Show Stopper

by Hayley Barker

  The two guys are the financial trustees of the Cirque, both city big-wigs. They look kind of the same as each other: grey hair, black suits, blank faces. I forget what their real names are, but all us Dregs refer to them as Tweedledum and Tweedledumber.

  They flank the woman in the centre. She’s wearing a navy-blue suit and her red hair frames her face in a sleek bob, accentuating her cool, icy-blue eyes.

  Vivian Baines.

  Wow, two visits in two days. We are honoured.

  Guards line the back wall, their guns aimed at me and at the children, although I have no idea how they think we could pose any threat to them.

  Mind you, there were kidnapping attempts a couple of years ago; I remember hearing about them. Vivian Baines and her kids were nearly abducted by one of the Dreg hate mobs. They caught them though, before they got very far, strung them up, hung them to rot at the front of PowerHouse.

  Shame they didn’t succeed; shame it wasn’t her and her kids who ended up dead: at least that would be three fewer Pures to worry about.

  She notices me, loitering at the back, and she raises her hand and curls one long, manicured finger at me, beckoning me over.

  “You, Dreg girl. Come here.”

  The look on her face isn’t disgust, or contempt, like you would expect to find when someone like her looks at someone like me. It’s more passionate than that, almost as if she’s angry with me. Her eyes bore into me. I meet them with a steady gaze as I cross the room. If she wants to intimidate me, she’ll have to do better than that.

  “Let’s get this over with as quickly as possible; I have places to be. Put the dirty little brats through their paces and then report back to us. Could they be useful in the circus, or not?”

  I nod curtly at her before heading over to the little group of children. They’re all sitting down now, huddled together, cross-legged. I hate the way they all look so scared of me – as if it’s me who’s the bad guy, not the child-snatcher behind me.

  I turn back to look at her. She’s not focused on us at all; she’s got a laptop out and she’s typing with determination. The two guys are both doing the same. I kneel down and whisper to the group of kids.

  “It’s OK. You’ll all be able to go home at the end of today.”

  Their faces light up. They must live in cold, dingy squalors, they must be practically starving the whole time, and yet none of them want to be here. Maybe they know, already, what kind of place it is; maybe they can sense the evil, hanging in the air.

  A place in the circus means certain death. Maybe you can escape it this time, maybe you can survive another a week, maybe a month, maybe a few years, if you’re lucky. But the one thing you can be sure of is that Death’s waiting for you. He wears a fine suit and he carries a monkey on his shoulder and he’s coming for you; one crack of his whip and you’re done for.

  I don’t care what Amina says, I’m not passing anyone.

  BEN

  There’s a sudden commotion at the back of the hall and a group of workers enter, pushing a giant contraption between them: thick black metal, vast, imposing. The last time I saw one of these was in the Imperial War Museum on a school trip, but this one is even bigger than those they used hundreds of years ago.

  It’s a cannon.

  It takes twelve men to manoeuvre it through the door and across the arena. They edge slowly forward. Dregs are naturally weak, or so we’re told, but it must be really heavy for them to be moving it that slowly. Finally, they get it in position at the back of the arena, on a wooden stage that has been erected since I was here on opening night.

  Once it’s in place, four Dregs with tape measures come in. They spend ages tilting it left and right, up a bit, down a bit, lining it up with a target point on the opposite wall. Finally, they seem satisfied. They step back and one of the guards begins hauling the boys roughly to their feet, pushing them over to the central stage.

  They’re all aged between fifteen and eighteen, I reckon: around my age. That’s where the similarity ends, though. Their translucent skin seems to barely stretch over their bones, which jut through at sharp angles. I think guiltily of the hot school dinner I’ve just turned my back on, knowing there’ll be plenty more food for me to eat when I next get hungry.

  Most of the Dregs leave then: just one man remains, his critical eye fixed on the cannon. He must be some kind of technician, taken from his family as a child just as the performers were and trained up. The security guards push the boys roughly into a line in front of some metal steps which lead up to the muzzle of the cannon.

  Oh God. Surely they aren’t going to?

  HOSHIKO

  The test has three components: agility, core strength and balance. For the agility part, the children take it in turns to lay on a mat while I inspect their flexibility. I call each one over and try to get through my fake assessment as quickly as possible. I’m supposed to put them in lots of uncomfortable positions: make them arch backwards and push their little legs forward and back, right and left, to see how much pressure and resistance they can take. Instead, I try to make it fun for them, telling them curl up into tight little “bouncy balls”, and stretch up tall “like trees”.

  For a while, it works. Even the tiniest girl stops crying as she concentrates on jumping up into the air like a great big star.

  It’s when Silvio comes in that it all starts to go wrong.

  The metal doors swing open and smash heavily against the walls, announcing his presence with a loud clang. All the children stop their little jumping exercises to stare at him, open mouthed.

  He’s all dressed up, as he always is, with Bojo perched on his shoulder in his little matching suit. He must look like something from a story to them.

  Silvio dashes across the room, ignoring us, and approaches Vivian Baines, who stares at him over her laptop.

  “Madam.” His voice is all sickly sweet and syrupy, it turns my stomach. “We’re honoured to have you with us again.”

  “Really.” She glares at him coldly. “And you are here because?”

  He falters. “Erm. Well, I always try to be present at selection, when my schedule permits. I like to keep a close eye on all aspects of the Cirque, check the Dregs are working as they ought to be. Show them who’s boss.”

  “The Dregs?” she glares at him. “Are you not one yourself? A Dreg, I mean?”

  “I suppose, strictly speaking, you might say that, but my position is somewhat ambiguous.”

  “Ambiguous?” Her smile is icy. “Well, boss, you are either a Pure, or you are not. Which is it?”

  Silvio glances over at me. I look quickly down at the ground, but I can’t stop the little smirk on my face. He mumbles something so quietly that I can’t hear him.

  “I beg your pardon, little man,” she says. “You will have to speak more clearly. What was it you said?”

  He coughs, nervously. “I said I am not a Pure, Madam.”

  “I am not a what? I repeat, you need to speak more clearly.”

  “I am not a Pure, Madam.”

  “Yes. I can see that. Now, if you’ve finished taking up my time?” She looks over at us, all watching. “Show’s over. Continue,” she demands.

  Silvio crosses the room, and stands uncertainly in front of us. I’ve never seen him lose his cool before. My eyes meet his and I turn away. I know it’s a really, really foolish thing to do but I can’t help the laughter that bubbles up inside me.

  She reduced him to nothing, right there, in front of all the Dreg kids, in front of Tweedledumb and Tweedldumber, in front of me. I can’t wait to tell Amina. This ludicrous notion he has that he’s somehow different from the rest of us, better than the rest of us. His crazy little fantasy that one day his Pure family will welcome him back with open arms: she crushed it.

  I know I mustn’t let him see me laughing, so I keep my back to him, but I can’t stop the convulsions that start in my stomach and rise up, making my shoulders shake. But then a sharp jolt runs through my body, making it
convulse for a different reason, as he digs a cattle prod into my ribs.

  “Get on with it.” His words are clipped, angry; I think he’s clenching his teeth.

  He marches towards the children and grabs hold of the nearest one. It’s the little girl, the smallest one of all. She reminds me of Greta when she first arrived.

  “Get on with it!” he repeats, jamming the cattle prod repeatedly into her ribs. She cries out, her eyes widening in pain and fear as the electric shock shudders through her body.

  For a while he patrols around, randomly prodding the children as they try their best to perform.

  They’re petrified now, cowering away from him instinctively.

  “Ringmaster?” Vivian Baines calls.

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “Haven’t you got anywhere else you need to be?”

  Silvio splutters something unintelligible. I never thought I’d see him floundering. Then again, I never thought I’d see anyone who sent more chills down my spine than he does but the woman across the room makes him seem like a pussycat.

  “I hear your big new show met with a dramatic end last night?” she says. “I hope you’ll have something to replace it with in time for the notorious Spooktacular?”

  “Oh yes, Madam!” he crows, nodding profusely.

  “That’s good,” she says. “Care to share the details?”

  “I’d rather not say yet, Madam.” He laughs, nervously. “But if you’d like to come to the event, you won’t be disappointed!”

  “Once is enough,” she snorts, derisively. “Just make sure it’s explosive enough, will you? Two deaths in one night almost makes it worthwhile keeping you open. Presumably the great Spooktacular will be even more eventful?”

  “Oh yes, Madam. Of course!”

  There’s a silence as she, Tweedledumb, Tweedledumber, me, the children – all of us – stare at him.

  “OK.” The fixed smile on his face is more like a grimace. “Off I go, onwards and upward.”

  He turns and dashes quickly out of the doors.

  Her eyes settle on me.

  She claps her hands sharply together. “Well, come on, Tightrope Walker, proceed as you were. I don’t have all day!”

  BEN

  The front doors swing open and Sabatini appears. He strides across the arena, his little monkey hopping along behind him. I look at his dark, greased moustaches, his olive skin, and I’m left wondering how someone who is so obviously a Dreg manages to wield so much power. The usual rules of society don’t seem to apply here, under the colourful roofs and the sparkling lights. Here, he seems to reign supreme. How does he do it?

  The syrupy smile of last night has gone. He’s rude and abrupt with the man in charge of the cannon.

  “I want this ready by Saturday!” he shouts out to everyone in the room.

  A Dreg in overalls steps forward. “But, Mr Sabatini, that’s impossible. We haven’t even started rehearsing.”

  “Rehearsing? How hard can it be to blast a few kids out of a cannon?”

  “Well,” the man answers nervously. “It’s more complicated than you might think. We have to make sure we allocate exactly the right amount of ammunition each time, adjusting it accordingly depending on the weight of each person. And then we have to instruct the men on how to position themselves, and—”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Sabatini interrupts him. “This is not up for discussion. Show time is tomorrow night, do you hear? If this act fails, I fail. And I do not like to fail.” He dashes up the stairs on to the stage and looks down at the group of Dregs below him.

  “If it fails, we will have no use for any of you. You do not have skills, you have not been selected because you show any talent.” He laughs. “Oh no! You are the lowest of the low. You have been picked because you are, how can I put this? Disposable.” He says the word slowly, enunciating every syllable. “Yes, that’s it. Disposable. To put it quite simply, you are irrelevant. It matters not to me, or anyone else here, if one, or two, or all of you die. However, the Pures will want to see at least some of you emerge intact once you’ve been fired out. There’s not much point to the act otherwise. And this, people, may be enough to save your life. We don’t really want you to die yet. We’d rather you were catapulted across the room a few times before that, so we can really recuperate the time and effort we’ve spent on you. Well, I can see you’re all dying to begin!” He laughs and claps his hands together, “Let’s go: Load. Aim. Fire!”

  HOSHIKO

  Selection is as horrific as I thought it would be, even after Silvio has left, and most of the children are sobbing as I ask them to complete the activities. Each child has a number pinned to them and I am given a clipboard and a red pen. Beside the corresponding number on the paper, I have to pass or fail them, a tick or a cross for each section. Next to each number, I put a large red cross. I don’t even have to lie about it; Silvio has caused such terror amongst them that none of them manage to do anything even half successfully. They try their best, but they’re trembling and weeping so much that it’s impossible.

  The boy who stood out in the line is last, and he’s the only one who doesn’t seem petrified.

  “What’s your name?” I ask him.

  “Ezekiel.” He grins, his teeth still white and shining.

  I put him through the motions, like the other kids. He’s miles better than they were, much more flexible, with an easy grace to each fluid movement.

  It’s the same with every section. He’s stronger, quicker, more supple than the others. When they walk along the beam a couple of them totter right off and even those who manage to stay on waver and sway as they shuffle from end to end. Not Ezekiel; he dances across, eyes fixed in front, not at the floor like all the others. There’s something poetic about his movements and I can’t help picturing him on the tightrope. He’d be a natural, I know it.

  I look across the hall at the directors. All three of them are paying attention now, watching the boy too, eyeing him up like a tasty dish they’re about to devour. You can almost see the pound signs gleaming in their eyes.

  He’s too good.

  I lean into the beam, shift it with my shoulders so that it jolts. His eyes widen and he wobbles slightly, but he still doesn’t fall. At the end, he springs up into the air, landing perfectly, hands raised.

  I pick up the clipboard. There are red crosses in every box for every child. This is the last one.

  I think about it for a moment or two, weighing up the possibilities. The truth is, he’s had it either way – they all have. If he goes back to the slums, he’ll grow up in some squalid pit, sharing a bed with the rats and the lice. If he’s lucky enough to make it through his childhood at all, he’ll have to do some menial, soul-destroying job in order to earn a few measly tokens for food and clothes. He’ll spend the rest of his life feeling hungry and cold and dirty.

  Maybe he’d be better off here? At least he wouldn’t starve. He’d have clean clothes, get a wash every night. And we’d try to look after him; we’d do our best for him.

  I see it suddenly, clear in my mind, my own little hut, the one I struggle to picture at all sometimes.

  It was cold, always cold, or that’s how I remember it anyway: so cold that your fingers and toes always felt numb and your breath came out in cold little puffs, so cold that your bones ached with it and there were never enough blankets to go around. We’d all huddle together on the tiny bed, seeking warmth and comfort.

  As well as the bed, we had a little table, made out of an upturned wooden crate, but there were no stools or chairs; we just sat or crouched on the floor. There was a bucket in the corner, for going to the toilet, or you could walk across the slum to the communal ones: stinky, muddy little sheds they were, with big cavernous holes in the ground for us to use. I was scared of the thick cloying cobwebs in them and the smell always made me feel nauseous. My mum said the communal ones bred germs and disease anyway, so she always let me use the bucket.

  I remember her tel
ling me stories, while I sat there, dress hitched up, perched on it. She used to sing me songs sometimes too. I used to love hearing her sing, she had a beautiful voice.

  I’m filled up, suddenly, with a wave of longing for her. I’d take the cold, I’d take the bucket, I’d take all of it just to hear her sing again; just to snuggle up with her in the cold.

  I can’t do it. I can’t be the one responsible for taking Ezekiel away from his family. I can’t condemn him to a life here, no matter how good he is; can’t train him up and then see him perform up there on the wire, risking his life every single night; can’t watch as he turns into someone broken and bitter.

  Someone like me.

  I look back over the directors; they’re all still watching him. I take the pen, mark a large red cross next to the number twelve and march over to them, waving the list in the air.

  They peer over the large desk at me as if I’m a cockroach, scuttling towards them.

  “They’ve all failed,” I announce. “None of them are good enough.” I slam the paper down on the desk and turn away.

  “Stop,” Baines commands. “Come back here. Right now.”

  I spin around, my eyes meeting hers again. We glare at each other.

  “That last boy. Don’t try telling me he was inadequate; we all saw him cross the beam.”

  “He was too wobbly, he’s not flexible enough. He’s untrainable,” I tell her.

  Tweedledumb finally speaks. “That’s not right. He definitely had potential.”

  “Yes, we all remarked on it,” agrees Tweedledumber.

  “Well, I’m telling you. He’s not good enough.”

  They all stare down at me. Vivian Baines leans forward.

  “How many selection processes have you assessed at?”

  “Loads,” I tell her, confidently. “And he’s no good.”

  “Come here.” Her curved red fingernail is a claw, beckoning me closer to the table. “Closer than that.”

  I’m right up next to the desk now. I’m barely tall enough to see over the edge of it and I have to tilt my head back to peer up at her on her big chair. She’s done it on purpose, to make me feel as small as she possibly can.