by K. L. Kettle
When I tried to make conversation, you turned away. You were worried too, I thought. Wondering what would happen if you were still stuck here tomorrow and if they’d give you extra work like they did to the boys who failed last year, whether they’d hold food back until you got sick, whether you’d have to go through that alone.
“We’ll get through,” I said. “You’ll see.”
The old clock flicked through the light-hours and one by one we auditioned – first Berna, then Sal. They came out, deflated. It was too dark to tell what time it was when you were finished. You strutted past me, head high, and I knew you’d done it. I just had to get through too.
Cook led me down the tunnel corridors, shuffling barefoot through the dark. That’s the sound that sticks with me. And how cold it was when the cook’s arm left my shoulder and I waited, alone, in the big room.
The cooks called it the Mirror Room. It was one of the storage spaces on the floor above the kitchens. They kept all these old mirrors in there, mottled with age, stacked up against the boxes.
Weaving between them, I thought there was no one there. But eventually the storage space opened up, boxes pushed to the sides to make a large room with a table in the middle. The man waiting there was smartly suited in black, his hair dyed blond, too blond. It was parted on one side and flattened with oil so I could see his roots. The moustache on his top lip gave him a permanent smile. I’d never met a man over thirty and figured he was older than that but I wasn’t sure how old. It was hard to tell because of the bandage over his nose. His eyes looked bruised underneath the make-up he’d applied. My whole body was rigid, every muscle tense like stone. This was Mr Walker.
The ache in my head had started. That whispering tightness behind my eyes. It whistled like a voice telling me I was stupid for putting myself up for this. I thought there’d be instructions, what to do, what to say. We’re meant to show our skills, right? Mr Walker had a file, his fingers running over the dark-text as he read. He wouldn’t look at me, not even when I moved closer.
It was cold in the Mirror Room but he didn’t care, buttoned warm into layers of clean cloth. I eyed the flask of water on the table, the plates cleared of food. My stomach felt emptier then under my unwashed shirt than it ever had.
The questions came thick and fast without him even looking up: age – I’m twelve; background – I live in the kitchens in High House; something I’ve done that I’ll never do again – I once ate something I found under a unit – I thought was a berry; it wasn’t; what part of my body don’t I like – my feet; what makes a boy desirable – what does desirable mean?; what have I learned from life in the kitchens – don’t eat everything you find; who inspires me – my friend; what am I most ashamed of – what am I most ashamed of?
Mr Walker’s eyes fixed on my foot jigging on the dusty floor, until I stopped.
“Do you want to join the House of Boys?” His voice was tired. He was twisting a silver ring round the knuckle of his left hand.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Why?” he asked, taking a swig from his flask.
I sucked at my dry lips, tried to say everything I thought he’d want to hear. “To serve, to support, to learn, to better—”
“Why?” he interrupted. I started to repeat myself, didn’t get to the third word. “No. Why?” he asked again. I wasn’t giving the right answer. “Give me something human, kid. Do you know how many of these I’ve done today?”
“I…” I didn’t know what to say.
He sighed, stood and began to walk away.
“Stop,” I said.
What? Boys don’t make demands. Even the cooks were afraid of Mr Walker.
His tall shoulders stretched in the darkness. I could hear him breathe. “Yes?”
“Did … did he get in?” I asked. “The boy before me?”
Mr Walker turned into the light, lifting one perfectly groomed brow. “He gave me something human. We can only take one boy from each house this year. You knew that, right?”
I shook my head. Did you know?
“I guess the spot’s his.” Mr Walker turned to leave again and I didn’t stop him. My head circled round what this meant as his steps faded into the dark.
He was lying. Just one boy? We were supposed to join the House of Boys and we’d be safe and happy, and they’d fix your face and we’d never be hungry and we’d always be friends. Finally we’d escape into the desert and have adventures. My body was shaking – we had to join the House of Boys together. It wasn’t fair!
It was bubbling up, that fight. It grabbed at the knots of my hair, yelled anger into the ceiling until the light bulbs shook.
Alone now, there was a spark from deep inside, right in my empty gut, a raging burst as I kicked the table, the chair, then hurled them towards the boxes, the mirrors, sending the glass spinning.
In the silence, I waited for the cooks to come. You break it, you pay for it. I expected them to pile in, merits docked, bruises, isolation. And maybe they’d beat me worse than you, and I’d get sick and die and the boy after me would start exactly where I did. It would be like I was never even here.
But no one came. My breath heaved in and out. I shouted again. Still no one.
We were never alone. In all my life, I’d never been alone. At first my body pricked with nerves, thinking I heard sounds, people, then a voice. Go on, said the voice. Let go. For the first time in a long time, I started to move, to dance.
I don’t remember the moves but I’ll never forget that feeling of flying.
Maybe Mr Walker was there all along. I don’t know – I didn’t see him until I heard his applause.
“Don’t stop,” he said.
I was out of breath, trying to apologize, to explain.
“Forgot my flask,” he said, picking it up from the floor. Walker tidied his hair, then pointed at my hand. “You’re bleeding, kid.”
The white cuff of my shirt was sopping and sticky, and there was more on my sleeve from the gash in my palm. Must’ve cut it on the broken glass. It didn’t hurt, not yet.
He pulled a cloth from his jacket sleeve, tied it round my hand. “Who’d have thought there was all that fire in a scrawny kid like you, huh?” He handed me his flask. “Drink up.”
He picked up the chair, dusted it off and told me to sit. My heart was still pounding. I could feel it in my hands as my hands gripped the chair tightly as if they might snap it. He pulled something from his finger and gave it to me.
“What’s this for?” I stared at the silver ring. He rubbed at the finger he’d taken it from; where he’d taken it off was the black tattooed mark to remind everyone he was a ward. Only the Chancellor’s ward has a ring too.
“Something Glassey’s accountants will know came from me. You can have the spot and save your hard-earned merits, get in for free. Your friend can try again next year.”
“Wait, no.” That wasn’t right. We had to go together. “Give … give it to Vik.” I pushed the ring back to him.
“The place is yours.”
I shook my head. As much as I wanted to get in, I couldn’t go alone. I didn’t deserve to take your spot. I got you hurt. I let you down.
“Can you give it to Vik?”
“Fine,” said Mr Walker after some time, sliding the ring back on to his finger. “But under one condition. I’m not letting that talent go to waste. You’re joining too. I take it you have the merits?”
I nodded.
“Then I can make an exception and accept two of you. The House of Merit will come to take payment from you tomorrow. It’s not only our ladies who can offer protection.”
He didn’t need to tell me I owed him. I was old enough to know everything had a price.
There are too many differences to the dorm: the smells, the sounds, the air. Walker’s infirmary bed may be the single most comfortable thing ever, but I can’t sleep. I roll and twist in the sheets, turn the pillows over and over to get the cold side.
The Roids wanted to put
me in the infirmary. There was a note…
Eventually, I drag the sheets down and curl up on the floor, leaving the curtains open to watch the moon rise, the hot orange sun drop from the edge of the world into the dark green setting light. If I could watch it again, a thousand times over, it’d never get dull.
After dark-hours, it’s not the night sky that keeps me awake. I’ve never slept alone before and when I close my eyes there’s nothing familiar to silence your voice. If it wasn’t for me, you say, you’d be alive, out there. And maybe you’d see those ancient cities. Maybe you’d meet men and women living their lives, people who’ve never heard of High House, or the Chancellor, or the Last War.
There, the men don’t carry the debts of their forefathers, the boys don’t have to choose between dignity, grace and chastity – all those qualities they say boys like you and me should have – and toiling in the guts of the earth. If you can even call it a choice! The women Outside don’t care about who lives below them, who lives above. If they keep the company of men, it’s not because of how much they’re worth, or how tall they are, or thin, or muscled, or hairy, or what shade they are. There’s a world out there where people dance because they want to, not because they have to, and that’s where you could be right now. Alive.
But you’re not out there.
I think I’ve worked out where to find you.
The nurses that come and go from my room, checking on me, have the same stitched smiling face on their collars as the prentice boy who brought me that note just before Swims. If the note came from you, it came from here.
I climb up on to the mattress to press my ear against the vents, listening for noises through the pipes. The air tastes sweet. They pull it from above the fog – you taught me that. They treat it and pump it through the Tower, the tunnels, but by the time it gets to Below there’s a staleness even the House of Air can’t remove. Height, you said, it means everything. Cleaner air, better views, more protection, more merit.
My eyes closed, pushing my forehead against the cold metal of the grille, I try to think. According to Rod’s maps in our Collection, the infirmary is about halfway up the Tower and covers a few floors. Woody said air prentice weren’t allowed on certain floors; the vents were too narrow for them to fit. He told a story once of an area around the hundredth floor, where he and the other boys heard noises that kept them up at night. Screams, shouts…
Probably just a story. But what if it wasn’t? And what if I’m right and you’re here?
Who knows how long I’m here for? Walker could send me back to the dorm any time. He won’t let me go to the ball or try to kill the Chancellor again. What have I got to lose?
Through the vents there’s a noise. It sounds like barking – no, a scuffle. Shouts. Swearing, panic, tears.
My heart in my mouth, I scramble off the mattress, grab a gown. A strip of light is cast into the room through the gap beneath the door. My sweating hands slip on the handle as I push it open, holding my breath.
Walker’s curled up asleep in an armchair. Arms folded. Some guard, I laugh to myself.
The air is cold. Long looping corridors, clean-scented squeak beneath my bare feet. Gritting my teeth, I sneak past dimmed lights. There’s never darkness here, I guess, peering round corners.
My ears prick at every sound as I search for you, imagining nurses, doctors, Lice. I open door after door to see women with their faces wrapped in fabric, swollen-eyed, groaning in their sleep.
The shouts aren’t from a woman. Louder now, nearer, twisting fear into my chest, tearing through my veins, they come from a boy screaming, fighting for his life.
They’re killing you! The Chancellor wanted me here to show me what happens when you defy her instructions and now… Running towards the sound, ignoring the smack of my feet, until a gang of doctors appears, laughing. Catching my breath, I dive behind a counter, curl up tight, pray to the Foundations they don’t see me. I wait for their laughter to pass. Silence.
The shouts are gone.
I run through room after room, rattling locked doors, searching for something to prove you’re here.
There’s a paper flower on one of the desks in the corridor. I never saw you make anything that detailed but there it is, a knot of red paper. It looks almost real, like the ones in the garden.
Behind me the shouts start again, louder. A door swings open. Slams shut. I duck behind another counter.
The nearest door smacks open against the wall. Footsteps run through, dizzy, uneven. The breathing is panicked, hot, swearing through tears and gasps, searching the doors, trying every one. Looking for a way out, a place to hide. There’s a thud as the runner trips, hits the ground. I’m on my feet straight away, expecting to see you.
“Aye-Aye?” I say as he pulls himself up, naked, shivering. I fight my dressing gown from my shoulders to try to cover him.
The Roid is long gone and in his place is the kid that joined from the House of Construction. “Jude! You’re alive.” He claps his hand over his mouth, shakes his head. The doors behind open. “Hide! Hide, dammit!” Aye-Aye drops his voice to a whisper, trying to force me back behind the counter.
“What?”
“Don’t let them see you!”
Run, you say.
I can’t.
“Did you see Vik? Is he here?”
Aye-Aye steps away from me, jerking his head. He stutters, stammers and I can’t understand. He’s slurring.
“Calm down,” I say. “Aysel? What happened?”
“The others, they… I’m sorry. We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to.” He’s crying now, rubbing at the marks on his wrists. Jumpy, he looks back.
Could I help him to my room? Walker would hide him, wouldn’t he? But what from?
He’s shivering head to foot.
“Get them out,” Aye-Aye says. “You can persuade the Chancellor, right? Get them out.”
“Who? Vinnie? Toll?”
Aye-Aye’s dark eyes are as wide as plates. “All of them!”
He’s swaying, trying to shake his head clear, but his knees give up on him. I try to drag him behind the counter. His body’s heavy, skin clammy, hands fighting me away like I’m the enemy. Confusion sets in. He starts to babble. “All of them,” he slurs, the only words I can make out clearly. “Promise!”
“Promise,” I say.
The nearest doors slam open. I dart for the light switch. In the darkness, I can hide him, maybe. Shh. Shh!
A swarm of Lice leads the way, their batons spitting green light that illuminates their armour, a dozen doctors following behind. The doctors aren’t like the ones I’ve seen before. There are flashes of white smocks that reach to their ankles, surgical masks stretched over their mouths, noses, the fabric moving in and out with each breath. Smiling faces beaming at me from where they’ve been sewn on the breast pockets of their smocks.
From the barked orders, I know the woman heading up the Lice is Aspiner.
Maybe if I stop trying to move, if I get low, in the darkness, the Lice won’t find us.
But we’re both a hot mess of heartbeats, loud in the dark. Then Aye-Aye groans. I try to cover his mouth as the source of the green lights get nearer. A blast of electricity fires and Aye-Aye begins shaking at my feet.
“We’re going to make you better,” says one of the doctors, reaching for me. Her voice is bright, cheerful as the Lice wrestle Aye-Aye’s jerking body on to a stretcher, its squeaky wheels disappearing into the dark.
“I’m… I’ll go to my room,” I say, backing away. Then I hear Walker’s voice. He must have followed the sounds. He starts to protest, talking about how I’m injured, not myself, fragile, special, as Aspiner and the Lice stride towards him.
“That’s OK,” says another doctor, soft, gentle. I didn’t even hear her appear beside me. Then the needle bites sharp at my neck. “We can make you better.”
Bzzzz.
The hum is in my head, like the buzzer in the appointment rooms, except it doesn’t stop.
I try to shake the sound away, move my jaw, pop that bubble of noise. Everything is dark shadows, silhouettes against bright light.
“Nice evening, isn’t it?” the shape in black says, her voice precise with every breath. I try to answer but choke on the smell of her, a cloud of smoke and salt that sticks in my throat. The kind of smell I remember from the kitchen, from when we threw bones in the fire. The kind of smell to take the skin off things.
“I think we should be friends. After all, it seems you have our Chancellor’s ear. Who knows, you could be the next Head Ward?”
Is she saying something happened to Walker? Is she a doctor? “I’ll be good,” I say. “A good boy. Just let Vik go, Walker too.”
“I could do that,” the shape says. “The Chancellor says she’s waiting for something from you. She’s not used to being disappointed.”
There was a name I was going to give. “Aspiner,” I say. Over and over.
“Not Romali? Are you sure? The Chancellor is very keen to speak to her.”
I try to shake my head. Everything hurts.
“Do you know where Romali is?”
So they can’t find her? She’s alive.
“You know where Romali is.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what she has planned?”
“No.”
“Maybe tomorrow then.”
*
Bzzzz
Bzzzz
It’s not just me here. The other beds are occupied. I think Vinnie, Toll, Aye-Aye … but I can’t be sure. It’s early when the doctors pull the green curtains across, hiding the bed where Aye-Aye is. He hasn’t moved since they brought him back; they keep putting needles in him. There’s a tray shining in the light. I blink it away, slow. Everything in my head is slow.
“Don’t.” My voice sounds slurred. They pat my head like I’m a pup. Fingers stroke my cheek. Shh now, they say, we’re making him better. The needle on the tray is as long as my forearm. There’s blood on it when they take the tray away and bandages around Aye-Aye’s eyes when they pull open the curtain, the metal rings scraping on metal. And I think I’m shouting but the noise seems to come from so far away.