Show Stealer

by Hayley Barker

  For the first time, I look at him properly, taking in all the details. He makes my eyes hurt. Everything bleached, blank, white. From the crisp, starched suit to the gloves, the tie, the handkerchief in his jacket, all the way down to his shoes: white. And it’s not just his clothes, either. His skin doesn’t contrast to them at all, not in the way it should. It matches them perfectly; it’s the same colour, or to clarify, it’s no colour at all. I remember learning about colour and light at primary school; about how white is a negative. That’s what Silvio Sabatini has become now. He’s turned himself into a negative. Even his eyelashes are white, even his grinning teeth. Only his piercing blue eyes and red lips, stretched into their usual leer, break up the blank canvas.

  I smirk back at him. “You don’t look stronger, and you don’t look purer, either. You look like a joke. I bet everyone round here’s laughing at you behind your back.”

  I look round at the guards, lingering discreetly a few feet away, pretending not to hear. “I bet they are, I bet everyone is.”

  One of the guards’ mouth twitches. I’m sure he’s holding back a grin.

  The leer has frozen on Sabatini’s face and two tiny spots of colour have appeared on his alabaster cheeks.

  “We will see who’s the joke, Benedict,” he hisses. “You will soon realize who has the power around here: I will make you see. Before I’m done with you, you will bow down at my feet, I promise you that. You and Hoshiko have lost. You tried to defeat me, but I have risen! I have risen and my circus has risen and we are bigger and we are stronger than ever before! What do you have, Baines? You have nothing. You don’t even have your girlfriend to hold your hand any more. She’s probably already dead!” He throws his head back and laughs. “You don’t really think they let her go, do you?”

  His words renew the fear inside me all over again. It courses through me, filling me up. He’s right; why would the police stick to the agreement? They’ll have followed Jack, Greta and Hoshi, of course they will. They’ll have captured them and locked them up by now … if they were lucky.

  I take a deep breath. He’s taking a low blow, trying to hit me where it hurts the most. I must brace myself against the force.

  It’s not true, what he just said: I saw it on the news report my mother showed me. They escaped, and they’re free, and somehow, they’ll all make it. I have to believe that. I will believe that. And I’ll be free too. I’ll see Hoshi again soon, I know I will. And until then, I’ll be strong in here, just like she was. I’ll make her proud of me.

  “I hope Bojo’s OK,” I say, studying Sabatini’s face for a reaction. Immediately, his jaw slackens, his eyes widen.

  “Bojo? Bojo is dead, isn’t he? I was never sure, but I told myself he must be!” He clutches my arm. “Are you telling me he survived? He’s OK? Oh my goodness!” He fans at his face with his hands. “This is such a shock to me. Is he well? How is he coping?”

  “Oh, don’t worry.” I smile. “He’s absolutely fine! He hasn’t missed you at all, you know – but then, he always did love Greta the most, so I understand. After all, he chose her over you that night we blew up your arena, didn’t he? Wise choice: that’s what saved his life – his preference for her. He made it out unscathed and you turned into –” I look him up and down and scratch my head “– this.”

  His eyes narrow, dangerously. “I don’t believe you. Benedict Baines, you are playing with me. It does not do well to toy with my emotions.”

  He pushes me in front of him and jabs at me with his cane, propelling me towards a strange spherical building. It’s painted to look like a planet. Saturn, I think, going by the spinning rings of pink and black light arcing around it.

  “This is one of my favourite attractions,” he purrs in my ear. “We call it the Globe of Death!”

  I feel cold suddenly, cold and shivery. He keeps on prodding me, all the way up the little brick pathway and through the door, towards whatever awaits within.

  HOSHIKO

  As soon as the shadows begin to lengthen on the walls, Rosie tells us, “It’s time.” She roots around in one of the crates and pulls out a couple of thin woollen hats which she passes to Greta and me to wear, surveying us critically when we put them on.

  “It’s no good. Your faces are too recognizable. Everyone will know who you are, even in the dark.”

  She picks up one of the blanket rolls and starts wrapping it around Greta’s neck like a scarf. Greta’s mouth, nose and most of her face soon disappear. I do the same thing and Jack zips his collar up high and pulls his hat down low.

  Rosie steps back and looks again.

  “Scoop your hair up inside the hats, girls,” she says. She picks up the rest of the blankets. “Will the monkey stay still if you hide him under your jumper?” Greta nods.

  Rosie turns to me. “You’re the most famous one of all. Maybe you should roll one of the blankets under your top.” She starts cramming one up my jumper.

  I pull away. “That won’t work,” I say. “I’ll just look like one of the Cirque clowns. We survived on the run for nearly a year without wearing fake stomachs!”

  “Hmm. They found you this morning though, didn’t they?” says Rosie, gently but pointedly.

  “There’s not a lot I can say to that, is there?” I sigh and stuff the blanket under my jumper.

  We creep out into the night. The slums seem different now. It’s that eerie twilight time of the evening when the sun has gone but the light still lingers. Although the day has been a warm one, it’s cold now, but there’s a lot more people about than when we arrived. A lot of it is foot traffic; people traipsing past, returning from shifts, or leaving to work through the night. The orange and green work suits are everywhere. As well as the comings and goings though, there are people clustered together in groups around the little fires dotted here and there.

  “Keep your heads down,” Rosie whispers. “Don’t make eye contact.”

  She hurries us along, bypassing people whenever she can, so quick that we’re almost jogging.

  Every group we come near seems to stop talking as we pass. Every time I lift my eyes up, I glimpse suspicious eyes. I feel them behind us, watching, staring.

  “Hey!” someone calls. “What’s the hurry?”

  “Quick.” Rosie moves even faster as we wind our way into the heart of the slums. The tiny shacks become even smaller and closer together, the little paths between them narrower and narrower.

  Eventually we reach a different sort of dwelling. It’s bigger than the others – about ten times the size of the ones which cluster around it – and it’s taller too, towering above them. The structure seems more permanent; it’s made of thick wooden planks nailed together, and there’s a roof of corrugated iron.

  There’s a story Amina used to tell me when I was younger, one that I still tell Greta sometimes, about the three little pigs hiding from the big bad wolf. This place reminds me of the third little piggy’s house. It’s not made of brick, but it’s stronger-looking, more resilient. A shelter from the storms outside, maybe, offering protection from the evil which scratches relentlessly at the door but can’t find its way in.

  It always reminds me of the three of us, that story, and whenever I tell it to Greta, the big bad wolf in my head has Silvio’s face. In our grim reality, the wolf caught one of the piggies, and there are only the two smallest left now. Still, at least we destroyed him in the end. No more big bad wolf for us – at least not that one, anyway.

  Rosie leads us up to the door, a real door with an arched window of frosted glass at the top and a rusty metal knocker. She looks around at us and gives a nervous little grin before tapping gently on it. There’s nothing for a moment or two, and then the sound of footsteps inside and a man opens the door.

  He’s big – muscular and tough-looking. His face is scarred, his nose has obviously been broken more than once and there’s a scowl on his face. He peers down suspiciously to get a closer look at Greta and me. Instinctively, I lean backwards and I fee
l Greta dart behind me.

  “I’d like to see Kadir, please,” Rosie says.

  “What’s your business?”

  “I’ve got some visitors here,” she says. “He’ll want to meet them.”

  “Wait there.”

  He walks off, leaving the door open. I poke my head in, pulling it back quickly when I see what’s inside.

  In front of us is a room; there are actual armchairs in it with a load of people, all male, sprawled on them, looking towards the door suspiciously. I only get a quick glimpse, but some of them are older, I think, like the guy who let us in, and some of them must only be about Ben’s age. They all have this look on their faces though, and that’s why I shoot my head back so quickly. They all look like lions do when they’re ready to pounce.

  The guy comes back.

  “You’ve got five minutes.”

  My eyes meet Rosie’s. Why does she look so worried?

  It smells funny inside, a sweet, musky smell, and there’s a thick cloud of smoke hanging in the air. I avoid making eye contact with the men, who all stare at us silently as we cross the room towards the thick, hanging curtains which the guy in front pushes aside as he gestures us into the inner sanctum.

  It’s larger in the curtained-off section than the part we’ve just left – that was the entrance hall, I suppose. The walls are lined with thick, dark material and the ground is covered with boards, so it’s like an actual floor. There’s nothing else in the room except for a platform about a metre high at the back of the room, covered in the same material as the walls. On top of it sits a large chair: shabby when you look closely at it, with ripped upholstery and chipped wooden arms, but very grandiose nevertheless. It reminds me of the thrones they used to put in the royal box in the arena sometimes when VIPs came to the Circus. The ones Ben and his family sat in; the ones he says made him feel like an idiot.

  There’s a man sitting on the chair, looking down on us from his elevated position.

  He’s about thirty years old, olive-skinned, with a little round hat perched on his bald head. He has a goatee beard and he’s wearing what can only be described as robes. His hands, the hands which clutch the arms of the throne-like chair, are dripping with jewellery – huge gold rings, flashing under the light from the candles surrounding his little podium – and there are heavy gold chains around his neck. He smiles and his teeth flash too; there’s a jewel in his mouth, right where his front tooth would normally be. It’s a diamond, I think, or a crystal, white and twinkling.

  I wonder if they’re real or not, the diamond and the gold. It doesn’t really matter; the overall effect is the same. Anyway, even if they are fake, they still feel inappropriate. Here, in the slums, where children scavenge on rubbish tips for food and people root around for enough sodden cardboard to build their houses with, sits a bejewelled figure on a throne.

  I look down at Greta. She’s holding Bojo inside her jumper with one hand, but her other one’s over her mouth and she’s looking at the ground. She’s trying not to laugh. I know what she means; it’s ridiculous. Ridiculous and bizarre and contemptuous. I already know this Kadir guy is going to irritate me.

  He lifts his hand and beckons us forward.

  “Come closer,” he commands. “Speak. Tell me who you are and what it is you desire.”

  BEN

  Inside, the Globe of Death is like nowhere I’ve ever seen before. Lasers run up and down and all around, flashing lights of red and then orange and then green. In between the flashes, darkness, so that it takes me a while to figure out exactly what I’m looking at.

  Black seats line the whole orb, stretching all the way around, to the left, to the right and above my head. Each one has what looks like a steering wheel in front of it, and some kind of control panel, like it’s a car.

  In the middle, raised up on a platform is another sphere, a transparent one.

  Silvio looks remarkably pleased with himself.

  “What do you think happens in here, Benedict?”

  I sigh and turn my head away from him while he fiddles around unlocking my handcuffs.

  He jabs me in the ribs with the cane again so that I give a little involuntary jolt.

  “I don’t know!” I answer quickly. “I told you, I’m not interested!”

  He pushes the sleeve of his suit up a little to reveal what looks like a large old-fashioned gold watch, standing out in stark contrast to his white flesh.

  “We only have a minute or two to be seated! The full dress rehearsal is about to begin.”

  He gestures grandly around the room. “Pick a seat. Any seat, it doesn’t really matter, they are all equally good. I hope you don’t get motion sickness?”

  I cross my arms together and stay where I am.

  His eyebrows arch. They aren’t real – they look like they’ve been tattooed on. His plastic face stretches. It reminds me of the stress putty everyone used to have a few years ago. You could stretch it out until it was stringy and elastic. A horrid image appears in my mind of Silvio’s face, stretched out like dough, expanding lengthwise, getting thinner and thinner, the blue eyes still gleaming, the manic laugh getting louder.

  “Shall I tell you a secret about this cane? I don’t even really need it any more! I can get on perfectly well without it! The truth is, I’ve grown quite fond of it. It’s become such a useful little prop.” He waves the end in my face; it’s sharpened to a tiny point and it whirrs round like an electric pencil sharpener.

  “See this bit? I like to call it my corkscrew! It’s a good name for it, don’t you think? Do you know, I did actually use it once to open a bottle of wine! Such a good party trick.” He leans forward and winks at me. “Of course, that’s not its primary purpose.” He prods it into me again; the corkscrew whirs around, pushing into my skin.

  “Stop that!”

  Silvio caresses the top of the cane with his finger and the corkscrew retracts.

  “That was just a tickle! Such a shame your mother said no lasting wounds – she’s ruining all my fun!”

  His thumb taps the top of the cane again and he grins at me as an electric jolt buzzes through my body, making my fingers and toes tingle, and giving my teeth a funny fuzzy feeling.

  “Get off!” I shout.

  I look around. Armed guards are stationed at the door and the apparition next to me has an electric shock stick. What can I do? I lower myself down into one of the chairs.

  “Fasten your belt, Baines! You’re going to need it!” Sabatini grins and secures his own with a click. I reach behind me for the seat belt. It’s a full harness, coming down over my chest in diagonal strips which pin me down on either side. It’s uncomfortable and I don’t like the restriction of it, but something about this round room and the glee on his face makes me glad I’ve got it on.

  He glances at his watch again.

  “They should be here any minute. Now, what should we chat about while we’re waiting? Perhaps you’d like a little background info, a recap of what you’ve missed while you’ve been playing hide-and-seek?”

  His icy blue eyes gleam unnaturally. “Well, despite your intentions, the little grenade-throwing act you and Hoshiko carried out last year has only made the Cirque stronger. Such was your mother’s disgust at your betrayal that she resolved to strengthen what you attempted to destroy. She wanted the world to see that Pure blood will never be threatened. It will fight back. It will crush. It will vanquish. She had a complete change of heart! She began to understand the delight people feel when those who foul and taint our society with their stinking presence get their just desserts at last. She was never our biggest fan before but now she can’t get enough of this place! She loves it, she really does, and you could say we owe it all to you and Hoshiko! Your failed act of rebellion ended up being the best thing of all that could happen, for the circus and for me!

  “Anyway, I digress. Your mother has helped to fund the rebuilding of this circus, Benedict. She’s been so generous, so kind. She has raised its legitimacy w
ith her political approval and she has given me almost entirely free rein. She appreciates my genius, Benedict! The only insistence she made was that there was to be more action, more bloodshed than ever before!” He laughs excitedly. “Of course, that was music to my ears!”

  He leans in closely.

  “She’s very keen for the experience to be a more interactive one too. She suggested that the audience would like to feel a part of it all more, would like to make an impact, would like to be more than just spectators.

  “I knew straight away that she was right. That’s why we’ve brought in all the fairground rides – so that the paying public can really get involved in the action. And there are many truly wonderful new acts, too, where the audience play a vital part.” His eyes glitter with delight. “I think this one might be my very favourite of all!”

  He sighs. “Time is ticking by, where are they?” Then he looks over his shoulder and barks at one of the guards. “Hurry the Dregs along, will you! They’re keeping us wait—”

  Before he can finish his sentence, the throaty, throbbing rev of engines reverberates through the room.

  I feel myself being tipped backwards and then the seats begin to spin. I’m turned upside down, again and again, my empty stomach lurching as we rotate around the sphere.

  Suddenly, from the ceiling – at least I think it’s the ceiling; I’m so disoriented it’s hard to tell – a huge motorbike drops down into the central sphere. On its back is a rider, anonymous in helmet and suit. Another person drops down after it – a girl. She scrambles to her feet and stands there, bracing herself, waiting for whatever it is that’s about to happen in the Globe of Death.