Show Stopper

by Hayley Barker

Around us, below us, everyone’s on their feet, booing and shouting, their faces twisted in anger and frustration. Did they all want the Dregs to die? Mother doesn’t join in; she’s regained her composure now and is sitting there motionless, her usual aloof expression back on her face.

  She turns to me.

  “Talk about an anticlimax,” she tuts, crossly. “The lions didn’t even get near them.”

  My heart sinks. Surely she doesn’t mean it?

  “But they’d have killed them if they had,” I say. “You saw what they did to the meat.”

  She snorts. “No such luck, probably. The statistics in this place are weighed too heavily on the side of the Dregs; I’ve been looking at the figures. Even when they’re dropped into the arena, they get away half the time. Sometimes they actually manage to outrun them, sometimes the lions aren’t hungry enough. They shouldn’t bother feeding them beforehand. That black creature, Emmanuel? He got away from them a couple of weeks ago, hardly a scratch on him afterwards.”

  That explains the gash; not exactly what I’d call a scratch.

  “Last year,” she frowns crossly, “only eight Dregs died in the lion enclosure over the whole season. That’s simply not good enough.”

  Francis and Father are listening to her now too, both nodding in agreement.

  Father looks at me. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for them, Benedict, you great big softie! They’re vermin: the scum of the earth. Even the poor lions probably couldn’t stomach them.” He laughs and Francis joins in – Mother manages an icy smile.

  I feel cold, suddenly, and more detached from them than ever, as if I’m watching them through glass. As if they’re predators too, and not my family at all.

  HOSHIKO

  Once I’m dressed and made up, I stand at the foot of the passageway to the main arena until it’s time to go on. I have to wait for Emmanuel and Kate to return from the lion show and then make my way up the ladder to the wire. I keep my fingers crossed tightly and whisper a prayer to a god I don’t believe in that they’ll both come back.

  Kate’s only just arrived; she was brought here after one of the slum raids. All Dreg kids are assessed at the age of five, but the Cirque often wants older performers too – teenagers usually – and so every few months, Silvio and some Pure policemen go into the slums of whatever town we happen to be in, and take as many Dreg kids as they want to perform in the Cirque. One minute these poor souls are going about their daily business of eking out a living and trying not to starve to death, the next they’re bundled into the back of a van and bought here to paradise. That’s what happened to Kate, just a few weeks ago, and she hasn’t really figured out how it works in here yet. She’s desperate to return to her family and she still seems to think she’ll be reunited with them at some point. I don’t think anyone’s had the heart yet to tell her that she’ll never see them again.

  Everyone knows who Emmanuel is; he’s been here since before I arrived and he’s one of the longest-serving performers. Like mine, his face always features on the promotional posters and he’s one of the holographic images that are beamed into the sky to advertise the show. Powerful frame, rippling muscles, ebony skin; the Pures fear him and love him, especially since he got his scars last year.

  We lost eight souls to the lions last season. The first one was Emmanuel’s partner, Sarah.

  She was the opposite of him in every way, physically at least. Tiny, fair, delicate – she only came up to his chest. Seeing them together was a bit like seeing Greta with her doll. Sarah wasn’t weak though, physically or mentally. She was strong, fiery, charismatic. I loved her. We all did. Emmanuel, especially.

  I never saw two people as in love as they were; they made you believe that light and goodness still existed in the world. They were the glue that held the rest of us together, right up until she died in front of him.

  I was standing right here the night it happened.

  I knew someone was being killed because the crowd went crazy, like they always do when the lions get fed. You could hear them cheering, whistling, screaming in rapture.

  I tried to tell myself I might be wrong, but I knew I wasn’t; the only time the crowd are ever that loud is when there’s a death.

  There was a different sound, all of a sudden. A roar. Not a lion’s roar, a human’s roar, rising above the rest of the tumult. A roar of pain. A roar of rage. It went on and on, that roar.

  I think they kept him out there as a bit of extra entertainment for the Pures; it must have been a real treat for them to witness such raw grief.

  When he was eventually chucked into the corridor by the guards, all the anger had gone from him. He lay there, curled up in a ball on the floor.

  I sat down next to him. I’ll never forget the expression on his face when he looked up at me.

  “They ripped her to pieces,” he said. “I had to watch from the cage while they tore her to shreds.”

  He wept then.

  I wept too. And then Silvio came with his whip and made me climb the ladder and I had to go out there and perform for the people who’d just watched my friend get mauled to death.

  Please don’t let it be happening again.

  They’re taking ages.

  The sound of the band striking up and the crowd’s jeering calls and thunderous feet stamping tells me the show’s over. It’s such a relief when I see Emmanuel and Kate push their way through the arena doors and walk wearily towards me.

  There’s not much time to chat, but we have a quick hug. A hug that says: I’m glad you made it; a hug that says: I hope you make it too; a hug that says: You’re not alone out there.

  There’s a feeling of doom in the pit of my stomach, all mixed up with that betraying flicker of excitement. And a knowing, deep inside, that something’s going to happen; things are going to change.

  There’s a loud cheering from the arena all of a sudden. What’s going on out there?

  “They’re hyper tonight,” Emmanuel says, “and there’s some VIPs in, so be careful. Silvio’s guaranteed them lots of action, apparently. He won’t be happy that we made it out alive.”

  “Who’s in?” I ask.

  “Vivian Baines.”

  My heart plummets. Vivian Baines: the Dreg Control Minister.

  We may not often get access to the papers or the PureWeb, but there’s not a Dreg in the country who doesn’t hate Vivian Baines; who doesn’t wish her dead. Rumours about her fly around at night, frightened, fearful whispers: Vivian Baines has issued another decree; Vivian Baines has made another speech; Vivian Baines is on the rise.

  She’s the person who is paid mega bucks to find new ways to torture and humiliate us. The person who dishes out all the bullshit media propaganda the Pures get about us being dirty and evil. The person who “controls numbers”. She’s running for power in the next election, apparently – just when we thought things couldn’t get any worse.

  Why is she here? She usually issues her decrees from afar; I don’t suppose she likes to get her hands too dirty by getting up close and personal with any real Dregs.

  The hatred runs cold through my body. There’s no way I’m dying tonight. Not in front of her.

  BEN

  Once the lions and the performers are removed from the arena, there’s a few minutes’ interval while they get ready for the next act and the crowd below us mills around, people queuing for refreshments or making their way out to the toilets. There’s still a buzz in the air from what we’ve all just witnessed. This is so far removed from my usual life, by rights I should be excited too, but I feel sick, subdued, anxious about what’s coming.

  Silvio Sabatini crosses the arena again and rushes up the stairs to our box. The spotlight has him picked up and the people below us all look up to see what he’s doing. The camera swivels to point at us and focuses on Mother, so that her face appears on the big screens at either end of the room. Francis points them out to her excitedly and leans in towards her, grinning and waving at himself. Mother smile
s serenely, waving a hand elegantly at the crowd below. There’s a hum as the arena buzzes with the realization that she’s here. The guards around us move forward a little, glaring at Sabatini as he scurries his way to our seats.

  He’s carrying a cardboard tray, laden down with wrapped-up food. Burgers, French fries, fizzy drinks. Baby-pink candyfloss. Spun sugar as light and airy as a cloud. Popcorn, still warm and encrusted with thick golden caramel. Chunky slabs of different flavoured fudge. We never have food like this. It smells delicious.

  “May I tempt you with some traditional circus fare?” he croons, smiling at Mother.

  “My family do not eat junk,” she informs him icily. His face drops.

  “Madam, I’m so sorry for the imposition. I merely wished you to have an authentic circus experience. I thought your delightful children might enjoy it. I do apologize; I should have realized.”

  Francis and I look at each other. He grins at me. For once, we actually agree on something.

  “Oh, Mother, go on!” he pleads. “Just this once.”

  She turns to my father. “You brought them to the circus,” he says. “Don’t look at me.”

  My mother coldly examines the ringmaster.

  “Very well, little man, but how do I know they aren’t poisoned? How do I know you don’t mean us harm?” Her face is etched with false concern. She’s making him squirm, playing with him like a cat does with a mouse.

  “Oh, Madam, never, never would I wish any harm on you and your dear family! I am so honoured you are here.”

  “Eat one, then,” she commands.

  He looks at her, he doesn’t know what to do.

  “Eat one,” she repeats. “Eat one of those greasy chips you’re trying to force on us, so I can be sure.”

  The camera is still fixed on him, and the whole arena watches as he reaches into one of the little oil-spattered cones, extracts a fry with his two fingers and nibbles it delicately. Mother looks on disgustedly.

  “And now, the drink,” she says. He gives a funny little bow and then takes a cup and sucks on the straw, his cheeks drawn in as he looks up at Mother uncertainly.

  “Very well,” she says, after a moment. “You’ve convinced me they’re safe. Boys, if you insist on wanting to eat that rubbish, you may, just this once. Not the cup he’s drunk from, of course. Don’t touch that one.”

  She reaches into her pocket, pulls out her black leather gloves, and puts them on, spending time working the creases from her fingers as the crowd looks on expectantly. She reaches for the cup and stands up, smiling down at him.

  “This one has been contaminated,” she says, and pulls the plastic lid off before holding the cup aloft and emptying the contents of the drink all over him. Coke drips down around his ears, and collects on his eyelashes and nose. His carefully gelled hair is a bedraggled mess.

  He stands there, unmoving, as the crowd below whoops and cheers and stamps its feet.

  My mother always knows exactly how to please a crowd.

  This ringmaster, Silvio Sabatini, is small anyway, but he seems reduced now. There are two little purple spots on his cheeks. The Coke pools at his feet as he stands there, head bowed.

  “You may leave,” Mother instructs him. But as he turns to go, she calls him back. “Ringmaster?”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “My sons felt a little let down by the lion show. There was a distinct lack of action, if you know what I mean. Please make sure we aren’t disappointed again. So far, this circus has been a trifle dull. I’ve promised them they’ll have something to tell their friends about.”

  His eyes meet hers in an unspoken exchange and he nods. “Let me assure you, there will be no disappointment next time, Madam. I’ll make sure of it.”

  He retreats respectfully, bowing and nodding his way back down the stairs as the Coke continues to dribble and drip from his forehead.

  The lights dim for a minute or two, and then red and orange flashes appear, focused high up into the roof. There’s a wire up there, a thin one, reaching all the way across the arena, and a trapeze drops down from a hatch in the centre.

  It must be the high wire act; it must be the girl.

  For two days solid, her image has been imprinted on my mind. It’s there when I gaze through the window at night, beamed into the sky above and below me and it’s there too in the day, every time I close my eyes. I’m going to see her now in real life, dancing on the wire, just above my head.

  What did Mother mean just now? She wasn’t ordering Sabatini to kill her, was she? No, she can’t have been; she wouldn’t do that, would she? I hear his words again.

  Let me assure you, there will be no disappointment next time.

  I’m wrong. I must be, so why do I suddenly feel consumed with dread? As the act begins and she tumbles and soars through the air, I can’t escape the feeling that something is about to go horribly wrong…

  HOSHIKO

  My act has gone perfectly – I am poised, triumphant upon the wire, the roar of the crowd’s approval washing over me. My eyes meet Silvio’s as he reaches one hand forward and clasps hold of the tightrope. Grinning wickedly, he jerks it back and forth, sending his message of execution down the wire.

  I can’t maintain my balance and I plunge, head first, the collected gasp of the audience audible as I plummet once more.

  My bare feet are what save me, momentarily at least. They clasp the wire, so that I dangle precariously, upside down. Below me, the stool crashes loudly to the ground, shattering on impact.

  I can’t swing myself back up. If I loosen this grip, even a millimetre, I’m dead.

  I hang there, right in front of the VIP box. They’re higher here, in their privileged position, kept away from the crowd, closer to the action.

  I can’t see Vivian Baines; all I can see are guards, five of them, cordoning off the VIPs, shielding them from me.

  They’re frightened of me, a girl dangling from a tightrope in front of them. What on earth do they think I’m going to do, knock her out with a killer somersault?

  A boy breaks through the circle and stands there, looking at me. He’s not shouting, or laughing, just staring at me with this strange expression on his face. A still point in the panicked frenzy.

  For the briefest of moments, the crowd fades away. It’s just us, me and this Pure boy, eyes locked together. Only six feet of air and one hundred years of history dividing us.

  I feel as if he’s trying to tell me something. I wonder what it is.

  I can’t hold my grip any longer. One of my feet finally slips, then the other. I launch myself forward and land heavily in the box. There are cries of horror as the guards push everyone away from me.

  This has never happened before. A Dreg, landing right there in the VIP box. Tonight, of all nights, when Vivian Baines herself is here. What’s Silvio going to do now? I’m not dead, as he intended. I’m here, contaminating the Pures.

  I look up at the wire. It dangles, enticingly, above my head. Maybe I can reach it, pull myself back up. No, it’s too far away.

  Suddenly the boy is there, right in front of me. He puts out his hand to me, gently, tentatively, smiling.

  “It’s OK,” he whispers. “Let me help you.”

  He edges forward. “I’m going to lift you up. On the count of three. OK? When I do, grab the tightrope.”

  A piercing whistle sounds from behind me. They’ll shoot me if I stay here any longer. I’m a dangerous animal, and I’ve escaped from my cage; let loose and savage.

  Behind him, guards are rushing towards us, ready to remove him from this imminent threat. There’s no time to lose. I don’t have a choice. I look into his eyes. I’m going to have to trust him, going to have to let this Pure boy touch me.

  I nod. He lifts me up and I reach the wire just as the guards pull him away. It slices into my hands hungrily as I swing. Clasping it tightly, I swing again and spring, crouching like the cat they’ve christened me as.

  I rise, holding my hands high, ar
ching my body. Standing tall once more.

  I look down at him, surrounded by guards now. Riot shields up, guns out, all aimed at me. Our eyes meet again.

  Why did he help me?

  It takes me a moment or two to pull myself together, to remember that he’s chosen to be here – he queued up and bought a ticket with a smile on his face. Paid to witness the public torturing of Dregs, maybe even a death or two, if he’s lucky.

  I scowl at him and he looks away. His head hangs low, almost as if he feels ashamed. Not likely – whoever heard of a Pure with a conscience?

  Beneath me, the rest of the fickle crowd are jubilant. Seconds ago, they were ready to tear me limb from limb but now I am, once again, their champion. A sea of white roses is tossed into the ring as they chant my name: the Cat, the Cat, the Cat.

  BEN

  She grasps the wire with her feet and hangs there, impossibly, holding on with just her toes. She’s right in front of the box and there’s chaos all around me as the guards try and jostle us to safety into the corner. I can’t see what’s going on, can’t see if she’s fallen. I wrench away from them. She’s still there.

  All of a sudden, I swear, she looks right at me. I tear myself free from the guards pushing me away from her. I can’t break eye contact. I have to let her know that she can survive this, that she must survive it.

  When she lands, I don’t even think about what I’m doing; all I know is that I have to help her. I hear myself talking to her.

  “It’s OK,” I tell her. “You can trust me.”

  My hands encircle her waist and I lift her up to the wire, which she reaches at the same time as the guards force me back. A part of me can hear Mother and Father screaming at me furiously, but it’s white noise.

  Nothing else matters except that she makes it.

  I watch her as she springs lightly back up again, leaping on to the wire in one easy movement.

  I become aware that the room has stopped crying out for her death. Everyone’s calling out her name euphorically now, as if she’s suddenly become their hero.