Show Stopper

by Hayley Barker

  The drop below is a deadly one – there’s only one way out of here, and there’s no way we’re both going to make it.

  A slack wire works by careful observation of a vital system of balance. What that basically means is that it’s impossible for two people to cross it together. You can travel from either side simultaneously if you’re weighted exactly the same but, when you cross it from the same side, you have to wait until it’s clear before you even so much as put a foot on to the line. Otherwise, it wobbles way too much, twanging the pair of you off. You must respect the laws of weight and balance. Always.

  There’s no way Greta and I can get on that wire together; we’ll both fall and die. Maybe, with a bit of luck and a lot of skill, there might be enough time for one of us to cross it before the flames reach us, but there’ll never be enough time for the two of us to make it.

  This is what Silvio meant then. It’s her or me. The Butterfly or the Cat.

  BEN

  It’s pretty dark in here, and fairly quiet. That band were announcing the start of show time, so that’s where everyone must be – in the arena watching Hoshiko. What’s going to happen to her?

  Lights flash suddenly about my head. Evil-sounding laughter cackles out of nowhere and creepy faces suddenly pop up in the dark.

  I must be in the Haunted House. I’ve heard about it at school: a pop-up exhibition, here for October and November. I know what happens in here. This is the torture tent. It’s where they showcase all the old-fashioned interrogation and punishment methods of days gone by. Dreg criminals in live exhibitions.

  I run down winding, labyrinth-like corridors, each one leading to a door. There are a cluster of people queuing up patiently outside each one, the carved wooden signs above tempting them in. The Rack, the Iron Maiden, the Thumbscrew, the Tongue Tearer, the Rat Cage, the Spanish Donkey.

  Everywhere I turn, there’s another door, the sound of screaming coming from each one.

  There’s nowhere else for me to go. I’m going to be stuck in here for ever.

  There’s a sudden crack of light coming from the end of one of the corridors and I turn and see Silvio, dressed as a devil. His eyes gleam when he sees me and then the door closes and we plunge into darkness.

  I rush forward and throw myself out of a door at the other end of the room.

  Behind me, I hear his light footsteps.

  At first, I think I’ve run down a dead end but then I see a handle and realize I’m standing in front of another door. I open it and slip inside.

  There are real candles in old fashioned sconces lining the walls and casting an eerie glow over the room. A sign above my head creaks. Welcome to the Mirror Maze, it reads in big, jagged letters.

  There’s black panelling everywhere with just one small gap leading into the maze.

  Behind me, I hear the footsteps again.

  I squeeze myself through the gap.

  Suddenly, I don’t know where I am, don’t know who I am. My face, petrified, desperate, haunted, stares back at me, once, twice, a hundred times. Mirror after mirror after mirror, everywhere I turn, I see myself.

  I sprint down alleyway after alleyway. It can’t be that big in here; I must be treading the same path again and again. I can’t tell what direction I’m going any more; I can’t tell what’s left, what’s right.

  Then, I see him, not just in one of the mirrors, but in every single one – the same face, grinning at me.

  Everywhere I look, I see him.

  And he sees me.

  His face is hungry.

  “Got you!” he croons and laughs, a hard, victorious laugh.

  It’s as if his voice too is reflected from every mirror; the sound echoes all around me.

  I don’t know where he is. I don’t know which of these is real and which are reflections.

  “You might as well give yourself up,” he says.

  He moves then, his hand outstretched, clasping for me. The figure in the mirror nearest to me doesn’t get bigger though, or closer: it recedes. He’s taken a step away from me, not towards me. And then I realize: he doesn’t know which of the images is me either.

  “Never!” I tell him, with a lot more confidence than I feel. “You’ll never catch me.”

  I turn and run back the way I came. At least, I think it’s the way I came, I don’t know.

  He’s running too: further away and then nearer again. I can hear his footsteps behind me, very close now. I suppose that means he can hear mine.

  I stop. Stand still. Press myself against one of the mirrors.

  He stops too.

  He turns around, looking at every mirror – at the line of versions of me, of versions of him.

  He still doesn’t know where I am.

  He pulls out a gun, aims it at my reflection, swivels around, aims again, pointing it at every version of me he sees. There’s a deafening crack and an almighty smash and a mirror to the left of me smashes into a thousand pieces; the image of both of us, obliterated. There’s another bang, another crack, and another one, and another.

  He’s going to shoot every single reflection until he gets to the real me.

  I run again, gunshots echoing all around me as I trample over the shards of glass.

  The mirror to the left of me explodes.

  His face is huge, as if he’s next to me. Maybe he is next to me.

  Through the bullet hole in the mirror I see into the tent beyond.

  I step through the shattered mirror, the cruel jagged spikes cutting into my skin.

  I’m out.

  I dash out of the tent, across the courtyard. Looking around, I plunge desperately down another path.

  He must be seconds behind me; I’m too exposed here. I need to find somewhere to hide out before he sees me.

  There’s a group queuing outside another attraction and I make my way up to it and push myself amongst them. It’s not a big queue; most people are in the arena. What’s happening in there? I need to get to Hoshiko, but first, I need to escape from Silvio. We file quickly through the turnstile and in.

  He’s still not appeared. I should be safe in here for a while.

  The exhibition looked quite small from the outside, but inside it’s vast, expansive. It’s an entire town, one of those you see in old Western films. There are cobbled streets and saloon bars and grocery stores. There’s a gun store too, and people are lining up to get their hands on shotguns being handed out by a boy, dressed up as a cowboy.

  I hear a gunshot then and see a Pure, crouching behind a powder keg and shooting at someone.

  It’s a zombie, a real life zombie. No, it’s a Dreg; a man, dressed up as a zombie. His ripped clothes reveal black gangrenous flesh underneath. The make-up is so good that it looks real; it looks like his flesh really is rotting.

  I wonder how they get him to play the part so well. His mouth hangs open, vacantly and his eyes are wide and empty. His arms are thrust out in front of him and his legs propel him forward in a slow, steady movement. The man shoots at him again and the bullet hits this time. He doesn’t react. He wobbles backwards and forward and then crumples down to the floor and the Pure man walks over to him and starts kicking him.

  Everywhere I turn I see the same thing. Zombie-like figures being attacked by Pures. Some of them have lost limbs with fleshy stumps where their arms or legs should be. Some of them have eyeballs missing, nothing there but black holes.

  I don’t think it’s make-up. I don’t know what to do; I don’t know where to go. I turn and look down the movie-set style street for the quickest escape route.

  Across the street, making her way into the “hotel”, there’s a female zombie. She’s not dressed in dark rags like the others; the garment she’s wearing is ripped and torn now but the vibrant colours still stand out.

  Turquoise satin, shimmering with gold and purples.

  I know that material.

  Her back’s to me, but her hair’s hanging down in the long braid she always wears.

  “P
riya!” I call. “Priya! Wait!”

  But she doesn’t hear me. She keeps walking forward, vanishing into the hotel.

  I run after her.

  We’re in an old-fashioned hotel lounge room, with shabby red velvet sofas and chintz wallpaper. There’s no one else in here.

  “Priya!”

  There she is, turning the corner, moving slowly and steadily. I catch up with her easily and whirl her around.

  “Priya. It’s me! It’s Ben!”

  I reach for her. I grab her hands.

  “Priya,” I beg. “Priya, it’s me.”

  There’s no reaction. Her hands feel cold and her arms don’t move from their static position. She stares blankly ahead. She can’t see me, or feel me. She doesn’t know I’m here. I see the contraption she’s tied to, keeping her upright. The horror hits me. She’s dead; all these “zombies” are dead. They’ve done something to their arms and legs – mechanized them somehow to make them move – but they’re dead.

  I sink to the floor and howl.

  Not Priya. Not my Priya.

  Her children, Nila and Nihal, they’ll be waiting for her. Waiting and waiting and she’ll never come home.

  Suddenly, the whole place lights up. The music stops and an alarm sounds, accompanied by a voice over the loudspeaker.

  “Emergency. Major security breach. Please head calmly towards the nearest exit point and assemble in the main courtyard.”

  I look up. A hooded dummy hinges out of the wall next to me, a leering grin on its wrinkled face. I rip the hood and mask off the mannequin and put them on, heading out after the crowds. Looking like the Grim Reaper should buy me a few minutes to find Hoshiko.

  HOSHIKO

  The flames reach my feet first and I smell the disgusting, acrid stench of my own flesh burning.

  Despite the pain, I feel calm, as if I’ve stepped out of my body. There’s no fight left in me. I think about Ben, about how different things might have been in another time, another place, another world. I’ll think about him now, only him…

  I’ve retreated into myself so much that it takes a while to register that something’s changed. The roaring flames are subdued and there’s much more smoke now. Alongside the agonizing burning of my feet, there’s a different sensation, cooling my upper body.

  I’m getting wet.

  Looking up, I see water gushing out of pipes in the ceiling, dousing the flames: the emergency sprinkler system.

  What’s going on? Is this part of the act?

  I’m soaking wet by now, but I’m not on fire any more.

  The smoke begins to clear. I’m able to see that the crowd are leaving the arena and I hear a voice repeatedly, over the loudspeaker.

  “Emergency. Major security breach. Emergency. Major security breach.”

  My feet are angry and red, my lungs are bursting, and I’m overcome with coughing. I feel half dead, but I’m not.

  Whatever’s happened, it’s saved me. For now.

  BEN

  I look behind me, there’s no sign of Sabatini yet and I join on to the crowd filing obediently into the main arena.

  Everyone’s looking over their shoulders at the tents I’ve just come from.

  “Did you hear all those shots earlier?” people are saying. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s from the zombie town,” someone says. “Haven’t you been there yet? You really should, it’s so cool. Loads of dead Dregs!”

  I don’t know what to do. The major security breach is obviously me. At least I don’t stand out; everyone else is dressed up too. Still, I can’t keep this bloody mask on for ever.

  We’re all shepherded into the main arena of the Cirque. Everyone’s here, including all the performers, surrounded by police. I scan their faces, but there’s no sign of Hoshiko.

  Where is she? She could be dead too. The thought makes me feel as if someone’s punched me in the stomach.

  I should give myself up, right now. Who cares if they shoot me? I’ve already blown my chances of having a nice, sensible, ordinary Pure life by coming into this place, and I wouldn’t want one now, anyway. The fact is, I can’t go back to my old world, even if they let me. I’ve changed too much in the last two days to ever return.

  I may as well go down fighting, may as well tell the crowds exactly what I think of them. At least I won’t be conforming any more, going along with what they say. And if there is any sort of afterlife for this crazy, godforsaken human race I’m a part of, at least I can look Hoshiko and Priya in the eyes when I meet them there.

  I push forward so that I’m towards the front of the crowd. The more people who see me and hear what I’ve got to say, the better. I need to get on the stage. If I even make one person think about what they’re doing, it won’t all have been in vain.

  I’m almost at the front when there’s a commotion behind me, amongst the performers. The door from the top of a stairway behind them has opened.

  She’s there, alive, framed in the doorway. Thank God.

  She looks so different that I almost don’t recognize her at first. The deep midnight blue of her costume is alive with a thousand points of light. Her hair is away from her face and there are sparkles dancing there, too.

  She’s dazzling.

  Ho-shi-ko: an Eastern poem.

  The child of the stars.

  Burning bright in the darkness,

  Lighting up the night.

  HOSHIKO

  I feel myself sway from side to side, even though I’m propped up between Amina and Alex, one of the fire eaters.

  All I want is a bit of peace and quiet, but there’s a whole crowd of Pures staring at me – at least, I assume they’re Pures. They’ve all got costumes on, all dressed up as ghosts and monsters and ghouls, as if the costumes represent who they really are.

  I don’t know how I got here. I don’t remember getting down from that platform, just the sound of Greta screaming hysterically afterwards and Amina trying to calm her down.

  The pain isn’t actually that bad any more. Apart from a dull throbbing and a numbness where I know my feet are, I don’t feel much. Amina has some powerful medicines and creams which she just had time to hastily apply, along with bandages, before they ushered us out into the arena.

  I didn’t ask her about my prospects. There’s no point, I know the answer; even if Vivian Baines hadn’t given Silvio twenty-four hours, it’d be the end for me now.

  I can’t balance on that wire with burnt, swollen feet, and Silvio would never allow a Dreg to take up lodgings, food and medical resources without returning any revenue for so long, especially not me.

  Still, neither Greta nor I died in the arena tonight – I guess neither of us have given Silvio quite the public acclaim he was after. I suppose I should draw consolation from that: he’s failed, in a way. That’s what I’ll tell him, just before he puts a bullet through my brain.

  BEN

  Seeing her again, knowing she’s alive, is such a relief that it takes me a moment or two to register that she’s injured. Her feet and ankles are bandaged up, and she’s propped up on either side by Amina and a performer I don’t recognize.

  The eyes of the whole room have turned to watch them; I’m not the only one she’s casting a spell over. The crowd start murmuring and I strain my ears to hear what those around me are saying.

  “She nearly died,” one man reveals. “It was only the emergency alarm that saved her, apparently.”

  “I was there!” a woman exclaims. “There was a massive fire. She sacrificed herself for the girl.”

  “Who would’ve thought?” someone else near me declares, a smug-looking guy with glasses and a pot belly, dressed as a goblin. “A Dreg with feelings!” Everyone laughs, indulgently.

  I want to smash his glasses on to his ugly little face. And I want to look him in the eyes when I do it. I’m about to rip my mask off and pull my fist back but, just then, I see Amina looking down at the crowd. She clocks me straight away and her head jerks back in surpr
ise. As our eyes meet, she shakes her head, just a fraction. Not so that anyone else would notice, just enough so that I do. I get it straight away; get that she’s telling me not to move, not to do anything, just to wait.

  There’s something about the Cirque medic that makes you do whatever she says. You just know, somehow, that she’s the wisest person you’ve ever met, and the kindest. It was obvious yesterday that Hoshiko trusted her more than anyone else in the world, and that’s exactly how I feel too. I just wait, calmer now, for her to save the day. I don’t know how she’s going to do it, but I do believe that if there’s a way out here, she’ll find it.

  I lower the mask back down and wait.

  Silvio has taken to the stage and all eyes immediately fall on him, the crowd instantly hushing.

  He’s another one with a commanding presence, but it’s not a calming one, like Amina’s, or an achingly lovely one, like Hoshiko’s; it’s a look at me now and don’t take your eyes off me kind of presence.

  How does someone with Dreg status gain such prestige? It’s as if the rules don’t apply to him; even the police seem to do whatever he says.

  His voice when he speaks is so polite and formal that it sounds distinctly sarcastic when he addresses the audience.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we sincerely apologize for the disruption to your evening. Rest assured that you will each be given the opportunity to join us again here at the Dreg Cirque as our esteemed guests on a date of your choosing, absolutely free of charge.”

  There are mumbles of “too right” and “I should bloody think so” amongst the crowd but, simply by holding up a hand, he hushes them instantly.

  “Unfortunately, the inconvenience you have suffered is not quite at an end. You may have heard gunshots tonight, ladies and gentlemen; I regret to inform you that some of them were not a scheduled part of the evening’s celebrations. We are seeking a missing person, a white teenage boy, a Pure. The situation is complicated and very delicate. His name is Benedict Baines – the son of Vivian Baines.”

  There’s a collective gasp of shock.

  “We have reason to believe he may be among us, even now.”