Show Stealer

by Hayley Barker

  Someone blows a whistle, piercingly loud. It’s a policeman.

  “Let them go!” he shouts. “The wolves are attacking out there! We have to save the Pures! Let the Dregs go!”

  The guards and police turn away from us and run back towards the main courtyard. All you can hear is the sound of screaming.

  “Run!” someone shouts. “Run!”

  We move forward.

  There are two guards still, on the gate.

  “Open it now!” one of the Brotherhood shouts. The guards hesitate. “I said: open it!” he roars, aiming the gun right at them. They do what he says.

  I look at Hoshi. Ashen-faced, she fires me a poisonous glare. She’s angry with me for letting Ezekiel climb up to rescue her.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “He’d better be OK,” she says.

  “He will be,” Emmanuel’s deep voice answers from behind us. He’s running too, carrying Ezekiel effortlessly in his arms. “He’s sleeping. He’s peaceful.”

  Hoshi scowls at me. Then she grabs my hand and we join the stream of Dregs running out of the Cirque.

  EPILOGUE

  HOSHIKO

  It’s been six months now since the day the circus fell. Six months since poor Felix died. Six months since Vivian Baines was vanquished. Six months since the election result that changed history.

  England’s a different place now: a brighter place. The air is full of promise and hope.

  What was the turning point? What was it that made the Pure voters turn out in their thousands and vote for equality for all?

  Ben says it was my speech and the holograms of me they spread through the city, but I think the trigger point was him, way back when he spoke out before we escaped from the Cirque. If the son of Vivian Baines herself dared to stand and be counted, couldn’t other people?

  Folklore says it was the day we blew up the circus, the day I threw the grenade that so very nearly vanquished Silvio Sabatini.

  Maybe it wasn’t any of that. Maybe it was the way that Vivian Baines so visibly floundered when Laura Minton threw down the gauntlet and challenged her to have her genetic heritage assessed.

  What I think is that it was all of those things combined and it was more than them too, things bigger and greater than any of us – reason and goodness and justice. Regardless of our actions, hatred and bigotry would never have reigned supreme for ever. There’s light at the end of every dark day, I truly believe that.

  And so far, Laura Minton has proved as good as her word. As soon as she got that landslide result, she rushed through emergency legislation. Discrimination based on race or ethnicity is a criminal, prosecutable offence now and, officially speaking, there’s no such things as Pures and Dregs any more. Of course, it will take a lot more than a change to the legal system to make things right. There’s still deeply entrenched hatred and resentment from both sides of the divide, but it’s a start: a really good start.

  I still don’t like Kadir, but I do have to reluctantly admit, he’s doing a pretty good job so far of keeping things calm amongst the masses. The government are going to tear the slums down, they say, as soon as enough new houses are built, and already, life for the people living in them has changed dramatically. They earn wages now, they have access to health care and, from next September, every child under the age of sixteen, including my Greta, will go to school.

  I look around at the solid brick walls of our home. The first real home I’ve ever had. Laura Minton arranged homes for all of us Cirque veterans as soon as they shut it down. She said it was the least the country could do for us.

  It’s not big, but it’s cosy and warm here and, when we lock the door at night, I feel almost safe.

  In frames on the walls there are photos: Greta and Bojo; Ben and me; photos of Jack; photos of Ezekiel and Emmanuel. In every one, we’re laughing and happy and hopeful.

  They don’t tell the whole truth, those photos. They don’t show how fragile we all are, how damaged we’ve been by the life we’ve led, the experiences we’ve had.

  Some clever person with a lab coat and a degree has arranged a rehabilitation programme for everyone who suffered at the hands of Silvio Sabatini and the Cirque. Group therapy; individual therapy; post-traumatic stress counselling; cognitive behavioural therapy – you name it, we’ve had it. It helps a bit, I suppose, but no amount of talking will ever fix what’s broken, not really.

  There’s one more photo I have, but I keep it hidden away under my mattress, and I only take it out when nobody’s there.

  It’s a photo of me, from way back in the days of the old Cirque. I’m in my black cat outfit. The light catches on the spangled costume so it looks like I’m made of sparkle and shine. I’m standing on the wire, toes pointed, back arched, head held high, while the crowd below me cheer.

  I haven’t even told Ben and Greta I’ve got it and I certainly wouldn’t tell my counsellor: she’d have a field day.

  Why do I keep it? she’d ask. What am I clinging on to? How does it make me feel?

  Those are questions I don’t want to address, with her or anyone else, and so I push the yearning and the longing back down and I concentrate on the here and now: on Ben and Greta and our little home.

  The official search starts next week to reunite the circus children with their families. Of course, lots of people are already back home. Ezekiel is safe with his parents; Sean and Rosie live together, just down the road to us; and Emmanuel has found his brother and sister.

  Nobody’s asked about Greta and me though. I don’t know why. If they’re out there somewhere – our mums and dads; our brothers and sisters – they must know what’s happened. We’re more famous now than we ever were. We don’t talk about it much, but I think we both know, deep in our hearts, that something isn’t right. Surely, if there was any way they could have come forward for us, they would have.

  The television’s on: the news channel. The headlines flash up. They’re talking about Vivian Baines again. They’ve set a date for the start of her trial. She’s being prosecuted for crimes against humanity. They say she’ll go to prison.

  They’re looking for Silvio too, but there’s been no sign of him since the day the Brotherhood stormed the Cirque. The police think he must be dead, but they’ve never found his body. There are rumours now and again that he’s reappeared, sightings of him living rough around London, but they never come to anything.

  Even if he is alive somewhere, he’s got no power now. He’s replaced me in being the country’s most wanted criminal. Instead of Ben, Greta, Jack and me, it’s his face that scowls down from the Wanted posters beamed up on the walls of the PowerHouse.

  Once they catch him, he’ll be tried and sentenced. He’ll finally be made to pay the price for everything he’s done, just like Vivian Baines.

  They’re covering the protests on the news report now – the ones that happen every time Vivian Baines has to make a public appearance. The people who are demonstrating against her, the ones who are calling out for her to pay for her crimes, shout the loudest, but they aren’t the only ones who turn up. There’s a strong minority faction who won’t be silenced. They want her reinstated. They want things to go back to how they were before. They see this as a blip.

  I click the television off. I don’t want to hear this. Not today.

  I stir the pot on the hob, and the smell of meat and spices fills the room. I love cooking: chucking a little bit of this and a little bit of that into a pot and creating something aromatic and hearty and delicious. Greta and I shop for ingredients together, both of us revelling in the sheer indulgence of being able to pick something up from a shelf, pay for it and take it home to keep.

  I look at the clock. Ten to six.

  They’ll all be arriving any minute now. I’d better get changed.

  I put my dress on and run a brush through my hair. Then I close the curtains and cast one more critical eye at the big table which fills the room.

&
nbsp; Right on cue, there’s a tap on the door and the guests all come pouring through it one after the other.

  “Quickly,” I tell them. “We need to get into place.”

  Once everyone’s seated, I look around the table.

  We aren’t exactly a joyful bunch, but we’re getting there.

  To my left, Rosie and Sean. They’ll both grieve for ever for Felix, their lost boy, but they’re smiling today and they’re here, with us, and that’s all anyone could expect of them.

  Next to Rosie, Jack, his arm around Alice, his fiancée. She came back as soon as it was safe and the pair of them are busy planning their wedding. She’s just like you’d think Jack’s partner would be: warm and wonderful.

  On the other side of the table, Ezekiel and Emmanuel. Emmanuel’s chuckling at something Jack has said and his booming laugh fills the room.

  Looking out of the window, waiting excitedly with Greta, Nila and Nihal. They’re family already, these two lovely children. Ben sees them every day now and Greta already loves them like a brother and sister.

  There are two spaces left at the table.

  A knock at the door signals the final guest, and we all look around at each other nervously. I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing, inviting him. I don’t know how Ben will react.

  I open the door up and we smile at each other, politely and awkwardly. He gives me a bunch of flowers and I thank him and show him to the table, where Jack makes awkward small talk with him.

  Ben’s father.

  I sent an invitation to Ben’s brother, Francis, too, but I knew he’d refuse. He says he still hates Ben and he hates me and he hates Dregs. I’m glad he didn’t come.

  “He’s here!” Greta calls, excitedly. “Turn off the lights and get ready, everyone!”

  BEN

  It’s been a long day. I’ve been volunteering on one of the work groups, breaking the Cirque down and levelling the land where it stood.

  It’s therapeutic work. I think it’s doing more to heal me than any of the counselling courses, but it’s hard, physical work and it makes my legs ache so much that it feels like I’m dragging myself through the streets back home.

  I just want to get back to Hoshi, but as I turn into the road and look towards our house, my heart sinks with disappointment. The lights are off; nobody’s in.

  I put my key in the door, fumble for the light—

  “Surprise!”

  “Happy eighteenth birthday!” Greta shouts out excitedly, and they break into song.

  I stare around, lost for words.

  Nila and Nihal, Sean, Rosie, Ezekiel, Emmanuel, Jack, Alice, Greta.

  There’s someone else here too. A pale, nervous figure, standing still and silent amidst the singing and the laughter, his eyes full of apprehension and worry.

  After a moment, I step forward. He steps away from his place at the table, meeting me halfway, and for the first time in oh so many years, I hug my father.

  Over his shoulder I catch Hoshi’s eye. She’s by the sink, putting some flowers into a vase. She’s wearing a new blue dress and she’s more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her. She looks as unsure as my father.

  “Is it OK?” she mouths.

  “Did you arrange this?” I mouth back, and she nods, smiling shyly.

  She’s organized this. Hoshi’s gathered together all the people we love. Hoshi’s cooked the meal that smells so good it’s making my mouth water. Hoshi’s made that cake that sits in the middle of the table, and Hoshi’s done what I’d never have been brave enough to do and invited my father, who I haven’t seen since that day in the circus when he threw the antidote up for Ezekiel. Hoshi, who has every reason to hate him, has asked him for me, because she knows I want to try and forgive him but I might need a nudge in the right direction. She’s done it all for me. My Hoshi.

  I cross the room and hug her hard while everyone breaks into another round of applause.

  Holding her tightly, I thank God she exists.

  “Thank you, Hoshi,” I whisper in her ear. “Thank you for everything.”

  SILVIO

  They’ve all forgotten about me. They think they’ve defeated me. They think I’m running scared.

  They’re wrong.

  Even my family have forsaken me now, after I got too close. I knocked on the door of their elegant home in my darkest hour only to be turned away: still just a shameful secret to be denied.

  I don’t care. I don’t need them anyway. I don’t need anyone.

  Lurking in the shadows, I bide my time, waiting for the right moment. I cannot be erased from history like this. I will rise again, just like I did before.

  Before long, it will all collapse, this brave new world.

  Once the Pures see the truth – once they realize what equal rights for all really means – they won’t be quite so keen on the idea.

  They’ll soon get fed up with sharing their schools and hospitals and parks and restaurants with Dregs, with seeing their hard-earned taxes frittered away on the shiny new welfare system.

  Vivian Baines’s supporters have not gone away: they’re just waiting, like me, for the rest to realize their mistakes. They’ll all be begging to have her back soon, all be begging to have the balance restored.

  And when she’s entrenched in her rightful position of power, as she will be, she’ll want to bring the circus back. She’ll put me in charge again. She’ll put both Ben and Hoshiko in it. She’ll let me do what I like with them.

  Like an animal, like a Dreg, I forage in bins for scraps of food and find another newspaper with another picture of them: the happy couple, the people’s heroes. I caress them with my fingers, smudging and blurring their faces before scrunching them up into a ball. Then I do what I always do: light the paper and watch them crumble to ashes.

  My time will come again, I know it will.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I have loved writing this book, mostly because of the support and guidance of my brilliant editor, Lauren Fortune. From the moment I started working on it, Lauren has been on hand with advice and suggestions and has made the whole journey feel possible and, for the large part, stress free. I’m so proud of Show Stealer, and it wouldn’t be here at all – and certainly wouldn’t be anything like the shape it’s in now – without Lauren.

  I am also blessed to have Alice Sutherland-Hawes as my agent. Her professionalism, warmth and humour have been invaluable to me and I am so excited to be continuing my writing career with her support and vision. This has been a hugely successful year for the Madeleine Milburn agency, and I am proud to be represented by Maddy, Alice, Hayley and the whole team.

  Massive thanks to everybody at Scholastic, especially Olivia Horrox, who I will miss like mad. Thanks so much, Olivia, to you and to Róisín O’Shea for doing such a phenomenal job marketing Show Stopper, and to the foreign rights team for all of their hard work. Thanks also to Jessica White and Peter Matthews for helping to iron out all the creases.

  When I first saw the cover of Show Stealer, it lived up to its name and took my breath away. Andrew Biscomb and Paola Escobar, thank you so for being so hugely talented.

  This book has been a collaborative effort in more ways than one. Last year, while experiencing a bout of writer’s block, I put out a plea on Facebook for ideas of unsavoury circus rides and fairground attractions. Turns out, I have a lot of friends and family with minds nearly as twisted as mine! Thanks to all of you who made such brilliant suggestions, and special thanks and co-author credits – for ideas which I took and ran with – to: Elliot Sadler, Rachel Sadler and Faye Bravant for the deadly Ferris wheel; Nassrin Schott for the Globe of Death; Caroline Gordon-Johnson for the idea of Silvio seemingly disappearing from the theatre by magic; and David Glasspool for the Dreg bumper cars. Huge thanks to Kerrie Lewis Graham for first planting the idea of using genetic heritage testing in my head. The story wouldn’t have been the same without any of you!

  Since I wrote Show Stopper, I have been privileged to get to k
now many people in the UKYA world through Twitter and Instagram and at various bookish events. Thank you to all of you, the UKYA community is just the best. Thanks especially to Zoe Collins, for being such a great advocate – it’s been wonderful seeing your career progress and develop so formidably over this year. Thanks also to Nicola @ PrythianBworm for always being especially lovely about Show Stopper. Thank you to Josh Martin, for helping me to get to grips with Scrivener, which made this novel soooooo much easier to write, and to Alice Broadway and Lisa Thompson for giving me help and advice whenever I’ve asked for it.

  The title of Show Stealer is thanks to Jay Kenobi and Kirsty Stanley, who suggested it to me at YALC 2017. Who knew that Star Wars cosplay could be so helpful?

  I was writing this book when the Grenfell Tower tragedy occurred and Molly Ker Hawn organized the Authors for Grenfell auction. Talented children’s poet Paul Minton (not heard of him? You should have, his book Miss Winter’s Demise is brilliant and hilarious) bid for the chance to name a character in the book. Laura Minton, I hope you like your dad’s gift.

  As ever, the biggest thanks of all go to my wonderful husband, Mark. Not only do you support me practically and emotionally but you have offered me the most insightful advice throughout for both of my books. I could never have done any of this without you, especially now that you seem to have somehow landed yourself the enviable role of being my unpaid and unofficial accountant and PA.

  Thanks always to my wonderful family. My sisters, Katie and Gemma, for always being there for me. My gorgeous boys, Will and Adam and, last but not least, my mum and dad, who this book is dedicated to. Mum, thank you for always dropping everything to give each draft – and there have been many – a read-through and for being able to sniff out a typo like a police dog on a drug raid. And huge thanks and lots of love to both of you for being generally awesome and for proudly waving the flag (and wearing the T-shirt) for Show Stopper wherever you go.