Show Stopper

by Hayley Barker

  BEN

  The room starts to get lighter, and I can hear birds chorusing as dawn breaks. Who would have thought they’d sing even here, in the Dreg Cirque?

  In the end, I can’t resist having one little look, so I carefully ease my hand from hers and pull myself out from under the bed.

  She’s asleep. She looks younger than before, and softer.

  I’ve never seen anyone more lovely in my whole life.

  HOSHIKO

  When the morning alarms go off – wailing sirens penetrating into the skull – I actually forget for a couple of seconds: about Anatol, about Ben. It all floods quickly back but, even then, I wonder if it was a dream. There he is, though under my bed, fast asleep.

  He looks really peaceful. He must be in a really deep sleep not to be disturbed by that alarm.

  What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I hate him? He’s just some stupid Pure boy who’s put me in danger. Worse than that, he’s the son of her, the son of evil personified. If he was to get up and leave now, maybe people would believe that I wasn’t aware he was hiding there. After all, everyone knows how much I hate Pures. Why would I let one seek refuge in my room?

  The safest thing is probably to tell him to go now, before things get any worse. I don’t know why I don’t. It’s all his fault. His fault for coming here; his fault for making my brain all muddled. I think about waking him up, shouting in his ear. I think about calling out too. About screaming and giving him away. “Help! He’s in here. I’ve found him under the bed!”

  But instead I watch him for a minute or two. His chest is moving up and down as he breathes, softly, peacefully, as if he hasn’t a care in the world. He looks much younger when he’s asleep. I guess he’s got kind of a baby face anyway, with his floppy blond hair and long, dark eyelashes. His skin looks really soft, like only a Pure’s can. It’s the face of someone who’s never known starvation or any kind of physical labour. There’s a tiny bit of blond stubble showing through on his chin. I wonder, if you touched it, whether it would feel soft or spiky.

  I scowl at him, sleeping there obliviously, and leave quickly, hoping he’ll have the sense to stay put when he wakes.

  I need to tell Amina. Firstly, because she always knows what to do, and secondly, because she’s going to be back in this room treating people before the day’s out. I don’t think it will take her long to discover there’s a Pure hiding under the bed.

  There’s no breakfast today, so we’re all ushered to work straight away, before I get a chance to track her down, and it’s a busy morning, even busier than usual. There’s always so much hype surrounding the Spooktacular, and it sells out as soon as the tickets go on sale, even though the price is quadrupled. It’s obvious why it’s so popular, obvious why they’re all so desperate to come: tonight’s the night, more than any other, that the Pures long to witness Dreg death. They don’t just want façade and trickery; they want proper bloodshed, genuine screams, real-deal chills down the spine.

  In the morning, we’re all put on different work groups. Amina’s on a team repainting all the signs; keeping them gleaming and fresh for the Pures, Greta’s with Ezekiel, feeding the animals and I’m sewing costumes, which is really hard because my hand hurts and I had even less sleep than usual last night; my eyelids keep sagging while I’m supposed to be sewing. If I get caught dozing, or my output isn’t good enough, I know what they’ll do to me, so I try really hard, but end up just making stupid mistakes.

  Thank God Emmanuel is next to me. He slides over half of his work while the guards aren’t looking. He’s always the best, the quickest, the most skilled at everything, so he can afford to lose a bit of work without it looking suspicious. I smile at him gratefully – I know he’s putting himself at risk – but he just looks away.

  I keep waiting to be grabbed and hauled away for interrogation, but it never happens. Benedict Baines’s family must have realized he’s gone by now and, after what happened yesterday, you think I’d be the first person they’d question about his disappearance. There’s no sign that anything’s wrong at all though, maybe a few extra guards and police officers around than normal, but that’s about it.

  It’s not until much later that I have the chance to get anywhere near Amina. She’s in the changing rooms during afternoon rehearsals, patching up bandages and giving on the spot first aid to people.

  Sidling up to her, I whisper as quietly as I can, “I need to speak to you: I’m in a bit of trouble.”

  She looks at me sharply. “What kind of trouble? What have you done?”

  “It’s a bit complicated. I can’t tell you here. Can you give me another appointment with you, please?”

  “Hoshiko, you spent last night in the san. Only you could get in trouble in a room on your own.”

  I swallow the retort that springs to mind, but my face must give me away, because she gasps. “You weren’t alone. Oh my God! What have you been doing?” I feel my cheeks reddening.

  “Nothing like that, I swear. Look, please, I really need your help.”

  “OK. Play on your hand hurting today. Not too much, in case he writes you off before the show; just enough so that I can tell him you need another medical.”

  I don’t see Silvio all morning. It’s not until rehearsals that he appears, but he doesn’t haul me out, or yell at me, like I expected. He stands in the corner, watching me quietly, his face thoughtful.

  During rehearsals, I’m careful not to overreact, but I make sure I wince a couple of times when I know he’s watching, and I occasionally glance down at my hand. It does still hurt quite a lot, so it’s not even as if I have to fake it.

  Along with his ruthlessness, one of the qualities that’s got Silvio where he is today is that he doesn’t usually miss a trick, and it’s not too long before he makes his way over to me, Bojo hopping along at his feet.

  Silvio doesn’t walk like a normal person – he dashes in a neat little dance, kind of fox-trotting across the arena. That probably sounds quite innocent and charming, but it’s not. He’s so light and quick on his feet that he’s able to suddenly appear, right next to you, completely without warning. There’s something really scary about that: it’s as if you can never escape him. One minute you’re alone, the next minute he’s there, breathing down your neck.

  He reminds me of a squirrel. Quick, sharp-eyed and shrewd. A really evil squirrel though, dressed in his little red coat. A squirrel who’s bound to find out sooner than later that I’m up to something.

  “There’s been an incident,” he says. “The boy, Benedict Baines, he’s gone missing, run away from home. Would you believe it? Run away from his bloody great mansion on the hill. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Me? No! Why would I know anything?”

  “Because the poor, deluded young man has obviously fallen under your spell, that’s why.”

  “Silvio, I hate Pures. If I saw him, I promise you, I’d tell you straight away.”

  “Hmm. That’s what I told the police – that they were wasting their time. He couldn’t get in here, the place is too secure and, even if he could, none of my people would conceal him. They might tear him to pieces, but they wouldn’t help him.” He leans forward and looks at me. “I said that nothing happens in this place without my say-so. I hope I was correct?”

  “Yes. Definitely, definitely correct.”

  He stares at me for a bit longer, his sharp little eyes like the tips of knives.

  “His family want his disappearance kept quiet for now. They think he’ll be at more risk if word gets out and they seem to believe he’ll come crawling back with his tail between his legs anyway: he isn’t known for his rebellious nature. I’ve been told to report anything suspicious though.” His voice lowers. “Hoshiko, you wouldn’t dare to try and deceive me, would you?”

  “No,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “There’s absolutely no way I would ever willingly help a Pure do anything.”

  “Yes, that’s what I told them. That’s w
hy I didn’t even mention last night’s false security alarm; I don’t want them closing my circus down over a silly coincidence like that.” He looks at me again. “Anyway, back to business. Your hand, girl; it’s not going to cause me any problems tonight, is it?”

  “It just hurts a bit. Just a tiny bit, that’s all. I can still perform.”

  I watch his face carefully, judging his mood. It’s still foul; I need to be really careful not to make him even angrier.

  “It’s just…” I begin tentatively.

  “Just what?”

  “Well, if it gets any worse, I might not be able to grip on properly at all. Then I’d probably slip straight away, before the act really gets going. It wouldn’t be a very theatrical end. I’d hate to underperform. Especially tonight.”

  “Since when does the nature of your demise and whether it’s dramatic enough concern you?”

  “I’m only thinking of the Cirque, Silvio, honestly. It might be better if Amina has one more look at it.”

  He looks at me, in that calculating way of his. He’s assessing my worth.

  “OK,” he agrees. “One more. After the rehearsal.” He scowls. “It’s been a difficult day, what with one thing and another. No deaths – at least they’d be cheap to deal with – but five injuries. Five people incapable of performing, wasting the Cirque’s money without giving anything back. I’m warning you, Hoshiko, if Amina declares you unfit, you’re finished.”

  He looks me straight in the eyes.

  “I hope you’ll be OK for tonight, my dear: I’ve got big plans for you.”

  BEN

  When I wake up, she’s gone, and there’s just me there, for hours and hours, stuck under this dirty, smelly bed, wondering what on earth I’ve done. I’ve broken out of my own home, stayed out all night and bribed my way into the Dreg Cirque. Now, I’m trapped here, hiding under a bed. What’s going to happen next?

  I’ll never get out of here without being spotted and, even if I could, how could I go home now, after everything that’s happened?

  Eventually, I can’t stand it any more and I creep out from under the bed. The room is tiny, and there’s no window, just the door I came in by. It smells like a hospital in here, that heady mixture of disinfectant and vomit, and there are boxes of bandages and medical supplies piled up in all the corners. I’m clearly in some kind of treatment room; Hoshiko must have been put in here last night because of her hand.

  I think again of the disgust on Mother’s face after I helped Hoshiko during her act, and the anger on it yesterday, when we were out there in the courtyard. They must be going frantic, looking for me. It wouldn’t take a genius to work out where I am. I don’t know how they haven’t found me already.

  I realize with a sudden jolt of panic that Hoshiko was right. I have put her in even more danger, coming here. Whatever punishment they give me, you can guarantee hers will be worse. But they’re going to kill her anyway, a voice in my head says, And that’s your fault too.

  Even so. The only real option I have is to show myself. I’ll tell them that Hoshiko didn’t even know I was there, that I hid when she was asleep. I’ll say I must have been sleepwalking, that I don’t know how I got there, or why. No, they’ll never believe that. I slide back under the bed.

  I’m racking my brains trying to come up with a plan, when the door opens. My heart races. The feet which appear aren’t hers.

  This is it. I lay there, waiting to be found.

  It doesn’t take long to work out that this must be the doctor, and she’s got patients to see.

  The first one is a boy who’s part of the knife-throwing act and has been caught in the chest by one of the blades. He explains what happened to the doctor.

  “It was some Pure kid’s tenth birthday. They’d bought one of those horrific party packages where they get to come to rehearsal. They were all allowed a throw – ten nasty little bastards, all throwing knives at me, their parents proudly filming it on their phones and cheering when anyone got close.”

  “They did this before a show?” The doctor sounds shocked. “Things are getting worse around here. After what went on last night, it wouldn’t surprise me if they cull us all. You’re lucky though; it’s only superficial. I don’t think I’ll be able to get you out of performing tonight.”

  “I don’t want to get out of it, Amina. The more I’m there, in front of those Pures, the more likely it is that someone gets lucky and finishes me off for good.”

  She hushes him softly. I get the impression he’s crying.

  “Hold on a minute,” she tells him quietly. “I’ve got some stronger painkillers somewhere. They’ll numb the ache a bit, and I don’t just mean the pain from the chest wounds.”

  I hear her rummaging around in drawers and cupboards, then my heart leaps out of my chest when she says, “I think they’re under the bed.”

  Within seconds, a face appears, inches from mine. We stare at each other. She’s a bit older than me, about twenty, I suppose, with wild, curly hair. This is Amina then. I expect her to scream, or shriek, or raise some kind of alarm, but instead she grabs a box from behind me and stands back up.

  “Here they are,” she says to the guy and carries on treating him, and the next five people, as if she hasn’t even seen me at all.

  HOSHIKO

  After rehearsals, we’re given “recreation time”, although the very term is a complete joke. In reality, it means we have one hour to eat our measly rations, wash in the crammed communal showers – one block for girls, one for boys – and rest before we have to get dressed for the evening’s show.

  There’s no dinner provided at all tonight though – Silvio’s sticking to his decree – and the only thing left out in the canteen are buckets of murky tepid water. We have to go in there and plunge our faces into them, slurping like the animals they say we are.

  This is the one hour of the day where there’s usually time for an attempt at camaraderie – it’s the only thing that keeps us going. Not tonight though. Tonight, grief and shock still hang around like unwelcome visitors; etching their lines on everyone’s face, wrapping us up in their heavy shroud.

  Three deaths in two days: that’s pretty unusual even by Cirque standards.

  I can’t stand listening to the whispered analysis about everything that’s happened so, instead of staying in the dorm like I normally do, I sit outside the san, waiting to be called to Amina.

  Surely Ben will be discovered any second now and all hell will break loose. I scan the faces of everyone who comes out of the san but none of them look as if they’ve just stumbled across a Pure boy hiding under the bed.

  Finally, it’s my turn. I knock, but enter before there’s a reply. There’s no sign of him. He must still be hiding. Amina’s standing in the corner of the room, her arms folded and her eyebrows raised.

  “So,” she says calmly. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  I don’t know where to start. I’m floundering around trying to find the right words to begin, when she says, “Let me help you out. I reckon it’s a pretty good bet that it’s got something to do with the boy hiding under the bed.”

  There’s a few seconds silence, and then a pair of trainers, some legs, a torso and finally a head emerge.

  He looks really dirty; there’s dust smudged all over him: in his hair, on his clothes, on his skin, even tiny little bobbles on his eyelashes.

  In spite of all that though, you can still tell where he comes from a mile off. His cheeks are pink and healthy, his body doesn’t have that malnourished look that Dreg boys have. His floppy blond hair looks shiny and soft and I can’t help noticing that he’s definitely got some muscle definition going on under that T-shirt. He might as well be carrying a placard declaring his status.

  “Oh God, Hoshiko, a Pure?”

  We all stand there in a little circle. I feel like we’re wayward children, caught out up to mischief by their mother.

  After a moment, he speaks. “I’m sorry. It’s all my fau
lt. She did absolutely nothing wrong. I crept in here. I don’t know what I was thinking, and now I’m stuck and I’ve caused all this trouble. I never would have come here if I’d known, I swear. It’s not her fault, any of it, please believe me. Whatever I’ve got to do, I’ll do it, but leave her out of it, please. Just say you both found me.”

  Amina doesn’t scream, or look panicky, or do any of the other things I thought she would. She just sighs.

  “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Who are you? And how did you get in? Don’t spare any details; it might be important later on.”

  So he tells us his story. How his name’s Ben, how he’s never done anything like this before, how he saw me that first night here, and how he acted on impulse. He says he’s ashamed, ashamed of being a Pure, ashamed of watching the show, ashamed of his family.

  “So you should be,” I spit the words out. “You think we’re scum, but it’s you who’s repulsive, the whole lot of you!”

  “Shhh, Hoshi.” Amina is so improbably calm. “It’s OK. He’s done a stupid thing, but he’s done it for the right reasons. What was the alternative? That he just sat at home and carried on? I’ve got news, for both of you. You’re not the first Pure boy who’s crossed the lines and you won’t be the last. We’ve just got to figure out what the hell to do now.”

  “There’s more.” He’s looking at the floor now and his skin has taken on a funny greenish pallor. “My mother … she’s sort of famous.”

  “Who is she?”

  He doesn’t say anything at all for a few seconds. Then, still staring at the floor, he whispers.

  “Vivian Baines.”

  My eyes meet Amina’s. For the first time, even she looks shocked.

  It hits me again now – what he is, who he is – like a smack in the face. Last night, I actually let him hold my hand. What was I thinking?

  I turn on him angrily. “Wanted another look at the freak show, did you? Looking for inside information? Don’t suppose you cared if it meant people like us would die!”