Show Stopper

by Hayley Barker

  She takes me firmly by the shoulders.

  “Nurse’s orders,” she says. “Stay in here tonight. Rest. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  She pushes me down gently but firmly on to the bed, stretches my legs out and puts a pillow behind my head.

  It’s nice, letting her take control. I nod, obediently. “OK,” I say. “OK.”

  The song of grief outside the room is getting louder now. She stands up. “Try and get some sleep,” she says and tucks a sheet snugly around me before leaving the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

  BEN

  I look at her face again, on the screen.

  I made a promise to her. I said I’d save her and I will. I’ve got to get her out of there. How, I have no idea, but I push that inconvenient reality to the back of my mind and concentrate on the first necessity: escaping from this house.

  No time like the present, I suppose. It’s nearly midnight, pretty much everyone except the guards will be asleep. I slip into dark clothes – black jeans and T-shirt – and grab what little cash I have lying around.

  Our security system was only installed a couple of years ago – after the kidnappings – and it’s pretty much invincible: iris recognition, fingerprint recognition, voice recognition.

  The latter part is the smartest because it means that, whatever the circumstances, no one can force us out under duress. The code words change every week and there’s a standard word and a panic word. If anything happens to us – if anyone tries to hurt us or take us – we just have to say the panic word and the whole place will be flooded with police in seconds.

  All that technology, all that brain work, put into making the place impenetrable. There’s one flaw though, one thing they never even considered: the system is designed to stop Dregs from getting in, not one of us from getting out.

  I’m completely trusted not to ever try anything like this, even now. Partly because I’ve always been pretty well behaved until the circus came to town, and partly because it’s complete madness. A death wish. Why would anyone want to leave the safety of this fortress at night, venture out into the unknown where, we’re frequently warned, lawless Dregs lurk on every corner, waiting for a chance to kill? No one. No one sane anyway, especially if they happened to be the son of one of the most important people in the country.

  I head downstairs and look into the facial recognition screen, touch the fingerprint monitor and utter the safe word. This week, it’s challenge.

  Everything’s silent. So far, so good. The cameras on every wall flash intermittently. Any second now, someone in security is going to see me, if they haven’t already. I’ve got to move quickly.

  As well as all the monitors, there are five guards on duty here at night: one on each exterior exit. The only way they’d ever abandon their posts is if they thought they were needed elsewhere. I’m going to have to create a diversion by deliberately triggering the alarm.

  It should be easy: all I have to do is say the panic word, that’s all. One little word, two tiny syllables. If I do this, there’s no going back. Pandemonium will break out. No one’s ever said the panic word before; no one’s ever needed to. A shiver of excitement runs down my spine.

  They’ll check the video footage. They’ll know I’ve done this on purpose. Mother will be livid, both my parents will be. What am I thinking?

  I take another breath. I think of Priya. Is she still alive? One day I’ll find out where she is. I think of Hoshiko. I think of her eyes, of her hair, alive with light. Suddenly, it’s easy. I look at the camera above my head. Stare into the screen, say the word loudly, clearly. It resonates in the silence: “Shatter.”

  Instantly, the house is flooded with light and a high droning noise fills the air, more than enough to wake up the whole neighbourhood.

  As quickly as I can I run into the hallway, hiding myself in the big cupboard under the stairwell. I hear fast footsteps straight away. Peering through the crack in the door I see Stanley rushing past me into the kitchen. Before he turns around, before anyone else appears, I slip out of my hiding place and head over to the door.

  The iron shutters are already descending. There’s about a foot left before they reach the floor. The lasers are darting hungrily across the room, frantically criss-crossing, waiting to take down anyone who ventures into their path. I take a deep breath and run straight through them, praying that the body recognition system kicks in.

  It must do: I make it through unscathed, reach the shutters, inches from the floor. Pull myself under, just in time. I’m out.

  I hear sirens straight away: hundreds of them, it sounds like, competing with the wailing alarm.

  I dart sideways as quickly as I can, slipping through the trees in the garden. I stick to the shadows and run to the left. There’s a back access gate down here, hardly used except by the gardeners. It’s alarmed, but the face and fingerprint recognition works again. I just have to utter the password and I’m out on to the city streets.

  I keep running for at least ten minutes before I even allow myself to stop and breathe.

  I can’t believe I’m acting like this. If I’m caught, Mother might actually have me killed too. Imagine how embarrassing it would be: her own son, breaking curfew to run off and see a Dreg girl, of all things. They’d keep it out of the press, of course, and she might get me let off a formal punishment. Anyone who breaks the rules is automatically thrown into the slums, but somehow I don’t think they’d do that to Vivian Baines’s son. She’d be absolutely horrified though; disgusted – they all would. I don’t think they’d ever get over the shock. Their precious Benedict, out on the streets, prey to any Dreg who happens to come along.

  It’s too late now to change my mind. I can’t go home. After the alarm, they’ll all have got up. They’ll be assembled in the main meeting hall for a roll call. Mother, Father, Francis, all the servants and guards. What are they going to think when I’m not there?

  It would never occur to them that I’d be brave or stupid enough to do anything like this, even after I bunked off school today. They’ll imagine the worst at first, think that the latest great Dreg kidnapping attempt has been successful.

  They’ll soon know though, when they watch the footage back; know that I’ve gone on purpose, that I’ve taken leave of my senses.

  Good. Serves them right. They think they know me. They think they know everything. It’s not true. They know nothing.

  I push the thoughts of home out of my mind and focus on the next step – getting to her. The Cirque is calling me, a thousand tiny fairy lights twinkling down there in the valley, beckoning me back again.

  It’s an icy cold, clear night and there’s an almost full moon lighting my path. The further I run, the fainter the sirens behind me become, until they’re distant sounds. The air feels pure and crisp when I breathe it in, sharper than in the daytime.

  I feel liberated, being out of that big old house with its guards and alarms and locked doors. It’s the second time I’ve been anywhere on my own; the first time I’ve ever been out this late.

  I’m jogging towards the Cirque at a steady pace when the noise of the sirens gets louder again. They must be out looking for me. A police car approaches, cruising its way down the road. I can’t reach cover in time and it stops. I don’t know what else to do, so I turn and run, as fast as I possibly can.

  Behind me, I hear the car door slam. Then, footsteps, echoing along with mine, torch light shining on me and a deep voice shouting.

  “Stop. Immediately. This is the police. Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  What can I do? I keep running. The distance between us expands, but a shot rings through the night. The policeman obviously doesn’t know who I am; he’d never risk hurting me, no matter how desperate he might be to catch me. He must think I’m some kind of Dreg criminal.

  Another bullet whistles past my right ear. I turn a corner, and then another corner, trying to throw him off my scent. As I weave through the suburbs, the footsteps behind
me quickly quieten.

  I know I’m not safe though. They’ll be looking for me already. I stick to the side streets, always expecting to hear more sirens but, before I know it, there I am, outside the Cirque.

  My eyes scan the vast iron fence. It stretches up, up, up, into the clouds. Impenetrable. I break a branch from a nearby tree and tentatively touch the fence with it. The wood crackles immediately, smoke snaking ominously from the end. Dropping it, I sink to my knees behind a load of rubbish bins. Frustrated. Helpless. Pathetic. My suicide mission is over before it’s even begun.

  BEN

  I don’t know how long I’m behind the bins for. I’m completely at a loss as to what I should do next; all I know is that I can’t go back.

  After what seems like for ever, I hear voices approaching. There’s the screeching metal sound of the lock being pulled back, the gates swing open and two Dregs emerge, pushing huge bins. I wait, holding my breath, as they walk past but, just when I think I’m safe, one of them stops.

  “Hold up,” he calls in a low voice. “We might as well bring these bins in too; fill ’em up as we go.”

  There’s nothing I can do but stay there, crouched down into as tight a ball as possible, as if that makes any difference, while they pull the bins away and both stare down at me. They’re definitely Dregs; they’ve got that unmistakably grey look that a lifetime of semi-starvation and hard work brings. It’s hard to determine the woman’s age; she could be twenty or sixty, for all I know. Her face is lined with dirt and fatigue, and there are sores around her mouth. The man next to her looks in a better state, quite young and surprisingly strong.

  They both jump with shock when they see me, but they pull themselves into action pretty quickly. The man grabs hold of me, twisting my arm behind my back.

  “Stop!” I beg. “Please don’t. I don’t want any trouble. I’ve got cash!”

  What an idiotic thing to tell them. The one thing Dregs don’t have, the one thing they’re desperate for, is money. He drops my arm.

  “Let’s give him a minute to explain before we call Silvio.”

  “I don’t want to cause any trouble, I swear,” I say. “I only came for a look around.” They stare at me as if I’m mad, and the man starts laughing, cynically. “It’s true!” I protest. “I’ve been here before. I just got curious, please don’t report me.”

  He’s still laughing at me: hardly surprising, my story sounds ludicrous, but she looks really angry and steps forward, glaring into my eyes.

  “Enjoyed it, did you? What bit did you like best? The public humiliation or the fact that at any minute someone might die? You Pures,” she tuts. “All the same.”

  I pull out all the money I have. It’s hardly a fortune, but it’s enough to take her mind off my apparent enjoyment of the Cirque, and she looks over at the man.

  Their eyes meet in silent communication before she nods, tacitly.

  “OK,” he whispers. “We haven’t seen you, right? We could take that money from you anyway, you know – you could hardly report us, considering. You’ve got a nice little Pure life, I’m sure. I don’t know what the hell you think you’re playing at.”

  He shakes his head at me. “Our shift is for two hours, that’s all the time you’ve got if we let you in. We’ll lock the gate when we’ve finished. If you’re still inside, you’re as good as dead. Be careful: if Silvio finds you, we’re all for it.”

  I hand the cash over and slip in through the unlocked gate. I’ve made it. I’m back, and this time I’m not leaving without her. Now that I’m inside again, I have no idea what comes next. I haven’t got a clue where in this vast prison she is; I don’t even know if the Dregs are kept here at night. I circle slowly around in the shadows of the incongruous orange pumpkin of an arena rising up forebodingly in the centre of the courtyard. Everything is silent. There are signs to the animal enclosures, which I definitely want to avoid, and signs to the different shows and refreshment stands. They point every way, except one. I head in that direction and see a big, ugly metal building, tucked away out of sight, cleverly concealed by dozens of brightly coloured tents and a hot-dog stall.

  The tents weren’t here yesterday; there seems to be twice as much crammed in this space as there was before. It must be for all the extra exhibitions and shows they’re putting on for the Spooktacular.

  I creep up to the building. Skirting round the edges, I finally find a door. It’s bolted, but from the outside. I guess they’ve only thought about keeping the Dregs in, not anyone else out. After all, who’d be mad enough to break into the Dreg Cirque?

  I pull at the big iron bolt. It’s old and rusty and I know it’ll make a huge grating noise unless I ease it across really, really slowly. It takes ages before it finally shoots back and, despite my caution, the clang resonates through the silence.

  A light goes on in a building opposite. I hold my breath, shrinking back into the shadows. A figure appears at the window, silhouetted in the light. After a couple of anxious moments it vanishes and the light goes back out. I make myself wait five minutes more, actually counting out the seconds before I let myself move even an inch.

  Slipping my fingers around the door, I peep through the tiny slit, making out a long, thin corridor. There’s no one there, so I creep in.

  I daren’t use my torch, I just listen for a while, trying to figure out if there’s anyone nearby. At first all I can hear is my own breathing, but then I start to notice other sounds. I can make out snuffling, sighing, snoring, the noises of people at rest.

  The door nearest to me is ajar. I peer around it and can make out rows and rows of bunks, a sleeping form on each one. Damn it. I should have realized that the Dregs would all be cooped up together.

  What am I even doing here? I’ll never find her and, if I do, she’s unlikely to be alone and able to speak to me. Even if by some miracle she is, what am I going to say to her? And how can I possibly get her out of here without us being caught?

  But I can’t leave – I can’t abandon her here to die.

  I notice a large green cross on the door at the end of the corridor, directly in front of me. It’s the only one that looks a little bit different, that doesn’t have a number on, just the word “SAN”.

  It’s got to be worth one last look before I go. Edging slowly forward, I open the door as quietly as I can. It’s not quietly enough though, because the one solitary figure in the one solitary bed gasps, jerks bolt upright and pulls the light cord, staring at me open-mouthed.

  It’s her.

  HOSHIKO

  I jump upright, scared out of my mind. All of my fears materialize and take on a life of their own. Silvio’s sent for me. It’s my turn to die. I turn on the light, my eyes take a second to adjust and I think I must be asleep and dreaming after all, because it’s him standing right in front of me.

  The boy.

  Benedict Baines.

  BEN

  “What are you doing here?” she demands, as any fantasies I had about her throwing her arms around my neck in spontaneous joy instantly wither away and die. She is most definitely not pleased to see me. “How did you get in?”

  I don’t know what to say; I’ve never felt so awkward in my whole life. I’ve barged my way in here, invaded the space of some girl I don’t even know, without even so much as considering what comes next. I take a deep breath.

  “I wanted to check you’re OK…”

  “OK? No, I’m not OK. Your mother has just ordered my death!” She glares at me fiercely. “What are you doing here?” she repeats again. “What do you want from me?”

  Her hair is a big, scraggly bed-head mess. She’s wearing an old baggy T-shirt in a faded shade of grey and there’s make-up smeared on her face and under her eyes – like she’s been crying.

  The glamorous circus star has gone, but she’s still more beautiful, more alive, than anyone I’ve ever met.

  At least I tried – at least I didn’t just sit at home daydreaming about her. Now I know that there wasn�
��t some crazy connection, that it was all in my stupid head, maybe I can get on with my life like before.

  I stand there, looking at her. She glares back at me, but then her expression softens and, for a moment, I think her anger’s gone, until she scowls again.

  “Don’t just stand there gawping! Last chance. Get out. Now!”

  “I wanted to ask about the boy, Anatol,” I say. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes! Yes, he’s dead and tomorrow they’re going to kill me too and, you know what? I’m glad. Glad to finally get this rotten, pointless life over and done with.”

  She turns away from me. I think she’s crying.

  “Don’t say that.” My voice is trembling. “Please don’t say that.”

  “Get out,” she says. “How dare you come in here?”

  What else can I do now except leave?

  I can’t. Not now. Not after Priya, not after her. I can’t go back to my closeted little Pure life. My nice life, where I have all the food and possessions I need, where I live with good, respectable people, who like to spend their time watching those less fortunate than themselves being tortured and killed on a nightly basis.

  I can’t leave her here to die.

  “No,” I say. “I’m not leaving. I want to help you.”

  She laughs – it’s brittle and cold – then stands up and faces me.

  “You can’t help me,” she says. The anger’s gone now and she’s sad and quiet. “No one can.”

  She’s right. I know she is. I stare desperately into her eyes and there’s that pull between us again, like we’re talking to each other without words.

  We both move forward, slowly.

  Suddenly, there’s a piercing alarm. Everywhere is instantly bathed in a bright, searching light and there’s the sound of pounding feet.

  Hoshiko’s eyes widen in horror.

  “It’s the emergency alarm. Quick, under the bed!”

  “What?” I gape at her.

  “For God’s sake. Do it. Quick!”