He claps his hands and Sven appears. In his hand, a plate, and on the plate, a huge chocolate cake, thick with fudgy icing. There are candles in it. Seven of them.
Greta gasps again. She looks like she could burst with excitement.
“Ah, that’s right, I did!” Never in all my life have I heard a more condescending tone of voice than Kadir’s right now. “Here it is! And what’s this I see? It has candles on it! Seven candles! Now, who around here is seven?”
“Me!” Greta says, then looks suddenly downcast. “But it’s not my birthday.” Her little lips pout. “We don’t know when my birthday is. I forgot the date.”
“Well then, today’s as good a day as any! Have you ever had a birthday cake, Greta?”
She shakes her head, gazing at the cake with shining eyes.
They’re all grinning at her. Kadir, Laura, even the usually sinister men in the corner.
I look at her face again. She’s spellbound. Completely transfixed by the cake.
Tears sting my eyes and I feel my lip tremble. I’ve never seen her this happy, so I don’t know why I suddenly want to cry.
Kadir reaches forward and lights the candles.
“What do I do now?”
“What do you do? You blow them out, of course! Remember to make a wish first! You’ll need a different one now; I made this one come true already!”
Greta opens her mouth wide, takes a deep breath and then closes it, puffing out her cheeks.
“Stop!” Laura Minton says, suddenly. “Haven’t you forgotten something, Kadir?” She rolls her eyes at Greta. “I don’t know, these men, useless, the lot of them! We have to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, of course! Come on everyone, join in! Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday—”
She breaks off. “Don’t make me sing it on my own!” she berates us, and then begins singing again. This time, Kadir joins her and, under his scrutinizing glare, even the men in the corner mumble the words half-heartedly.
I catch Greta’s eye, then smile at her and mime along, bobbing my head to the rhythm.
When we finish, Greta screws her eyes shut tight and blows out all the candles at once. Laura claps her hands. “First time! That means your wish will definitely come true!”
“Will it really?” Greta asks.
“Oh, for sure! And now we get to eat the cake! I expect you’d like the first piece?”
Greta nods excitedly. Then she hesitates and smiles at me, coyly. “Hoshi can have it.”
“Oh, what a delightful child! So well mannered! Tell you what, Hoshiko can cut you both a piece, how about that?”
The whole room looks at me expectantly, even Bojo.
There’s a knife on the edge of the plate. I’ve never cut a birthday cake before – I’ve never even seen one. I lift the knife and plunge it down into the thick icing, slicing off a great slab of moist, gooey cake. All things considered, I think I do a fairly good job.
I hand it carefully to Greta, who gazes down at it with love.
“Aren’t you having a piece?” she asks me.
“I will in a second. You enjoy yours. I just want to talk to these guys a minute.”
She looks at me with questioning eyes and, when I nod my approval, she sinks her teeth into the cake, smiling at me with a big chocolatey grin as she eats, her lips and cheeks already covered with brown smudges.
Laura and Kadir watch her fondly for a moment and then look at each other in some kind of silent exchange, and then at me.
“OK,” I say, my eyes flitting between them. “Who’s going to tell me what this is all about?”
BEN
I suppose I ought to feel something, seeing Father and Francis after so long, but I don’t. I feel nothing at all.
Silvio claps his hands at the performers on the stage. “Leave!” he orders, and they move out, carrying Sean’s inert body awkwardly between them. I still haven’t seen him move.
“We require a progress report,” demands my mother. She glares at me, coldly. “According to your father, I’ve been too harsh on you.”
My father’s eyes are full of tears and he’s shaking. He looks smaller than before. He looks like a weak old man.
“What have they done to you?” he says.
I lock eyes with him. I don’t blink.
“Not much. Put me in a prison cell patrolled by wolves, forced me to electrocute innocent people, drugged me when I refused to, just the usual. Nothing as bad as the boy they’ve just dragged offstage. I think he might be dead, in case you were interested.” I smack my forehead with my open palm. “Silly me. He’s just a Dreg. Why would you be concerned about him?”
My father turns to my mother. “I told you. I told you Sabatini would take it too far.” He glares at Silvio.
My eyes turn to Francis. He hasn’t changed. He’s still wearing the same smirk he had when I saw him last, the exact same smirk that was on his face when I confronted him about Priya.
He’s the reason they found out I’d been talking to her. Because of him, they hauled her out of the house and murdered her. Because of him, they turned her into a circus exhibit.
Uncontrollable rage seizes hold of me. I grab him by the scruff of his neck and push him backwards. The shock on his face pleases me. I pull back my fist.
Before I can make contact, the guards intercept. It takes two of them to pull me away.
I think even my mother is shocked; her face has turned a little paler than usual and her nostrils have flared angrily.
“Benedict! Has your time with the Dregs turned you into an animal?” she gasps.
My father steps forward. He puts his hand on my arm. I look down at it, resting there.
“Come home, son,” he says. “Let’s start again. Please, just come home.”
“Come home?” I spit the words out. “I don’t have a home with you, a home with her.”
I turn to my mother. “I don’t care what you do to me, don’t you see that? You can be as nice or as nasty as you like – it doesn’t make any difference! I’ll never be your little boy again, never! I’ll never be a part of you, a part of what you are. You don’t care about me! You don’t even know me! You just want a cardboard cut-out, someone who’ll stand there next to you to boost your stupid election campaign. Someone who’ll help you get back that wholesome family image you spent so long cultivating. Well, you know what? I hope you lose. I pray to God you lose! Tell you what, why don’t I send Laura Minton my DNA? Find out exactly what it is you’re so keen to hide!”
Her eyes seethe with hatred. When she looks at me now, it’s the same way she looks at Silvio, the same way she looks at any Dreg. I repulse her. I revolt her.
“I told you. I told you it was necessary,” she says to my father. “Do you see now? What he is, what he has become?”
My father’s eyes are still fixed on me, like he can’t tear them away.
“There must be another way!” He’s pleading, not with her though, with me. “What can we do? What can we do to make you come home?”
What does he want from me?
I know what the others want. They’re easy to read.
My mother wants to bend me, curb me to her will – that’s all she’s ever wanted – and Francis, standing there, that smile lingering on the edges of his mouth, I know exactly what he wants.
That’s the funny thing about me and Francis: we’ve always been so different to each other. We’ve never got on, never been close. I hate him for what he did to Priya, hate him for everything he is. I hate him as much as I hate my mother, as much as I hate Silvio: I hate him more than anyone … and yet … I know him better than I know anyone too. Better than I know Hoshi, even.
Hoshi fascinates me, captivates me, intrigues me, but can I always read her emotions? Can I predict how she’s going to react in any given situation? No. Hoshi’s way too complex, way too complicated. I don’t think I could ever really say I know her, even if I was to spend a thousand years trying. Not like I know this little weasel, smirking at me. I’ve
always known exactly what’s going on in his head, always been able to figure out what motivates him, what pleases him.
He catches my eye and his smile curves wider. He’s happy. I’m doing exactly what he wants. He wants me to be the rebel. He doesn’t want me back in the fold. He likes being the golden child.
I turn back to my father. He’s the only one I can’t read. He’s always been softer than the others, more pliable. Maybe that’s why he and my mother work together. She’s told him what to do, how to behave, what to think, and he’s been happy to oblige.
Now, though, his expression is all his own; it doesn’t reflect either of theirs. He’s not looking at me in frustration and rage like my mother, or glee, like Francis. He looks bereft, broken.
What can we do? he says. Does he really want to know? Does he care enough to listen? I tried once before, to talk to him. He told me to stop being romantic. He told me not to cause any scandals for my mother. He told me to be a good boy and behave myself.
Positioning my body away from the others, I move closer to him. The tears welling in his eyes spill over. He’s crying. I’ve never seen him cry before.
For the first time, I feel something other than coldness and anger. I don’t know what it is. It isn’t love.
“I’m never coming home,” I say to him, quietly. “But you could listen to my reasons why, that would be a start. You could hear what I have to say. You never know, I might even tell you something that makes you change your mind about things.”
He just stares at me, the tears spilling down his face. Then he nods, sadly.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Roger, don’t let him manipulate you like that!” my mother tells him, crossly.
She turns to Silvio, hovering uncertainly in the corner.
“Ringmaster,” she says. “Have him. No strings attached; call it a gift. We’re done with him.”
Silvio’s face lights up like a Christmas tree.
“You mean I can do whatever I like with him?” He licks his lips. “You mean I can use him in the shows?”
My mother glares at me. I glare back. My heart is pounding with fear, but I’ll never let her see.
“What I mean is what I say. Do what you want. Parade him in the shows, hang him from the rafters right now, whatever you like. He’s nothing to us. Our son is dead. I never want to hear him spoken of again.”
She turns and walks away, turning back at the door. My father and Francis remain where they are, looking from her to me; even Francis looks uncertain.
“Well, let’s get out of this godforsaken place, shall we?” she calls to them. It’s a command, posed as a question.
Francis turns and scurries after her.
My eyes meet my father’s once more.
“Roger!” she barks, impatiently. He reaches out a hand, rests it on my hair for a moment. “Goodbye, Benedict,” he whispers to me. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way.” And then he turns away, scampering obediently over to my mother and Francis, waiting by the exit, and the three of them leave. I watch them go, but none of them, not even my father, look round.
HOSHIKO
Laura Minton smiles at me.
“Tell me, Hoshiko, how much do you know about the current political situation?”
“I know you’re taking on Vivian Baines,” I answer. “I know they say things will be different under you, that you’re going to change things if you win, change things for the better.”
“That’s right. I am and I will. It’s not going to be easy; this country has been segregated for a long, long time. We’ve been patient, but the time is now.”
“So, what have Greta and I got to do with it?”
She laughs. “Smart girl, this one. Gets straight to the point, doesn’t she? Well, Hoshiko, we’re hoping you’ll agree to help us. Kadir tells me you saw the showdown last night, on TV?”
I nod. “Vivian Baines was faking it. Ben would never go back to her, never.”
“Oh yes, she was faking it, I have no doubt about that. But why would she bother? Why would she go to so much trouble to attempt to convince the world that Ben’s back in the fold?”
“Because she’s a control freak. Because she’s a bitch.”
She laughs, dryly. “Well, I won’t disagree with you there. But it’s also because she knows how important you and Ben are together. You’re notorious, you two – many people see you as inspirational, as heroes. You blew up the circus, and then escaped from it.” She smiles at me. “You ran off with the Dreg Control Minister’s son, the very woman who wants to be the next Prime Minister. You can’t get more radical than that. You’re a very important figure; I don’t think you realize the influence you could wield.”
“So what do you want me and Greta to do?”
“I want to interview you, use it for the finale of my campaign. I want you to give insiders’ perspectives of the Cirque. It’s about to reopen, did you know?”
I nod again.
“Baines has made it a central part of her agenda,” she continues. “She’s gone from publicly condemning it to promoting it. She’s put a lot of her money into its revamp. The opening night marks the official climax of her election campaign. Do you know why?”
I shake my head. “No, not really. Ben said she always used to go on about how it was an extravagant waste of money.”
“Well. She’s changed her story now. She’s desperate, that’s why: making it bigger and better than before is the only way she can come up with of drawing a line under what happened with you and Benedict. It’s her way of demonstrating to the world that you didn’t achieve anything, that the Pure and Dreg divide is as entrenched as it ever was. She’s wrong, of course. It won’t work, not if we don’t let it.”
She leans forward, her voice earnest. “I’ll be honest with you, Hoshiko, this election is too close to call at the moment. I have my staunch supporters; Baines has hers. It’s the ones who are sitting on the fence we need to win over. The ones who know, deep down, that change is necessary and right but are afraid of it nevertheless.
“The circus has become a key symbol in this election. Vivian Baines wants to use the publicity surrounding opening night to her advantage. She’s going to make it her victory parade, a visible symbol of Pure dominance over Dregs. We need to take that away from her. If we can knock her off the hot spot; if we can storm the networks instead with footage of you girls talking about your experiences, spelling out just how horrific circus life is, I think we can bring the waverers onside.”
She places her hands over mine again, leaning in even more closely. “This needs to be hard-hitting. Real, emotional, powerful stuff. You’re famous, Hoshiko. You’re famous and you’re beautiful and you beat them! You made it out of there. You can steal her thunder. You can steal the show. People will follow where you lead. If you stand beside me, we can win over all of those people who might stick with Baines just because they’re afraid of change, just because they’re afraid of the brave new world we can bring!”
She’s good, this woman, better than Baines, even: I can see why she’s managed to get so far. Her words are rousing. They make me feel hopeful for the future. There’s still something about this whole situation that doesn’t feel right, though. Kadir’s chair is pushed right up to hers. The two of them so close together, as thick as thieves: the Pure politician and the slumlord.
“What is the alternative?” I ask her. “What exactly are you going to do if you win, and what’s he got to do with it?”
“Kadir and I are allies,” she answers immediately. “Isn’t that right, Kadir?”
Kadir nods, silently, his eyes never leaving my face.
“If things go our way, the country is going to be in turmoil for a while,” Laura Minton says. “We need change, God knows we do, but we also need order to prevail. We can’t just let things descend into chaos, can’t let anarchy take hold. The Dregs have been oppressed for so long, they will need careful managing if they’re granted their freedom. Changing the infrastructure, bu
ilding the housing we need, the schools we need, is going to take years, decades even. Kadir understands that, but not everyone does. I will need him on hand to govern things when I take control, to keep the slums calm, to stop people getting hysterical.”
She says it with gentle authority. She speaks like she’s a benevolent angel, and she is, compared to Vivian Baines, but I don’t like the way she says when I take control. I don’t like anyone having too much power. It scares me.
“So Kadir’s going to work for you, is that what you’re saying?”
Kadir frowns at me.
“I don’t work for anyone. We’ll be a team, working together for the good of the country.” He turns to her. “I’m going to be an important part of the cabinet, right? I’m going to be given a title?”
She nods. “Oh yes. You’re vital to me,” she purrs. She turns to me again. “Kadir and I are on the same side. We’re on your side and we just need this one thing from you. What do you say?”
I look at Greta. She’s nodding at me and grinning as she licks her fingers.
“Look,” I say. “I’m already the most wanted criminal in the country. If I speak on film, the people who hate me now are going to hate me even more, and Greta too. I’d love to help, but I can’t put us in any more danger than we already are, I just can’t.”
There’s a heavy silence and then Kadir speaks, quietly.
“May I remind you,” he says, “that we had a deal. I’ve guaranteed you safe asylum in my slums. I’ve protected you from kidnappers, set myself in direct opposition to the police for you. I’ve given you food, I’ve given you lodgings. I thought we were friends.”
My slums. Both of these people are hungry for power, and power-hungry people are always a threat.
There’s a long silence.
“Think about it,” he says. “Where would you be now, without my support?”
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