Show Stopper

by Hayley Barker

  My whole existence has been a lie.

  HOSHIKO

  As soon as Silvio goes, Greta rushes over, throwing herself into my arms as if she hasn’t seen me for weeks.

  “What did he say? What’s the big pole thing for?”

  “Not much.” It’s hard to meet her big, trusting eyes. “He just said the act is changing, I don’t know how.”

  “He said I’ve got to get ready for first curtain.” She looks terrified, as well she might. “He’s putting me out there with you. He said I should make the most of it; that it would be the only time we ever get to perform together. What does he mean?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on, Greta, but you can bet whatever he’s got planned it’ll be dramatic.”

  I turn my head away from her. I can’t tell her what he really said.

  I’ve got to keep going, for her. It’s hard though; there’s a chill running right through to my bones. What would they do if I crumbled into a heap and refused to move?

  I think about Ben and the thought makes me feel so sad. We’re meant to have a story together, I just know it. It’s not meant to end here, like this.

  I’ve never been that bothered about my own life before; I’ve been more worried about the impact me dying would have on Greta or Amina than I have about anything else. That makes me sound like I’m a martyr or something, but it’s not like that at all; it’s just that it’s easy to throw your life away when it has no value. What have I had to live for, really?

  It’s different now. Now, when I close my eyes, all I see is his face, all I feel is him holding me tight. He’s changed me. He’s already making me selfish, and weak.

  I crouch down, so my face is level with Greta’s. “Whatever happens, you’ll be OK. I swear it.”

  “You can’t promise that, Hoshiko. You don’t know!” She’s more forceful than normal, less willing to simply believe me. Maybe she is growing up, after all.

  “I do know. Have I ever told you a lie before?”

  She smiles at last, and holds out her hand, extending her little finger. “Pinkie promise?”

  I curl my own sore, swollen finger around it, commanding myself not to cry.

  “Pinkie promise.”

  BEN

  I immerse myself into the crowd milling up and down the main stretches of promenade. Everything’s going smoothly until I see a large group of police officers gathered up ahead, checking everyone’s ID.

  I don’t know if they’re looking for the intruder who broke into the Cirque and assaulted a security guard, or for Benedict Baines, son of Vivian, who’s been missing since last night. Either way, identify me and they’ve hit the jackpot.

  The tents holding the extra Spooktacular shows which are dotted about everywhere make it much easier to hide than it would be normally and I duck straight into a smallish sized exhibition named The Evolutionary Tour, another one I haven’t seen before. If they’re looking for me out there, I’m going to have to hide out in here.

  The first section of the tent is filled with images. Some of them are recent; I recognize them from TV and from the newspapers. Others are from the past, but the sentiment behind each one is more or less similar: Dregs are dirty. Dregs are thieves. Dregs are evolutionarily inferior. Dregs are not really human at all.

  The same face I’ve seen a million times stares back at me from about fifty per cent of the images. It’s the dirty, leering, ugly face always associated with Dregs. It’s the face of Vlad, the cartoon Dreg we all laugh at on telly. The one who is always desperately trying to steal from Honest John – the handsome, kind, mistreated Pure.

  None of the Dregs I’ve seen have the shifty-eyed, evil look about them I’ve always been led to think.

  The crowd I’m following files forward, through a narrow passage into the next part of the tent. The foot traffic moves much more slowly now as people stop to really soak up the sights: the live exhibitions.

  The first one is a monkey, chattering away in a cage, apparently quite happy. Nothing too sensational or interesting about that.

  Next, there’s an ape, far too big to be confined in here. I gaze into his mournful eyes and wonder if he’s thinking of home, or if he’s always been here, under this artificial light, far away from sunlight and green trees.

  The third cage is the same size but this one doesn’t contain animals at all. Instead, sitting there, heads bowed as the Pures file past calling out abuse to them, are a whole family, brought here straight from the slums, by the looks of it. The two children look to be about eight and twelve, but you can’t really tell how old their parents are. Their ribs poke out from under the dirty, ragged clothes they wear, and their faces are filthy.

  The final exhibit isn’t in a cage. There’s a Pure standing there, bathed in golden light, high up on a pedestal. His muscles are flexed and his white teeth gleam as he grins at everyone. He must be a body builder; he’s got bronzed, muscular limbs and is wearing only the tiniest of briefs. The sign above him flashes jubilantly: “Evolution is complete. Behold the Perfect Pure.”

  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I never even thought before about what the word Pure implied. The way that it suggests that we alone are untainted. It’s obvious, I know, but when you grow up with a word, you don’t always dissect it in the way that you should.

  Under each exhibit is the model of a brain. The Dreg brain is like a pickled walnut; tiny and shrivelled. The Pure brain is about six times bigger: pink, healthy, and swollen. It apparently confirms our superiority, our place at the forefront of God’s world. I wonder where the biological facts ascertained here come from. There’s no source cited, no evidence offered. Once, I’d have taken all this as gospel without so much as raising an eyebrow. Not now though – not now and never again.

  There’s music playing, the Pure at Heart anthem. The song I’ve sung every morning since I started pre-school. The one I’ve proudly joined in with at rallies, at sporting events, at weddings, christenings, parties. I know all the words, everyone does, but I’ve just been singing them unthinkingly – a dumb sheep, blindly following the rest of the flock. Now, I listen properly to the rousing chorus, probably for the first time ever.

  Pure of Soul and Pure of Body,

  Stand we proud with noble heart.

  God’s love shining on the righteous

  His most perfect work of Art.

  The words crawl under my skin.

  I think about Priya. Where is she? What have they done to her?

  I think about the Dregs in the lion tent, about the ones blown across the arena from a cannon. About Anatol, practically dying in my arms. About the girl in the shark tank, desperately trying to save her sister while the Pure audience looked on, enraptured. They were screaming with joy the other night when they thought Hoshiko might fall from the wire.

  Who are really the evil ones here?

  I think about Hoshiko; there’ll never be another moment in my life where I don’t. Those reproachful eyes, that haunted yearning in them, they’re a part of me now, there, in my head the whole time.

  Dregs aren’t dirty, or wicked, or savage. Dregs are people; people who can be so achingly beautiful that they take your breath away; so magical that you leave your home and your family for them in a moment of madness that you know you’d repeat again and again and again.

  I can’t do it any more, can’t just file through here, like everyone else, without saying something, without doing something. The time for standing by and watching is past; now, it’s time to act.

  HOSHIKO

  In the dressing room, there’s a new costume waiting for me. I lift the sheer fabric, softly. Despite my determination not to, I love it.

  It’s a deep midnight blue, almost black, with thousands of tiny crystals sewn all over it. It’s like the night sky. Someone must have sweated blood making this.

  Minnie comes in to style my hair and put my make-up on, and her brief has changed too.

  Normally, Silvio likes my hair down in loose waves, so th
at it sort of cascades around my shoulders, fanning around me when I somersault and drop backwards. It’s always really annoyed me like that, falling in my face all the time and blocking my view. It’s highly impractical, not to mention dangerous but, funnily enough, I haven’t bothered to complain.

  Tonight though, Minnie says it has to be pinned up.

  “Dramatic and sexy, is what I’ve been told.” She raises her eyebrows. “Think you can do dramatic and sexy?”

  I look away, embarrassed. Ever since Benedict Baines arrived, ever since he looked at me like that, ever since he held my hand, I have felt more … not sexy, that’s not the right word. I don’t think there is a word to describe it; I’ve just felt more conscious of my body, if that makes sense. It’s as if I can feel my blood pumping right from the tips of my fingers to the end of my toes; my nerve ends are all sort of tingly.

  “Maybe,” I tell her. “Maybe I can.”

  She sweeps my hair up right on to the top of my head, rolling it up in sections so that it’s piled up tightly in loops. She takes out hair grips, each one with a tiny bulb on the end, and weaves little points of sparkling light into each section.

  Then she puts on my make-up.

  My eyes are framed with dark liner, and she sweeps layers of black mascara over my lashes. She smudges shadow on my eyelids, blending it with glittery silver sparkles. There’s a touch of shiny gloss dabbed on my lips and cheeks but, otherwise, she leaves them bare. Everything is understated, except the eyes.

  When I look at myself in the mirror, the person staring back doesn’t look like me at all. The costume clings to my breasts and hips. It fits perfectly, making me feel more curvaceous, more feminine.

  My whole body fills with a sudden desire to see him again. It’s so strong it makes giddy. If he was here, now, I wouldn’t hold back. I wouldn’t be cross. Or awkward. I wouldn’t give a damn where he comes from, or who his mother is. Life’s too short. My life will be way too short.

  I’ll never get to tell him how I feel now.

  I’ll never get to love him.

  Minnie shakes me out of my daydream.

  “Hoshi? You ready? It’s show time.”

  BEN

  I push forward through the line of people and stop in front of the grinning body-builder. Our eyes meet. I wonder how much he’s being paid to come and do this. Does he feel proud of himself? Feel that he fulfils an important role? I take a breath; I have to say something, to him and the crowd of people who’ve paid to come and see this.

  His expression changes from one of smug, self-delight to shock: he must see the animosity on my face. As I glare at him, the screens behind him flicker. They darken and then light up again as the images change. His eyes widen further as he looks from me to the screen opposite, then back at me again.

  My face beams out from every corner of the tent. “Missing. Benedict, son of Vivian Baines. £1,000,000 reward.”

  I have to get out of here.

  HOSHIKO

  I stand at the top of the ladder, eyes screwed tightly shut, and count to ten slowly, like I always do. I daren’t hesitate any longer, especially not after what Silvio did last time. God, has it only been two days since then? Forty-eight hours ago, I hadn’t even met Ben yet.

  When I open them, my eyes are immediately drawn to what is, unmistakably, a huge cauldron suspended from the ceiling, rocking slowly backwards and forward above the crowd. It’s filled with a great, unlit bonfire. My mouth goes dry.

  Thunderous music fills the arena all of a sudden and the crowd roar as the lights dim and a red spotlight shines on Silvio, far below in the centre of the ring.

  For once he’s in a different costume, dressed as a little red devil. An all-in-one leotard, little black horns, even a forked tail, swinging around as he moves. His usual whip has been replaced by a pitchfork and he’s brandishing it up and down as he cavorts about. On his shoulder, Bojo is a miniature replica of his impish master. It’s so absurd, it’s comical, and the audience are laughing as Silvio leaps nimbly about the ring. He’s captivating though. I hate him, but I can’t take my eyes off him. Never was a costume more appropriate.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” he cries. “Welcome to the Spooktacular! I hope you like our little log pile!” He gestures above him, to the unlit bonfire. “Of course,” he laughs. “Of course, there is one thing missing. For what November bonfire would be complete without a guy?”

  The crowd are cheering and shouting.

  “Bring on the guy! Bring on the guy!” Do they know something I don’t? What are they expecting?

  Another spotlight lights up the central ceiling hatch, directly above the bonfire. A little wicker basket lowers, swinging backwards and forward. Something’s moving inside it.

  After a couple of seconds, the lid raises and something rises, out of the basket. Concealed under a hessian sack, a figure fights her way out, and looks around, petrified, at the frenzied audience. Why didn’t I realize before?

  There, so small and far away that I have to strain my eyes to make out what I’m actually looking at, is Greta.

  BEN

  Head down, I push through the crowd to the back of the tent. I fight my way quickly under the heavy tarpaulin, just as he calls out: “Stop. Stop, he’s here in the tent!”

  It’s darkening everywhere, but it’s not dark enough, not yet. My face lights up every screen. Everyone’s stopped in their tracks and crowds of people are staring up at it.

  All around me, people are looking at my picture, reading the information. All they have to do is find me to get their hands on all that lovely money.

  Behind me there are shouts, police whistles, running feet. I duck behind a tree just in time. It’s the Pure from the tent, accompanied by loads of guards.

  “He was here!” he’s shouting. “I just saw him a second ago!”

  Their sounds are drowned out as a marching band loudly makes its way along the circus promenade, seemingly oblivious to the latest drama. The music is booming, a deep monotonous chant, drowning out everything else. The same ominous words I heard last night.

  See the flames go higher, higher.

  Who will survive the funeral pyre?

  See the flames go higher, higher.

  Who will survive the funeral pyre?

  Again and again, the same words, as they get closer, closer, louder, louder. On placards and banners they hold photos of Hoshiko on the tightrope, along with pictures of another, much younger girl.

  She might be dying in there. Right now. She might already be dead.

  I feel dizzy.

  I turn and run through the trees, bursting through a fire exit into the nearest tent.

  HOSHIKO

  Around the arena, the big projection screens light up. The image is split, so that my incredulous face looks back at me from one half. The other side shows Greta, so I can see her really clearly now.

  She’s bound in chains, ankles and wrists, and is looking around desperately. They’ve dressed her as a butterfly. She’s got a little pink flared tutu on and matching wings flutter at her back; they’ve mechanized them somehow, so that they actually move. The lights on them, and in her hair and on her costume, project tiny pastel butterflies all over the darkened arena in shades of lemon, lilac, baby blue and pink. Her hair’s in pigtails and they’ve accentuated her make-up to give her two little rosy cheeks and big exaggerated lashes.

  The desired effect is obvious; they want her to look as young and innocent as possible. And, my God, she does. She’s crying up there, looking so frightened that I call out, desperately.

  “Greta, stay there! I’m coming!”

  Like she has a choice. Like she can go anywhere else.

  Far, far below her, a deadly fall away, the orchestra strike up. They’re playing the music Silvio always planned to introduce as Greta’s signature tune: the Butterfly Lover’s Concerto. The soaring notes of a single violin dominate, resonating through the arena. I know what the music’s for. It lends a poetic grace and beauty
to the deadly dance we’re about to perform; makes the crowd feel like the spectacle they’re watching is something artistic.

  There’s one slack wire between Greta and me. As soon as I step on to it, someone lights the log pile and the dead wood immediately roars into ferocious life. Before I’ve even taken one step, the flames begin licking their angry tongues around the base of Greta’s platform.

  I sprint across that wire like I’m on a running track. There are no props to steady me and all the careful balance techniques I’ve mastered go straight out of the window. If I don’t think about falling, I won’t fall. I run faster than I’ve ever run in my life, there, on a tiny wire seventy feet off the ground.

  The crowd are beside themselves.

  I reach her in seconds, scrambling over the sides of the platform. She’s completely hysterical, screaming incoherently as the fire laps hungrily about my feet.

  Below us, Silvio runs around, directing things like some crazed conductor. At his bidding, the flames produce their own little dance; higher and higher they climb, every time his whip decrees.

  The pyrotechnic team have excelled themselves tonight. Somehow, they’ve managed to alter the colours of the actual flames and they curl from the cauldron in lurid green and a vivid, angry red. Thousands of tiny bubbles float up in the air, a myriad of twinkling colours, catching in our hair, spiralling softly, lightly on to my costume.

  I grapple with the chains, but the metal is scorching hot, and it’s becoming hard to see through the smoke.

  My superhuman ability seems to be continuing though because, within seconds, she’s free and clinging on to me.

  A line of flames dances all around us now, even above our heads. We’re totally surrounded by fire.