Prologue

Go and live your life in an imperfect bliss

Only to be put to sleep by death’s rotten kiss.

You pretend to understand, you pretend to belong,

But you know in your head that you’ve done wrong.

You’ve lied to those who trust you, proven those who don’t.

Though when the test truly comes, will you sink or will you float?

You kick, you scream, and act like you care,

But when the time comes will you be there?

They will come in ways you’d never expect,

Though there will always be one key suspect.

Once they arrive, it’ll never be the same.

Let’s see if you have to the spine to stay in the game.

The threat was whispered at the newly shut door. Who was to know that it wasn’t simply the mad ramblings of the man imprisoned there? Who was to know what was to happen to the target of the threat?

*          *          *          *          *

Two months later

Stacey Mackenzie leapt back as the thick blue smoke poured out of the tiny beaker. “You may have put in too much,” she said- between coughs- to Charlie Boone, who was standing next to her.

Boone shot her a sideways glance, “Thanks, Kenz… That’s so helpful now we’re being gassed to death!” Boone was a scientist in the only place in the Rediunyn Dananic world that made concoctions, or potions (as many Humans insisted on calling them), a place called Hellview, so named because it was buried deep underground, and if it were to have windows, it was rumoured you would see hell itself through them. Stacey was one of the few people who actually liked the Hellview scientists, and came to visit them for no reason other than because she was bored, as she had today. Hellviews couldn’t leave the premises once they started working there; it was a well known Dananic law. Boone grabbed a tub of magnesium ribbons off the shelf to the side and added them to the concoction carefully. The liquid stopped producing gas and they both breathed out. Boone dragged a hand through hand through his scraggy brown hair, a relieved look in his intense brown eyes. He was only nineteen, and fairly new to Hellview. He was a Detirioqa, from Essex, in England, meaning he spoke English as a first language. This was good for him, as there was a well-circulated rumour that only those who spoke English as a first language survived Hellview. The phone went off. Boone pressed a squirt bottle filled with bright pink liquid into Stacey’s hand, “Spray this around. It’ll help the lingering gas go away. And try not to breathe any in, it’s poisonous.”

“Yessir!” Stacey saluted and started happily squirting it all over the place. Boone went over to the phone.

“Hello? Hellview, Charlie Boone speaking.” He kicked Stacey in the leg and jabbed his finger upwards towards a patch of blue hovering near the ceiling. “Yeah, she’s here. Do you want to speak to her?” He listened for a moment, his eyes on the overexcited teenager with the squirt bottle. “Okay.” He held out the phone to the Human, “It’s the Cob station.”

“Oh.” Stacey gave him the spray and took the phone, saying quickly into the mouthpiece: “It wasn’t me who blew up the phone box outside the cinema.” ‘Cob’ was the shorter name for the ‘Fairway Policemen’ (Rediunyn-Dananic police). She grinned sheepishly, “Oh, you hadn’t heard about that… Why you calling, then?” She swatted at Boone, who was trying to spray her in the face. “What?! McMillan! I told you to make sure it was secure!!” She succeeded in kicking the boy in the backside, but didn’t seem to be paying that much attention to him anymore. “Oh, my God,” she said into the phone. “You’re an idiot. I’ll be right there. Don’t try to do anything. Things are bad enough already…” She hung up with a groan.

Boone squirted a puff of pink into a corner, “What’s up?”

Stacey leaned on the counter behind her. “You remember Robert Klein? I was telling you about him. Posed as a member of a band? I had to get something off you when he shot one of his ‘best friends’?”

“Oh, yeah. ‘James Bourne’.” Boone thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers, “Charlie Simpson! That’s who he shot!” Stacey nodded. He set down the squirt bottle. “What about Klein?”

“He escaped from rehab.”

*          *          *          *          *

Matt Willis walked along the streets of London, humming to himself. Why shouldn't he? He had reason to be happy; his forthcoming album was going really well. A girl ran up to him, “Oh, my God! You’re Matt Willis! Can I have your autograph? And a picture?” Matt obliged and she hurried off happily.

“Matt! Matt!” The voice was familiar this time. A teenage boy skidded to a halt in front of him. He would’ve been familiar even if Matt didn’t know him personally. His voice was American accented, Mississippi based, his hair was blond and lightly spiked, his eyes were dark and serious. He had a cheeky looking face. He was an actor, and a well known one at that. “How you doing?” Raymond Dowe asked with a grin.

“I’m good. What are you doing here?” Matt asked, unable to hide his shock.

“We’re here to see you actually.” Matt didn’t bother asking who the ‘we’ was, he’d learnt from his previous encounter with these people that asking questions only made him more confused. Raymond led him over to a bench, where they sat down. “We have a small problem…”

Alarm bells sounded in Matt’s head. “My version of small, or yours?”

Raymond looked uncomfortable. “Let me put it this way… How much do you value your life? And Charlie Simpson’s?”

“Oh, God. What’s happened?”