Page 1 of A Match Made in Hell

There’s a five-minute window, in between living and dying, that I can’t quite recall.

I remember the beach. I remember so much alcohol running down my throat I snorted some out of my nose.

People laughed at me. Noah was furious with my behaviour, so I stormed off and climbed the steep, winding path to the top of the cliff, Sasha’s hand in mine.

We were giggling, shouting obscenities and feeling completely, utterly invincible. Free. I remember peering over the edge.

I remember Sasha screaming my name.

What I don’t recall is falling. Maybe a brief moment, right at the start, where it felt like flying, the wind sharp against my ears as it whistled past my head.

Ending up in this strange limbo, surrounded by nothing but grey mist, doesn’t imply a successful landing.

Although my heart still beats a slow, steady rhythm, one that matches the rise and fall of my chest, it doesn’t feel the same.

It’s a habit, purely mechanical, no blood rushing through my veins or air filling my lungs.

I hold my breath for practice. It’s fun for the first few minutes, but then I kind of miss breathing, so I suck in a mouthful of nothing in case it does enough to kick-start the rest of me back to life.

It doesn’t. If anything, I keep getting paler.

That can’t be a good sign.

I clutch the ripped ends of my dress, balling the fabric between my fists, wanting to tear it off.

It smells like sun cream and vodka and regret.

That trip to the beach was supposed to be one last hurrah, my final chance to let Bad Decision Willow make an appearance before I became Responsible Willow forever.

The job application destined to change my life was already filled out.

And now it’ll never be submitted, all thanks to one crumbling piece of rock.

It’s not fair. There has to be a way out of this.

I’m not in any pain; that must count for something.

Maybe my injuries weren’t life-threatening and my body is being worked on by doctors right now.

All I need to do is find a way back to it and I’ll wake, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, all shiny and new and ready to send that application at last.

Something scuffles up ahead.

My heart – my utterly useless heart – flips in my chest. ‘Hello?’

Nobody answers. The scuffling continues.

‘Hello?’ I risk a step forward, my feet slapping against what feels like damp stone. ‘Is someone there?’

Please be someone nice. A medical professional would be ideal.

There’s a hiss of a match being struck, and a light shines in the distance, illuminating the domed walls of a dark, rocky tunnel. I move towards that beacon like a ship heading to a lighthouse, if the ship was both confused and slightly stressed about what it might find at the end of the sea.

The match lighter shuffles close enough for me to see its face.

A whimper escapes my throat.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck . I stumble back, desperate to get away, I have to get away, but I slip, algae sending my feet flying out from under me. My tail bone cracks against stone and – fuck. That hurt. And I felt it.

So the whole not-feeling-pain thing lasted all of five minutes. Well, isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t that swell? There are now zero upsides to being here, and there’s a demon standing in front of me.

I don’t know what else to call it. It might pass for human at a quick glance, but a closer look reveals its features are almost fox-like; with bright orange eyes and a nose that’s a touch too long.

Its nostrils emit little puffs of smoke, causing the candle in its hand to flicker wildly.

Aside from a snakeskin loincloth for the sake of its modesty, the rest of its leathery red skin – the same colour as sealing wax on an ancient envelope – is on full display from the top of its bald head to the tips of its four-toed feet.

All it needs is a pair of horns to complete the cliché.

I let out a high-pitched, humourless laugh, because the alternative is to scream this can’t be happening.

This isn’t a waiting room. There isn’t a doctor trying to save my life. I’m dead. I’m dead, and I’m in . . .

‘I don’t understand,’ I whisper.

But I do.

Because unless the world has got things very, very backwards, creatures like this don’t exist anywhere good.

No. No . I press a shaking hand to my mouth. The demon remains silent, like it’s waiting for me to catch up with the obvious, but I can fill that silence just fine – or rather, she can. Mum. Imagining what she’d say is all too easy.

What did you think would happen, Willow?

Where did you think you’d end up?

That’s not the point. I had a plan. I was going to fix everything; become the kind of person who wouldn’t end up in Hell of all places. I just needed a little more time.

Time I need to get back.

The demon shifts on its feet, and my gaze snaps up. Its eyes glow when they meet mine, a simmering fire threatening to burn a hole all the way to my soul, but I refuse to look away. Showing fear won’t get me what I want.

Convincing it there’s been a mistake might.

Lying to a demon may not be the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but excuse me if I’m all out of bright ideas straight after dying.

Besides, I do have one useful tool at my disposal – Mum always said I should be more like her, and this is my chance to shine.

Mimicking her very best customer-complaint voice, I say, ‘I think there’s been an administration error. I’m not supposed to be dead.’

No response.

‘Are you listening to me?’ She’s definitely said that before. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

Nothing.

I try one final line, clicking my fingers for added effect. ‘If you can’t help, get me a manager. Someone who knows what they’re doing.’

This is usually the point an underpaid shop assistant escapes to the back while my face burns with embarrassment, but clearly my imitation skills aren’t up to scratch because the demon makes no move to find me any assistance, and somehow my cheeks still end up warm.

I swallow a fresh wave of panic. My ankle is beginning to throb.

The back of my head feels like it’s been split open.

The longer I’m here, the more solid everything seems. Maybe, right at the beginning, that had been my window for escape, but I was too busy recalling my final moments to take the chance while it was there.

‘Please.’ My voice shakes this time, all traces of Mum gone, leaving me and my fear trembling in her wake. ‘I have to go back.’

Finally, the demon acknowledges I’ve spoken, waving a hand and beckoning me to follow it into the gloom. It hasn’t shown any sign it’s sympathetic to my plight, so I doubt it plans on leading me anywhere I want to go.

But if this demon won’t listen to me, I’ll find one who will.

With fresh resolve, I attempt to stand. My legs aren’t inclined to agree with my brain on this one, wobbling like jelly as I clamber upright.

The demon huffs. Rude. I’m trying my best, despite the algae situation.

Would shoes be out of the question? I was wearing an excellent pair of sandals when I died.

I echo the demon’s huff, just to let it know that I’m as dissatisfied by this arrangement as it is, before taking several unsteady steps and following it into the depths of Hell.