“What’s weird?”
“Thinking about their feelings, wanting to talk to them. I know what you get up to.” He smiles mysteriously. “And I know how to stop it.”
“What do you mean?”
He shakes his head. “Never you mind; you’ll find out soon enough.”
I turn away from him and push my headphones into my ears. I stare out of the window but I still can’t drown him out.
“Are you turning into some kind of girl? There’s some great footage on here.”
The churning feeling inside my stomach gets stronger and stronger. I don’t think I can contain it much longer; something’s going to snap – break into a thousand pieces. Perhaps it’ll be me.
HOSHIKO
As soon as the alarms go off, Greta sits bolt upright. “How are your hands?” she asks.
I hold them up, wriggling them tentatively. They feel a lot better, actually. God knows what’s in that cream Amina uses but it’s started to work its magic already. The cuts are healing over neatly and the swelling has virtually gone.
“They’re fine. I think.”
“It’s OK.” Amina leans over from the bunk above, her wild hair hanging down. As usual, she somehow knows everything. “There’s not going to be a full show tonight. They’re closing the arena down for two nights so they can finish off the preparations for Saturday.”
Wow. They never stop the show. Mind you, Saturday is November 4th – the weekend between Halloween and Bonfire Night – the night of the Cirque Spooktacular: always the biggest event of the year and this year Silvio’s vowed to make it more dramatic and action-packed than ever.
“What, the whole place is going to be closed?”
“Not quite, Silvio’s got some big new act he wants to try out; he’s invited all the press along for an exclusive.”
A big new act. I don’t like the sound of that.
“What is it?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. No one does.”
She indicates across the dorm to where Astrid and Luna are curled up in the same bunk. The twins are escapologists and contortionists and they’ve been in the Cirque nearly as long as Emmanuel. They’re completely identical, and you never see one of them without the other.
Their act always involves them working together to escape from being chained and bound. Locked up in tiny boxes; buried underground in a coffin filled with snakes, rats or fire. You name it, they’ve survived it. As the years go by, escaping seems to get easier and easier for them. The more locks and chains Silvio has added, the more quickly they seem to defeat them.
They don’t really talk much to the rest of us. They’re friendly enough, but they keep themselves to themselves. It’s as if their bond is so strong that they don’t really need anyone else. When I was younger I used to think they must be magic: the way they look so alike, and they seem to have this weird sixth sense between them. They aren’t like individuals at all, but two halves of one person.
“All I know is that the new act is something to do with the twins,” Amina whispers.
“Don’t they know what it is?”
“No. He’s told them it will be better off as a surprise, apparently. He said he wants the shock on their faces to be real. He’s promised it will be unforgettable.”
Two guards enters then, tasers raised, and we all jump quickly out of bed and start getting dressed.
“Come on!” one of them shouts and they both begin randomly jabbing at people. The female one goes for Amina as she’s climbing down from her bunk and I see her eyes widen as the jolt goes through her body. It only lasts a few seconds, but it’s long enough. It’s horrid, seeing that pained look in her eyes.
I look away from her, across to Astrid and Luna again, as they dress silently with eyes downcast: mirror images of each other. I shiver, because if there’s one thing you can say about Silvio – he always delivers on his promises.
BEN
The first subject of the day at school is modern Britain. Rawlinson registers us and hands back our last assignments.
“What did you get?” Alex asks.
I glance down at my grade. I can’t even remember what the homework was.
“B minus,” I tell him.
He tuts. “You’re so lucky,” he says. “I bet you didn’t even try. I only got a C and I spent hours on it.”
At the front of the room, Francis is holding up his paper gleefully, waving it in the air.
“An A* again!” he shouts across to me. “What did you get, Ben?”
I shake my head. He’s always so competitive. Doesn’t he realize that I don’t care? That no one cares, not even our parents?
“My mother said I can have a PS25 if I stay top of the class all year,” Francis calls out to no one, to everyone.
The other kids roll their eyes; they’re all used to him by now.
Rawlinson smiles indulgently at him. “Francis, that’s enough. Remember, not everyone can be as brilliant as you are. Now, back to the syllabus.”
I slump in the chair, staring at the same boring old teacher drone about the same boring old things and the tight feeling in my chest gets more and more unbearable.
What would everyone do if I stood up now and told them what I really thought? What if I punched Mr Rawlinson full in the face? What would happen? What would Stanley, standing discreetly at the back “protecting” me, do? What if I pushed this desk over? Threw my chair through the window? What would the other kids say? I stare around at them all. What’s going on inside their heads? Does anyone else feel like this? Like they’re unravelling?
The lesson is the same as always; I’ve heard all this a hundred times before. I let the words wash over me as Rawlinson drones on. “Dregs are vermin.” His tone becomes slightly hysterical. “They have poor hygiene, carry germs and spread disease. They are intellectually, morally and emotionally inferior to the Pure English in every way. They nearly destroyed our Motherland, and would do it again, given half the chance.”
He keeps rising up out of his chair, and banging down on the desk with his hands every few seconds to reiterate his words.
“They took our jobs, drained our healthcare system and claimed our benefits, bringing a huge wave of violence and crime with them.”
He pauses dramatically and looks around. What are the effects of his words on his enraptured audience? Half the class are staring out of the window, the rest have their heads on the desk. Where I’m sitting, in the back row, the others are all whispering to each other about something or other. Maybe Rawlinson actually registers for once that no one’s listening to him, because he stands up, moves to the middle of the room, and coughs.
“Ahem. As you know, your main assignments are due for submission next week. You should have spent the last few weeks researching your area of interest. Now is the time to finish writing up your findings and looking for interesting ways to present them.”
My heart sinks. I haven’t even started my assignment; I don’t even know what I’m going to do it on.
A couple of desks down from me, Johnny Parker raises his hand.
“Erm, sir. Could you recap what we should be doing, please?” he asks, innocently. “I want to check I’ve included everything I need to.”
The rest of us snigger and grin at each other. At least it looks like I’m not the only one who hasn’t started yet.
Rawlinson nods. “It’s good to see you taking it so seriously for once, Jonathan. OK, each of you should be preparing an individual presentation on your chosen aspect of modern history and its impact on society today. This is your time to shine; your time to explore something you find particularly fascinating. As you know, the grade you receive will go towards your final examination mark.”
Jonny raises his hand again. “I don’t really get it, sir.”
We all know exactly what he’s doing. We’ve all been doing it for the last two years – reeling Rawlinson in and letting him go. You just need to feed him a question every now and again to get him str
aight back on to his favourite topic. Our books are pretty much empty and we hardly ever have to do any essays. Listening to him waffling on about the Dregs for an hour seems a small price to pay. Usually.
Rawlinson sighs. “Well, you might like to look at the history of the Pures for example, at the laws and traditions of modern government, or Dreg management – and the methods we have developed to curb and control them. The best presentations will be the ones which do more than simply dredge the PureWeb for information; try to make them innovative, different, personal. Can you gain any first-hand accounts, access any primary sources, for example? What about speaking to your grandparents? Neighbours? Think outside of the box; access newspaper archives, go to museums, look at what’s around you.”
Look at what’s around you.
Suddenly it dawns on me. I know exactly what my presentation is going to be on. Why didn’t I think of it earlier?
I raise my hand. Everyone looks at me; I never say much in class usually – that’s Francis’s style, not mine. I keep my head down and try not to draw too much attention to myself.
“Benedict!” Rawlinson’s delighted. He’s always trying to get me on side.
“Could I do mine on the Cirque?” I say. “Seeing as it’s in town at the moment?”
The teacher’s eyes widen in horror. “You don’t mean to tell me you haven’t started yet?” he gasps, as if I’ve committed a serious crime.
“No, I have started,” I answer. “My family went to the circus last night. And I’ve been researching its history,” I add. It’s not even a lie.
“My mother was given VIP tickets!” Francis blurts out. “We were on the news!”
Everyone groans again; he’s already been talking about it at every opportunity, already shown everyone his footage, answered all their questions: What was it like? Did you get to see any deaths?
I hate the way he shows off all the time. But this time it’s me who’s about to use Mother’s status to get what I want.
“If I asked my mother,” I say to Rawlinson, “she might be able to get me in again. Maybe I could interview some of the performers.”
“Hmm.” He is suddenly cautious. “You don’t want to waste your time talking to them; they’ll only fill your head with rubbish. You need to access reliable sources.”
“It might be interesting though?” I say. “To find out what their take on it all is? Look at how they’re managed and stuff?”
He looks very unsure about this. “Speak to your parents,” he says. “Tell them to contact me if they have any concerns. You’ve left it very late, Benedict. You’ll need to act quickly if you’re to have enough time to write everything up correctly.”
The heaviness that’s been sitting at the bottom of my stomach like a lead weight suddenly feels lighter. I don’t know why I’m so desperate to go back. It’s like the place is some kind of drug, taking hold of me, intoxicating me.
Maybe, if I play my cards right, I could get to speak to some of the performers. Maybe I could get to speak to Hoshiko.
HOSHIKO
For the first time I can remember, rehearsals are cancelled today and we’re all ordered to help start preparing for the Spooktacular instead. Some people are painting signs, some are sewing costumes, others are working on lighting and holograms, and the remainder are making props.
To our mutual delight, Amina, Greta and I are put together, along with a load of other performers, in the main arena. Our job: to transform it, for one night only.
The red, gold and silver drapes which are usually pinned up over the building are being replaced with huge polystyrene segments, painstakingly painted orange by a team of workers in order to turn the arena into a giant pumpkin. We’ve been instructed to make the internal area look like the inside of a scooped-out pumpkin: all fleshy and orange. Huge crate-loads of frothy orange cloth are dumped in the middle of the arena and we work together to pass them around the room and pin them up securely.
Greta and I have to climb up into the rafters and swing down to attach the cloth to the ceiling. It’s almost impossible for me; my hands are really painful and the thick wadding of the bandages makes it hard for me to hold on to anything. Greta covers for me as best she can, banging in all the nails while I unravel the cloth; gradually feeding it through to her.
Hanging upside down, watching everyone working busily, I’m struck again by how much they all mean to me. Even the newer members like Kate, the ones I’ve barely spoken to yet, are family already. Being in the Cirque together, sharing our worries and woes, supporting each other through death and desolation, it makes us much closer to each other more quickly.
There’s almost a holiday atmosphere in the room. If you ignore the guards lining the walls, pointing their guns at us and glaring ferociously, it almost looks as if we’re preparing for a huge party, not decorating a public torture chamber at all.
I think it’s because we’re doing something different to normal. Rehearsals take up most of the day usually, and the thought of the evening’s show is always there: a dark shadow ominously approaching. We never, ever get a night off.
Saturday seems a long time away, suddenly. Two whole nights. For two whole nights, I won’t have to perform. For two whole nights, death isn’t coming for me; isn’t coming for any of us. We’re not free from guards and locks and semi-starvation but there’s much less likelihood of a sudden and violent death; we’re as free as we could ever be. No wonder everyone’s happy.
Below me, a team of workers are pinning up the thick black segments of cloth to form the pumpkin’s slanted carved eyes and jagged mouth. A soft light eerily shines through; it’s unbelievably effective. Suddenly, it really does feel we’re all inside a giant pumpkin.
I glimpse Astrid and Luna out of the corner of my eye, sewing little pinpricks of fairy lights into the orange drapes, and a feeling of shame instantly replaces the bubbly happiness I felt before.
I hadn’t even thought about them. They haven’t got a night off; while the rest of us are resting in the dorms, they’ll be out there, performing to the press. I hope they’ll be OK.
BEN
As soon as I get home, I cross to the other side of the house to Mother’s office. It’s never been officially declared out of bounds or forbidden for us to come here, but I can’t remember the last time I did. I tap on the door and wait outside nervously.
She’s talking on the phone, I think. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but I can hear her voice. She opens the door crossly while she’s talking and her eyebrows raise in surprise to see me standing there. She gestures me inside and I perch nervously on the edge of one of the big leather chairs while she finishes her conversation.
“Look, I really do have better things to do with my time. I’m not a puppet. I showed my face last night; once is enough.”
She hangs up the phone and glares at me.
“I hope this is important, Benedict; I’m incredibly busy.”
She’s still cross with me and she’s finding it hard to deal with. My mother isn’t a sulker – she prides herself on it. If she doesn’t like something, she changes it. Take the world and mould it into the place you want it to be: that’s Mother’s motto. That’s why she wants to be the next leader, so she can make the country a safer place, she says, by whatever means necessary. If she wins, we’ll have to move into the official Leader’s Residence in the PowerHouse. We’ll live in the apartment, right on the top. The windows are built into the eyes of the huge gold Pure who stands tall, crushing down the Dregs below him. It will please Mother, living there.
I’m not sure what to say. It isn’t important, what I have to ask, not in the great scheme of things, not to her. It’s a school project. I’m asking about a school project when she has the weight of the whole country to deal with.
But I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than I want this.
“It’s not about much, really,” I say carefully. “But I do want to speak to you about something, if you can spare
a minute. I can wait though, until you’re not so busy.”
“Not so busy?” She laughs dryly. “When will I be not so busy? Erm, let me see, in about ten years when we’ve finally rid the world of the plague of Dregs who create so much work for me?”
I stand there, looking at the floor, while she stares at me from behind her desk. It’s never bothered me before, her saying stuff like that. I don’t know why it makes me feel so uncomfortable now.
The plague of Dregs.
How on earth am I going to convince her to let me go back to the Cirque?
“I seem to be very in demand with my sons today, Francis has already sent a text message requesting a hearing later on,” she says. “I can give you a minute or two before my next conference call. Will that be sufficient?”
A hearing… Will that be sufficient? It’s like she’s talking to one of her office clerks or something. Has she always been this formal and cold? I suppose she has. I’ve got used to it generally, but today it makes me feel twisted and sore inside.
What if I was being bullied at school? Or I was worried about something? Who would I talk to? It wouldn’t be her. It wouldn’t be Francis or Father, either.
It wouldn’t be any of them.
It would be Priya, probably. And what could Priya do? Nothing – she’s just a Dreg.
I feel tears swimming in my eyes. What’s wrong with me? I haven’t cried for years. I blink them away hurriedly. She’ll be displeased if she spots me behaving so weakly. I needn’t have worried though; she’s far too distracted to notice.
I need to play this right; tell her what she wants to hear.
“I wanted to apologize,” I say. “For my inappropriate behaviour yesterday.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Really? Seen the error of your ways, have you?”
“Yes. It was the whole Cirque experience; it made me feel confused for a while. I forgot they were all just Dregs; that they don’t have the same feelings as we do.”
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