“And worse, far worse than that. Rapes. Muggings. Theft. Anarchy. This is the truth. This is the reality.
“What is a Dreg? What does the term mean? When we examine its etymology, we find that it is entirely the appropriate word for a group of people who are, all of them, even the sparkly circus performers, scum: unclean, murky sediment which must not be allowed to rise up and taint our purity.
“Do not destroy our country. Do not turn back down the path to ruin.
“Look around you: look at your home; look at your children’s school; look at our hospitals. Are you really prepared to lose everything you hold dear to support the false and dangerous notion that we are all equals?
“We are not equals. Biology and history do not lie.”
She pauses, and her voice softens again.
“I was heartbroken over my son’s actions. Heartbroken and shamed, but he was groomed. He was singled out because of my position and he was brainwashed. My son was poisoned. He was sick.
“I am delighted to tell you that he that is sick no more. I have my boy back! He has seen the error of his ways. Benedict, my son, is back with me. He’s back and he’s sorry. Don’t believe me? Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Behind her, another image appears, a static one. It’s a photo.
It’s Ben.
Her arm is wrapped around him and he’s looking up at her face and he’s smiling. At her. They’re both smiling.
Ben, my Ben, is there with her, and he’s smiling.
BEN
There’s no point refusing any of Sabatini’s demands. I’m a prisoner here and there’s nothing I can do about it.
He pushes me into the back of his golf buggy and drives me across to another building. Black and circular, it’s painted to look like one of those really old-fashioned film reels from the twentieth century.
Inside, the nostalgic theme continues. It’s set up like one of those cinemas they used to have, with rows of uncomfortable-looking chairs that flip up when they aren’t being used and a big flat screen dominating the front wall, red velvet curtains draped either side of it.
“This is where we will broadcast all televised national events,” Silvio informs me. “Such as the one we’re about to see.” He looks at his watch. “Damn. We’ve missed the start!”
He presses a button. The screen flickers into life.
My mother’s there, on the screen.
She’s dressed in different clothes now, a soft, pastel jumper. It really, really doesn’t suit her. It’s like putting a baby’s bonnet on a shark.
A photo appears behind her.
It’s me. It’s the one she took before, after she told me Hoshi was still on the run.
I was laughing in her face. It doesn’t look like it though. It looks like I’m smiling up at her, adoringly. It looks like we’re reunited.
A voice starts to speak. It’s my voice. Silvio turns the sound right up so that, even with my hands over my ears, I can still hear exactly what she’s done. I can still hear my words, still hear my voice:
I’m so sorry that I dared to question you. You were right all along. I’ll never break the rules again … forgive me.
I feel sick. How dare she do this to me? How dare she take my angry words and turn them into a betrayal?
What if Hoshi and Greta and Jack see this? What will they think?
HOSHIKO
This can’t be happening. After everything we’ve been through together. He wouldn’t go back to her. Not now. Not Ben.
It’s not an old photo though. It’s a new one. It’s Ben as he was when I left him. He’s still got his scruffy old clothes on, and his face is stubbly and gaunt.
And it’s his voice, saying those things.
Next to me, Greta’s hand is over her mouth and her eyes are unblinking, as if she’s frozen to the spot.
She’s in shock. She thought she knew him, but she was wrong. Turns out she didn’t know him at all. Turns out none of us did.
There’s something heavy inside me. Heavy and cold.
I should have realized all along that this would happen. Out of sight, out of mind, isn’t that what they say?
We’ve been on such an adventure together: a heart-pounding, breathtaking, unforgettable adventure. A whirlwind, a roller coaster, the adrenaline-fuelled ride of Ben’s life. But the thing about a roller coaster is, if you spend too long on one, you start to feel sick. You start to miss the feeling of solid ground beneath your feet. You start to miss real life.
When Ben first met me, I was glamorous, I guess, to him at least. I was a sparkly circus star, but the sheen has worn off. Now that the lights and the sparkle and the glitz have faded, he’s finally realized that I’m nothing special at all. I’m embittered and angry and broken and tired, and life on the run with an ex-tightrope walker is anything but romantic.
Hey, Ben, come into hiding with me! You’ll never sleep in a warm, comfortable bed again in your life! You won’t be able to wash for months on end and your clothes will all fall apart! You’ll be hungry and thirsty and cold and the police will be one step behind you, wherever you go. It’ll be a riot!
I’m surprised it took him this long.
His mother’s obviously slapped him on the wrist for his little lapse of judgement, then smiled indulgently at his foolishness and invited him back into the fold.
I bet she’s told him that if he forgets the last year has ever happened, he can have anything he wants. And she can give it to him too; whatever he likes, she can get for him. Why wouldn’t he go back to her? Who wouldn’t? What can I offer him I return?
He’s bound to be relieved it’s all over.
That must be why he put his gun down like that and walked away with them so meekly.
He wasn’t sacrificing himself for us at all. He was making a choice. The choice of comfort and safety, of warmth and family.
The choice to leave me.
BEN
I feel a nudge in my ribs. Sabatini is staring at me, a smile of glee and triumph fixed on his face.
“She’s good, isn’t she, your mother? Now the whole world will put your little love story down to a moment of madness. Teenage hormones which got a little bit carried away. Hoshiko will hear about it: she’s bound to. They’ll catch up with her soon. They’ll catch up with her and shoot her. She’ll die thinking that her lovely-wuvvly Benny-Boy has betrayed her. She’ll never know the truth!”
I stare back at the screen. Stare back at the photo, looking for all the world like a family reunion. Listen to my voice, still playing.
I am sorry. I’m sorry it took me so long. Sorry I went along with it all.
“You’re wrong!” I tell Sabatini. “Hoshi will see right through this! She knows me better than that! She’ll see exactly what my mother’s done.”
He throws his head back and laughs. His little white teeth are like fangs.
HOSHIKO
Greta’s pulling at my arm.
“Hoshi?” I have to bend my head to hear her subdued little voice.
“Why is Ben saying those things? He told me his mum was a baddie. He told me he hated her.”
“It’s not true!” I tell her. “That’s not Ben. Not really. Ben would never turn his back on us. Never!”
She looks from me to the smiling holographic image metres away from us.
I could never really love a revolting Dreg girl, says the voice. Ben’s voice.
“It looks like him,” she says, doubtfully. “It sounds like him.”
I look back at the screen. She’s right. It does. It’s not though. It can’t be.
Ben loves me. He would never say those things about me, and he would never, never, never go back to her. His cold, hard, evil mother.
As suddenly as it came, the feeling of horror inside me goes. This means he’s alive. This means he is of use to his mother. That’s good. It means he’s safe.
The crowd below us are still booing and shouting. Jack kneels down to face Greta and me so that we can both
hear him.
“Hoshi’s right, Greta. This isn’t real. They’ve generated it somehow, manipulated the imagery. It’s just clever editing, that’s all. You know Ben. You know he’d never say those things. Don’t let that woman fool you, Greta. Don’t let her win!”
His words confirm what I should have known all along.
Below me, hundreds of angry Dregs are shouting terrible things about Ben.
I step forward to the centre of the stage, screaming down at them.
“It’s not true. It’s fake!”
They shout even louder.
“Don’t listen to her! It’s fake, can’t you see that!”
They’re jeering at me, though. They won’t believe me.
I stare at Vivian Baines. I hate her so much. I hate her more than I hated Silvio. At least he only had the power to hurt us, the circus people. She has the power to hurt all of us, and she wants even more. Nothing will stop this woman. She’ll hunt down and kill every one of us. She won’t stop until there are no Dregs left.
She’s still talking. This time about the Cirque.
“In just a few days, the Cirque will reopen. You will see a show like no other. It will demonstrate exactly who is in charge of our country and who must remain in charge. If you are with me, if you are prepared to face what we need to do to ensure a strong, Pure future for our country, come along. Be my guest. The first thousand people who like and share this broadcast will receive a complimentary ticket for opening night.”
She smiles warmly. “Let’s celebrate. Let’s celebrate Purity. Let’s celebrate superiority. Let’s celebrate strength.”
I feel a hand on my back. Kadir firmly moves me to the side of the stage and points at the screen. “Look. The best bit’s about to start.”
The photo has gone now and I can’t hear Ben’s voice any more. Vivian Baines is standing to one side, an unconvincing smile fixed on her face, as a man in a suit appears on the screen.
“Ladies and gentlemen. In the name of fairness and democracy, both of your main candidates are here to make their pledges and to take part in the first televised debate for over twenty-five years. We’ve heard from Vivian Baines, now let’s hear from her nemesis! Please, give a warm welcome to Laura Minton!”
You can hear the studio audience applauding. Some of the people below us are too, but not like they were cheering Kadir when he took to the stage.
A woman appears. It’s Laura Minton. She’s very tall and she’s wearing a flowing purple dress. Her wild red hair cascades down her back and her green eyes are warm and familiar. She’s had such a high-profile campaign that she’s become nearly as infamous as us over the last few months.
“Good evening.” She smiles right into the camera. “Let me ask you a question. Who, exactly, do you think you are?”
BEN
Laura Minton is smiling into the camera.
“History is a rich tapestry woven by many people. People of all colours, people of all creeds, people who were not Pure English at all. Victoria and Albert, Christopher Columbus, Plutarch, Leonardo, Galileo – the list could go on for ever.
She leans forward and whispers into the camera.
“Dregs, all of them. Dregs: the scourge of mankind, apparently. A blight on the world, every single one of them. Think. How can that be? How can people with dirty inferior blood have had such an impact on the world?
“Think.
“I am like you. I am special. I am Pure. My grandparents were Pure, my parents were Pure.” Her voice drops to a stage whisper. “But let me tell you a secret…”
The film is showing both women now. My mother is looking on, a sneer on her face and her eyebrow raised cynically.
“I’ve had my DNA tested. DNA: the fibre of my very being. The fabric of life. My genealogy: the very root of who I am. And what did I discover? Something interesting: something very interesting indeed. I am not pure English at all. I am part Gaelic.” She flicks her auburn hair. “That explains the hair colour. I am also part Slavic, part Scandinavian, part Israeli and part Ghanaian.”
She turns to my mother. “What do you think about that, Vivian Baines?”
My mother’s face is victorious.
“Well, that explains a great deal. I’m not sure why you have chosen to make such a revelation, but surely you must realize the implications of your confession. You are a Dreg! A Dreg cannot stand for office; it is clearly stated in our country’s statutes. You must stand down. You must have your rights and privileges stripped. You must be taken immediately to the slums!”
Laura Minton smiles. She doesn’t look fazed. Not at all.
“It looks like you may be right. With such blood coursing through my veins, how can I possibly argue that I am Pure English? Let me tell you something else. My entire team had their DNA tested too, every single one of them. Oh yes, and another two hundred people: volunteers from across the country. Doctors, university professors, lawyers, bank workers. How many of them, do you think, were Pure, Vivian Baines? What would your estimate be? Surely none of those people could be tainted like me, could they?”
My mother’s smile is fixed on her face.
“Genetic testing is illegal. You have committed a criminal offence.”
“Hmm. Why is it illegal, I wonder?” Laura Minton cocks her head to one side. “It’s almost as if there’s something the current government don’t want us to realize. Well, perhaps you could humour me before they drag me off to the slums, Minister Baines. How many of our volunteers turned out to be –” she makes little inverted commas of her fingers and quotes the national anthem “– Pure of soul and Pure of body?
“How many? I’m waiting for your answer…”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” my mother snaps. “You are employing sensationalist tactics. You are showboating. Why would I, or anyone else, be interested in your little tests and trickeries? We are here to debate the dangerous notion of allowing Dregs more freedom. I am here to warn people again of what a catastrophic mistake it would be. Let me give you some statistics about Dregs, and about crime—”
“Why have you not answered my question?” Laura Minton’s voice cuts through my mother’s. “How many of the two hundred people we tested at random were, it turned out, not actually Pure English at all?”
“I fail to see how this has any bearing on the matter at hand! You are avoiding the subject and you have committed a criminal offence.”
Laura Minton steps forward.
“The answer is all of them. Every single person we tested. Not one person turned out ‘untainted.’ Would you believe it? We found one hundred and twelve ethnicity strains in our random group of Pures. One hundred and twelve. What does it tell us? It tells us that we are wrong! That we have always been wrong! We are all Dregs together, all part of the same melting pot! We are one and we are the same. None of us are Pure. Not one of us!”
She’s so compelling. My mother, standing behind her, looks like she’s been punched in the face.
“We are a tiny island nation. Romans, Saxons, Vikings, Normans: they’ve all invaded us, all left indelible marks on our country’s heritage. And before we became cold and hostile and insular, we welcomed immigrants to these shores with open arms. We celebrated diversity! Africans, Indians, Chinese, Pakistanis, Spaniards, Italians, I could go on for days. People from all of these nations and so many more have settled here over the centuries. They made us who we are. They made Britain great. They are a part of me.” She stares unblinkingly into the camera. “And you, watching this, I’ll bet they’re a part of you, too.”
Her green eyes twinkle mischievously. It feels like she’s talking directly to me. “Are you really sure you are as Pure as you think? Can you be sure your blood is not tainted? Can you? Can any of us? Why not take the test? Why not find out? You won’t really punish anyone for seeking the truth, will you, Minister Baines? Why would you if you’ve got nothing to be afraid of?”
“This is irrelevant!” My mother finally finds the words to interrupt h
er. “We cannot allow the Dreg plague to spread further. We must be more radical, not less radical. We must make tough choices. We must protect our country. We must protect our children.”
“Minister Baines, why don’t you humour me? Will you have your blood tested? Here. Live on TV? Why not quell my outrageous suggestions once and for all? I have scientists standing by. Will you take the test? Will you show us how Pure you really are? Will you?”
There’s a pause. The camera zooms in on my mother. Two pink dots have appeared on her cheeks, and her face looks like it’s about to crack. She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what to do. For the first time ever, my mother’s lost for words.
HOSHIKO
I didn’t know much about Laura Minton before tonight but now I think I actually love her.
“Take the test! Take the test! Take the test!” A pounding chant resounds across the slums.
It’s so loud that you can’t hear what Vivian Baines is saying. You can see though. See her leave the stage. See her walk out of her own debate.
I look at Greta and Jack and Kadir. The same look of awestruck delight is on all of their faces.
Below us, the crowd have gone totally mad. They’re screaming, shouting, laughing.
There’s something powerful in the air: something palpable, like we’re all connected.
It feels like the end of something.
It feels like the beginning.
BEN
Silvio, me, the whole world watches as my mother refuses the test and walks out of the debate.
I turn to Sabatini.
“She knows,” I say, triumphantly. “She knows that the whole thing, all that Pure and Dreg stuff, is all just one big lie. She has to, otherwise she’d have taken the test.”
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