The tunnels are so narrow that we have to go in single file and I’m queuing up to take my turn when Silvio steps out of the shadows suddenly and grabs hold of me roughly.
“You’re coming with me,” he hisses in my ear. In front of me, Amina and Greta have stopped too and I look towards them, helplessly.
Is this it? Is he going to kill me?
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, hating the shakiness in my voice.
“How dare you ask questions?” he barks, angrily. “Say goodbye to your friends,” and he pulls me away from them, dragging me out of the arena and across the square.
He marches me into the costume rooms and slams me down in one of the chairs. Minnie, the make-up artist, jumps up guiltily from where she’s been sitting at one of the booths. It looks like the performers weren’t the only ones hoping to enjoy a bit of time off.
“Get her ready,” Silvio demands. “Lots of grease paint and make sure she’s wearing something revealing.”
“What for?” I ask. I can’t help myself, even though I know I’m not supposed to ask questions. “I thought there wasn’t a show tonight.”
He stands behind me, glaring at me in the mirror. “You’re on press call,” he says. “Make sure you stick to the script.”
Press call. My heart sinks. I suppose it’s better than having to perform, but only just. Press call is one of a million reasons why I hate the Pures. It’s not enough for them to watch us getting maimed and tortured every night: they like to hear us telling them how it feels. Of course, we don’t get to tell them the real truth; no one’s interested in our actual opinions. The answers are heavily scripted, and we’re monitored to make sure we don’t say anything untoward or inappropriate. We’re not allowed to show any animosity or anger towards the Pures – we have to appear grateful for the opportunity they’ve given us. It’s not easy for anyone to fake that, but I’m particularly bad at it.
“Why?” I ask. “You’ve said it before: I’m not very good at press conferences.”
“Well, you’ll have to do better, won’t you?” He pulls back my hair so that I’m staring up into his cold eyes. “We’ve had a special request for you. There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.” He smirks. “Don’t let me down,” he snarls, and then turns and heads back out of the room, leaving me sitting there numbly while Minnie smothers my face with make-up.
BEN
Walking into the new show is like walking into the middle of a coral reef.
It’s a round building, nearly as big as the main arena, and the walls aren’t really walls at all, but thick reinforced glass. Behind them, an array of marine life meanders its way round a circular tank, encompassing the room. When the doors shut, they too form part of the transparent walls, so that we are entirely surrounded by sea life. It’s as if we’re in the hollowed-out centre; a magical bubble in the middle of the ocean.
The turquoise blue water is teeming with kaleidoscopic life: so many fish, a myriad of different colours and sizes, huge sting-rays, great ancient turtles. There’s music playing: a calm, plaintive tune. It’s very haunting; I think it must be whale song.
The ceiling above our heads forms part of the tank too, its water an inky black colour mingled with the brilliant blue glow of plankton, peculiar and alien. Hundreds of bio-luminous sea creatures meander along up there, their skeletons and organs bright white and visible. Strange, long-tentacled squid-like creatures; puffy pink and green jellyfish rippling their way by; illuminated sea horses bobbing along in shoals. It’s hypnotic, mesmerizing, the spell it casts over me only broken by a sudden cry from a lady opposite me, pointing excitedly at a pod of six dolphins that comes weaving its way around the room.
The rows of chairs we sit in are circular too, facing inward to an empty stage. Everyone’s craned round in their chairs, looking behind them at the closest walls.
Suddenly the lights in the tank dim and the middle of the room is illuminated instead. The tempo of the music speeds up, throbbing intensely as a new tank is lowered down into the ring. There’s a collective gasp as we all realize at the same time what’s in it.
Four huge sharks are gliding through the water. Nature’s deadliest, sleekest of weapons, great whites, without a doubt. Their tails swish and their huge mouths gape open, seeming to leer at us, as they patrol the tank. You can see their teeth, jagged white zigzags, like something a child would draw.
A shiver runs down my spine just from being this close to them. No wonder Sabatini was excited about this latest show.
I wonder where they come from, how they are caught, transported, penned.
There’s something in the middle of the tank. An extra spotlight shines on it, so it becomes clear what it is. It’s a diving cage. Inside are two women, huddled together and bound up with chains.
Standing on a platform above the tank, cracking his whip and beaming at us, beaming at me, especially, Sabatini appears.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he calls out. “Welcome to the inaugural performance of our newest Cirque act. We are proud to say you are the first audience to witness this show – the first people ever to witness this show, in fact, for it has not even been attempted in rehearsal before! Please refrain from photography, but do tell the world all about it afterwards! In the tank below me are the world famous escapologists, Astrid and Luna. You will, I am sure, have heard of them, maybe even seen them perform before, for they have been one of our most popular circus acts for over ten years!”
There’s a roar of applause. He waits for it to die down before he continues. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that Astrid and Luna have survived every single situation they have faced so far. And they have faced many difficulties… except one…” He pauses and then in a horrible, piercing singsong voice wheedles, “That’s right, except for nature’s deadliest predator… Except for Great. White. Sharks!”
The audience erupt again and he basks in the noise as he waits for silence.
“Astrid and Luna, you will see, are currently breathing with the support of oxygen tanks. In a moment, these tanks will be removed and the safety cage around them will be lifted up. Astrid and Luna must find a way to escape the twelve chains which bind them both to the bottom of the tank. They must do it before the air runs out. They must do it before…” he pauses dramatically, “before the sharks get hungry!” The crowd cheers again, there’s a frenzied stamping of feet, wolf whistles, dramatic screaming.
I thought the press would be a bit more subdued, but no; they seem just as crazed as last night’s crowd.
I don’t want to be here; it’s not why I came. What would Priya say if she knew?
“Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I give you the Great White Gamble!”
With that, Sabatini leaps down off his platform and bounds across the room to sit in the chair reserved next to me. He turns to me, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “I told you it would be good,” he says.
The oxygen canisters and cage are lifted out of the water. The tank is lit up so well that as soon as the cage is gone you can see the two women really clearly. They don’t have protective masks on and their eyes are wide open as they begin to struggle with the chains. They look exactly the same as each other. They must be twins, like me and Francis, identical ones though.
The sharks immediately swim towards them. Some people say sharks are beautiful, but I don’t think they are. To me, they just look menacing and cruel; soulless, heartless predators with blood on their brains.
In the centre, Astrid and Luna are frantically trying to work their way out of their chains. They make fast progress for a while; three great metal bindings and four locks are quickly released and drop to the bottom of the tank in heavy coils.
“What do you think?” Sabatini leans towards me so that I feel his horrid breath on my face. “I thought of this one myself. Am I not a genius?”
I’ve had enough. Enough of him, enough of the Cirque, enough of everything.
“I
think it’s disgusting,” I tell him, watching as his face drops. “Disgusting and shameful. This isn’t anything to be proud of. It’s sick.”
He laughs nervously. “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s all an illusion. These people aren’t really in any danger at all!”
I look at the tank, at the two women, struggling.
“It looks very real to me,” I tell him, doubtfully.
“What I mean is, sharks don’t feed on people. Shark attacks are much rarer than you think. They aren’t at all interested in attacking anyone; they’ve just had a good feed.”
I feel a bit better when he says that. It’s true, I think. I remember reading something about it being a myth that sharks ate people, even great whites, like these ones.
The twins haven’t got any oxygen though and they’re chained to the bottom. How much longer can they last for, even if the sharks decide they don’t want breakfast?
“Don’t worry,” Sabatini croons at me. “Luna and Astrid are the best in the business. They’ll be free within minutes.”
Sure enough, there’s a sudden commotion in the water as one of the girls swims free from her chains. She pushes up through the water to the surface, her head thrown back as she sucks in great lungfuls of air.
“There, didn’t I tell you she’d be fine?” Sabatini says. “She’ll climb out now, right as rain.”
He’s wrong though. Instead of moving towards the steps and getting out of the water, she plunges back in again and dives down into the tank. The other girl is still struggling below the surface, her eyes bulging and panicked. There’s only one chain left holding her down, but it’s a huge one, wrenching her back every time she tries to rise up.
The first twin swims towards her and grabs her head between her two hands. She puts her mouth to hers. She’s giving her sister air, breathing it into her mouth, trying to keep her alive. She swims away from her and down to the chain, working to try and untangle it. The chained girl’s movements are noticeably slower than hers now.
The first girl swims back up to the surface, and then dives back down, repeating the same moves as before, breathing air into her twin’s mouth and then trying to untangle the chain.
The audience are silent now.
The submerged twin’s face looks pale and her eyes glazed. She’s stopped moving. She looks like she’s dead.
The sharks swim about the tank uninterestedly, ignoring the two figures struggling so desperately.
Something changes though. The unchained twin turns suddenly and swims quickly up to the surface, holding her arm out of the water in front of her.
“Her finger’s bleeding!” someone shouts. I lean forward and I can actually see it. A tiny cut. She must have caught it on the chain, or scraped it on the bottom.
She swims quickly towards the steps and starts to pull herself out. It’s too late though; the blood has already dripped into the water.
In horrifying symmetry, the sharks attack. They whip towards her and one of them launches up, out of the water, pulling her downwards with its great jaws.
It’s hard to see what happens after that because the water turns red. It churns, seething. Like it’s alive, when all it really means is death.
This doesn’t feel real. Maybe it’s all part of the act, maybe it’s just pretend. I look at Sabatini, next to me; his face is stricken.
“Damn,” he says angrily. “They weren’t actually supposed to eat them; not until Saturday night at least.”
He stands up and beckons over one the guards. “Get everyone out of here! Now!” he orders. I think he’s actually forgotten I’m there. “Show’s over.”
HOSHIKO
Once I’m ready, I slump down in the chair, trying to summon up some energy and enthusiasm from somewhere, rehearsing in my head the script of acceptable answers.
When Silvio comes in, I can tell straight away that he’s angry about something.
“Get out there,” he orders. “You’re on straight away.”
“I thought I was on after Astrid and Luna?” I say.
He regards me coldly. “I’m getting sick of telling you not to question me. Things are not going well for me at the moment; I’ve got a whole new show to plan in time for the Spooktacular and I do not have time to stand here answering your questions. Do as you’re told, girl.”
He turns to leave, pausing at the door to face me again. “Astrid and Luna are dead. Is that clear enough for you?”
And then he walks out, slamming the door behind him.
BEN
The aquatic room is a sudden hive of conversation as fifty journalists simultaneously give live broadcasts about what’s just happened. I force my way through the mass of people, and stumble over to the edge of one of the pathways, vomiting up my lunch.
I turn around and Stanley’s there, as always, pretending not to see. What does he think of it all?
Those girls must both be dead. No one could have survived that.
In my head, all I can hear is Priya’s voice. Make up your own mind; judge with your heart and with your head.
I know what she meant now. All I want to do is go home and tell her that.
That’s not true; all I want to do is see Hoshiko again, and then go home and tell Priya that.
I stand there for a bit longer, waiting for the queasiness to subside, then I head over to the press conference room. There’s no one here yet; they’re all still broadcasting their gleeful reports live on the rolling news channels.
I sit in a chair a couple of rows back. I try to stop my hands from shaking, but I can’t. Eventually, the room fills up around me. Any minute now, I’m going to see her again.
Once everyone’s seated, the trademark Dreg Cirque fanfare crackles over the tannoy and Silvio Sabatini appears again, prancing on the stage like some kind of evil goblin. Maybe he’s actually got demonic powers which enable him to be in more than one place at the same time.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he cries in his wheedling voice. “What an eventful night! Here at the Cirque, when we promise a treat’s in store, we never fail to deliver! And now, yet another gift for you: welcome to this evening’s press conference!” Ever the showman, there’s no sign now that anything’s amiss. His smile is syrupy, his tone grandiose. “Well, I know you’re not here to see me and so, without further ado, please welcome the Dreg Cirque’s star performer: trapeze and tightrope artiste extraordinaire, the amazing, the phenomenal, the sublime – the Cat!”
The whole room around me is on its feet, everyone clapping furiously. I stay seated, looking around.
A door at the side of the stage opens and there she is, flanked by two security guards.
She’s wearing an emerald green gown – the sheer silk ripples when she walks, fluttering at her thighs. The neckline plunges down to her waist, where it’s tied together with a black, looped bow. I feel my cheeks burn.
I wonder if she remembers me.
I wait for her to look up and see me in the crowd, but she spends most of the time looking down at the ground; her eyelashes are really long and dark. Her hands are bandaged up; she must have damaged them last night.
Silvio Sabatini kicks things off.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is not our show, it’s yours. The Cirque only operates with your generosity and support. Young Hoshiko here would be delighted to answer any questions you may have.”
Nothing happens for a few seconds and then a journalist in the front row tentatively puts up her hand.
“Madam?” the ringmaster beams.
“Erm, yes.” The woman seems nervous. She’s about thirty, I guess, quite plain and dowdy looking. “I’d just like to say that I’ve watched your act loads of times now, and I’m totally in awe of you! What I would really like to know is, when did you first realize that you wanted to be a performer here in the Cirque?”
If the question makes me feel this angry it must make her feel furious, but her face is a mask of indifference.
“Every Dreg dreams of being in
the Cirque,” she answers. “To be able to enrich the lives of the Pures in some way is all I’ve ever longed for, ever since I was a child.”
The first question has opened up a tidal wave, and there are dozens of hands up now.
“How many hours a day do you practise?”
“What’s your favourite part of the act?”
“How many times have you been injured?”
Every time, she answers in the same measured, monotone way. It’s as if it’s all scripted: a carefully rehearsed performance.
I look at Sabatini. He’s watching her every word, a steely glint in his eye. A chill runs down my spine. She can’t say what she really thinks, she’s not allowed to.
The questions keep coming, quickly getting more personal, more offensive, as the audience become more comfortable.
“How long do you think you’ve got left?” one guy asks. Her expression alters as her eyes narrow and flick up. It’s just for an instant though, before she looks back down and her face resumes its neutral expression.
“Every day I risk my life, but it’s a small price to pay if it entertains the audience.”
I’m sitting on my hands, but I still can’t stop them. I raise one in the air. I have to connect with her again, although I don’t know what I’m going to say.
The ringmaster points to a few more people.
“How many deaths have you seen?”
“What’s the goriest one?”
“How old were you when you started performing?”
I keep my hand aloft, straining it up high now, trying desperately to catch his eye. Eventually, his gaze lands on me. “Yes, young sir?” He smirks at me, knowingly.
I will her to look up, to see me, but her eyes remain downcast.
“Yes?” he prompts me. “Do you have a question for Hoshiko?”
“Erm. What I would like to know is … do you… I mean, have you…”
Show Stopper Page 10