There’s a Whistleblower.
SIXTY
BILL NOTICES THE look on my face and turns to the Whistleblower, who is standing in the doorway and doesn’t see me—for now, anyway.
“Marcus,” he says, his tone friendlier than I expected. “What’s going on up there?”
Marcus the Whistleblower shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair. “Crevan has them all panicking. Everyone’s turning on one another. Flawed, unflawed. Whistleblowers, with each other. It’s a mess.” He suddenly sees me and stops talking. He turns and walks away, out of view.
“Marcus is shy,” Bill whispers loudly to me.
I am so stunned by how he and the Whistleblower have just conversed. The Whistleblower is on our side?
Bill comes back over to me. “She told me about your search, you know,” he says. “I’d like to see him again, too. I liked him.”
I’m unable to keep up. Liked whom?
“Almost as much as she did. We never had children, she and I. I suspect she’s told you that already. He was the first one they allowed to live here after years of her begging. It was difficult for her because of me, of course, but she proved herself over the years. They told her a year in advance that he’d be coming here. They like to vet the families, you see, prepare them, make sure they’ll follow on in their teachings. She visited him a few times in there, struck up a friendship, and she counted down the days to his graduation, even watched him graduate. We thought he’d like it here; he seemed to like it here. But then he just upped and left, never said good-bye. I think that’s what hurt her the most. She could have helped him, but he didn’t give her the chance. He never learned what she was capable of or what she was planning. He might have stayed if he’d known. She very quickly grew attached to him. So did I, but mostly because I just liked seeing her so happy.” His eyes fill. “If you see Carrick, tell him to visit us again. Tell him I’m sorry it ended like it did.”
SIXTY-ONE
GRANDDAD AND I travel home in the truck in silence. It took two hours in hiding before the Whistleblowers left the house and we felt it was safe to leave. Professor Lambert was wrong about nobody being taken into custody. If it had started out as scaremongering, it didn’t end that way. The Whistleblowers didn’t expect a small percentage of the gathering to defend themselves, to simply not heel to the Whistleblowers’ requests, something I’m sure that I will be blamed for despite the fact that I never even opened my mouth. I believe this is the first time people have risen against them; nobody would dare before. A threat to a Whistleblower is seen as a threat to the Guild’s rules, which in turn is seen as aiding the Flawed cause, therefore, aiding a Flawed. It’s a stretch, but that’s how they justify protection of Whistleblowers.
Six people were taken away in the vans. Four were Flawed who would be punished in accordance with Guild punishments, two may be facing imprisonment for aiding a Flawed. Four more were taken to a hospital for wounds caused at the hands of the Whistleblowers’ batons. Some of Alpha’s greatest “perfect” supporters had turned on her instantly, telling the Guild absolutely anything it wanted to hear to save their own skins. Overall, Alpha’s peaceful “counseling” session had been a disaster. She herself is safe, but only by a breath, and I imagine she is on the watch list. She was shaken when I saw her. She had had a long session with the Whistleblowers, trying to understand what had gone wrong.
Bill’s Whistleblower, Marcus, located Granddad and brought him to me, and I was surprised to learn that he was the person who took Granddad to the bunker in the first place. Granddad and I learned that Marcus was married to a Whistleblower, Cathy, and that they were both on the side of the Flawed campaign. He told me that there were many more of these people and that the numbers were growing, but the numbers in opposition to the Flawed were rising, too. Cathy and he felt things were unsettled even among the Whistleblowers. They were turning on one another, and those who were deemed traitors would be made examples of. Marcus was naturally worried.
I’m angry and still don’t trust Alpha for so many reasons, but on the other hand, the protection of my granddad and the revelation that she and her husband once looked after Carrick in their own home give me reasons to stay on her good side. Her desperation to find him and be reunited with him tells me that she genuinely doesn’t know where he is. I wanted to ask Marcus, the Whistleblower, to help me out, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. If this is a trap, I don’t want to fall into it. I can’t let Crevan know that I’m searching for Carrick. I can’t let him ever know that Carrick was a witness to the sixth brand. That power belongs to Carrick and me alone.
After being briefed on everything, Granddad and I finally leave Alpha’s home and get back on the road. I’m anxious to get home well before my curfew.
“That was Professor Bill Lambert,” Granddad says, checking the mirrors constantly. “I remember him being in the news. He had a contract with the government. He was an old friend of Crevan’s. Reading between the lines, I think Crevan set him up to get rid of him. Crevan’s cousin took over the job. More Crevans everywhere. I think half the reason Alpha gets away with her campaigns is because Crevan feels guilty, if he knows what such a feeling is.”
“I don’t get it. Alpha said she wasn’t using me, but if she wasn’t trying to set me up with the Guild, she was using me to bring Carrick to her. That must have been why she told people I was speaking. If he heard, maybe she thought he’d come.”
“Do you think Carrick would have gone if he’d known you were there?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s just that, he knows where you are, Celestine. Everyone does. All you have to do is open a newspaper or turn on the TV to see reporters standing outside your house. If he wanted to find you, he would.”
I feel hot as tears spring in my eyes. That has upset me. “Okay, fine,” I snap, “he doesn’t want to find me.”
“No. What I mean is, I hope Crevan hasn’t got to him already, Celestine.”
That’s my fear, too. We continue the journey in silence. But I don’t think Crevan has found him; otherwise, why would he be panicking? I’m the only person left who knows what he did, and he has full control over my every move. I think of what I know of Carrick, of what I’ve learned about him. He’s clever, he’s smart. He must be biding his time.
“I don’t think that you should go home,” Granddad says.
“Why not?”
“The Whistleblowers were looking for you in there. I’ve no doubt about that. They wanted to catch you speaking, stirring up anti-Guild feelings. They didn’t. But they know you were there. Some traitors would have made up anything just to save their skin. It’s true the Flawed cause is gaining more support, but like we’ve seen tonight, it can just as quickly scare people away. People like to support the underdog, but not when it gets dangerous. Dangerous times, Celestine.”
“But where will I go if I don’t go home?”
“Stay with me. I told you I’ll keep you safe on the farm, away from Crevan. You think Marcus and his wife are the only Whistleblowers on your side? There are plenty more where they came from.”
“But, Granddad, if I don’t get home for the curfew, everyone will be punished. Mom, Dad, Juniper, Ewan. I can’t do that to them! I have to go home and face whatever it is.”
Granddad nods solemnly.
“Anyway, I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, my anger rising again. “I was invited, by my teacher, to go to a counseling session. What happened was her fault. Not mine. They’ll listen to Marcus. He saw the whole thing.”
“That’s the spirit.” He smiles sadly, because we both know nobody will listen to my version of events.
“They’ll have seen your truck there,” I say, finally. No point hiding it. The Whistleblowers would have taken note of everybody’s vehicle in the parking lot.
“The truck isn’t registered to me,” he says.
I look at him in surprise. “Who’s it registered to?”
He chuc
kles. “Never you mind. I’ll have to dump it, though.”
I shake my head in disbelief at him.
“Well, that took me back, all that ducking and diving.”
I twist my body around to face him. “What is it exactly that it took you back to?”
“Ducking and diving.” He winks.
“Granddad,” I say suddenly, fearfully, seeing a drop of blood appear at the line of his cap. It slowly trickles down his face and cheek. “Stop the car! You’re bleeding!”
“I’m fine.” He wipes it away quickly and concentrates on the road. “I just banged it dodging one of those Whistleblowers before Marcus found me and took me to the hiding place. My own fault.”
I lift his cap and see he’s received a blow to the head.
He flinches as I go near it. “I think you need stitches.”
“I’m not getting stitches.”
“Granddad!”
“I’ll have someone look at it at home, someone who won’t ask questions, thank you very much.”
“But it will take you hours to get home. We have to put something on it.”
He doesn’t disagree.
“Stop at the supermarket. It’s two minutes away. Let me just clean you up a bit, stop it from getting infected.”
“I’ll do it after I drop you home safely.”
But neither of us knows that we don’t know what will await me when I get home. We need to give him medical attention now.
“Okay.” He pulls over gruffly, at the back of the supermarket, near the loading area, so that the truck isn’t on the main road. “I’ll be right back.”
“No way. You stay here, I’m going in. You’ve lost a lot of blood already.” I look at his saturated cap.
“They might be looking for you,” he says.
“Where? Here? At a random supermarket? And anyway, we’re just jumping to conclusions. What happened at Alpha’s might have nothing to do with me at all. Alpha is stirring up something dangerous, an opposition to the Guild. Maybe they know. Maybe they’re pretending to play along, but really they’re waiting to catch her out.”
He nods in agreement. “When did you get so sensible?”
I laugh and kiss him on his forehead.
“Go in and straight back out again,” he says. “Don’t get into any trouble.”
I get out of the car and lean in through the open door. “I’ve been trouble since the day I was born,” I echo his phrase from earlier, and he laughs.
SIXTY-TWO
I ENTER THE supermarket. It is nine PM. I have two hours until the curfew, and we’re ten minutes from my home. I have plenty of time. I can do this. I think of Granddad’s gash and I quicken my pace. My heart is pounding as I walk through the store by myself, with all eyes on me. Women pull their children out of my way when I’m near; teenagers stare, call out insulting things to me. Those who recognize me take photographs. One man even follows me for way too long holding his phone up in the air and recording me. Another makes kissing noises near my ear. I keep my head down, I watch the floor, and I stay close to the shelves. So much for going in and out unnoticed. I want to be invisible, but the bright red patch on my arm marks me, as does the scar on my temple. I see another Flawed woman making her way along the supermarket. She is holding hands with a little girl. Somebody kicks the bag from her hand, and the group starts laughing. The woman stops, keeping her child close to her as she bends to put everything back in her bag. The group taunts her. The child stares at them with big sad eyes, while her mother is on her hands and knees picking up rolling fruit.
I hug the walls, keep my chin down. I need to get out of here drama-free. I can’t afford the extra attention. I feel like a rat scuttling along the gutter, getting under everybody’s feet, in everybody’s way. My eyes fill, and I let my tears fall, but nobody asks me if I’m okay, because nobody cares, which hurts even more.
I make my way to the cash register. I keep my eyes down. I hear my name on some passerby’s lips. I don’t look up. I don’t want any trouble.
“Hey!” I hear a man call angrily. I keep my head down. It can’t be directed at me; I have done nothing wrong.
I study the cotton pads, antiseptic, and bandages and focus on the branding: the swirl of the writing; the happy little cotton ball characters on the packet, with arms and legs and smiling faces. Everything has been given a soul in advertising. Yet the soul is being taken from people. Humanizing objects, dehumanizing people.
“I said, hey!” he yells again.
My heartbeat speeds up. This does not sound good. Slowly, I look up. He’s staring at me. As are others. I wonder why the woman at the cash register has slowed down. Why can’t she just hurry up so I can get out of here? But I look to her seat and realize she’s gone. She is standing away from us. Just as everybody else is doing. Everyone is moving away. A man on my left remains, and so does a man on my right. They are taller than me—I barely reach up to their shoulders—but as I look at them, I understand immediately what the problem is. The flash of red on their armbands is like a warning light right in my face. They are Flawed. Both of them. As am I. Three of us stand together. This is not allowed.
My first reaction is to step away. I have recognized the problem, and now I know the solution. If I step away, then there will be only two. But that is a bad move.
“Stop! Stay right where you are!” The man shouting at me is a policeman.
I step back into line.
“Don’t move, Celestine,” the man on my right says gently. “It will be okay.”
“You know me?”
“We all know you.” He smiles.
“Don’t talk!” the policeman yells again.
“We’ve got a wild one,” the man on my left mutters to us both.
“Back away from the desk, the three of you,” he says, panicking. “I need to see you.” He is getting himself worked up over nothing. He is young. He is alone. He is making a stupid mistake.
Despite the fact that we are Flawed, and I am in the middle of them, I feel somewhat safe between the two men. I feel protected. They are young, in their thirties, and they are well built. Strong. One has an F on his temple, the other I can’t see; it could be his chest, hand, foot, or tongue. Perhaps their age and strength are what panics the police officer all the more. They look like they could do some damage. Wide jaws, broad shoulders, big hands. They remind me of Carrick. Soldiers. I have never stood between two Flawed before, and now I know why we are not allowed. It gives us strength. Security in numbers. They don’t want us to feel safe. They don’t want us to have power.
“We were just standing in a line,” I finally say, annoyed by the crowd that has gathered to watch this. I feel like an animal in a zoo. I need to get back to Granddad, who is waiting for me in the car, bleeding. “I’m buying cotton balls.” I lift the package up to the police officer. “Nothing dangerous is happening here.”
A few people snigger at my joke.
The police officer’s face reddens. “There are three of you standing together. This is against the law.”
“It’s not a law,” I say, and the two Flawed men look at me in surprise.
I’m more surprised that the police officer doesn’t know this.
“It’s just a rule that an organization enforces with punishment. It’s not law. You can’t put me in prison for standing beside these two men. You are a police officer, not a Whistleblower. Your job is to work with communities to protect and serve.”
“Yeah, protecting us from you,” a man shouts out from the crowd.
“No,” I disagree. “Your job is to protect and serve me,” I say to the policeman. “I am a part of this community.”
“I won’t serve you, Flawed,” he snarls, like I’m diseased.
He is a police officer—a member of a force I once trusted, admired, felt protected by. I think of the people who have hissed at me on my walk here today, the children who have been pulled out of my path. I think of the lack of eye contact. The anger rises. Nothing ma
kes sense.
I am a girl of definitions, of logic, of black and white.
“HARP!” I shout at the police officer, feeling the anger fully within me now. I learned this at school. I learned all this. Why doesn’t he know these basic principles that I was taught, that he was surely taught, too? Why doesn’t anybody in the real world do what we’re taught? “H is for honesty,” I say, hearing the tremble in my voice, not from fear but from anger. I try to control it. “Being honest and ethical and adhering to the principles of fairness and justice. That’s what a police officer must do. A is for accountability. Accepting individual responsibility and ensuring public accountability.”
There is a rumble in the crowd. I continue, not moving my eyes from his.
“R is for respect! Having respect for people, their human rights and their needs.”
Members of the crowd start to mumble in agreement. The police officer steps closer to me. He lifts his receiver to his mouth and calls for backup.
“Watch it now,” the man to my left says quietly.
The police officer is standing right before me now with a sneer on his face.
“Let them go,” somebody calls from the crowd.
“Yeah, they’re not doing any harm. They’re just shopping.”
People begin calling out their opinions, which I see panics him some more. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead. He is beginning to lose control. He is badly outnumbered.
“She’s the girl from the TV, the famous one,” someone calls out. “You can’t arrest her.”
“The girl who has five brands.”
The police officer narrows his eyes as they wander over me, and it registers with him who I am. He looks afraid of me.
“She’s the most Flawed of all,” someone else shouts, and others call for him to shut up. The people in the crowd are beginning to argue among themselves.
The police officer lifts the baton from his hip belt.
“Whoa, now,” the man to my right says. “What are you going to do with that?”
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