I can’t remember the last time we had milk. Amina smiles at me wryly.
“Don’t get too excited. Have a sniff before you think about drinking any.”
I lower my head down to the plastic beaker. My stomach heaves – it’s completely rancid.
Amina’s chuckling to herself. “Looks like we’ll be going thirsty today.”
“It’s not funny.” I frown at her. She raises her eyebrows and glances around. A guard is pacing past the table, glaring menacingly at everyone as he makes his rounds. Once he’s moved on, she leans forward.
“Better to laugh than cry. Remember, don’t let them break you,” she whispers.
Greta makes her way over to us, balancing her tray precariously. She’s cutting it fine today; she’s only just made it. The shutters slam down on their timer. Anyone who’s not here yet will miss out on the tantalizing treat that is breakfast.
“Do you think we’ll get it right today?” she asks me, straight away. I know exactly what she means. We’ve been working on her quadruple somersault and she’s struggling with it. She can’t quite keep her balance when she lands; she wavers just a little every time.
“Bound to,” I tell her. “You’ve practically got it nailed already.”
We bolt down our vitamin pills and make our way straight to the arena for rehearsals, while Amina heads back to the san.
We get to work on the somersault straight away. “It’s all about keeping your core tight,” I tell Greta, holding her steady around her tiny waist as we practise on the floor mats. “You take a fixed point, focus your eyes on it, focus everything on it, flip and land. Hold your stomach steady. Lock your eyes in position. Like this.”
We practise again and again. Six times, she wobbles when she lands. On the seventh go, she gets it. A perfect tumbling quadruple somersault.
“That’s it!” I tell her. “You’ve done it. Now try on the wire.”
Her eyes widen. “No, Hoshi, I can’t.”
“You can. You can do it, Greta. I’ll drag over the landing mats.” Our eyes lock. “You’re running out of time,” I say, as gently as I can.
I’ve been trying not to let her see how desperate the situation is becoming but I can’t protect her from it, not any more, not if I want to keep her safe. Any day now Silvio’s going to make her perform; it’s a miracle that he hasn’t already and there’ll be no crash mats then to break her fall, just a very high wire and a very steep drop down. Into nothing, and that’s if she’s lucky.
She looks up at me and nods, bravely. “OK. If you think I’m ready.”
“Good. I’ll show you one more time.”
She waits down below as I mount the ladders.
“So you grip with your toes, like this, you focus on your fixed point, you bounce to get the momentum going: one, two, three, and that’s it.”
I leap upward and somersault.
“You did it five times!” she gasps. “You never said I had to do it five times!”
“You don’t. Four is fine.”
“I’ll never be able to do five!”
“You will. When you’ve been doing it as long as I have, it’ll all seem easy. You don’t need to now: four is fine. That’s what Silvio said you have to do.”
I spring back across the wire and scoot down the ladders.
“Come on,” I tell her. “You can do this!”
There’s a sudden crash as the double doors are flung open. There he is, as if me speaking his name has summoned him, the devil himself comes sweeping in. Even though it’s the middle of the day, he’s still wearing his full ringmaster get-up. Those shiny boots, the crimson trousers and blazer, always crisp and impeccably pressed, the frothy frill of the shirt; they’re as much a part of him as the gelled hair and curled moustache. Bojo, his tiny little monkey, all dressed up in the same costume, scurries along at his feet as always.
Greta’s eyes widen in fear and she steps backwards, instinctively hiding behind me.
“Well, has she got it yet?” he barks.
“Yes,” I say with certainty. “Yes. She’s got it perfectly.”
“You’d better be telling the truth!” He grabs Greta, pulling her out from behind me. She stands in front of him, her eyes downcast. She’s shaking.
“Come on then, girl, let’s see it!” Silvio gestures up at the wire. “Now!”
The panic on her face must mirror my own.
“But Silvio, the mats aren’t out. She’s not ready yet.”
“You said she was! Is she, or isn’t she?”
I stare at him. What do I say to that?
“She’ll be ready soon. She’s nearly ready. Not today though, not without mats.”
The ringmaster leans forward, staring at Greta with disdain.
Putting his hand to his waist he takes his little jewelled dagger out of its sheath, holding it up to her throat.
“A year, she’s been here. A whole year on my time perfecting her craft.” Silvio sneers. “Time’s up, little girl. Time is up.”
I clench my fists together, my nails pressing into my palms.
“Get up there!” he yells sharply. At his feet, Bojo whimpers. Silvio picks him up and strokes him as Greta makes her way up the ladder to the wire.
“Greta,” I say, keeping my voice as steady and firm as I can. “You can do this. Remember, fixed point. Toes gripped.”
She mounts the stairs, looks down at me, her eyes brimming, her bottom lip trembling. I give her a thumbs up.
My heart’s in my mouth. If she falls now, she’ll never be the same again. She might die straight away, or she might just break a few limbs. Either way, her life’s over. She won’t have a purpose to serve if her bones are broken.
She tiptoes lightly across the wire, her little toes daintily pointed and stands there, arms out while it steadies.
“Get on with it, girl!” Silvio calls. In his arms, Bojo has his eyes covered; even he can’t stand to watch.
Greta stands there, motionless. Beside me, Silvio curses impatiently.
The seconds tick by.
Finally, she soars. Shooting upward like a rocket. High, tight, she tumbles. One, two, three, four… five perfect somersaults. She lands: her arms above her head, her body arched.
I can’t hold the elation in.
“Yes!” I call. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I turn to Silvio. “Told you!”
It’s a mistake; talking to him like that.
“You told me?” he says, incredulously. “Who are you, to tell me anything?”
He grabs my hair, wrenches my head back and leans in close to me, so that my eyes are staring up at him.
“She looks as good as you now,” he smiles. “Makes you less … valuable.”
I know what he’s suggesting. It’s not true though; ever since Amina’s accident he’s wanted a double act up there. Greta and I should both be safe. For a while.
Greta’s back down the steps and she stands hesitantly next to me, whimpering quietly, a tiny, petrified sound, like a puppy. Her eyes are wide, her face deathly pale.
“Hmm,” he says. “Fear suits you. I must remember that.”
The burning embers of hatred I feel for this man are always there, glowing in the pit of my stomach, but now they’ve flared up again: a forest fire, a raging inferno…
“She’s done what you asked!” I cry out, but he only throws back his head and laughs and then pulls back his arm and punches me, as hard as he can, right in the stomach. “I’ve warned you not to challenge me!” He punches me again, so I fall to the floor and then he kicks and kicks and kicks me while I cower helplessly at his feet. I can hear Bojo and Greta both whimpering. I don’t cry though, and I don’t beg. I don’t make a sound; I’ll never give him the satisfaction.
Maybe it’s the monkey’s distress that saves me, as Silvio stops suddenly. “It’s OK,” he croons. “It’s OK, my little man.” He scoops Bojo up in his arms and showers him with kisses before turning on his heels and heading for the door.
He turns as
he reaches it. His eyes meet mine and he smiles again, a smug smile, before spinning out of the room. He’s pleased with himself. I think of all the harm he’s caused, all the people he’s destroyed, murdered, tortured, and I make a silent vow to myself: one day, somehow, some way, I will make him pay.
BEN
At school, everyone’s still talking about the Cirque. Most kids are going at some point or other over the next two weeks.
“I guess none of you will be there tonight?” Francis asks loudly. “Thought not. It’s only VIPs like us on opening night.”
I cringe. I should have known he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from broadcasting it, even though Mother and Father both warned us not to.
The more important Mother has become, the more gleeful Francis has been. God knows how he’ll contain himself if she wins the party leadership battle.
By the time I get out to the football field at lunch, the word’s already spread and the boys crowd around me.
“Oh my God! You’re so lucky!”
“Can you get me some autographs? That African warrior guy who’s on all the posters, and the tightrope walker: the Cat. I’ve seen her on TV; she’s awesome!”
“Why didn’t you say anything? I would have!”
“I don’t need to say anything with Francis for a brother,” I reply.
When I was younger, when Mother was Minister for Education, she’d be sent tickets for cup finals and film premieres and I used to love going to all those exciting places, being treated like royalty and then showing off about it at school afterwards, but it’s not really my style these days. Anyway, we never go anywhere any more, not since the kidnapping happened and she took on her new role in government, the one which changed everything.
My eyes flick to Stanley, standing vigilantly on the sidelines. It’s like having a permanent prison guard with me. He must be able to hear what’s going on, although his face is a passive blank as usual. I wonder if he’ll let Mother know that Francis has told everyone where we’re going tonight.
She won’t like it if she finds out.
We’re not supposed to tell anyone where we’re going to be spending our evenings any more, not even the kids at school. I’ve had enough security training by now to know I’ve got to keep my cards close to my chest. You never know who’s listening; that’s what we’re always told. If they don’t know where we’ll be, they can’t go planning any surprise attacks. I trust all the lads at school – they’re my mates – but it’s still prudent to be careful. Prudent – Mum’s favourite word, since the day Francis and I were nearly kidnapped.
I think back to that day again. We were at a cup final; Arsenal v Spurs it was. I remember it being controversial because there was a Dreg on the Spurs team. They’d discovered him kicking a tin can about in the slums and had made a special petition because this guy was so good but there were loads of protests about it and the crowd were booing and throwing things on to the pitch.
Spurs won and it was when they were lining up to receive the cup that it happened. These two Dregs had somehow got into the ground and they came at us with knives and grabbed hold of Francis and me. I felt the knife at my throat and heard everyone start screaming. I could smell the guy’s breath on my face, warm and rancid. It all happened so quickly that I don’t even remember being scared, just confused. It must have only been a few seconds before the snipers shot them down. I remember just standing there in the middle of the chaos breaking out all around us and looking down at this Dreg lying dead at my feet. They found out afterwards that they were members of one of the militant Dreg groups: the Brotherhood, they were called – terrorist lowlifes who make it their mission to go around killing innocent Pures.
Mother was so angry about it. She was affronted, she said, that such creatures would have the audacity to approach us like that. She was angry with the government too, and the security forces for allowing such a thing to happen. People lost their jobs over it – a lot of people, I think and everyone in the Brotherhood was hunted down and destroyed. They hanged them in front of the PowerHouse. Twenty bodies swinging there: a warning to anyone else who even thought about repeating such terrible actions.
It’s never really left her since, that anger. She said the attempt wouldn’t have happened if the Dregs were properly controlled and contained. She said if no one else was going to do the right thing, she would. She changed positions as quickly as she could, became the Dreg Control Minister and introduced a much tougher line.
It changed her for ever, that day. She’s never around any more. She says what she’s doing at work is more important, that she’s determined to make the world a safer place for all of us. She says she’s found her calling now and it takes priority over everything, even us. Especially us. Being the Dreg Control Minister isn’t enough for her any more. She says she feels too restricted – that she can’t do as much as she wants to because she always has to run it past someone higher up first. She wants to run for the leadership so she can get rid of all the red tape and make it easier to do what needs to be done to suppress the Dregs. They can’t vote, of course, and the pledges she’s making are so popular with most of the Pure public that she’s bound to win. When she does, she’s promised to make the Dreg problem a thing of the past.
Until that happens though, we’re more at risk than ever. There are Dregs out there intent on targeting my mother and her family, causing trouble; Dregs who want to destroy the country, destroy us, so when we do venture out there are always armed guards and security forces following us around. Going to the circus tonight will be the first time I’ve been anywhere except school and back for such a long time.
Sometimes I sit in my room, reading or drawing or staring out of the window and I feel like I might explode. Everything in my life is so ordered and safe and controlled. My food is prepared for me; my clothes appear neatly ironed in my closet; I’m driven to school and back in an air-conditioned car by a driver who calls me sir, a driver whose name I don’t even know.
I haven’t even got any proper friends any more, not since all the security stuff started. I mean, everyone’s nice enough to me at school, I don’t get bullied or left out or anything but it’s not the same as it used to be.
The party invitations stop coming when you politely decline every single one of them for long enough. And when you aren’t allowed to play any away matches, you soon get dropped from the footie team.
My father’s always been quite removed from us. Present, but not there, if that makes sense. Quietly fond of us from a distance. It wasn’t always like that with Mother though. When I was younger, she was around all the time, like any other normal mum. Every assembly, every sports day, every football match, I’d look up, and there she’d be, waving at me from the sidelines. She took us to school every day, picked us up, ate dinner with us. I took her for granted, I suppose; assumed she’d be around like that for ever.
It isn’t like that any more. I can’t remember the last time she showed an interest in anything Francis or I did. She just works all the time, and even when she is there there’s always a distance in her eyes, like she’s somewhere else entirely in her head. She gets so irritated by our “petty questions” that I’ve stopped asking her for much.
It doesn’t really bother me; I’m not a child any more, I don’t need her like I used to. And anyway, it’s been a lot easier since she took Priya on.
It’s crazy, really, that a Dreg servant, of all people, should seem more interested in my life than my own mother, but sneaking downstairs and talking to Priya always seems to reduce that empty feeling inside me.
Sometimes I wonder if everyone feels like this, but they just don’t talk about it.
I did ask Priya once, if she ever felt sad, deep inside. She laughed and said of course she did, of course she felt sad deep inside, every second of every day.
“Show me a Dreg who doesn’t,” she said. “Know how often I see my family? Once a month. Know what we do together? Huddle up to keep warm us
ually, and try not think too much about food.”
She’s not supposed to tell me things like that, but I didn’t say anything. It’s not really her fault: Dregs are often fiery and unpredictable; it’s part of their nature. They live on the fringes of society because they aren’t capable of being civilized, kind, cultured. That’s what Mother says.
Rather than feeling empty, like I suppose hers must do all the time, my stomach feels queasy – especially when I think about the girl on the tightrope. It must be excitement, because tonight will finally be a break in the monotony: I’m finally going somewhere, doing something. I haven’t felt excited about anything for so long.
HOSHIKO
As soon as Silvio’s gone, Greta sits down beside me on the floor and we hold each other tightly. We don’t say anything – what is there to say? – we just stay like that for ages before we eventually pick ourselves up slowly and head over to the san. I’m stiff, which makes it hard to walk, and I have to stay all hunched over because it hurts when I stretch my stomach out, but thankfully nothing has been broken.
Amina casts a critical eye over me. The bruises have appeared and my whole midriff is an angry purple colour.
“He’s been very clever; the marks won’t show under your costume,” she remarks wryly, “and he’s kicked you just hard enough to avoid any breakages or internal damage.” She looks at me. “He’s protecting his assets; and that’s a good thing. Once he stops seeing you as valuable, that’s when you’re in real trouble.”
I look at Greta; there are dark rings under those big blue eyes and an anxious look on her face which don’t belong on a six year old.
“Hurry up and get better,” she pleads. “If he’s going to make me go out there, I won’t be able to do it without you.”
“I’ll be fine by show time, Greta, I promise. Won’t I, Amina?” I try to reassure her.
“Right as rain,” Amina agrees but adds gently, “You know you’ll have to go up at some point, Greta.” She sighs. “And Hoshi might not always be there with you.”
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