Giant Days

  For Robin,

  my fellow Giant Days fan

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Pratt, Non, author.

  Title: Giant days / by Non Pratt.

  Description: New York: Amulet Books, 2018. | Summary: Although very different, Daisy, Susan, and Esther become fast friends their first week at university so when Daisy joins a club and begins behaving very strangely, Susan and Esther investigate.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018009604 | ISBN 9781419731266 (hardcover with jacket) | ISBN 9781683353942 (ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Best friends—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Secret societies—Fiction. | Universities and colleges—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.P8888 Gi 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 U.K. Paperback ISBN 978-1-4197-3488-5

  Copyright © 2018 BOOM! Studios

  Jacket illustrations by Michael Heath

  Book design by Julia Marvel

  Giant Days TM & © 2018 John Allison

  Giant Days created by John Allison. All rights reserved.

  Published in 2018 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.

  Amulet Books® is a registered trademark of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  ABRAMS The Art of Books

  195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007

  abramsbooks.com

  1

  FIRE IN THE HALL

  It looked as if someone had started a small fire in a prison block. Only the prison was actually part of the student residence for Sheffield University. J-block, Catterick Hall, to be precise. Smoke wafted gently from one of the upper windows, wispy fingers caressing the bright October sky . . . and clawing at the lungs of anyone unlucky enough to be standing downwind. J-block had been evacuated, and a Saturday-afternoon assortment of first-year students littered the quad. Those still dressed in pajamas and bathrobes mixed with those already preparing for the night ahead—party clothes on, hair half-styled, and makeup in the experimental stage. In the midst of this lackluster chaos stood Susan Ptolemy, Daisy Wooton, and Esther de Groot.

  The three were a mix and mismatch of aesthetics. Daisy’s clothes were as bright and colorful as Esther’s were dark and macabre. Susan’s preference for function over fashion gave her the look of a stray dog that had been shoved inside some comfy jeans and a tattered checked shirt. The three friends were, nonetheless, united in their focus.

  While everyone else on the quad was likely speculating as to who’d started the fire, Susan, Daisy, and Esther were more concerned with working out which of their neighbors had vomited in the sink of the fourth-floor bathroom, thereby blocking it. A crime far greater than accidentally setting fire to the kitchen, which could totally happen to anyone.

  “That one,” Susan said, pointing across the grass. A girl with a neat blond ponytail was standing with a duvet over her shoulders, asking no one in particular if the university would compensate her for smoke damage to her signed Ed Sheeran poster.

  “How do we know it’s her?” Daisy’s glare wavered. Accusations weren’t to be thrown around lightly.

  “Show your workings,” Esther said.

  Susan narrowed her eyes further. Her investigative instincts remained razor sharp after a summer spent honing them the hard way on the cruel cul-de-sacs and low-key criminal underworld of Northampton, her hometown. “Look at her duvet, that hideous floral pattern . . .”

  “Flowers. The hallmark of a reprobate,” Esther hissed.

  “I like flowers,” said Daisy, her voice getting smaller. “Nature’s pretty.”

  “. . . look closer, and you’ll find those aren’t petals but vomit splotches,” Susan finished with relish as her friends recoiled.

  “No!”

  “She needs to wash that duvet.”

  Susan took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her checked shirt and lit one, an all-knowing smile emerging as she blew a thin stream of smoke between her lips.

  There were some skills Esther’s privileged upbringing couldn’t pay for and Daisy’s homeschooling couldn’t teach. An education Susan was only too happy to provide.

  She might want to be a doctor in later life, but Susan’s employment history until now had been erratic. Like most people, she’d started with whatever job she could find, working in one of her hometown’s many warehouses—until she turned whistleblower on their substandard (and illegal) business practices. Blacklisted by respectable businesses and criminals alike, Susan applied her unique skill set and keen sense of social justice as a freelance investigator. Provided she turned over the criminals, the police turned a blind eye to her lack of license.

  Some people had skeletons in their metaphorical closets; Susan had accrued a plague pit of human remains.

  Not that Esther and Daisy needed to know. That was the joy of university: a fresh start for everyone. Even someone as jaded as Susan. The only things her new friends knew about her were the things she’d chosen to reveal.

  An awkwardly cleared throat and some shuffling alerted the trio to the presence of a new arrival: Ed Gemmell.

  “Isn’t that your kitchen that’s on fire?” he said, frowning up at the fourth-floor window.

  Ed Gemmell, fellow J-block resident, was a young man with the personality of a cinnamon roll and the spine of partially cooked spaghetti. He was inoffensive and perfectly tolerable, and Daisy and Esther greeted him with the kind of delight Susan reserved for finding a lost pack of cigarettes.

  Nodding, Esther waved majestically at the smoke billowing from the window. “Behold the consequences of crossing a dark princess, a baby giraffe, and sarcasm personified . . .”

  “I’m the giraffe, right?” Daisy whispered.

  “No, Daisy. You’re the dark princess.” Susan rolled her eyes and blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Cross us, and you shall burn!” Esther dropped to her knees and cackled demonically, raven hair cascading down her back as she tipped her head up to claw at the sky.

  Her friends took a step away.

  “Should you really be confessing to arson?” Ed Gemmell asked as everyone turned to stare.

  “It’s not arson if it’s an accident,” Susan said. The three exchanged complicit looks: Esther’s, guilty; Daisy’s, strained; Susan’s, reassuring. No one was going to prosecute over a self-combusting baked potato. Even if it had self-combusted because of Esther’s extreme microwave negligence.

  “Anyway . . . No one’s allowed back in yet, so I’m going to the library to”—Ed Gemmell edged a little away from Susan and shot her an inexplicably cautious glance—“um, to get some books out.”

  “I hear the library’s a good place for that.” Susan watched him closely, noting the irregular bob of his Adam’s apple and the way his moley little eyes darted about behind the rectangular lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses.

  If she wanted to, she could crack him like an egg.

  Unnerved by such scrutiny, Ed Gemmell turned to Esther with a hefty dose of desperation and zero optimism. “I take it you, er, wouldn’t fancy coming with me?” Like Esth
er, Ed was an English Literature student. Unlike Esther, he seemed to understand that this involved reading books.

  “Why would you think that?” Esther said, getting up from where she was still kneeling on the ground and dusting off her knees.

  “Because you never do any work?” Susan suggested.

  “Because we need to stay here in case the Fire Monitor does another head count?” said Daisy.

  “Because you’re still dressed for bed.” To his credit, Ed Gemmell was clearly doing his best not to acknowledge the expanse of long, lean, bone-white limbs that emerged from Esther’s shortest of skull-print bed shorts. These were accompanied by a T-shirt bearing the slogan Die God Botherers, which may or may not have been a reference to the lyrics of an obscure German grindcore band, and a pair of fleecy slipper socks that belonged to Daisy.

  “Counter proposition!” Esther extended an imperious finger. “We all go to the student bar for a remedial beverage.”

  “Ooh, they do a lovely hot chocolate,” Daisy said.

  “Daisy! Such extravagance!” Esther laid a hand to her chest in mock outrage.

  “But . . .” Ed Gemmell waved helplessly at Esther’s attire.

  “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.” Esther put an arm around him and pinched his cheek. “That’s the glory of a student bar: They won’t care. Besides, I’ve been to lectures wearing less.”

  As much as Susan enjoyed this unwitting sadism of her friend, repeatedly drawing Ed Gemmell’s attention to how little she was wearing, it was getting chilly, and she didn’t want to have to deal with Esther’s inevitable hypothermia. Susan finished her cigarette and dropped it to the ground, placing the toe of her Converse over the butt and grinding it into the earth.

  “Come on. Let’s go see if the barman remembers us from last time . . .”

  “I hope not,” Daisy said in alarm.

  Susan gave Ed Gemmell an arch look that set him further a-blither. “You coming?” she asked.

  “Maybe later . . . library . . .” he said, scuttling off in entirely the wrong direction.

  Giving his retreating figure a moment’s further contemplation, Susan shrugged off her suspicions and turned to follow her friends.

  There were several residence halls located on different sites around the city of Sheffield. The newest ones resembled all-inclusive hotels, with clean expanses of glass and easy-to-navigate gravel paths, signs marking the locations of multiple laundry rooms, dining halls, lounges, and bars. Some had on-site shops supplying emergency essentials, such as laundry detergent, plastic shot glasses, tortilla chips, and alcohol.

  And then there was Catterick Hall, the kind of place vermin came to holiday.

  Like everything else here, the bar had a whiff of prison about it. An impression that was enhanced by the window bars fitted to prevent ambitious students from stealing items such as beer barrels, pot plants, and, as on the occasion that had necessitated the installation of the bars, an entire coffee table. Once inside, the decor was equally dour, with the same aim of deterring petty theft. No one could possibly wish to steal any of the artwork—abstract paintings layered with streaks and blisters of yellow and orange, presumably created by a Jackson Pollock wannabe who worked in bodily fluids rather than paint. Even the furniture cushions defied desirability with their scratchy fabric and miserly stuffing.

  The last time the trio had ventured to this bar had been during their first week of term in September. The sagging sofas had been pushed to the sides to create a makeshift dance floor, and the jukebox had surrendered the airwaves to a third-year student in possession of a laptop and a Spotify subscription. It had been here that things came to a head with a group of glossy-haired, entitled residents of J-block, plummy-voiced witches who’d been feasting on Daisy’s food in the communal kitchen and trying to subsume Esther into their posh-girl clique. Words were thrown, hair was tossed, and lines were drawn, with Esther, Daisy, and Susan united on one side and the ex-private-school girls on the other.

  It was the night that had forged their friendship.

  “Do you think we’ll be asked to leave?” Daisy attempted to hide behind Susan, which was tricky since Daisy was a head taller—and that head was topped with a voluminous cloud of blond curls.

  “I do not.” Susan dropped into a sagging leather chair. “Speaking as the embodiment of human rage, no one, not even me, can possibly stay cross with you for that long, and this one”—she jerked a thumb at Esther—“is too sexy for anyone to resist.”

  Before Esther could puff up too much at the compliment, Susan shooed her in the direction of the bar.

  “Put that sexiness into action. A medicinal whisky for me and a hot chocolate for the evergreen floof.”

  It didn’t take long for Esther to return.

  “One of you needs to go. I don’t have any money.” Esther waved at her pajamas before folding herself onto the sofa next to Daisy, who exchanged a shocked glance with Susan. Esther might have been low on cash, but there were other currencies in which she could—and frequently did—trade. Her body struck the perfect midpoint between Daisy’s straight lines and Susan’s curves, and her face was half big gray eyes and half infectious grin.

  When Daisy first met her, she wasn’t sure whether Esther was so confident because she was so pretty or so pretty because she was so confident. Either way, Daisy would have laid her savings on Esther being able to sweet-talk a round of drinks from the bar on a suggestive smile and a promise to pay later.

  “Can’t you flirt the drinks out of him?” Susan suggested baldly.

  “I can’t believe a feminist like you would entertain the idea of pimping me out for alcoholic gain.” Esther feigned affront for as long as she could (two seconds) before conceding. “I tried. Apparently even this”—she gestured in disbelief at her ensemble—“wasn’t sufficiently persuasive. All I got was a lecture about the gig economy, something about the price of avocados, and a suggestion that I quit my degree and start an Etsy business.”

  “Must have been the longest lecture you’ve attended all term.” Susan smirked, pulling a tatty leather wallet out of her pocket and handing it to Daisy. “I’ll pay if you go. The barman sounds chatty—it’s too early in the day to talk to strangers.”

  “It’s half past two in the afternoon.”

  “Your point?”

  Glancing anxiously to where the barman was entirely ignoring their existence, Daisy leaned in to whisper, “It’s illegal. I’m not yet eighteen.”

  Susan didn’t even lower her voice to reply. “Yet the barman will assume you are. And the alcohol isn’t for you, so you’re not doing anything wrong. You can do this, Daisy Wooton. I believe in you.”

  Esther raised a fist in solidarity before giving a little shiver. “Mulled cider for me.”

  Daisy pulled off her cardigan and laid it over Esther’s bare legs before turning toward the bar with the stride of someone who knew what she wanted (a whisky, a mulled cider, and an entirely legal hot chocolate). She tried to ignore the way the soles of her shoes stuck to the floor and made a tacky little schulp with every step. Positioning herself a respectable distance away from where an overly affectionate couple were running their hands under each other’s clothes, she waited patiently as the barman prepared coffee with all the urgency of a Windows update.

  The barman had just located the milk when someone barged up, jostling Daisy into dropping Susan’s wallet onto the floor.

  “I’m so sorry!” Daisy apologized reflexively, even as she was bending down to pick up the wallet the new arrival had knocked from her hand.

  “Don’t worry about it.” His voice was rich and round, nourished by a diet of elocution lessons and port, and when Daisy was upright once more, she realized she knew the person to whom it belonged.

  Jonathan Tremain. Geography. Ellerton Hall.

  Name-subject-hall was the way everyone had introduced themselves that first week, when Daisy had encountered Jonathan queuing for the showers in a fetching silk robe several inches too shor
t to be considered decent, with Amelia embroidered on the back.

  Possessed with unexpected nostalgia, Daisy waved hello.

  “You probably don’t remember me. I’m—”

  “Poppy! Of course!”

  Did it count as remembering if he got her name wrong? “Actually, it’s—”

  “How’ve you been?”

  She could be Poppy. That was fine.

  “I’ve been good, thanks. What about you?”

  “I’ve been fantastic!” Propping an elbow on the bar, Jonathan set down the pile of posters he’d been holding, maintaining a continuous monologue of all the things he’d been up to. “. . . hardly have time for any bloody lectures, what with all the tryouts for the rugby league, corridor parties every night, karaoke in the S.U. You know, the Student Union?” Daisy, being familiar with the concept of abbreviations, was fully aware of what the S.U. was. “. . . Jessamy’s an absolute howler, couldn’t carry a tune if you popped it into a rucksack and tied it on her back.”

  “Jessamy?” Daisy craned her neck to see whether the barman had noticed she needed serving yet.

  “Jessamy Trinker? Lives in your block. Blond girl, could drink for England, arms like a nutcracker. Big feet—massive feet. Absolute riot. Wouldn’t be a party without her. You know. Jessamy.”

  Daisy did not know Jessamy.

  “You must know Archie Thomas and Maggie Atherton. They do Classics like you.”

  “I do Archaeology.”

  “Of course! What a runt I’m being—so you’ll be friends with Navid! Nice chap, some kind of accent. Sounds a little Welsh or a little Indian, something like that.”

  Jonathan sounded a little racist. Or something like that.

  “Um . . .” Daisy shook her head. If there was a Navid on her course, Daisy had yet to meet him.

  “Seriously, Poppy.” Jonathan gave her a pitying look as he casually raised a hand to wave the barman over. “Have you made any friends other than me?”

  “I’m friends with Susan Ptolemy and—”

  “Never heard of her.”