He scowls even more. “What have I got myself into? Fine, bring him in, but only until the coppers have gone.”
Opening the door a crack, I beckon Jack over. He looks quickly around from side to side and then darts across the path and into the hut. We shut the door just in time.
The police cars appear, driving back over the little house they destroyed, crushing it even flatter. They’re cruising slowly this time. Looking for any signs of us.
“Duck down,” the boy says. “They’ll see you through the window.”
Greta and I crouch down, keeping our heads low. Jack can’t though: he’s too big for this tiny hut. He has to lie flat out on the floor. The boy doesn’t lie down, but he pushes himself against the wall so that they won’t be able to see him unless they really peer in.
Once the cars have rolled their slow way past, we scramble to our feet.
“Thanks, mate,” Jack says to the boy, and holds out a hand. “You don’t know how much we appreciate what you’ve just done.”
The boy looks down at Jack’s hand but doesn’t take it.
“You can’t stay here. There’s no space.”
He’s right; the four of us fill this room up.
“Fair enough. You’ve done more than enough to help,” Jack says. “If we could just stay here five minutes more, until we know they’ve gone, we’ll leave you alone after that.”
“Good,” the boy says, curtly.
There’s an awkward silence. I can feel him staring at me.
“You were in the Cirque for a long time, weren’t you?” he says, eventually. “What was it like in there?”
How am I supposed to answer that?
I could use a million words and I’d never be able to describe it. I’d never even be able to come close.
It was hell. It was a prison.
It was home, the only one I remember.
We all jump at once as the door is pushed open, and my heart bangs in my chest. It’s not a police officer though: it’s a woman, wearing one of the green catering uniforms. She looks just like the boy: same sandy-coloured hair, same freckles, same nose, same eyes, but her face is all softness where his is angular and sharp. She stops in her tracks when she sees us and her mouth opens in surprise.
“I don’t believe it!” she says. “The runaway circus stars!”
BEN
I stare at my mother.
“The ringmaster? What do you mean, the ringmaster?”
The sadness that crossed her face before has been replaced by a glint of amusement.
“You don’t know, do you? You don’t know he survived?”
There’s only one ringmaster I know.
Only one ringmaster I knew.
“He can’t have survived,” I say. “I was there. The arena blew up. I saw the grenade land at his feet. I felt the explosion.”
“I’m afraid not. Your little tightrope walker didn’t quite manage to finish the job. They thought he was dead when they pulled him out of the rubble, but there was a fragment of life left and he clung on to it like a leech. I suppose he would have died in the end though, if it hadn’t been for an anonymous donor coming forward and paying for his treatment – one of those obsessive circus fans, I imagine. Anyway, once it became apparent that he was going to actually survive, they decided it would make a bigger impact if they could keep it all a secret and reel him out to the public on opening night. It’s all been kept incredibly hush-hush – there’s some ridiculously extravagant unveiling planned.”
“You’re lying.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Benedict. Have you ever known me to lie?”
My mother doesn’t lie; she doesn’t need to. She always gets what she wants anyway.
She spins around and strides up and down the soft grass. A tiny rabbit up ahead bolts suddenly, its little tail bobbing up and down as it darts away from her. Sensible rabbit.
She stops and reaches up into a tree, pulling down a shiny red apple. She sinks her teeth into it and chews, staring at it musingly. “Hmm, not bad, not bad at all.” She looks around. “They’ve done a good job in here, better than I hoped for. I’ll say one thing about Sabatini: the man’s got vision. This place is all his idea.” She takes another delicate bite of the apple, crunching it slowly. “As I said, he survived. He’s different, very different now, to how he was before, but he survived and he’s running this whole show. He petitioned me last week, when he heard, somehow, that we were closing in on you. He begged me to let him have the two Dreg girls back in the circus, said he sought his sweet and justifiable revenge. When I refused, when I told him they would be immediately executed – which they will be as soon as we find them, Benedict – he asked for you instead. He suggested that it might be a valuable lesson for you, if you were unrepentant, to give you some work experience here, in the lovely shiny new circus. He said it might make you more humble, might make you realize what life is really like on the other side.”
“Why would you listen to him? You hate the circus! You hate him! Why would you even talk to him? I don’t believe you. I saw him die!”
“You didn’t see him die: you saw him blasted to pieces and that’s a different thing altogether. He was almost obliterated. Almost, but not quite. He’s a very determined Dreg: resilient, like a germ. What with one thing and another, I’ve had no choice but to liaise with him directly over the last few months. You see, as much as I hate to admit it, the reopening of this circus is playing a large part in the finale of my election campaign. Those who know how these things work have insisted on pouring pounds and pounds of our funding into building this place. It will send a message, so they say: a loud, clear message that we will not respond to violence. Terrorists like those two Dreg girls, like you – my own son – will not prevail.”
She tosses the apple core over her shoulder.
“I met with Sabatini because we have a mutual concern. We both need to see this place flourish. He needs my political support and I, well, I have reluctantly been forced to concede that I need him: need the impact he will make, need his oily charisma, his creepy little stage presence.” She laughs. “His drastically different but nevertheless compelling stage presence.”
“What’s happened to him?”
“What do you think’s happened to him? A grenade blew up at his feet. His face was blown off. His body was shattered.”
I picture Silvio, his face a mangled mess.
“He rose up from the ashes,” she says. “Someone paid for his hospital treatment, whatever the cost. They paid for rehabilitation, they paid for reconstruction. He was on the brink of death, you understand, for a long time, but in the end, he used the situation to his advantage.”
“What do you mean?”
She laughs, coldly. “What do I mean? He got what he’d always wanted, or as close as he’s ever going to come to it, anyway. He’s managed to get rid of his obvious Dregness, outwardly at least. He’s Pure now, Benedict, according to him, pure as the driven snow.”
Why is she talking in riddles?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t understand you, and I don’t believe you.”
I do believe her though.
Silvio Sabatini made Hoshi and Greta’s life hell. He tortured them. He killed their friends. He killed Amina. The memory of him haunts them. They both wake up in the night, crying out, screaming. What are they going to say when they hear he’s alive?
My mother turns the watch on her wrist towards her and raises it up to her face. “Very well, if your own mother’s word isn’t enough for you, I’ll bring in the little freak himself, let you see exactly what he’s become.”
She taps a button on the watch and speaks.
“It’s me. Send him in, will you? Who do you think I’m talking about? Sabatini, of course! Send in Silvio Sabatini!”
HOSHIKO
The woman who’s just walked into the hut steps towards me, cupping my face with her weathered hands.
“Look at you!” she says. “
Beautiful! The posters don’t do you justice. And you—” She bends down so her eyes are level with Greta’s. “You’re my hero, do you know that? Taking on those bad guys!” She winks. “You showed them a thing or two!” Greta grins back at her, her little face lighting up with pride.
The woman gives a friendly smile to Jack and then holds her hand out tentatively to Bojo, who scrambles immediately behind Greta, peeping out from between her legs and chattering to himself indignantly.
She chuckles. “I’m Rosie,” she says, and then looks at her son, sprawled on the little crate. “Felix! Where are your manners?” she scolds. “Have you offered our guests a chair?” She tuts crossly. “Just because we don’t have a lot doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make the effort, I always say, and don’t forget, politeness costs—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know; politeness costs nothing,” says the boy, rising reluctantly to his feet. “I let them in. I stopped the police catching them, what more do you want?” He glares at me and Greta and then gestures towards the crates. “Go on then, sit down!”
Greta sits down obediently, scooping Bojo on to her lap, where he presses himself up against her, looking accusingly at Rosie and the boy, Felix.
Felix frowns at me.
“Sit then!”
“I’m OK, thanks,” I say.
He gives an exaggerated sigh.
“Fine. You can’t say I didn’t try,” he says to his mother, and sits back down on the empty crate.
“Yes, I can! That’s exactly what I can say! You’ve embarrassed the poor girl! Have you even offered our guests a drink? Get up, you silly boy, get up!”
She bats him over the head with her hand until he stands up again.
“Go and get some water to make tea!”
He rolls his eyes again, pushes back one of the sheets and grabs one of the buckets.
As he’s about to leave, Rosie grabs his arm. “Felix, you won’t mention our guests to anyone, will you?”
“I’ll keep my mouth shut, I suppose. But it’s only a matter of time until someone reports them, and then we’ll all be dead.”
He looks directly at me, puts two fingers up to his temple and mimes the action of a gun, blowing his head off, before sloping off through the door. I watch him through the window, sauntering nonchalantly off down the path.
“Honestly, I don’t know where he gets it from sometimes.” Rosie laughs nervously. She coughs and her eyes flick towards Greta. “He’s got a point though, I’m afraid. The police have said they’ll give a huge reward to anyone who can lead them to you, even if that person’s a Dreg. Did anyone see you arrive?”
Jack winces. “Yes, at least one person, probably more. There was a woman who looked straight at us and then ran off as fast as she could. We should go now. We don’t want to make trouble for anyone.”
My heart sinks. I know he’s right, but I don’t want to go back out there. Next to me, Greta starts to cry.
Rosie steps forward and sweeps Greta into a hug. “Shh, shh, it’s OK, sweetheart. You don’t have to go anywhere! We’ll work something out.” She grabs two of the rolled-up blankets from behind the curtain. “Sorry I don’t have anywhere for you to sit,” she says to Jack. “You can use these though, if it will make it a bit more comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Jack says. “But we can’t put you in this position. It’s not fair.”
“I’ve never turned a person in need away and I’m not about to now,” Rosie insists firmly. “Anyway, I’m not being totally selfless. There are lots of things I’d like to ask the girls about, if it’s not too painful for them. Please, sit down.”
What can she possibly want to ask me and Greta? Jack looks at me questioningly, and I incline my head towards Greta. Her lip is still trembling as her big eyes plead with him. Jack’s eyes flick from her to Rosie and then he nods.
“Thank you. We’ll just stay here for a bit longer then, if that’s OK. Just long enough to rest awhile and then we’ll go.”
He sinks down on to a blanket and Rosie does the same, both hunching their long, adult legs up awkwardly. I stand there uncertainly for a few seconds and then lower myself on to the empty crate.
“That’s better,” Rosie says. “You poor things, you must be exhausted. As soon as Felix comes back with the water, we’ll all have a nice cup of tea. There’s nothing like a nice cup of tea, that’s what I always say.”
BEN
All at once, darkness descends upon the whole forest. The second it does, all the birds instantly hush. It’s only in the silence that I realize how loud their soaring song was before.
There’s nothing for a moment or two – and then a sound, coming from above, quietly at first and then louder and louder, until it echoes through the whole place.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Finally, a single light flickers above, a thousand speckles of dust dancing in its beam. Way up high, a thin wooden walkway stretches right across the stage, all the way over the waterfall.
A silhouette emerges from the wings and slowly works its way across the dimly lit boards. The tap is the sound of a cane knocking on the wooden floor.
Slowly, slowly, the figure moves towards the centre of the stage.
I hold my breath.
It steps into the pool of light, slowly turning to face us.
The blood rushes from my body.
It’s not him.
It’s not even a human being. It’s a ghost. I stare at it, aghast. Maybe it’s not a ghost, maybe it is a man: a man from a horror film. His skin is the same brilliant white as the suit he wears. Not a normal flesh colour, not a colour at all, a white devoid of colour. A white like the driven snow. A bleached white, a brilliant white, a Pure white. His hair is white too and his eyes – the eyes staring down at me – are a piercing blue.
He stands there, in the spotlight, straining forward, peering towards me. He steps a little closer, peers a little harder, and a triumphant smile settles on his face.
“My oh my, it’s Benedict Baines. How wonderful to see you again!”
It’s a cold voice. A determined voice. An unforgettable voice. It’s only when I hear it that I finally understand.
This ghost: it’s Silvio Sabatini.
HOSHIKO
The boy, Felix, has sloped off around the corner, out of sight.
“He’s gone to warm up the water,” says Rosie. “There’s a communal fire over the back. It might take a while, I’m afraid.”
There’s an awkward silence for a second, broken by Jack.
“Thank you,” he says. “For taking us in like this. I know what a risk it is.”
She smiles. “You’re very welcome. I hope Felix wasn’t rude?” She looks at each of us sternly, searching for any indication that he might have been.
I don’t say anything. I mean, he was kind of rude, to be honest, but I’m hardly going to say that to his mum, and he did let us in.
In the end. Right at the last minute.
“No,” Jack says. “He was amazing. He hid the girls from the police.” He winces at her, apologetically. “They’ve already driven through looking for us, I’m afraid. And then he opened the door for me too. We would have been caught by now if it wasn’t for your son. We’d probably be dead. He’s a credit to you.”
You can tell she’s proud; her whole face lights up.
“He’s a good boy, really,” she says. “He might come across as a bit moody at first, but that’s just his way. You know what teenage boys are like!” She lowers her voice. “He’s been a bit of an angry young man since we lost his father a few years back, to be honest … and then, late last year – round about Christmastime it was – his brother was taken off the streets.”
“Taken? Taken where?”
She looks around at us all fearfully; her smile has gone now and her face is pale and drawn.
“Taken into the Cirque.”
Greta and I both cry out at the same time.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Jack says, softly.
&n
bsp; She turns to me. “That’s what I wanted to ask you about, if you can bear it. What’s it like, being in there?” Her eyes are filled with fear.
“Well, I don’t really know what it’s like any more,” I say. “It’s a different place now to the one we left – it might be much better. There’s a fairground there now, isn’t there? That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“The explosion killed the ringmaster, Silvio Sabatini,” Jack says. “He was the mastermind behind the whole place. Most of the cruelty and violence came directly from him.”
Silvio Sabatini. I hate the way his name still has such an effect on me, even after what I did to him. I look at Greta. She’s staring at the floor, biting her lip.
“When was your son taken?” Jack asks, softly.
“It was just after they announced they were revamping it. They must have needed extra people, I suppose. They came in big lorries and pulled a load of kids off the street. It wasn’t just him, a lot of families around here lost someone.” Her voice breaks and she’s silent for a moment, and then she looks right at me, her eyes searching my face. “Do you think we’ll ever see him again? Do you think he’s still alive?”
How am I supposed to answer that?
“He’s bound to be,” Jack says, confidently. “They’ll be training them all up for various acts, I should think. Won’t do them any good to harm them now, not before the place even opens.”
If his words are meant to make her feel better, I don’t think they’re working very well. “And what about when it does open?” The pitch of her voice rises higher. “What then?”
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “We don’t know what it’s like any more. We don’t know what they’ve got him doing in there. We can’t tell you anything.”
It’s true, what I’m saying. I’m as ignorant as anyone about what’s happening in the place. The last time I saw the Cirque, it was a glowing ball of flames, lighting up the night sky as we drove away from it.
We tried to find out what happened, of course we did. Every time we spoke to anybody from the resistance, we’d ask, but nobody ever knew anything. And every time we could get hold of a newspaper, or near a TV screen or tablet, Greta and I would search frantically for information but there was never anything.
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