A Circus of Ink

by Lauren Palphreyman

  Raven hobbles forwards first. ‘Well, obviously, I’m in.’

  Rami nods. ‘And you know I am too.’

  A few more step forwards. Anita and Lucy, a couple of guys from Draft Five, and obviously Sylvia. It’s not much, but it’s enough. For now.

  I catch Jay’s eye, and he shrugs. Then Sylvia steps forwards again.

  ‘Good. Elle and the Blotter are the biggest targets—they leave now. I don’t want anyone else here put at risk. We meet in a week at the library.’ She smiles thinly. ‘Anna and Maggie will be in charge in my absence. Now, let’s get going. It seems we have a revolution to start.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Jay

  I stroll around one of the three black Blotter vans parked by Maggie’s mobile library. ‘Blotter standard model from the Outer Drafts. So that’s good, I suppose.’ I catch a jagged scratch along the side. ‘It’ll be hard to get across the Draft borders in this though. Draft crossings are written.’

  I kick the front tyre. It’s softer than it should be.

  ‘Bit fucked up as well. We won’t get far . . .’ Then I peer through the front window. ‘Key’s in the ignition at least.’

  I run my palm over the side as I bring myself full circle back to the Twist.

  She stands at the side of vehicle, rucksack at her feet, looking into the mist that has swallowed the Circus tent. I rub my hand on my jeans, wiping off the grime, then I turn her around.

  ‘Hey. You listening to me, little Twist?’

  ‘I was just thinking.’ And there’s that look again—the one I saw in Sylvia’s shipping container. That lost look. I frown.

  ‘What is it? You got what you wanted.’

  Her forehead creases. ‘You think this is what I wanted?’

  ‘Well . . . yeah . . .’

  She blows out hot air, and a strand of white hair dances in front of her face. Without thinking, I brush it back out of her eyes.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I couldn’t save them all.’ It sounds as if the words are hurting her as they come out. I don’t like that. I don’t know how the fuck this happened, but I don’t like the thought of anything hurting her. I’d kill anyone who tried to touch her—I know that now. But I can’t fight words, can I?

  ‘Look, Elle,’ I say. ‘Those Darlings should have been dead a long time ago.’

  It was the wrong thing to say. Fuck. She steps back, and her eyes blaze like angry stars.

  ‘Is that what you think?’ Her cheeks are flushed. ‘Is that seriously what you think? That it’s fine sixteen people were murdered? That it’s all fine people lost their wives, their mothers, their friends, their families today—because the Creators wrote it that way?’

  I rub my mouth. ‘Elle, come on.’

  ‘Don’t you care? Don’t you care they died screaming? But then I suppose you wouldn’t. How many people have you killed, Jay?’

  My jaw sets. ‘You know what I am, little Twist. You’ve known since you met me.’

  She steps into me, and I don’t know if she’s expecting me to move back, but I don’t.

  ‘If it were written, you’d have been a part of that massacre too, wouldn’t you?’ She pushes my chest. ‘Answer me.’

  I take her wrist, and she staggers into me, grabbing my vest with her free hand. She’s breathing hard, and she looks fucking furious. She looks like a hurricane, a tornado, a raging storm confined within the frame of a woman.

  I wonder what she will do. I wonder what she can do. I wonder if I’m the one who stands to get hurt here. Which is an odd feeling. No one hurts me.

  For the briefest of moments, I wonder if I’d let her. Just to see. Just to know what it feels like to have her hurt me.

  ‘Answer me,’ she says.

  ‘You don’t want me to do that.’

  She’s looking at me as if she can’t decide whether she wants to fuck me or kill me. I think both, maybe. I think my world changed the moment I arrived in her bedsit, but hers is only just changing now.

  She’s realised this isn’t some little game. This isn’t some neat little story she can tell in which everyone gets a happy ending.

  This is real. This is life. This is the Creator’s world, not ours.

  People die. People follow the paths that have been written for them. People keep their heads down and get on with it because that’s the only choice they have.

  As we stare at each other, her breathing steadies. Her eyes are as wild and as lost and as angry as the stars. And I can see her searching for something in mine. Reaching for something that she can grab onto to stop herself from falling.

  I hate it. I hate that she thinks it can be me.

  ‘You know what I am, don’t you, little Twist?’ I say, bringing my face closer to hers. ‘You know what I am, what I’ve done, what I’m capable of.’

  I step forwards, pushing her back into the side of the battered van.

  ‘Tell me. What am I, little Twist?’

  She glares at me.

  ‘What am I?’

  ‘A Blotter.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s right. I’m not some little Darling, going around telling stories and playing nice with all the other little Darlings. And I never will be. So if that’s what you want me to be . . . you can go find some other poor bastard to come on your crazy suicide mission with you.’

  ‘You’re wrong. You’re more like them than you think.’

  ‘You think I’m like a Darling? I don’t act like a Darling, do I? I don’t look like a Darling. I don’t kiss like a Darling.’

  She makes an angry sound in her throat.

  ‘But then that’s what this is about, isn’t it? You want to know what it would be like with someone like me. But you need to pretend I’m a good person. You need to pretend I’m not a killer. You need to pretend I can be fixed.’

  ‘That’s not what this is.’ She’s breathing hard. ‘You know nothing about me.’ She glares at me, and I realise my breathing is heavy too. I can smell her—earth and smoke and sweetness. My eyes fall to her lips, pink and chapped. I tasted them once. Before the Blotters came. I want to taste her again. All of her. I’d drop to my knees right now if she asked me to.

  I wanted to stop her from hurting a moment ago, yet now, I’m trying to hurt her. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I’m doing.

  I sigh. ‘What do you want from me, little Twist? Tell me what you want me to do.’

  ‘I want you to care.’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘You care that they died?’

  I moisten my lips. ‘I don’t think you want me to answer that.’

  She blinks and looks at the ground. I don’t like that look on her face. It makes me feel like a dick again. I step back, and her clenched fist drops from my chest.

  ‘Look, Elle. Just . . . just tell me what I need to do . . . or what I need to say, and I’ll do it. Or say it . . . or whatever.’ I rub the back of my neck. ‘I’m not . . . I’m not good at this . . .’

  ‘No shit.’

  My lip twitches. ‘Well?’

  ‘Come on, kids. Time to go.’ Maggie’s voice interrupts us, and Elle’s edges soften. The old woman emerges from the mist behind me, her patchwork jacket and white braid covered in dust. ‘Couldn’t have my little bumblebee and her wolf pup leaving without saying goodbye now, could I?’

  I fold my arms, and a half-smile crosses Elle’s face, her eyes boring into the side of my head as she hears the nickname. She’d better not get any ideas.

  ‘Plus, I thought I’d give you a little help,’ says Maggie. ‘I’ve a connection in one of the Draft Two black markets. She’s based in the factory district by the border. Ask for the Canary and tell her I sent you. She’ll be there in three days’ time, and she can get you across the river into Draft Three. It’ll stop you from having to find a way over the bridge.’

  ‘Thanks, Maggie,’ says Elle. She bends to hug her. ‘When will we see you again?’

  ‘You’ll be seeing me s
oon, I expect. I’m not one to turn down an adventure.’

  When they pull apart, Elle takes a deep breath then grabs her rucksack and climbs into the van. Maggie moves towards me, her arms spread. I jump back, and she cackles, watery blue eyes glinting.

  ‘Not a hugger, hmm? I guess some wolves aren’t supposed to be tamed.’ She steps back, arms dropping to her sides. ‘But I have hope for you yet. You’ll look after my bumblebee?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I swear it.’

  She nods, and something unreadable passes over her face. I think she’s going to say something else, but then she smiles and steps back. ‘Good luck.’

  I want to wish her luck too, but that would be a weird thing for a Blotter to do. So I just nod and watch her as she heads back through the mist towards the Circus. I hope that she’ll be okay. Then I get into the driver’s seat.

  Elle touches my thigh. ‘You may say you don’t care, but you saved a lot of people. I should have said something before. I’m upset about what happened. But you . . . you were . . . you helped, and . . .’

  ‘It’s not because—’

  ‘But still, thank you,’ she says before I can deflect the thanks I don’t deserve.

  ‘Yeah, well, you can thank me properly later.’ I close the door and then meet her eye again. ‘I can think of a few ways.’

  Her eyes widen slightly as I rest my hands on the steering wheel. Silence hangs over us, but it’s charged with something. We’re finally going to be alone. Away from the Darlings, and the Circus, and the stories, and the constant noise.

  ‘Where are we going then?’ I say. My voice sounds weird, so I clear my throat. ‘Draft Two border is a ten-hour drive. But we’ll need to lie low for a bit to meet this Canary.’

  She leans back against the tattered seat, frowning. Maybe it’s because I’m a dick, but it makes me feel better that she’s unsure about something for once.

  ‘We could—’

  ‘There’s a guy in Draft Two.’ I turn the key in the ignition. ‘He runs a motel of sorts. For Blotters. Tends to turn a blind eye. We’ll get a room there.’

  The van grumbles into life.

  ‘Why are you even here, Jay?’ she says. ‘If you think this is all for nothing? That it’s a suicide mission? That there’s no hope? That we’re going to die?’

  I shrug. ‘Maybe I’m just curious.’

  I put my foot down on the pedal, and we drive away from the Edge of the World.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Elle

  Engine spluttering, we break through the wall of fog into the Creators’ night. Rain patters on the roof. We’re surrounded by crumbling skyscrapers and broken billboards that once showed Tellers reading from the Book of Truth. Now, they fizz with white noise.

  I watch the tendrils of mist reaching for us through the rearview mirror. It’s as if they’re trying to pull us back to the Edge of the World.

  It was my home once. It was safe.

  I wonder if I will ever return. I wonder if there will ever be anything to return to.

  The thought weighs heavily on my chest.

  The Circus, as I knew it, is gone.

  But not quite.

  Because I will not leave its stories there to rot, to be swallowed by the mist. I carry them with me. So do the others. They will not be forgotten.

  ‘May their stories live on.’ My voice is quiet but firm as we turn a corner and leave it all behind. I expect Jay to say something, to tell me I’m being stupid or it doesn’t matter, but he just glances at me and then turns his attention back to the road, one hand clenching the wheel, the other in a fist on his lap.

  In the dark, his jawline is hard. The inked muscles of his arms are taut, and his chest rises and falls deeply. The sound of his heavy breathing mingles with the sound of the engine. He looks too big for the vehicle even though it was designed for people like him.

  ‘You’re tense,’ I say.

  ‘Course I’m tense. I’m driving a stolen Blotter van with a crazy little Twist in its passenger seat. And we’re on a mission to—’ He sighs and rubs his face, his hand scraping across his stubble. He can’t say it out loud. To him, what we’re doing is still treason. To him, this is defying the gods. To him, even after all he has seen, he still feels bound to the Creators. I wonder if that will ever change.

  It will. It has to.

  But right now, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to be here.

  My skin prickles. ‘On a mission to what?’

  He swallows, and my gaze drops to his neck where tattoos curl around his throat like inky fingers. He shakes his head. ‘Drop it.’

  The air is charged, and it’s hot and damp, and it smells like him. It feels like that moment before a storm breaks when something intangible hangs in the air that needs to be cleared. I want a rise out of him. I want to release this feeling that’s building up inside my chest. It’s too much to bear. I want the storm to come.

  ‘We’re on a mission to overthrow the Creators,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘That’s what we’re doing, Jay.’

  ‘Careful.’

  ‘You’re like me and the Darlings now.’

  ‘Are you trying to antagonise me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Our gazes lock. ‘Well, stop it.’

  He turns the steering wheel and takes us down another long road. I exhale and lean back in my seat.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Finally, she does as she’s told.’

  ‘I do what is in my best interests,’ I say. ‘Not what I’m told.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve recognised pissing me off isn’t in your best interests.’

  I gaze out of the window as raindrops race down the scratched glass. I try not to think of his lips bruising mine, or that offer he made me, or that primal grunt he made when I pulled the bullet from his arm. I try not to think about sinking my teeth into his plump bottom lip, or digging my nails into his back, or making him lose control, and how that would make me feel better somehow.

  I try to ignore the dull throb between my legs that thinking about doing these things provokes. It’s not right. It’s not right for me to be feeling like this after everything that has happened. It doesn’t make sense.

  I focus on what’s important: the mission. I have seeds to plant.

  I spent three weeks in Draft One, weaving stories for myself based on ID cards I bought from the black markets, slipping into the lives of those who no longer needed them. I moved around a lot—from the West where suffocating white mist creeps through the abandoned skyscrapers and the scent of the sea hangs in the air, to the Northern river, close to the bedsit where Jay found me.

  I recognize one of the dark towers with the neon Sacred Stylus over its door as we pass it.

  ‘There’s a square up ahead,’ I say. ‘Next right.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I want to stop there.’

  ‘I’m driving us to the motel I told you about.’

  ‘Fine. But stop here first.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s something I need to do.’

  ‘Not safe.’

  I dig my fingernails into my palm and force myself to keep my tone even. ‘There are no Blotters around.’

  ‘Yeah, because a load of the Draft One Blotters were deployed to your Circus. Now they’re dead.’ He says ‘Circus’ as if the word feels strange in his mouth, and ‘dead’ as if it is familiar.

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘Less on the streets. So it’s safe.’

  ‘Don’t be naïve. More are on their way.’

  I take a deep breath, pushing down my growing rage. ‘I need to stop. I’ll jump out of the moving van if I have to.’

  Jay shrugs. ‘Go ahead.’

  I grab his arm, and it hardens. Not for the first time, it occurs to me how strong he is. ‘Jay. Please. It’s important.’

  He makes an irritated noise in his throat, then he swerves the van to the side of the road, spraying water onto the
windows of the nearby building. ‘You’re a pain in my arse, little Twist. You have two minutes.’

  I rummage through my rucksack and pull out a can of spray paint. ‘Three.’

  ‘Two min—’ He notices what I’m holding, and his expression darkens. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Planting a seed.’ I open the door and leap out onto the road.

  ‘Two minutes,’ he yells after me.

  Boots splashing through the black, inky puddles, I run through a narrow alley between two buildings. The scaffolding overhead momentarily shelters me from the rain. At the end, I do a quick scan for any trouble, and then, heart in my throat, I run towards the concrete block in the centre. I step over the chains they use to bind the victims to it, and disgust creeps down my spine as I catch the metallic scent of blood in the air. Then I shake the forbidden can and spray the shape I want. The pink paint runs with the rain, so I trace it a couple of times.

  Adrenaline surges through my body.

  But I am not afraid. I cannot be afraid.

  Stories are true when we believe them.

  When I’m done, I step back. My heart races. Blood and death once marked this concrete killing block. Now, there is a symbol of hope, of change, of stories.

  Now, there is a dandelion seed.

  Stories will always grow. Like dandelions in the cracks in the pavement.

  I glance at the hollow windows that look down into the square. I wonder how many people will see the image before the Blotters wash it away. I wonder if they will be surprised.

  They will be. This is not written.

  This is a story that does not belong to the Creators.

  I imagine the others planting similar seeds as they journey towards the library. I imagine the new story that will grow. A story of revolution.

  I smile.

  Then I click the lid back onto the can and run back to the van. Jay puts his foot down on the accelerator as soon as I’m inside. He throws me a sideways look, assessing my wet hair and the spray paint I’m holding between my legs.

  ‘I was—’

  ‘Didn’t ask. Don’t want to know.’

  Jay seems to know exactly where he’s going. I wonder if it’s the ink telling him; if it’s something to do with that tattoo on his arm. We do not run into any trouble from the Blotters, although every now and then, he changes route to avoid an oncoming vehicle. I persuade him to let me stop a couple more times before we get close to the Draft Two border.