Greta gives a brave little nod, but her bottom lip is trembling again. “Not yet, though,” she says, firmly. “Not yet.” As if repeating it will make it a fact.
I think about what Amina’s suggesting. Does she mean that one day Greta might replace me? Or that one day I might just go and die and leave Greta alone? Both things, probably.
A feeling of intense frustration floods through me. It’s the same old miserable realization that we’re stuck here, enslaved, totally without hope. Being born a Dreg is to be the lowest of the low – to be crushed underfoot by the Pures and their domination and doctrine, the doctrine which defines us as the sludgy, worthless sediment floating at the bottom of society, while the Pure elite – the superior, the virtuous, the worthy – rise upwards to their rightful place at the top.
The Pures think that Dregs have always been scum, that it’s in our nature but it’s not true. They did this to us, used us a scapegoat for all the wrongs in the world. It’s been over a hundred years now since the government started turning on the country’s immigrants and ethnic minorities, blaming them for everything. Back then, opportunities were open to anyone in this country. People just like us were doctors, police officers, teachers, judges – until we took the fall so epically.
They segregated us first, moved anyone not Pure English to the slums on the edges of the cities. Then came the shutting down of access to schools and hospitals, to good jobs and any hope for the future.
It’s a tough life, living in the slums – I’ll never forget the feel of the cold and the damp, even if I do struggle to remember my family’s faces. There’s no electricity or heating and the roofs all leak, everywhere is filthy and there are rats, as big as dogs some of them, roaming around as if they owned the place. People work in return for rations and most just about manage not to starve to death, but the jobs are all menial, degrading ones that the Pures themselves don’t want to do.
The Cirque didn’t come along until a few years after the slums were set up. It was just an ordinary circus at first, full of trained Pure performers, until a couple of Dregs were drafted in for the more dangerous stunts. When one of them died, there was a huge fuss made about it on the news and in the social media. It wasn’t all negative though – turned out a lot of the Pures were happy about it and the circus suddenly became more popular. More Dregs were drafted in, the acts becoming increasingly more dangerous, the death count higher and higher. The more deaths there were, the more popular the place became and so it grew and grew and grew: the wealthiest and most successful circus in the world.
Sometimes, when I’m putting the horses into their stables for the night and look into their soft, dark eyes, I envy them. They aren’t weighed down by that same heavy burden of fear and pain that we are. They don’t know regret, or fear, or anger, not like we do. No one tells them that their ancestors were once free, that the world wasn’t always this way. That it’s not right, the way they are kept caged up like this, the way they are forced to perform. They don’t miss their families, or worry about how they are and they don’t feel the grief either, every time there’s another death. Whenever I try to think of the future I can’t picture anything except a black hole. I just feel cold. A cold that’s buried so deep under my skin I don’t think it will ever go away.
BEN
Passing through the big metal turnstiles into the Cirque is like walking into an alternative reality. It punches you in the face the moment you enter, an assault on the senses which refuses to let up.
There’s so much colour. The bright and beautiful performers all dressed up in their spangles and sparkles. Lights everywhere: neon signs shamelessly flashing and tiny twinkly fairy lights winking seductively, beckoning you in. The smells of popcorn and candy floss and sizzling burgers all vying for attention. Gaudy music spilling out of every tent. It makes me feel dizzy.
The ringmaster, Silvio Sabatini, is there to greet us at the entrance. I recognize him from the parade. He seems beside himself with excitement as he rushes forward to greet Mother, bowing down as if she’s some kind of queen.
“Let me escort you straight to the action, Madam,” he gushes. “We’re so excited to have you here, watching our little show.”
Francis, Father and I trot along behind them as he sweeps Mother along the queue of people waiting obediently in line. I feel their eyes all turn towards us as we are ushered past them into the empty arena.
“Please, come this way,” he simpers at Mother, practically drooling at her as he shows us up to the royal box. His slicked-back hair and greased moustaches gleam and he’s all dressed in his circus finery – frilly white shirt, red waistcoat buttoned over his barrel chest, tight little breeches and shiny heeled boots. There’s a monkey, dressed up in exactly the same clothes as him, perched on his shoulder.
“It’s a huge honour to have such an esteemed guest here, among us. And your wonderful family, of course.” He gestures benevolently towards Francis, Father and me. I look at my family. They all have the same expression on their faces as they look down on this strange, costumed creature ingratiating himself at their feet. Their nostrils flared, haughtily, their lips curled upward in a sneering look of disdain. No, it’s more than disdain; it’s disgust. He disgusts them.
It’s against protocol, him standing this near. I can sense the tension as the guards all ring-fence us, their hands resting on their guns. He’s too close to us, can’t he see that?
He scuttles up a sweeping staircase, and gestures towards our seats like he’s performed a conjuring trick.
“We have had this addition to our usual arena erected in your honour. I trust you will be comfortable.”
We are up on a platform, elevated above the rest of the seats which circle the central performance ring. At the front are four large chairs: red velvet and encrusted with gaudy jewels, like thrones from a fairy story. A dozen other chairs are grouped behind them; for the guards and the rest of Mother’s entourage, I suppose.
I look at Mother again as she scans the area he has set up “in our honour”, the area he is evidently so proud of. Her expression hasn’t changed.
I don’t know what this man, Silvio Sabatini, was expecting from her. Gratitude maybe? Awe and wonder? Instead, she is insulted. He has insulted her with his pathetic efforts. He should be careful. It is not a good idea to insult my mother.
From his pocket, he pulls out a little camera. “Madam, I wonder if you would be so kind as to have a photograph with me? It would take pride of place on my wall.”
Mother’s face is tight with outrage. She doesn’t say anything, no one says anything; she just raises one eyebrow and stares down at him.
There’s a terrible silence.
Finally, the ringmaster breaks it.
“Well,” he laughs, trying for hearty and booming. I look at his face and there’s panic in his dark little eyes. He’s realized, finally, that the woman in front of him is not easily impressed. “I will leave you to enjoy our show. I hope you will find what you see to your liking.” He makes a hasty, bowed retreat.
Mother’s voice is ice-cold. “I suppose we ought to take our seats.”
I feel a little ridiculous, perched there on the big ornate chair as the public file in below us, quickly filling up the vast arena. I try to push it down though; I don’t want anything to spoil this evening.
The band strikes up, the lights dim.
It’s show time.
HOSHIKO
The dressing rooms are busy as everyone prepares for their performances. There’s one main hub where we all get ready before heading off to our different locations. My show is always in the arena, but there are loads of smaller sideshows happening at the same time for those who don’t get in to the main events.
The crowd are lively tonight. Their cheering and chanting travels all the way down the tunnels. Lots of nervous glances are exchanged; the lion show is always one of the riskiest. It’s a lottery, pure and simple: luck alone will determine the fate of Emmanuel and Kate.
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That’s why it’s always quiet down here, despite the traffic constantly passing through. Everyone’s at their most nervous pre-show: facing their own mortality, wondering if tonight will be the night they don’t make it back. Plus it feels disrespectful to chatter away when you know that someone out there might be dying, that very second.
It’s always surreal watching everyone transform. A group of thin and poorly dressed children enter, and fifteen minutes later they leave as a troop of jolly clowns: red noses, curly wigs, beaming smiles painted on. Three average-sized teenage boys walk in and leave ten feet high on stilts, ducking down under the door as they exit.
But it’s the girls who all change the most dramatically. We’re drab when we walk in and sit down at the make-up booths. Half-emaciated, pale, exhausted. It’s amazing how they manage to change us. A bit of lipstick, some heavy-duty eyeshadow, a sweep of blusher, top it all off with a sparkly costume and – hey presto! – out walks a circus star.
Only a few of my costumes are kept down here; most of them are up in the space above the arena. There’s a huge room hidden away up there, full of props and costumes, so that I can make a quick change during the act whenever I need to. Tonight, I’ll be staying in my black cat leotard for the duration of the show. I’m trying out a new routine. It’s a risky one, I suppose, but I’m not nervous. I feel confident enough with it and I need to make sure I keep things fresh to stay on the right side of Silvio. It’s not as easy to vary things so much when you’re performing solo, even though I still draw in a really good crowd every time.
I miss Amina out there, when I’m on the wire. We worked so well as a pair, before her accident, and I always felt safer knowing she had my back.
Silvio hasn’t mentioned Greta performing again, thank God. I don’t want her with me, not ever – it’s far too dangerous – but it is lonely out there on my own. They put the acrobats down below now, to try and add more drama and colour, but it’s not the same as the two of us soaring through the air towards each other, our hands grasping hold at just the right time, working together to get the symmetry and balance perfectly on point. That’s why the dangers they’ve thrown at me have been getting more and more extreme lately. The crowd aren’t satisfied with artistry alone, no matter how good we are – that’s not why they flock to the Cirque.
They want risk. They want to see the fear on our faces.
They want to watch us die.
BEN
The lights all dim at once, and we’re plunged into blackness. It’s so dark that I can’t even see my hand when I hold it out in front of me. Everyone’s murmuring to each other: What’s going on? Is this part of the show?
Loud music suddenly fills the arena, a dramatic fanfare. There’s a full orchestra in here by the sounds of it.
The lights turn back on, brighter this time. I squint as my eyes adjust and then I see the lions. They prowl around the ring, their coats gleaming, eyeing the audience up hungrily: two huge lions and five lionesses. A thick glass partition protects us from them but I still feel vulnerable; I’m relieved that we’re higher up than everyone else.
There’s a feeling of communal anticipation in the air. It’s the thrill of being so near such wild animals – they’d tear us to shreds if they could. And then, underneath that, the delicious knowledge that we’re safe, protected by impenetrable glass. After all, what would happen to the Cirque if a Pure was injured, or worse, killed?
The lions pace around the ring for ages before anything happens. Seven of them, snarling at us and each other, their massive mouths open wide, their huge teeth bared and threatening. The two male lions begin fighting, ripping into each other’s necks so violently that I start to wonder if they’re actually going to kill each other.
The lights dim again and a single spotlight picks out the ringmaster. He stands on a podium right in the centre of the ring, monkey perched on his shoulder, lions leaping up below his feet, waiting imperiously for the applause to subside.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the greatest night of your lives! Sit back, relax. Prepare for amazement! Prepare for bewilderment! Maybe even prepare for … death!”
We all gasp, but it’s a theatrical, excited gasp. We’re playing our part too: we’re lapping it up. Then, beneath his feet, bright, blazing light. A ring of fire. He’s posed dramatically above it, arms raised high, chest thrust forward. He cracks his whip and, one by one, the lions leap through it, their golden coats just skimming under the dancing flames.
“These beauties, ladies and gentlemen, are wild beasts, straight from the plains of Africa. They are used to tearing on flesh, ripping it, devouring it! They have not had meat since yesterday! They are hungry! Shall we feed them, ladies and gentlemen? Shall we give them what they want?”
“Yes!” everyone cheers. “Yes! Yes!”
“As you wish!” He cracks his whip again and, seemingly at his command, two wire cages descend, apparently out of nowhere, hanging enticingly just above the lions.
I crane my neck and see that they’re full of meat: red, raw meat, the blood slowly seeping from it, dripping out of the sides of the cages and on to the arena floor.
The lions really go crazy now, hurling themselves upward at the cages. They can see it and smell it, but they can’t get to it.
The cages lift up higher, dangling mockingly. The lions are jumping up, roaring.
Eventually, the cages rise further again, disappearing back into the ceiling.
There’s a pause for a moment and then Sabatini flicks his whip once more and another cage appears, wobbling precariously in the air. From our elevated position, I can see what’s inside it before the rest of the audience and before the lions. Two Dregs: a man and a girl, back to back.
The guy is huge. There’s only a loin cloth around his waist and he’s all rippling muscles. He must be the African warrior guy they were talking about at school. His dark skin is greased and shiny and, when he looks up, I see a gash running from where his ear must once have been all the way across his cheek so that his mouth stretches out into a deranged-looking leer. It must have been recent; it’s gaping open. You can see the flesh inside his cheeks. It’s red raw. The girl is tall as well; lean and athletic.
After a few moments, the cage lowers further. On every side, the lions leap up on their hind legs, swiping their great savage paws through the bars. The only way the two people can avoid them is by curling up tight, right in the middle. They cling together in a ball, burying their heads.
I turn to look at Mother; there’s a wide smile on her face. It’s not often she smiles these days. For someone who didn’t even want to come to the circus, it certainly looks like she’s enjoying herself now.
She catches me looking at her and leans over.
“Their behaviour is very melodramatic,” she whispers. “They aren’t really afraid at all. They love it.”
I look again at the man and the girl, huddled together, millimetres away from those gnashing jaws, those ferocious claws.
It doesn’t look like they love it.
They’re left there for what seems like an eternity. The lions get more and more agitated. My heartbeat, thundering now, matches the tempo of the clashing cymbals.
I start to feel a bit sick. I don’t like it here as much as I thought I would. What’s going to happen next?
Eventually, the cage begins to rise again, the lions still leaping up at it.
“Emmanuel, Kate, choose your positions!” Silvio Sabatini’s voice booms out. I only notice now that there are three trapdoors in the floor of the cage. Video screens light up all around the arena, showing us what’s happening inside. The man and girl, it seems, have to each pick one door to stand over, pushing a bucket full of meat over the remaining door. They raise their hands into manacles protruding from the roof, locking them into position; I suppose so they can’t change their minds.
A big digital clock descends, the display showing one minute. It begins to count down, accompanied by the beat of a dr
um. A loud ticking sound every second – like a bomb is about to go off.
The time goes really slowly at first, every agonizing second creeping past, but then it seems to get quicker and quicker and quicker. My hands are clenched so tightly my nails are digging into my palms.
“What are we waiting for?” I ask Mother.
“One of the doors to open. Keep your fingers crossed for the guy’s door.”
“Why?”
“Your father got one of the guards to put a bet on when we arrived. We get three thousand pounds if it’s the guy who falls – four thousand if he dies.”
The expression on her face chills me to the bone. I’ve never seen her enjoying herself so much.
I look at Francis and Father; the same smile is on both their faces. Am I the only person in the whole place who isn’t sure about this? I turn away from them.
Magnified on the TV screens are close ups of the Dregs’ faces. They aren’t screaming, or hysterical, like you might think; they look blank and emotionless, both of them staring into the distance.
The seconds keep ticking down. I notice that Mother and Father are holding hands now – a rare moment of affection – and Francis is filming everything on his mobile phone, like a lot of other people in the crowd.
Looking up at the doors, I close my eyes tightly and pray with all my might for the right-hand one, the one with the meat above it, to open; willing the other two to remain closed.
In the end, it all happens really quickly.
A door shoots open. Its contents drop. The lions finally get their feed.
It’s the meat.
Thank God.
Fighting over every piece, they tear into it, ripping it to shreds. It’s devoured in seconds.
The arena goes dark again then, except for a spotlight shining on Emmanuel and Kate, the ringmaster between them, raising their hands aloft. Released from the shackles, they bow to the crowd.
Show Stopper Page 5