She rises up from her chair. Her eyes burn; hatred seems to seep out of her every pore.
“I’ve got your number,” she hisses. “You’re an insolent little madam, too big for your boots by far.” She turns to the others. “The boy passes. Agreed?” They both nod their assent, smirking at me. She leans towards me again, so close I can feel her breath on my face. “I don’t like your attitude, Dreg girl. I don’t like it all. You’ll be hearing from me.”
She turns back to the two men. “All of this fuss over a bunch of bloody Dregs. I don’t know why we don’t just terminate the lot of them; save everyone a great deal of time and expense.”
They laugh, nervously; I think even they are afraid of her. She waves her hand towards me, dismissively. “Well, go on, get out of here.”
All the children are watching in wide-eyed wonder. It takes all my nerves, but I walk steadily, slowly. When I reach the exit, I turn around and face her again. She’s still looking at me. I smile as sweetly as I can at her and leave, slamming the door behind me so hard that the sound resounds across the empty courtyard.
BEN
I can’t watch this. I glance over at the doors I came through; they’re still open. Maybe I can get out of here before it’s too late.
Suddenly, the arena is flooded with light. I’ll never make it now, not without all of them seeing me.
I don’t want to watch, but I can’t help it. My eyes are drawn to the front and I stare in fascinated horror as the first boy slowly ascends the steps. Years ago, in the wars of the olden days, they’d have stuffed great round balls of metal in here, wedging them in and blasting the enemy to smithereens. Now, a boy of about my age is taking the place of a solid sphere of iron.
He hasn’t got a costume on, just the thin rags all the performers seem to wear if they aren’t on stage, and his feet are bare. It’s so quiet that you can still hear his steps as he mounts the ladder.
The atmosphere is so different to during the performance. There’s no glitzy costumes, no pounding drum beat, no vigorous crescendos. This is the Cirque, stripped to its bare bones, like the poor boys on the stage.
I put my hands up to my face, watching through the cracks in my fingers.
Once he reaches the top of the steps, he bends down, taking something out of a large sack on the platform. He clips a belt into place. There’s a bag bulging on the back of it. He looks down at the boys below him, an expression of terror on his face. I feel sick.
He crawls into the gaping muzzle, curling into a ball, so all you can see is the bag, poking out of the rim. It’s a tight squeeze, even for someone as skinny as he is. That’s why all the boys are in such a state – the Pures must have seized the scrawniest ones they could find.
Another boy steps forward. I see him look upward and mutter a prayer, before he pulls swiftly on a black lever at the bottom of the cannon.
Sparks fly and there’s a sizzling noise before it explodes with a loud boom. The boy shoots out of the other end, still curled up tightly like a ball. He tumbles in the air above, round and round before landing, perfectly, on the thin mats opposite. He quickly throws off the belt, plunging the smoking bag into a huge water vat at the side of the arena. Then he gets up and scurries away, seemingly completely unharmed, as Silvio claps slowly. I feel pure, sweet relief that he’s still standing: maybe this won’t be so bad, after all.
The next four go in exactly the same way, a different boy catapulted across the arena each time. It’s only on the sixth that things stop running so smoothly.
He looks even more nervous than the others did, and it’s harder for him to manoeuvre himself into the dark mouth of the cannon because his left arm is already bound in a sling.
“Get on with it, boy!” Silvio barks impatiently at him. “If you can’t get your arm in, we can always hack it off!”
The boy pulls himself in then, concertinaing himself inside, the pain visible on his face.
For the first time though, the cannon doesn’t fire when the lever is pushed down. There’s no spark, no boom, no flinging human ball across the arena.
The technician comes forward, frowning. He mounts the ladder, peering in at the petrified boy still nestled in the gaping O of the cannon. He says something to him and the boy scrambles out, standing nervously on the platform. He turns, suddenly, to the part of the arena where I’m hiding, staring with his big, hollow eyes. Can he see me? It feels like he can.
“What’s going on?” Sabatini demands.
“I’m not sure,” the technician answers. “Maybe there’s not enough powder.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Pour some more in, man.”
The technician starts to slowly spoon more powder from the keg.
“Come on,” snarls the ringmaster. “Get on with it.”
The technician is hesitant. “We aren’t really supposed to mess around with the quantity,” he says. “Fire safety and all that.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake!”
Silvio lifts the large keg up off the floor, heaving it up on to his shoulder and tipping it into the bag on the boy’s back, pouring until it cascades out of the sides.
Slowly, the boy climbs back into the cannon and the other boy pulls the lever again. Still nothing.
Silvio Sabatini steps forward once more. He looks carefully at everything and then picks up a bottle. “What’s this?” he asks.
“Lighter fluid,” the technician answers, nervously. “You don’t need it. It would be very dangerous with all that gunpowder; these wall coverings are flammable.”
Ignoring him, Sabatini unscrews the bottle and pours it over the bag strapped to the boy’s back. Everyone’s so quiet that you can hear the glugging liquid as it drenches the bag.
The boy doesn’t say a word, but I can see him trembling as he climbs back in for the third time.
This time, the spark ignites straight away, flaring up dramatically. The boy is flung out of the cannon, a roaring ball of fire. The force is much harder now and he blasts over the mats, crashing with a thump into the wall opposite and landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.
The orange drapes catch alight, the flames quickly licking their way higher, before the Pure blasts at them with the white foam of a fire extinguisher.
He doesn’t spray it on the boy though. He’s still on fire. He rises up and runs around the arena, manically. He must finally see the vat of water because he heads for it and plunges into it, headfirst. There’s a hissing sound and clouds of smoke buffet out, and then the other boys all surge forward to help him.
“Stop!” the ringmaster commands from the stage. “Stop where you are, all of you!”
They look up at him and then towards the boy, torn.
“If any of you so much as move forward one further inch, you will all lose your lives!” he cries. “Rehearsal is over. Leave this arena immediately.” They still remain, looking at him, looking at the boy who is screaming helplessly from the tank.
“Get out!” Silvio Sabatini bellows. “Get out of my arena!”
They turn and head away.
He blows his whistle and two security guards appear. He gestures towards the screaming boy. “Take him away.”
“To where, sir?”
“To where? I don’t bloody care. Do what you like with him, just get rid of him!”
The poor Dreg is dragged out and now there’s no one left in the arena, apart from the ringmaster. Him, and me, hidden away, silently watching.
Sabatini stands up on the stage, bowing and blowing kisses dramatically to an imaginary crowd before turning and leaving too.
I let out a long breath I wasn’t aware I’d been holding. I’m horrified: I just crouched down over here, watching, doing nothing. Maybe I could have stopped it, if I’d stood up, told them not to do it. They’d have to have listened to me – I mean, look at who my mother is.
But I didn’t even try. Even when that boy was running around on fire, I just watched him burning.
HOSHIKO
> Once I’m outside, my bravado quickly subsides. I keep looking behind me, expecting the doors to open and the security guards to rush out after me. I run across the courtyard, ducking quickly down one of the little pathways before sinking to my knees behind one of the hot-dog stands.
What was I thinking of, behaving like that? Showing disrespect towards any Pure would be asking for trouble, but I’ve just gone and offended Vivian Baines, of all people.
I was deliberately rude to her. I answered her back. I slammed the door on her.
She’s never going to let that go.
I’ve just signed my own death warrant.
BEN
Outside, the courtyard’s deserted.
I can’t leave yet, not without seeing Hoshiko again, one more time. She doesn’t want me here, she made that perfectly clear yesterday, but I have to try and explain that I’m not like all the other Pures. Not any more.
It’s when I’m looking around that I see him lying there, down one of the narrow walkways which lead into the main courtyard. The boy – the one from the cannonball. I can’t just leave him there. I walk quickly down the path.
He looks dead.
I touch him, tentatively. His eyes flicker open. When I take my hand away, there’s something stuck to it. Something flaky: it’s his skin. One leg and both arms are red and raw. He’s lost his shirt and his charred chest is shiny. His face is bruised, one eye swollen shut. The arm in the sling is twisted away from his body, jutting out at a peculiar angle.
“Let me help you,” I tell him. Trying to put as little pressure on him as possible, I gently ease him up, so he’s leaning against the tree trunk behind him. He looks dazed; I think he’s about to pass out. Or worse.
I take my water bottle from my bag and kneel down, letting a few drops trickle between his cracked, dry lips. He reaches up his hand and seizes the bottle from me, draining it in long, desperate gulps.
It’s only when the whole bottle’s gone, that he opens his one undamaged eye. It widens in fear when he sees I’m a Pure.
“Sorry,” he wheezes. “Sorry.”
“It’s OK. I don’t mind,” I tell him. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”
There’s blood trickling down from a cut on his head. I dab at it gently with my shirt sleeve, wiping it away so it doesn’t trickle into his eyes.
He glances around weakly. “I need to get inside,” he whispers.
“Let me help you up.”
“No!” He looks so panicked. “If they see…”
“It’s OK. There’s no one else here. Let me help you up and I’ll leave.” He looks helplessly at his legs, and then back at me, warily. Our eyes meet. “You can trust me.”
“Fine,” he agrees. “Thank you. But quickly.”
“I’m Ben,” I tell him, ridiculously, as if he cares about that. “What’s your name?”
“Anatol,” he breathes, so faintly that I have to lean my head right down to his mouth to hear what he’s saying.
“OK, Anatol. Let’s get you up. Lean on me; I’ll help you stand.”
I put my hands around his waist and slowly ease him on to his feet. As soon as I let go, he collapses to the ground again.
He looks at me for a second, his eyelids flickering and then he slumps forward. He’s lost consciousness.
If he doesn’t get some help quickly, he’s going to die. What can I do though? If anyone sees me with him, they’ll go straight to Mother. And that doesn’t bear thinking about. I’ll have to leave him and hope someone else finds him in time.
HOSHIKO
After a while, I stop shaking. I rise up from my knees and turn to walk back to the living quarters, trying to work out how I’m going to prepare Greta.
The courtyard’s deserted as I approach it but then, out of nowhere, he appears.
The boy, again, running away from me, down one of the pathways.
I look about. Nobody else is around and I move quietly after him; I stand behind one of little merchandise kiosks and peep out.
He’s crouched down on the floor, helping someone by the looks of it. It’s Anatol, the boy with the sling.
The Pure boy is talking to him, but he’s too far away for me to hear what he’s saying. Anatol looks up at him, and says something back, then the boy helps him to his feet. As soon as he lets go, Anatol falls back down to the ground.
My heart sinks; not another death.
The boy stares down at him and then turns away.
He’s going to leave him there to die. I should have known all along: he’s not different at all. He’s just like all the rest.
BEN
I turn to go. There’s nothing I can do for this Dreg, I need to get back to school, this was all a stupid mistake…
Priya’s words, Head and heart, Ben, head and heart, crowd my thoughts suddenly. Then Hoshiko’s accusing, angry You Pures are all the same.
Was she right? Am I just the ignorant, over-indulged Pure boy she thinks I am? Am I just like all those people, paying their money night after night, to come and watch the destruction of the Dregs? Am I even worse than that, a cruel coward? Am I like Francis? Am I like Mother?
It’s time to decide who I want to be.
I take a deep breath and turn back to Anatol.
HOSHIKO
I watch as he begins to walk away, then stops. He looks behind him at Anatol, lying horribly still on the ground. The Pure boy glances at the gates, then he bends down and lifts Anatol gently, carrying him, like a baby, back towards the courtyard.
I duck out of sight behind the kiosk.
BEN
I crouch down and scoop the boy up as gently as I can. He must be taller than me, but he’s so light, I feel like I could break him. I look down at his face: at his burnt, raw, blistered skin, his bruised, emaciated frame, his arm, flopping weakly. He’s broken already.
I carry him into the main courtyard and look about, desperately.
How can I help him?
HOSHIKO
He stands there, right in the middle, looking around.
“Help!” he calls out. “Help, somebody. Please!”
I step out from the shadows and run towards him.
BEN
It’s a waste of time; there’s no one there.
Then, suddenly, she is. Out of nowhere Hoshiko appears, running towards me. She looks down at the unconscious figure in my arms, her face etched with concern.
“We need to get him to Amina,” she says. “This way.”
She turns and starts hurrying down another one of the pathways. I follow her, though I have no idea what, or who, Amina is. She turns back towards me as she runs and our eyes meet for an instant.
Suddenly, there’s a whistle. From behind us come the sounds of guards in pursuit.
“Quickly,” she says. “If we don’t get him to Amina, he’ll die.”
I speed up.
There’s another whistle – a louder, shriller one – and an authoritative, commanding voice: a voice I’m more than familiar with.
“Benedict Baines. What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Mother.
HOSHIKO
I lead him down the pathway so we can cut across the fields, but as soon as the whistles start blowing I know we’re not going to make it. We keep running anyway and that’s when another whistle blows and I hear her voice, hard and clear, calling down the path.
“Benedict Baines, what on earth are you doing?”
I stop in my tracks.
I look at him, his mouth open in a little round O, his eyes wide and shocked; I look back up the path towards her.
Vivian Baines.
It’s not a sudden realization; it dawns on me slowly.
She called him Benedict Baines: same surname. No, surely not.
I look at him. There’s no family resemblance, even now, when I’m searching for it. Vivian Baines has red hair and those icy cold eyes. He looks so different. But looks can be deceiving.
He was in the VIP box, t
he other night.
Why didn’t I realize before?
He can’t be; it’s not possible. Vivian Baines is evil – really, really evil. He seems so different. He helped me in the arena, and now he’s trying to save Anatol’s life.
His eyes meet mine again. His face isn’t pale any more; his cheeks are flushed, like he’s embarrassed.
“Keep going,” he says. “You said it yourself, there’s no time to spare.”
We both glance back up the path. At the woman standing there in the centre, at the guards, running towards us, and we flee.
“Quick!” I tell him. “This way!”
We sprint down the path, but it’s no good; they’re gaining on us.
Just when it seems things can’t get any worse, He appears; running towards us from the other path in front of us, flanked by guards.
Silvio.
BEN
I look at her, helplessly, as they advance on us from two sides. We’re totally surrounded.
Mother doesn’t run, of course; she strides calmly towards us while Sabatini dashes up, arms flailing dramatically.
He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. He looks at me in confusion, an uncertain smile on his face, and then turns to Hoshiko, fury burning in his eyes.
Mother reaches us and I see the same fierce anger in her eyes as she stares at me, stares at who I’m with, stares at who I’m holding.
“What are you doing?” she barks, again. “Why are you carrying that filth-ridden creature? Benedict? Don’t look at the ground, look at me.”
My eyes meet hers. It’s hard, but I hold her stare.
“Drop him,” she says. “Drop him immediately and come with me. You are in a lot of trouble, my boy.”
I look at Hoshiko. Then I look down at the boy, slumped in my arms. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.
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