’
‘Focused, Mallory!’ She looks at me like I am either a complete fuckwit or a complete genius, and she has yet to decide which. She has always looked at me like that.
It makes me want to turn back round, into the endless wilderness. To keep going. To lose myself entirely.
‘Alice asked if you want to run through anything?’
‘Alice? Who’s Alice?’
‘Alice Fairfax? The head of Waterstones, Mal.’ Meghan is getting impatient now. I can hear it.
‘Oh! Right, no. Tell Alice I’m happy to wing it. I work better that way.’
She doesn’t reply. It’s not the response she wants to hear. Not now, anyway. Not today. Everything must go perfectly. I have been briefed so many times. I have practiced in the mirror. Relentless hours of saying the same sentences over and over again.
‘I just can’t believe this happened to me.’
‘I thought I had only one book in me.’
‘I am just overwhelmed by the response.’
It’s a tricky balance, attempting to show both vulnerability and confidence in the same breath. To be shy, but not weak. To have conviction, but not superiority. To be relatable. To be authentic.
That’s what they want, Stan told me.
‘They just want to see you.’
A woman appears. Older than me, with pinched, stern features. Like she means business. ‘Ah! There you are!’
I look at Meghan. She clearly sees the panic on my face and mouths, Alice Fairfax.
‘Hi, Alice!’ I say, brightly. I am bubbly.
My brain is fried.
How could I forget Alice Fairfax, the head of Waterstones?
The woman who made this happen?
Or this event?
At their flagship store. Tonight.
Now.
‘Are you OK?’ she says, the faintest flicker of concern crossing her features.
‘She’s fine,’ Meghan answers for me. ‘She’s going to be amazing.’
They both look at me for confirmation.
‘I am,’ I say. ‘I’m ready.’ Their faces relax.
‘Could I get some water?’ I ask.
‘It’s at your seat, on the stage,’ Alice says. ‘Still and sparkling. Paula requested elderflower, so she has that... She’s sat on the left, you’re sat on the right. That all OK?’
‘I...’ I do actually really like elderflower. ‘Water is fine.’
‘How is P.K.?’ Meghan asks.
P.K.
I’m about to meet her.
Paula Kate.
Is about to interview me.
Alice nods. ‘She’s just arrived. All the guests are sat. And she cannot wait to meet you, Mal.’
‘Oh, good,’ I say. I immediately feel like I’m going to be sick again, and I’m not sure what’s worse, throwing up on an imaginary monk, or the boss of Waterstones. ‘Will I not meet her before?’ I ask.
‘Um... No. I think she’s a little frazzled from the flight and said it might give off good energy to meet first in front of everyone.’
‘Right. Yes. That’s a good idea,’ I say. But I don’t know if it is. Is it a good idea? Why doesn’t she want to meet me before?
‘How many people are here?’ Meghan asks.
‘Two hundred,’ Alice says. ‘And people queuing for return tickets at the door!’ She beams at me.
‘Wow,’ Meghan responds.
‘Yes – wow.’ Alice grins. ‘We are so excited about this book, Mal.’
‘Thank you.’
This woman is – both of these women are – vibrating with delight.
Alice peers behind me, through the door of the store cupboard. ‘That shouldn’t be open,’ she says.
Meghan shoots me a look. Best not to tell her. ‘What is it?’ she says, before I open my mouth.
‘This room?’ Alice asks, going to pull the door closed. ‘It’s where we keep an overspill of the bestseller stock.’
‘Oh!’ Meghan says. ‘Cool.’ Her eyes light up as they dart around the stacks of books. I suddenly notice them – piles and piles of books I know. ‘Oh my God, are there any proofs in here?’
Wait, were the dragons from Fourth Wing? The dead bodies from In Memoriam? I never read them, so potentially...
‘Ha!’ Alice says. ‘I might have one or two at the back somewhere.’
Meghan looks like she has been slapped. ‘For me?’
‘Yes, of course!’
Wow, Meghan mouths.
Where was the monk from?
Alice turns to me. ‘Did you see Slay?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Slay,’ Meghan repeats, slower than Alice, like I’m becoming more stupid by the second. I notice her smile, attempting to cover her growing concern with faux confusion. ‘Your book? The book you wrote, Mal? Your Sunday Times bestseller?!’ She laughs.
We all do.
Ha ha ha.
‘Right! Yes. That one.’
‘Yes, that one.’ Ha ha ha. ‘No. I didn’t see it.’
‘That’s because we’ve nearly sold out,’ Alice says, then winks at me.
I wink back, but a split-second later I wonder why.
Then Alice points to the floorspace in the cupboard just behind my feet.
I turn to see the familiar neon green cover, my name emblazoned across the front, under the knife dripping with blood and the word SLAY.
Three copies, all hardbacks, stacked on top of each other.
Exclusive Waterstones editions with sprayed edges.
‘Three left. Pre-sales were off the charts.’
‘That’s good,’ I say.
‘Good? Mal, it’s great.’
‘Ms Maddox?’ We all turn to see a baby-faced man, dressed all in black, with an earpiece and a clip board. ‘We’re ready for you.’
And I realise. Pain.
Pain was the thread, in that room.