Show Stealer

by Hayley Barker

  For Mum and Dad

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Dedication

  1. Hoshiko

  2. Ben

  3. Hoshiko

  4. Ben

  5. Hoshiko

  6. Ben

  7. Hoshiko

  8. Ben

  9. Hoshiko

  10. Ben

  11. Hoshiko

  12. Ben

  13. Hoshiko

  14. Ben

  15. Hoshiko

  16. Ben

  17. Hoshiko

  18. Ben

  19. Hoshiko

  20. Ben

  21. Hoshiko

  22. Ben

  23. Hoshiko

  24. Ben

  25. Hoshiko

  26. Ben

  27. Hoshiko

  28. Ben

  29. Hoshiko

  30. Ben

  31. Hoshiko

  32. Ben

  33. Hoshiko

  34. Ben

  35. Hoshiko

  36. Ben

  37. Hoshiko

  38. Ben

  39. Hoshiko

  40. Ben

  41. Hoshiko

  42. Ben

  43. Hoshiko

  44. Ben

  45. Hoshiko

  46. Ben

  47. Hoshiko

  48. Ben

  49. Hoshiko

  50. Ben

  51. Hoshiko

  52. Ben

  53. Hoshiko

  54. Ben

  55. Hoshiko

  56. Ben

  57. Hoshiko

  58. Ben

  59. Hoshiko

  60. Ben

  61. Hoshiko

  62. Ben

  63. Hoshiko

  64. Ben

  65. Hoshiko

  66. Ben

  67. Hoshiko

  68. Ben

  69. Hoshiko

  70. Ben

  71. Hoshiko

  72. Ben

  73. Hoshiko

  74. Ben

  75. Hoshiko

  76. Ben

  77. Hoshiko

  78. Ben

  79. Hoshiko

  80. Ben

  81. Hoshiko

  82. Ben

  83. Hoshiko

  84. Ben

  85. Hoshiko

  86. Ben

  87. Hoshiko

  88. Ben

  89. Hoshiko

  90. Ben

  91. Hoshiko

  92. Ben

  93. Hoshiko

  94. Ben

  95. Hoshiko

  96. Ben

  97. Hoshiko

  98. Ben

  99. Hoshiko

  100. Ben

  101. Hoshiko

  102. Ben

  103. Hoshiko

  104. Ben

  105. Hoshiko

  106. Ben

  107. Hoshiko

  108. Ben

  109. Hoshiko

  110. Ben

  111. Hoshiko

  112. Ben

  113. Hoshiko

  114. Ben

  115. Hoshiko

  116. Ben

  117. Hoshiko

  118. Ben

  119. Hoshiko

  120. Ben

  121. Hoshiko

  122. Ben

  123. Hoshiko

  124. Ben

  125. Hoshiko

  126. Ben

  127. Hoshiko

  128. Ben

  129. Hoshiko

  130. Ben

  131. Hoshiko

  132. Ben

  133. Hoshiko

  134. Ben

  135. Hoshiko

  136. Ben

  137. Hoshiko

  138. Ben

  139. Hoshiko

  140. Ben

  141. Hoshiko

  142. Ben

  143. Hoshiko

  144. Ben

  145. Hoshiko

  146. Ben

  147. Hoshiko

  148. Ben

  149. Hoshiko

  150. Ben

  151. Hoshiko

  152. Ben

  Epilogue: Hoshiko

  153. Ben

  154. Silvio

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  HOSHIKO

  I’m not sure if it’s the sound of the traffic building up outside as the rush hour approaches or the gleam of the sun breaking its way through the cracks in the blinds that wakes me, but I’m the first one of us to stir this morning. Around me, the sleeping forms of the others remain still and tranquil, oblivious to the brightening light and the concert of horns and engines going on outside.

  I stretch out my limbs, luxuriating in the unfamiliar feeling of peace. I don’t think I’ve felt this calm since … well, since ever. Life was certainly never calm in the Cirque – not when Death was always hiding in the shadows, stealing people away every night with a smile on his face. And since I threw that grenade, blowing the arena to pieces and obliterating the evil ringmaster, Silvio Sabatini, life hasn’t exactly been serene.

  It’s been nearly a year now and we still haven’t made it out of London. We were so hopeful at first. We were going to spend a little time recuperating, and then we were heading straight to one of the Essex or Kent ports, on to a boat and away to freedom; away to a better place. It never turned out that way, though. Everywhere we go, suspicious eyes stare at us, and we’re always just one step ahead of the sound of whistles and sirens and pounding footsteps. Roadblocks bar our way every time we try to escape the city as the net closing in around us gets tighter and tighter and tighter.

  Being the most wanted criminals in the country means always running, running, running. Always looking over your shoulder, never being able to rest, never being able to stop, hunted every step of the way.

  So many times, it’s nearly been over. So many times, we’ve nearly been caught. Our photos are beamed up on to practically every building and there’s a huge reward for anyone who can provide information on us. It’s hard to hide anywhere when you’re so notorious, especially when there’s a circus monkey coming along for the ride.

  This is the fourth night in a row we’ve been camped out in this abandoned office on the top floor of an apartment block. According to Jack, all the staff turned up for work one morning and were told the company was bankrupt, and they’d lost their jobs and should all go home.

  I don’t know how he knows these things, but Jack always seems able to find us the next safe place to hide out. He was a Pure police officer for over twenty years before he blew his cover whisking us from the Cirque right under Ben’s mother’s nose. He saved Greta and me from certain death that night and he’s the one reason we’ve managed to survive this long. He’s got contacts everywhere and he’s been with us every step of the way – not that we’ve managed to get very far. Not that we’ve managed to get anywhere.

  I look around the vast office space. It felt kind of creepy when we arrived here, looking around in the dim light of Jack’s torch at all the disused and empty desks, at the cups that had just been left there on them, and the photographs of smiling Pure children grinning back at us from their frames. If it wasn’t for the musty smell and the dead plants drooping forlornly, you’d think they’d only left yesterday. It’s as if it’s frozen in time, holding its breath, waiting to be useful again.

  It doesn’t feel creepy now. It feels like a friend. It’s given us shelter, protected us without asking for anything in return.

  Every morning, Jack’s been saying we ought to pack up and move on to another place, that it’s a mistake to stay in the same place for too long, that it’s too risky. He’s getting twitchier and twitchier. Across the room, I see him shift and my heart sinks; as soon as he wakes up, he’s goi
ng to make us get up and move on again.

  I don’t understand why we can’t just stay here. Nobody else is using the place, and surely it’s safer staying put than going out there again where we’ll just be more exposed? Jack’s resistance friends can keep bringing us food and drink, and if we can’t get away properly, we can just hide out here – for ever, if that’s what it takes.

  I’m going to suggest it to the others when I wake up. I’m sure Ben and Greta will back me up.

  My back aches, and my cheeks feel rough from lying on that scratchy carpet. I wriggle my toes. I’ve got pins and needles from lying in the same position all night. They don’t hurt though – not like they used to. It’s taken a while, but I’m finally fixed back together, on the outside at least. Ben’s the same – his leg has nearly healed completely; the skin has grown back over the once gaping wound, and you wouldn’t even notice his limp unless you were looking for it. Even the wounds inside, the gaping holes that will never heal – the Amina and Priya shaped ones – have got a bit easier to bear. The pain will never go away, of course, and I wouldn’t want it to anyway; they were both killed because of us, after all – but we can talk about them now without losing it completely.

  My mouth is so dry, I really need a drink. As quietly as I can, I ease myself up out of the threadbare blankets I’ve been huddled in and sit up. Next to me, Ben’s head turns and his hand reaches out to settle on my legs but his eyes stay shut and his breathing stays heavy and regular.

  When I look at him, lying there like that, my breath catches in my throat. His cheeks are dark with stubble now and, when he’s up and about, he looks just like the man he’s become. When he sleeps though, his sweet face looks exactly like it did on that first morning, when I watched him sleeping under my bed back at the Cirque and tried so hard to hate him.

  I’ll get a drink in a minute. I ease myself back down and spoon myself into him. His arms wrap around me and I nestle there, matching my breathing to his.

  For a few moments, I am joyous. Not a dancing, jumping, ecstatic joy, but a calm one. A deep, quiet joy. We’re on the run, we don’t know what’s coming next, but we’re alive and we’re together and that’s all that matters. This is where I belong, right here.

  Suddenly, gunshot. The sound of wood splitting, of footsteps, hundreds of them, running up the stairs.

  Immediately, we all sit bolt upright. My eyes meet Ben’s, wide and panicked.

  “What’s happening?” Greta has hold of Bojo, who she insists sleeps right next to her, snuggled up on the same pillow, even though we’ve all told her it’s not hygienic, sharing a bed with a monkey. His little arms are wrapped tightly around hers and he’s looking around at all of us in concern and confusion at the sudden disturbance.

  Jack’s already jumped up.

  “What’s happening?” He repeats Greta’s question, his face grim. “They’re here, that’s what. They’ve found us.”

  BEN

  It takes me a moment or two to collect myself enough to work out what’s going on. Even when Jack says “They’re here,” my brain can’t make sense of his words. I don’t know why it comes as such a shock to me – we’ve been waiting for this day for almost a year now.

  The day when they finally catch up with us.

  Dozens of times now, we’ve tried to escape from the city. Dozens of times we’ve had to turn back when we’ve hit a roadblock, or a police barrier blocking our way. Dozens of times we’ve had to run, had to hide. Dozens of times, we’ve been seconds away from being caught.

  I don’t know if Mother’s personally funding the efforts to catch us or, more likely, is using public money to do it but, either way, no expense has been spared. Every lamp post, every shop window, every vast skyscraper seems to have our faces on.

  We were all hoping that the fervour to find us would die down, but all it seems to have done is escalate.

  A few weeks ago, we woke up to find our faces beamed up on the PowerHouse, the huge government building in the centre of London. The colossal statue of a grinning gold man – supposedly symbolizing the Purer, superior group of society standing tall on the heap of poor oppressed Dregs he crushes beneath him – is doubling up now as the world’s biggest Wanted poster, plastered with images of England’s most sought-after villains. Day and night our scowling faces stare down over the city. Hoshi, Greta, Jack, me – even Bojo’s got his own personalized mugshot.

  The reward money they’re offering keeps increasing too, higher and higher with every passing week. That’s why Jack says we’re never safe.

  “Most people have a price,” he always says, “even the good guys. The police won’t stop looking for us, not after what happened to the Cirque, and not when the son of one of the most important people in the country is with us. They’ll catch up with us eventually: they’re bound to.”

  And now they have, and they’re here, in this building, coming up the main stairwell. You can hear them, heading directly towards us. Footsteps, lots of them.

  The others spring into action faster than me, turning tail as one and heading for the fire exit. When they reach the door, Hoshi turns.

  “Quick!” she hisses, urgently. “Hurry, Ben, we’ve got to get out now!”

  Only then do I jolt into reality. I dash after them, turn back, grab my gun and follow.

  The footsteps are closer now and there’s a booming voice shouting out commands. There’s no stealth tactics here, they aren’t even bothering to be quiet. Why?

  Because they’ve already got you surrounded, a voice in my head says.

  As I push through the fire door my eyes meet Jack’s, his mouth resigned, and I know I’m right.

  We run down the stairs, Jack, Hoshi and me all holding up our guns. In front, Greta stops abruptly and looks back at us, wild-eyed.

  They’re streaming up from below us, scores of them.

  We turn back, but even more of them are above us, swarming through the doorway, riot shields up, guns pointed at us from every direction.

  This is it, then. This is the end.

  Time’s up.

  HOSHIKO

  “Freeze!” a voice calls out, and a policeman steps forward on the stairs. “Drop your guns. You can’t go anywhere; we have you completely surrounded.”

  Armed, uniformed figures block the way above us, block the way below us. Through the window, I can see dozens of police cars and flashing lights.

  What do we do now? I look to Jack, searching his face for answers. He always finds a way out, always manages the impossible, ever since he drove us out of that circus as brazen as anything.

  I try to catch his eye, but he doesn’t look up. His face looks downcast. It’s never looked like that before, never, not even in the darkest of times.

  We’ve had days over the last year when Greta has put her head in her hands and sobbed, days when Ben has sunk down to the floor in exhaustion and despair, days when I’ve been so moody and sullen I haven’t spoken to anyone for hours. We’ve all had our moments of bleakness, the three of us. Not Jack though. No matter what happens, Jack’s eyes keep shining with that twinkle of optimism and hope. He never gets down. He never gives up.

  Not until now.

  My heart plummets as he lowers his gun down, placing it carefully on the floor and holding his hands up. He’s surrendering.

  What else can he do? We’re finished.

  They’ll probably kill us all. They’ll definitely kill me, Greta and Jack. Jack’s a traitor and Greta and I are even worse than that. Dreg arsonists, Dreg abductors – Dreg devils, if you believe the posters and the news reports.

  Bojo scrambles up and down the banister, chattering in panic as he looks at the police surrounding us and Greta clings on to me, her arms squeezing me so tightly that it’s hard to breathe.

  I stroke her hair.

  I turn to Ben. I guess this will be the last time I ever see him. I need to remember every detail of his face. I need to etch it in my mind, so that, for as long as I am alive, I never forg
et it, in the way I’ve forgotten the others – forgotten my parents, forgotten my baby brother. Even Amina’s image hasn’t stayed fixed. Sometimes, when I search my memory for her face, it won’t come straight away, not sharp and crystal clear. I won’t let that happen, not with Ben. I need to take a photo in my head, or better still, a video, keep it with me, playing on repeat.

  He’s not looking at me though, and he hasn’t put his gun down. He’s holding it high still, staring at the man who’s stepped forward; the man who’s obviously in charge.

  “Drop the gun,” the man repeats. “You’re wasting your time, Benedict Baines.”

  Ben lowers his arm down. He looks at Greta; looks at Jack; looks at me. For the longest moment, he looks at me. Our eyes drink each other in. We don’t speak, but our eyes say a million words.

  Then he raises himself up, holds his head high, steely-eyed. He lifts the gun back up, but he doesn’t point it towards the police; he points it at his own head.

  “No,” he says. “No. I will not drop the gun. Let the others go, or I’ll shoot myself.”

  BEN

  It’s not as if I’m suddenly making a spontaneous heroic gesture. I’ve always known this is what I’ll do if I get the chance. It’s not a selfless act: it’s a calculated gamble that might pay off.

  Hoshi, Greta, Jack – what have they got to bargain with? Their lives mean nothing to the police; nothing to the government; nothing to my mother, who is no doubt controlling all of this behind the scenes. She must be desperate to see them all die.

  Not me though, at least I don’t think so. That’s not her style. If I know anything about how my mother works, she’ll want the chance to see me repent. She’ll want to exert her will on me, mould me back into being her good little boy again. She’ll want to win.

  These officers will have been told not to harm me if they can possibly avoid it. That’s what I’m gambling on. And if I’m right, they certainly aren’t going to want me to put a bullet through my own head, not after all these months of searching for me.

  Next to me, Hoshi’s mouth is open, her expression shocked and fearful.

  “Ben, you’re scaring me.”

  “It’s OK,” I tell her. And then I say loudly, in a confident voice, “They don’t want me dead. They’ve been told to bring me in alive, no matter what the cost. Isn’t that right?”

  The policeman at the top of the stairs doesn’t answer my question.

  “Lower your weapon, Benedict,” he says. “It’s over now.”