I can’t control the rage I feel. I punch him as hard as I can in his chest again and again; I can’t stop myself. He doesn’t stop me either, or try to fight me. He just stands there, while I pummel him with my fists. It makes me even angrier.
“Hoshiko! That’s enough!” It takes Amina to physically pull me off him. “Give him a chance!”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry for everything, for all of it. I know this sounds stupid, but I never really thought much about my mother’s job before.”
I want him to hurt; I want him to feel the pain we’ve all felt for over a hundred years.
“The show wasn’t enough for you, is that it? Wanted to see it all a bit more close-up? You make me sick! I hate your mother and I hate you, and everything you stand for!”
For the first time, he’s defensive.
“I didn’t ask to be born a Pure, any more than you asked to be born a Dreg! I know it’s all wrong. I hate it as much as you do. I’d give anything to change it.”
His words incense me even more. “Your mum tortures Dregs, did you know that? Orders hundreds of Dreg deaths a week. She’s just ordered mine, as it happens. Still, it doesn’t matter, it’s not like we’re even human!”
Amina interrupts.
“What do you mean, she’s ordered yours?”
“Yesterday,” I say. “I didn’t want to tell you, but Silvio’s promised to finish me off.” I don’t tell her he said it’d be tonight.
“Oh my God!” She stands there, the colour draining from her face. “Why?”
“It doesn’t matter why, does it? Because she hates me, that’s all that matters.”
She looks at me, still astounded. “You weren’t even going to tell me, were you?”
“What would have been the point?” I say. “There’s nothing you can do anyway.”
She’s angry. “Yes, there is. There’s more than you know. Don’t say anything, either of you. I need to think.” She paces up and down the room.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks so sad.
He looks at me; catches me watching him.
“I wish things could be different, too,” he says, softly.
He’s reminding me of yesterday, during the Q and A. I close my eyes and see his face again when he asked me that question; see him helping to carry Anatol across the square; hear him calling out, I’ll save you; hear him last night, whispering, I’m sorry; remember him rescuing me in the arena, lifting me up so gently; feel him holding my hand through the night.
I open my eyes. He’s still watching me, talking to me without words.
The rage has vanished as quickly as it came. I try to make it come back, to summon up that intense hatred of him, but it’s gone.
“OK,” Amina says at last. “There’s people I need to speak to, things I need to do, but it’s going to have to wait. It’s show time in about twenty minutes; you’ll have to stay here,” she tells him.
Right on cue, the sound of the pre-performance alarm floods the room. “That’s us,” she says. “It’s a big night tonight – biggest of the year. Come on, Hoshi.”
This is it then: the beginning of the end.
Amina takes my hand in hers. “You’ll get through this.”
She tilts my chin up with her hand and gives me that knowing smile of hers.
“Your hands will hurt but you’re the Cat; you’ll be OK. Right. I’m giving you one minute, then you’ll have to come, Hoshiko. They’ll miss you in the changing rooms otherwise.” She turns and leaves, closing the door softly behind her.
“Goodbye, Amina,” I whisper.
We both stand there and then I hear my voice saying words I didn’t even know I felt.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “For being so horrible and rude.”
He smiles at me, and my stomach swoops. Whoever his mum is, whatever happens to me, or him, right at this moment, I’m glad he’s here.
If I die out there tonight, I’ll never see him again; I’ll never know what happens next in this crazy chain of events.
I don’t say any of this to him, of course, but it’s like before: it’s as if he knows what I’m thinking and he’s thinking the same thing, he just steps forward and I step forward and I’m there, his arms wrapped around me. Despite all the dust, he smells of washing powder. He’s really warm, and his T-shirt is really soft.
He’s the physical embodiment of everything I loathe and fear. He’s put me in even more danger than I was before but, for the first time ever, I feel safe. It’s like nothing can get me here, encircled in his arms; like I’m protected, wrapped in a cocoon. I feel like I’m home.
Eventually he breaks the silence.
“You can’t go out there tonight. Please don’t.”
“I have to.” I look at him. “Do you think I’m here through choice?”
He shakes his head, sadly. “No. But … I’ve only just found you…”
I lay my head on his chest again, hold him really tight. Neither of us moves.
I stay there for a bit longer, trying to capture this warm feeling, so I can take it with me. And then, finally, I wrench myself out of his arms and turn and run straight out of the door.
BEN
I stare after her. She’s going to die, tonight; Sabatini promised my mother. I’ll never see her again. I should have stopped her leaving, I should have done something.
The feeling of panic grows. I’ve been holding it all in but I can feel it getting stronger and stronger. What can I do? How can I help her? I’ve run away. I’ve – what was it Amina said – crossed the line. I have to concentrate on breathing, in, out, as slowly as I can. It works, slightly. My hands stop shaking as much and I try to calm my mind down too, but it keeps jumping back to the fact that she’s up on that wire again and she’s probably going to die. I can’t stand the thought of it.
I can’t stay here, hiding away, while she goes out and risks her life. That’s not what I came here for. I’m pacing backwards and forward uselessly when a noise breaks the silence. I hear a door open and then footsteps, right outside, in the corridor. Two people, talking.
“Start at this end, John, and work your way through, and be thorough. Every drawer, every cupboard. In their shoes, in their beds, under their beds.”
“Got it. What if there’s nothing there?”
“Just find something. Anything. These orders are right from the very top; some rich kid’s gone missing and they want answers. Anything dodgy, anything contraband, bring it to me.”
The door slams again, and I hear just one set of footsteps walking towards me, then quietening again. My heart pounds in my chest. I’m about to be discovered. At least now I know there’s no point getting back under this damn bed.
Pulling the door ajar as quietly as I can, I peep out into the corridor. It’s empty but I can hear noises from the room near the entrance. It must be a guard, rifling through the performers’ stuff.
I creep slowly out, edging my way down the corridor. It’s pointless: I’m dressed in black, these walls are white, the corridors bare. If whoever’s in that room comes out, I’m done for.
It’s easy to identify the sounds of beds being pulled along the floor, tables thrown around. He’s obviously being thorough and – what a surprise – doesn’t have much regard for Dreg property.
Reaching the last doorway, the one to the room he’s in, I pause. I have to somehow get myself past that open door without him seeing me. I wait, and listen, picking my moment.
Just when it sounds as if he’s moved to the furthest end of the room, I make my move, running past the open doorway to the exit.
It’s locked. I’m stuck.
Within seconds, I hear the words I’ve been dreading. “Hey! Stop where you are!”
There’s nothing else to do but turn round. Face-to-face with a burly security guard. The same one, presumably, who’s been moving beds and upturning wardrobes single-handedly. He’s got a stubbly face and mean little piggy eyes and, for an insta
nt, we stand there, staring at each other, before I see his hand reach down to his waist.
He must be going for a gun. Everything starts to move in slow motion as I watch him, helplessly. Instead, thank God, he takes out a walkie-talkie.
“This is SG9. I’ve got him. Send some back-up, just in case.”
He stands there, leering at me. “End of the line for you, rich boy. I don’t know who you are and I don’t care, but you’ve caused me a lot of extra work. I’m going to enjoy watching them punish you.”
I look around. There’s nothing in the corridor except me and him. The door behind me is definitely locked, and he has the key. He’s colossal, about three times the size of me, he’s probably armed and he’s just called for back-up. The walls and floors are completely bare, except for a fire extinguisher secured to the wall.
I don’t know where what happens next comes from. I swear, I’ve never hurt anyone before. I’ve never been in a fight at school, never been into violent computer games, like Dreg Destruction. My brain rises to the occasion in a way I never would have thought possible.
I gasp, loudly, fixing my eyes over his shoulder, as if I’ve seen something, or someone, approaching from behind him. He swivels quickly to see what’s shocked me so much and I immediately grab the extinguisher from the wall, wrenching it from the plastic clips that hold it. It’s heavy, but I lift it up high, pull back as hard as I can, and swing it round towards his head. There’s a clunking sound as the metal hits his skull and then he crumples to the floor.
I grab the keys from his hand lightning fast and fumble with the lock, trying to find the right key. I’m never going to make it before the other guards arrive. There’s no sign of them yet though and, finally, I manage to get the door open.
Before I leave, I turn and look at him. He’s not moving. I don’t know if he’s breathing. Have I killed him?
In the distance, I hear dogs barking and footsteps running. I hesitate for a second more, then run, leaving him for dead.
HOSHIKO
The minute I walk into the arena, it’s obvious something different’s going on. Silvio’s here already, directing the men setting up the ropes and trapeze. Today, they’re also erecting a tall wooden pole in the middle of the ring and carrying in huge piles of logs.
“What’s happening?” I don’t like this. Any change to the acts, especially at the last minute, especially tonight, throws me.
“Things are hotting up, literally!” He’s grinning at me, wickedly, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself. The bad mood from earlier has obviously disappeared. “It’s the perfect evening for another death. You’re the talk of the town, after the last show. Everyone knows you’re injured, and they all want to be the ones to watch you fall. You know me – I hate to disappoint the crowd. Besides, you heard what Vivian Baines said yesterday!”
“But Silvio, she won’t remember that; she’s got far more important things to worry about. And I’m the most popular act; it’s me everyone is paying to see. You don’t want to lose me.” I hate the pleading tone in my voice. The begging, whining insistence.
“You’re a liability, Hoshiko; you’ve pushed your luck too many times. Baines’s order to destroy you has only reinforced an idea I’ve been toying with for ages. Astrid and Luna have inconveniently been chomped up too soon; the cannonball act is, I have to concede, not yet safe enough to perform to an arena full of Pures, and yet the Spooktacular needs something spectacular, and you, my dear, are it. Doesn’t matter how good you are alive; you’re worth much more to me dead. Autumn’s here, nights are drawing in, everyone wants to stay in their cosy houses and ticket sales are down. Tonight’s the first sell-out show for weeks; it’s time for another high-profile death.”
It’s true, what he says; every time one of our big acts gets killed it creates a really big buzz. The public and the press all suddenly go mad and we get mobbed at the doors for weeks. They increase the ticket prices to over double sometimes and they still sell them all.
I shiver as I look at his face, at the pound symbols gleaming in his eyes. He laughs at my expression. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you go through it alone; you’ll have company up there with you.” Smirking, he turns and looks across the arena.
I follow his gaze: Greta, fulfilling her unofficial role of monkey-sitting. She’s the only one Bojo will ever go to, except Silvio. He sits on her shoulder, nibbling a banana. His adoring gaze follows his master everywhere, and her eyes keep surreptitiously flicking over to where we are too as she panics about what he’s saying, about what’s going on.
“You can’t risk Greta getting injured, Silvio. You’ve said yourself; she’s the future of the trapeze act.”
He shakes his head, indulgently. “You will keep making the same mistake: assuming that any one of you is irreplaceable. You’re not. None of the Dregs are, not like me. There are hundreds of kids out there who can do a few somersaults if they have to. We’ve already got a replacement lined up, in case something terrible should happen to both of you. A little boy – showed remarkable talent yesterday apparently, but then, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? I hear you were trying to jeopardize his performance during the selection; realize what a personal threat he was, did you?”
I ignore what he’s implying and turn the subject back to Greta. “Look how much Bojo loves her, Silvio! She’s the only one apart from you who can look after him!”
He muses, thoughtfully.
“Hmm, maybe you’re right. No, he’d forget about her at the first whiff of a peanut. Do you know, I think the best outcome would be if you both die? I mean, you’re by far the biggest draw for now, but Greta’s definitely got the cutesy factor going on. There’s something about a little child dying that the Pures love. They’d have a field day if we could pull off another double death, especially after all the hype the press have created about the shark incident yesterday. Oh well, we’ll leave it to fate. Sorry, Hoshiko,” he grins. “Minister’s orders.”
He’s still laughing to himself as he saunters off, clicking his fingers for Bojo who scampers off after him.
I will not let Greta die.
Greta’s not broken, like I am – not twisted and ruined inside. There’s an innocence there that they’ve not managed to take away yet. I don’t think they ever will. She’s just better than the rest of us. That’s what will make her so compelling on stage, the light around her.
There’s nothing I can do now to survive; I knew that as soon as Baines issued her decree. I’m dead whatever happens, but I can’t let Greta die out there with me. Whatever it takes, I have to save her.
BEN
I hit a crowd of people as soon as I reach the top of the path.
The place has been transformed since last night. Carved jack-o’-lanterns hang from every tree, each one lit with flickering candle flame, casting an orange glow everywhere. There are huge models, towering over the buildings and trees: werewolves and devils, ghosts and zombies. All mechanized, so their mouths, eyes, hands, move up and down. Scores of bats flap above my head, swooping down and away again, their jewelled eyes flashing. There’s a soundtrack playing too, screams and cackles, thunder and lightning.
Everyone I see has on a costume of some kind, and most of them are really convincing. Ticket prices for tonight are famously high, so it’s not surprising that people are getting so into the spirit of things. There are witches, wizards, skeletons, the odd pirate.
It’s hard to tell the ages of people, or their relationships to each other. The ghost and the vampire in front of me, arms wrapped around each other, they must be a couple. And the two little pumpkins who scurry past me giggling are being chased by a witch and a wizard who, I presume, must be their parents. An Egyptian mummy trundles past, pushing a buggy decorated with cobwebs. Inside, grinning at all the lights, a baby in the cutest fluffy monster costume I ever saw.
All these people here to watch people suffering, to watch people dying – bringing their children here, for God’s sake. The
thought makes me feel like screaming but, instead, I keep my head down and stay as hidden as I can.
The safest place is in the middle of the crowd, so I attach myself to the end of a large group of people, following them along the path.
The way the Dreg Cirque works is that there are loads of smaller buildings and sideshows all connected by the covered aerial tunnels splaying out like spider’s legs above the main building which, amongst other things, holds the huge central arena where the big shows – the ones like Hoshiko’s – all happen. It takes them a while to set up after each performance, and that’s when the crowd spills out and visits the smaller shows and exhibitions.
They never get to see all the acts before the Cirque moves on to a new town but the idea, I suppose, is that they never see the same show twice, and they keep coming back to see their favourite parts again and check out the ones they’ve missed.
The first “act” I see tonight is on an open stretch of lawn, adjacent to the path. People are paying to throw things at a boy and girl in old-fashioned stocks.
They both have angry wounds on their heads, especially the boy. Blood is pouring down his face but no one seems to care: the group of Pures just keep on throwing things. I notice that they’re aiming for him more, not less, as if they sense his weakness and they want him to suffer for it.
I read the sign next to the stocks.
Roll up for the Real Deal! Violent Dreg Criminals!
Acid Sponges, £2 for three.
Iron balls, £6 for three.
Loads of people are queuing up to throw the weapons. I don’t see any acid sponges being thrown – it’s all iron balls.
I look at them, hurling the vicious-looking chunks of metal, and wonder if their costumes make it easier for them to do this, to inflict such pain. If they feel more anonymous, more detached from who they really are.
If I was a better person, I’d do something heroic now. I’d call out to them to stop, or I’d go and stand in front of the poor victims, block the missiles. I don’t though. I just stand and stare. Everything I’ve ever been told about us Pures being superior, about us being more human, more humane, than Dregs: it’s not true.
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