Jack has risen to his feet. He holds his hand out to Kadir. “Thank you,” he says, all his previous prickliness gone. “Thank you so much.”
“I gave my word,” Kadir says. He looks down at Jack’s proffered hand. “Please excuse me. I have business to attend to. Ah,” he says as the door opens again and some men drag the two kidnappers in. “Right on cue.”
He ushers us out and we walk Rosie home and continue onward to our little hut. Nobody says much; I think we’re all a bit shell-shocked. All the way back, Greta is yawning, Bojo copying her theatrically every time and, within minutes of our return, the pair of them are asleep, scooched up in my arms. They fall asleep deeply so they don’t hear any more sounds that night.
They don’t, but we do. My eyes meet Jack’s as the dim light of morning begins to break. They stare back at me, grave and anxious, as the dreadful sounds of human pain – sounds of torture, sounds of agony – continue from the direction of Kadir’s, echoing across his slums.
BEN
After a few minutes, the doors open and guards appear, guns in the air, marching us up the steep concrete stairs and outside to a big barn, old and rickety, at the back of the field. It must have been here for years, long before they decided to build the shiny new Cirque here.
I don’t think I’ve ever been in an actual barn before, but its inside still seems familiar; it’s just like every barn I’ve ever read about or seen on TV. Dimly lit, full of the pungent odour of hay and animals. It’s sectioned off into different areas with drinking troughs and mangers, and there’s a huge hay loft at the back.
The horses we saw last night are there. One of them, the tallest by far, is the gleaming golden palomino Silvio rides: it whinnies as we come in and tosses its silken mane. Apart from that, everything’s pretty much as you’d expect in a barn, if you ignore the camels and the quite literal elephants in the corner of the room. There are two of them: the same ones I saw yesterday, I suppose, squashed up side by side next to each other, big heavy chains wound round their legs. The animals all look up as we enter and then resume their patient munching. There are no lions, I’m more than relieved to see, and no wolves. This must be where the grazing animals are kept overnight. It’s like some kind of exotic nativity scene.
The guards herd us together like another group of cattle into the largest pen.
“What’s going on?” I ask Ezekiel, who’s found his way next to me.
“This is where we eat.” He grins up at me delightedly, as if he’s giving good news. “They’ll bring the food and water in a minute.”
There are hay bales scattered around and people perch on them, staring at the door expectantly.
Eventually, four guards enter, each pair carrying a huge container between them. One is a vat full of water, the other a feeding trough full of an indistinct grey slop. As soon as I see the food, I realize how hungry I am. Everyone else has jumped up and they’re already standing in line. The intensity in the air is immense: they’re all straining forward desperately.
Still, no one pushes, no one shoves, there’s no frenzied clamour, like the wolves. Strength is not what prevails here; fairness is, fairness and goodness. The children are ushered to the front so that the smallest girl is the very first in the queue, and then they arrange themselves in height order, all the way to Emmanuel at the back.
One by one, people come forward, slurp out of the huge container and move away to make room for the next person, moving on to the trough, where they kneel down, scooping handfuls of the gloopy mush into their mouths.
Watching them eat animal food from this dirty manger fills me with shame. Not of them, never of them, but of the appalling, reprehensible place the world has become. How did we ever let things get this bad?
Emmanuel notices me, hovering at the back.
“Ben? Are you not thirsty? Not hungry?”
I’m starving, but it doesn’t feel right: me taking food meant for them; me draining their meagre resources.
“Not really, not as much as you guys.”
“Nonsense. You are one of us now. Take your place in the line, please.” Emmanuel ushers me forward and people part to make way for me. My height places me in the middle of a group of older boys, and I can feel their resistance. It’s palpable, prickly and intense, but nobody says anything. Emmanuel’s hot glare is stern as he fires them warning looks. Maybe there is a hierarchy at work here after all – he’s definitely the alpha wolf in this pack, but he’s got where he is by being fair, by earning everyone’s respect and because he’s the oldest in here, I reckon, although being the strongest probably doesn’t do him any harm either.
I glance behind me. Sean is a couple of people back. His hands, bandaged up with thick, dirty-looking wadding, are curled into fists. His eyes drill holes into my back. I’m so close now that I can hear exactly what the whispered insults are that he’s aiming at me.
“Pure bastard,” he hisses under his breath. “Pure scum.”
I stand there with my head bowed. I don’t blame him for hating me. Look at how he lives, look at how he’s been treated by the Pures, treated by my mother. I’d hate me if I were him – even Hoshi hated me for a while.
There’s a commotion at the front, the barn doors swing open and four more guards enter, carrying a table and chairs, which they lower carefully down in the middle of the barn.
The table is wrought iron, ornate and old-fashioned, and it’s laid with a starched, white cloth. Another guard comes in, carefully laying down napkins, silverware and glasses.
Judging by the muttering around me, the rest of the Dregs are as confused as I am about what’s going on.
A minute passes and then, like a spectre, Silvio Sabatini appears in the doorway, ghastly and ghostly and deadly.
“Ahh,” he says, his eyes scanning over us. “The animals are all feeding.” His gaze lingers on me and he claps his hands in the air, dramatically. “Baines!” he commands. “Come here, if you please.”
I freeze to the spot. What should I do? What does he want?
“Come on, then. Quickly, boy.”
The eyes of the whole barn are upon me. I step forward reluctantly.
“How was your night? Eventful, I imagine!” The gleam in his blue eyes sends shivers down my spine. “Do not fear; you, my friend, will not be scoffing away with the other performing animals.”
He gestures towards the little table. “Shall we dine? Please, be seated.”
I glance over at the others. I can feel the waves of hatred and resentment coming from half of them, and a few looks of sympathy too.
The barn doors swing open again and four people I haven’t seen before come in. They’ve got green overalls on – catering colours – and they’re bringing in food. Not animal food this time, but real food, delicious food. The saliva fills my mouth quickly and my stomach aches in response to the aroma of sausages, eggs, bacon, warm bread, fresh fruit, coffee that they place down on the table.
I haven’t had food like that since I ran away from home.
I look again towards the performers, all watching silently.
“No, thanks,” I say. “I don’t want it.”
I turn around and make my way back to the queue.
Behind me, I hear Silvio laugh.
“Oh, how wonderful, I’ve just won a little bet with myself! I predicted your reaction perfectly. Silvio, my friend, I said. Benedict Baines likes to play the people’s hero, likes to get down and dirty with the Dregs. Now, Benedict, as I said yesterday, your little show of loyalty isn’t fooling anyone. Let’s just step outside and have a chat, shall we?”
He nods at the guards. “Go on,” he says. “As instructed.”
A guard grabs someone from the line – it’s Sean – and drags him out of the barn. At the same time, two more guards step forward and roughly manoeuvre me between them, outside into the field.
After a second or two, Silvio appears in the doorway and taps his way out towards us.
He stands between us, fon
dling his cane, then furrows his brow, scratching off an imaginary dirt mark. Then he takes out a cloth from his pocket and polishes the cane with it.
Quick as a flash, he steps forward and pushes it into Sean’s ribs.
“Stop!” I cry. I launch myself forward, desperate to reach him, but the guards pull me back.
He turns to me, smiling, all the while pushing the cane into Sean.
“Stop! Please, stop! I’ll do whatever you want!”
He lowers the cane down. Sean crumples to the floor, clutching his side.
“Ah, now that’s what I wanted to hear! I must say, you’ve hurt my feelings a little, Baines. It was intended as an honour, you know, the invitation to dine with me.”
“If I eat with you, you’ll stop, right? You’ll leave him alone, leave them all alone?” I ask, frantically. Panic and fear jumble up inside me alongside the hunger. I feel nauseous. I think I’d throw up if my stomach had anything in it.
“But of course.” He smirks. “For now, at least.”
“Fine,” I say. “As soon as he gets some help.” I try to reach Sean, but the guards pull me back.
“Oh, don’t be so sensitive! I want him alive for tomorrow too, you know! Take him to be seen to,” he commands, and then ushers me back into the barn.
“Where’s he gone?” Emmanuel calls out. “Where’s Sean?”
Silvio whirls around and stares at him. “How dare you speak before you’re spoken to? The boy’s whereabouts are nothing to do with you. I suggest you eat: this is the last opportunity you will get for some time. Benedict, shall we?”
I move quickly forward and sit down on one of the chairs, all the while feeling the group’s eyes on me. Sabatini perches on the chair opposite and pours me a glass of freshly squeezed juice.
The glug of the liquid, the clink of the ice cubes and the gentle snorts of the horses are the only sounds in the barn.
“Well, cheers!” He raises his glass. “Now.” His smile slips. “Eat.”
I stare at the plate of food in front of me.
I can feel everyone watching me.
“You heard me,” he says, quietly, and then hisses again. “Eat.”
I pick up the heavy knife and fork and cut into the egg. The top of it is still phlegmy, and despite my hunger, my stomach heaves again.
I scrape it from my fork, cutting into the toast instead. I put a piece into my mouth. Chew. Swallow. Cut into the bacon. Chew. Swallow.
Opposite me, Silvio is eating too, smacking his lips joyfully and dabbing his mouth with the napkin after each bite. “Oh my, such fine fare! So delicious, wouldn’t you agree?” He smiles gloatingly over at the performers, who have silently resumed their line and, one by one, are kneeling down and scooping handfuls of slop from the trough.
You’re one of us, Emmanuel said just now. Well, I’m certainly not that any more, Silvio’s made sure of that. This isn’t meant to please me: it’s meant to set me apart, make sure they never accept me, make them hate me. He’s thrusting my status in their faces: forcing them to eat like animals while I sit and dine alongside them. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
I can’t risk him hurting anyone else. I have to do exactly what he says.
And so we dine. The Dregs from their trough, Silvio and me from our table, laden with food. I keep my head down but I can still the feel eyes in my back, sharp as daggers, as I eat.
Cut. Chew. Swallow.
Cut. Chew. Swallow.
What else can I do?
HOSHIKO
I jolt upright early in the morning, at the sound of whispered voices just outside.
Jack and Greta sit up too, and we all look at each other apprehensively.
Slowly, slowly, the cardboard is pulled back a millimetre and two little dark eyes stare into mine for an instant before they vanish. A second later, they appear again, and then another pair below them, both staring through the crack.
“It is her,” a voice whispers. “You speak!”
“No, you speak!” another replies.
We’re all grinning bemusedly now. It’s only a couple of kids. Thank goodness.
Greta leans forward and puts her face up to the crack and the eyes vanish again.
“They’ve seen us now anyway!” one of the voices whispers. “You might as well speak.”
After a second, the cardboard parts open again, a bit further this time, and a boy and a girl look in at us, their faces curious and cautious all at once. They look the same age as each other, both about eight or nine, I guess. They’re obviously brother and sister; they both have the same dark, shiny eyes, the same neat little grins and the same slight, wiry frames.
“You speak!” The girl nudges the boy. He nudges her back.
“No, you!”
This is getting annoying.
“OK, we’ve all seen you now so you might as well both speak. Who are you?” I ask. “And what do you want?”
They look at each other. Finally, the girl says something. “You’re Hoshiko, aren’t you? The tightrope walker?”
I nod. “And you know Benedict Baines?” I nod again.
They look at each other.
There’s silence for a few seconds and then the girl takes a deep breath and speaks again.
“I’m Nila and this is Nihal. Benedict Baines knows our mum. Her name’s Priya, Priya Patel, and we want to know where she is.”
BEN
For a little man, Silvio certainly has a big appetite. The table is overflowing with delicacies and he works his way methodically through all of them, pausing only every now and then to urge me to: “Eat, boy, eat!”
When every last morsel has gone, he takes a slurp from his little china coffee cup before leaning back and rubbing his protruding belly contentedly.
“What a wonderful feast! Don’t you agree? Did you all enjoy your breakfast too?” He calls over to the performers in a sing-song tone. They’re clustered together protectively in a circle now, Emmanuel and the other adults on the outside, the children in the middle. Silvio tuts loudly.
“Honestly, it’s a nightmare getting conversation out of these people! You’d think they’d be keen to express their gratitude, wouldn’t you?” He sighs. “Some people are so hard to please! Right, I’d love to stay here all day, chewing the fat like this, but we really ought to get on with things!” He stands up, indicating to me to do the same. “Showtime tomorrow!” he says loudly. “Lots to do!”
He clicks his fingers, and the green-overalled man and woman come forward, clearing the table while he watches them critically. They seem nervous. I don’t blame them. He always did rule in the circus, until my mother came along that is, but now he seems to have even more power than before.
He catches me staring at him and it’s as if he can read my mind. He leans forward and speaks to me, so quietly that no one else can hear. “Must be a shock for you, Baines. You thought your girlfriend had killed me, but I have risen up – stronger, more powerful, more determined than ever before to protect my circus from destructive influences. I know what you think. You think you hate me, but you don’t even know what hate is, not yet.” He lowers his voice even more. “I’ll make you hate me. Hate me and fear me. You’re going to regret what you did. I’ll make sure of it. I have wonderful plans for you.” He grins wickedly and whispers in my ear, his hot breath tickling my face.
“Your mother’s orders clearly state that you are not to be asked to perform onstage. At no point has she forbidden backstage assistance.”
I move my head away and we eyeball each other for a moment before he pushes back his chair.
“Right. Everyone out. Get on with your allocated tasks. Everyone except the clowns. You stay here.”
The performers stand up and begin to silently shuffle out. In the end, only one small cluster of people remains. Leah, and the group of boys, Sean’s friends – the ones who clearly hated me even before their mate was dragged away and I sat and ate breakfast with Silvio in front of them. They stand there, staring su
llenly at the floor.
“As you all know, there has long been a niggling problem with your little clown act, as entertaining as it promises to be. For some time, I have needed someone to assist with props and –” he pauses “– administer the required effects. Someone backstage, to make sure everything runs smoothly. I have had to rely on an assortment of people who would all be better used elsewhere. Until now, that is. Like an answer to my prayers, Benedict here has been delivered to me. I’m sure you’ll agree that there’s something particularly fitting that these specific duties should be performed by someone who was once such an eminent Pure! During this final dress rehearsal I shall be personally on hand throughout, to ensure that Benedict knows exactly what is required of him. Oh my!” He gives a peculiar little leap, clicking his heels together into the air. “This is going to be so much fun!”
HOSHIKO
My heart plummets at the expectant little faces of Priya’s children. What on earth am I supposed to say to them? I’m rubbish at stuff like this. It took me weeks to tell Greta about Amina.
I close my eyes and see Amina’s body, swinging up there on the wire, just like I see it every night and every day, sometimes at the strangest of times. Then I see Greta’s stricken face when I finally broke it to her. I tried not to go into the details but she wouldn’t let it go: she asked question after question until she knew the whole horrific story.
Ben grieved Priya just as much as I grieved for Amina. It took us a long time to even talk about them but when we eventually shared the loss we felt, and the guilt which tore at us both, it brought us closer together than ever. If it wasn’t for him, Ben said, Priya wouldn’t have been killed and she wouldn’t have been punished in such a shocking way. And if it wasn’t for me, my Amina would be alive. She died protecting me, protecting Ben.
I hated myself for it, really hated myself, but time and time again, Ben repeated the same words to me:
“Silvio killed Amina. Silvio and the circus, not you.” And he said it so often that I started to see that he was right: it wasn’t my fault Amina had been killed, it was Silvio’s, and Silvio was dead. Whatever happened now, I’d destroyed him and Amina could rest in peace. And time and time again, I told Ben:
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