“That girl,” she frowns, “is an example of everything that’s still wrong with this country. Parading her up there like she’s something to be admired! It would have been a blessing for everyone if she’d fallen.”
I try not to wince at her words.
“It has made me think,” I say, carefully, “about the Cirque and how, like you said, Dregs need to be regulated in better, more efficient ways. I came up with an idea of something I could do to make more people realize.”
“Go on.”
I take a deep breath and then blurt it out. “We’ve been set an assignment for modern history. We have to do a presentation about contemporary society and I was thinking of doing mine on the Cirque, seeing as it’s in town.”
Her lips curl angrily and there’s a sneer on her face. “Why would you want to do that? I thought you’d finally seen sense. You said yourself; it’s a vile place. Creatures like that should not be put on display as if they are something exotic and wonderful. I’m more convinced than ever about that after our recent experience. The whole place would be shut down if I had my way. I’m sure we could think of a more economical way of dealing with problem elements of society.”
“That’s why I want to do it,” I tell her. “I want to use it as a case study about what’s wrong with society today. I want to show the other kids how cost-ineffective it is, and suggest other, more efficient methods of Dreg control.”
She look at me, her eyes narrowed. “What are you after, Benedict?”
I take a deep breath. “Well, I was hoping that maybe you could arrange for me to spend a bit more time at the Cirque, just to study it a bit more. I would be looking at it from a critical stance and I’ll show you anything I write before I hand it in. I could interview you about it too. My teacher would love to hear what you’ve got to say.”
There’s a daddy long legs buzzing around the room and she bats it away angrily, before peering at me dubiously. She likes what I’m saying, but she’s not convinced I mean it. My mother is not easily fooled.
“This is not like you, Benedict. You’ve never shown any particular political motivation before.” She grabs my face suddenly and stares at me intently.
“Why did you help that girl last night?” she says. “Why didn’t you let her die?”
What do I say? Because I couldn’t stop myself? Because it was the right thing to do? Because I couldn’t bear to watch her, or anyone else for that matter, plunge to her death? Because I can’t stop thinking about her?
“I don’t know,” I reply. “I just panicked.”
“You haven’t got any silly romantic notions in your head, have you?” she says, suspiciously. “About the tightrope walker? It was a very touching scene, watching you save her.”
It’s like she’s examining me, peeling back the layers to see what’s inside.
I feel my cheeks redden. I laugh. “No! As if I’d ever look at a Dreg like that!”
Her eyes narrow. “Good. You do know why she’s able to leap around up there like that, don’t you?”
I shake my head, nervously.
“Because she’s closer to the apes than she is to the human race, that’s why. All that balancing on a wire; she’d be better off jumping from branch to branch in the treetops!”
I don’t like what she’s saying, it doesn’t feel right any more, but I just nod, contritely. I will be out of this room any minute.
She keeps looking at me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve.
“You do seem peculiarly keen on visiting the circus again. You never usually feel the need to come and discuss your homework with me and you’ve never really exhibited a tendency for bloodlust before, unlike your brother.” She laughs, dryly. “Unlike your mother, either.”
“I wanted to make up for my behaviour,” I say, and then I play my trump card. “I thought it might even help you to get rid of the place once you get elected. Your son spending time there, and condemning it in a school assignment; it might be good PR.”
“Hmm.” There’s a pause while she considers it. I hold my breath. “I’m not sure I want either of my sons near there again,” she says. “Then again, it might dispel any misconceptions you and your classmates have about it, I suppose.”
She looks at me, properly looks at me, for the first time in ages. “You’re growing up,” she says softly. “Where’s my little boy gone?” She sounds almost surprised. “You’re very handsome,” she says. “You always were the pretty one.”
She touches my cheek and her expression softens. I have this unlikely desire to suddenly throw myself into her arms, hold her tightly; cling to her. I don’t do it, of course: she’d be horrified, and anyway, she swiftly moves her hand away and the moment’s gone. She’s back to being hard and detached again.
“I’ve been dealing with Cirque issues far too much this week already. I’ve got to go back again tomorrow during the day to supervise a selection, and my PR clerk’s just told me he wants me there tonight too, on another ridiculous marketing mission. A-ha!” She smiles suddenly. “I’ve had a good idea, a very good idea.”
The daddy long legs drifts around our heads again, then lands, foolishly, on the desk next to her. As quick as a flash she lifts up her paperweight and slams it down on top of the insect, crushing it underneath. “That’s the last we hear of you, my little friend.” She looks at me. “That’s how to deal with irritating pests,” she says. “Eradicate them. Crush them.”
With two fingers, she pulls a tissue from the box on the desk and delicately picks the remains of the daddy long legs up, wiping away the bloody smear from the bottom of her paperweight and tossing the tissue in the bin.
“If you’re so desperate to return, you can go in my place. Sending one family representative has got to be better than none.”
My heart leaps. “Really? When?”
“As I just said: this evening. Go and get ready, I’ll have a car sent to pick you and Stanley up.”
She opens her tablet and clicks on the secure link.
“Vivian Baines,” she says wearily. “Access code one-four-nine-eight-six.” That’s her personal code: the one she uses every time she’s dealing with sensitive government business. It hasn’t changed since the last time I heard it and it’s years since I’ve sat in this office.
“It’s me,” she says to someone. “I’m sending one of my sons, instead. Surely that’s better than nothing. Yes, he’s looking forward to it. No, I’ll send my own guard.”
She ends the call.
“Thank you, Mother.”
I’m not sure what else to say, but it looks like I’ve already been dismissed anyway. She’s back on her computer, typing away. I think she’s already forgotten I’m there. I stand up.
“Benedict,” she says quietly, as I’m turning the door handle. “Don’t tell your father; he’ll only make a fuss.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.” She smirks at me. “Enjoy your evening.”
HOSHIKO
At dinner time they send our food in to us – so that we eat more quickly, I suppose – and we all sit down in the middle of the arena. The party atmosphere intensifies; it’s as if we’re having a big picnic together. The food’s better than normal too; there’s even a slither of cheese in between the thin pieces of dry bread which are passed around, and there’s a big bucket of lukewarm tea for us to dip the tin cups into.
I fetch some for Greta and Amina, handing the mugs over awkwardly with my bandaged hands.
“Your wine, my ladies. I’ve taken the liberty of pouring it for you.”
“Thank you, waitress.” Amina smiles. “And what is on the menu tonight?”
“Well, there’s all sorts of wonders, madam.” I rack my brain. What do the Pures eat in restaurants? I don’t have a clue.
“There’s fish,” I say. “Cod in a herb crust. And there’s steak. And creamed potatoes.”
“Lovely, and for dessert?”
Greta chimes in, playing the game immediately. “Is there chocolate ca
ke?” she asks, excitedly, as if she really believes I’m going to be able to produce these things.
“Why yes, of course. Chocolate cake and ice cream,” I tell her.
Emmanuel makes his way over with one of the kids who arrived yesterday, and we shift around, making a space for them to join our little circle.
“Amina, Greta, Hoshi, meet Anatol,” Emmanuel says, introducing the new boy.
He’s not one of the tiny children, so he hasn’t been drafted in through the selection process they put all Dregs through when they turn five. He must have committed some kind of crime, or maybe he was just pulled in from the slums in one of the raids. Either that, or he chose to come here. It’s still unbelievable to me that anyone would appear here through choice, but it happens more often than you’d think. People in the slums are so starving and desperate that they don’t know what else to do. They quickly regret it of course, when they realize just what kind of institution they’ve been brought into, but it’s too late by then.
The boy has the look all new kids have: shock, disbelief and terror, mingled together in equal parts. His left arm is cradled in a sling.
“We’ve met already,” says Amina, brightly. “I patched Anatol up yesterday, after his accident. How are you getting on?”
“Not very well,” he answers. “I can’t seem to grasp things as quickly as the others, and now this has happened,” he gestures helplessly to his injured arm, “I can’t even keep rehearsing.”
“Don’t worry; we all felt like that at first,” she says, sympathetically. “You’ll get there in the end. It was a nice, clean break; it should heal quickly.”
“That’s what I said,” Emmanuel agrees.
There’s an awkward silence.
“We were just discussing the menu,” Amina says, and gestures towards me, “and our waiter here was pouring the wine.”
“Ah-ha. I’ll have a glass of your finest red, please,” grins Emmanuel. “And whatever my friend here would like.”
It’s nice to see Emmanuel joining in; he doesn’t often go in for humour these days. I don’t think Anatol is in the mood for games, though. He looks down at the thin, dry sandwich in his hands, stares at the murky grey tea we’re holding, and gives a huge sigh.
“I never thought I’d miss the food in the slums,” he says.
There’s a sudden hush in the room as Silvio sweeps in dramatically and stands, poised on the stage above us, cradling Bojo in his arms. Everyone looks down at the floor, trying not to draw attention to themselves.
He looks around, critically, surveying the decorations. “Not bad,” he says, “if I do say so myself.”
If I do say so myself. Like he’s had anything to do with it.
His eyes continue to scan the room.
“You two!” He calls to Astrid and Luna. “What are you doing in here? You should be getting ready. Go! Now! Quickly!”
The twins get to their feet and rush out of the room.
He looks down at Amina, Greta and me, sitting almost directly below him with Emmanuel and Anatol and he laughs. “Ah, the African King, the three amigos and the incompetent acrobat. I’ve reallocated you to a different act, boy: you clearly aren’t destined for any skilled activity. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find your new role explosively exciting!”
I don’t know what he means, but it definitely doesn’t sound good. From the corner of my eye, I see Anatol nodding nervously. I’m looking at the floor, but I can still feel it when Silvio’s eyes land on me; feel him coolly examining me.
“Did you enjoy the show last night, Hoshiko? Very frustrating, you defying the odds like that again. Still, I must admit, I do want you around for Saturday night. I’ve got big plans for you.” He places Bojo gently down on the floor, takes out his whip, flicks it with his wrist so that it extends, and then reaches down with it, prodding Greta in the chest, right where her blood-stained bandage sits. “For both of you!” he laughs, then clicks his fingers in the air, suddenly. “Supper time’s over!” he barks. “Get back to work!”
He sweeps out of the room, Bojo scampering after him. Everyone immediately starts getting to their feet. I turn to Greta, still sitting there, not moving. There’s an expression of complete terror on her face.
“Did you hear that?” she whispers. “He’s putting me in the show. On Saturday. The Spooktacular.” She clutches hold of me. “I can’t do it.” She turns to Amina, on the other side of her. “What shall I do?”
“You can do it,” Amina tells her. “You can and you will.” She puts her arm around her. “It’s OK. Hoshi will be there with you.”
Greta’s lips are trembling. The tears welling in her eyes flood over, trickling down her face.
“Look,” I say, cupping my hands together, and holding them towards her. “I’ve brought you your chocolate cake.”
She stares blankly down at the dirty bandages.
“No thanks,” she says, sniffing. She looks up at me, her big eyes deep and grave. “I don’t feel hungry any more.”
BEN
In no time at all the car’s arrived and I’m being whisked back to the Cirque.
The gates are already open as we approach and there’s a long line of traffic filing its way in. I see the ringmaster, Silvio Sabatini, waiting at the entrance. I feel really embarrassed after the way Mother treated him last night. He doesn’t seem to mind though; as soon as the car glides to a halt, he opens my door, bowing deferentially as I climb out.
“Benedict. It’s wonderful to see you again so soon,” he smiles. “We’re so pleased you could be here!” He leans towards me, his face beaming. “We’ve got some real treats in store; I think you’re going to really enjoy it!”
“Thanks.” I’m sure he didn’t even know my name yesterday, but suddenly we’re best buddies; he’s obviously been doing his homework. Silvio Sabatini glares at Stanley, who’s opened the other door and is standing silently behind me.
“The Cirque is very secure,” he says, defensively. “You didn’t need to bring your own bodyguard.”
“Sorry,” I say. “My mother insisted. We had a bit of trouble a while back.”
“Yes, yes, I heard about it. But the guards here really are very efficient, and we’re not even open to the public tonight anyway.” He gestures to the dozens of people leaving their cars and making their way across the courtyard. “All of these men and women are members of the press. They’ve all been fully vetted.”
The ringmaster scowls accusingly at Stanley, whose face is passive and professional as always, but then the mask goes back on and he turns to me with his fixed smile.
“There’s a new show debuting tonight, hence the media showing up en masse. I really think you’re going to love it, and then there’s a press conference with the performers afterwards. If they make it out alive, of course!”
My stomach lurches. “Who’s in the show?”
“Oh, two of our finest artistes, Astrid and Luna. They’ll put on a wonderful display, I’m sure.”
“Are any of the other performers going to be at the press conference?”
“Well, possibly, time permitting. It’s mostly to promote this new act tonight, though.” Sabatini looks at me, his eyes searching my face. “Who were you hoping to see?” he asks lightly.
I move slightly away from Stanley and lower my voice; I don’t want him feeding back to Mother.
“The tightrope walker,” I say. “From last night. I’m not that bothered,” I add hastily. “I just thought she was quite good.”
He nods and smiles. “Oh yes, your rescue attempt was very endearing! Developed rather a soft spot, have we? Don’t worry, she’ll be there; I’ll make sure of it, Master Benedict.” He nudges me again, and winks knowingly. “I was young once you know; anything for a pretty face!” He laughs as if he’s told an excellent joke. I feel my cheeks redden.
There’s something really weird about this guy, something sinister. I wonder what his story is. He’s obviously a Dreg but he struts around as if he
owns the place. He takes my arm and starts to manoeuvre me over to one of the buildings, the same one all the press have been filing into. Within seconds Stanley is by my side, clamping his hand firmly on to Silvio’s arm and removing his grip from me. Silvio glares at him and his cheeks flame. He must realize that he’s broken protocol by getting so close to me.
“The performance is in here,” he says. “In our new custom-built aquatic room. I’ve reserved you a seat. There isn’t one for your guard; he’ll have to stand.” Anyway, please go on ahead and I’ll join you shortly. Our seats are at the front. I just need to see to a few matters.”
And then he scurries away across the square, his little monkey bounding after him.
HOSHIKO
By the time we’ve finished decorating the arena, it really does feel like being inside a huge magical pumpkin. The lighting is all flickery, like candles, and a ghostly orange glow fills the room.
Although we haven’t been rehearsing, I’m exhausted and relieved when we finally start packing away. My whole body aches and my bones feel heavy as I make my way back to the dorms for the first night off in a year. I don’t think I could have performed tonight even if I’d had to.
The press are all in for the new show, apparently, so we’re ordered to leave discreetly through the aerial tunnels that spread all over the place. They’ve built them so that we’re separated from the Pures – so we don’t contaminate them too much, I suppose, and also so that the illusion is maintained. They don’t want to see what we look like before we’re all dressed up and sequinned and the tunnels mean that we appear, perform and disappear again, all in the blink of an eye. They’re very useful after a fatality too. If a body has to be scraped off the floor and carted away, the Pures don’t always want to be exposed to it. They prefer the drama of a violent death to the inconvenient aftermath.
It’s always dusty up in the tunnels; they’re made of great metal tubes that are pulled apart every time we leave town. They chuck them in a trailer and then when we arrive in a new town we have to click them all back together, holding them up with pre-made scaffold frames. There’s not much room in them either; it’s OK for someone small and agile, like me, but for the larger guys it’s horrible, having to scramble through them every time the Pures are about.
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