by M L Sparrow
“You were right, they’ve completely forgotten about us in their search for the girl. Joel says the raid ain’t even been on the News. With all this breathing space, we could double, even triple our deliveries.”
“No, we stick to the same schedule, for now at least. We don’t want to risk drawing their attention back to us.” That’s Sin. I wonder if he knows I am privy to his private conversations, does he even realize that my room is situated directly beneath his feet?
“But we could get supplies to so many more people, at the moment we’re helping less than a quarter of the population and it’s still not enough. We could do so much more.”
“I know,” Sin’s voice is laced with true regret, “and we will help them all, but we need to bide our time.”
“People are dying every day,” the other man’s voice rises with frustrated passion, “from starvation, disease, cold…” A loud bang makes the ceiling quiver, it’s the sound of flesh hitting wood, probably a palm slammed down on the table.
“Don’t you think I know that?” Sin snaps, “I grew up here too, I know the hardships, I’ve lived them. But we’re no help to anyone if we’re caught."
So much in that conversation makes me think; before seeing that boy my first night in here, I had never imagined children being in the Ghetto. We were taught from an early age that the Ghetto was where people were sent when they broke the law, it was a prison of sorts. So why were there children in a prison? Surely a child could not be a criminal? A child did not deserve to live like this, their future uncertain. Which raised another moral riddle; did criminals deserve to live in these conditions? Murders were sent to death row, but in many ways the petty thieves and other criminals who were banished to the Ghetto had it worse; their death was slow and torturous, the spirit disintegrating long before the body did. It was inhumane. It made me wonder if humanity really had advanced as much as we thought we had.
I’m not sure what made me do it – maybe it’s the fact that his earlier conversation had made him seem like a good guy after all, or maybe it’s just my crippling isolation – but I stand up on the bed and climb up on the headboard, using the wall to balance. Beneath my fingers the wall is sweating with condensation, cold and slippery. Raising my hand, I hesitate before rapping on the wood above my head; I had heard someone leave, but I could also hear someone pacing and my gut told me it was Sin.
Calling out his name, I knock again, “Sin, are you up there? Hey, answer me.” Again I hesitate, “Please, will you come down here? I want to talk to you… I’m lonely.” The pacing stops. The world, my world, holds its breath.
Then comes one word, so quiet I almost don’t hear it. “Okay.”
Immediately I wonder what I have done, but despite my sudden reservations, I can’t help a small thrill of excitement. Maybe I’ve contracted Stockholm Syndrome. However, I don’t have long to worry about that because within minutes I can hear footsteps on the stairs outside the door. Said door opens a moment later. He stands in the doorway and I remain standing on the mattress, feeling it bounce beneath me as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. We’re both uncertain of what to say next – a blazing row, or uneasy truce. Slowly, I step down onto the floor and take a hesitant step forward. I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“I didn’t broadcast my location through the TV. It was Ludo, my robot, he was programmed to send out a distress signal if ever he perceived a threat, but obviously it took a while for my dad to get around to noticing.” The last is said with bitter resentment, “He’s a very busy man.”
“I’m sorry.” The strain in those two words lifts my gaze from the floor to see his set jaw and the cold distance in his eyes.
“You don’t like him very much, do you?”
“No,” his answer is blunt and irretrievable, “he put me in here, he put us all in here.”
“The Ghetto was in place long before my dads’ term as President, he didn’t found it. He’s only been President for five years and I assume you have been here longer,” a slight inclination of the head is my only answer, “so, he didn’t technically put you in the here.”
“You’re good at talking your way outa things, aren’t you?” Disgust laces his voice, “Just like your dad. You’d make a good politician. Slippery liars the lot of them. He may not have started the Ghetto, but you don’t see him takin’ down the fences either, do you?”
“The people in the Ghetto are criminals,” I parrot the same tired old line that is forever being handed around, even though I now have my doubts.
“Some of them,” Sin concedes, “but most of the people here are innocent of any crime except being born here or being banished because of a family member. Maya was tossed in here along with her family because of her dads’ tax evasion; it had nothing to do with her, or her mother, or her brothers and sisters.” His breath is heavy in the otherwise silent room.
I lick my dry lips and offer, “I might be able to fix your TV for you.” It’s a copout, a desperate, cowardly change of subject; my education is clashing with reality, everything I have been taught is being contradicted and I’m not yet equipped to deal with it.
He can see straight through me, but he doesn’t challenge me, he simply nods, before asking, “Do you still want to talk?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately.
Stepping further into the room, he closes the door behind him, “What would you like to talk about?”
“Anything,” I shrug, just hearing another human voice, seeing a face, soothes the hollow, desolate feeling inside of me, “What’s your favourite colour?”
I was half expecting black, or maybe red, but the answer turns out to be green.
And so begins our fragile truce.
Having started out leaning against the door, over the next few hours, Sin moves closer until, finally, he is sitting with me on the bed, though we remain on opposite ends. Sometimes we talk – he asks how I know so much about machinery and I explain that I have been tinkering from an early age, basically teaching myself through trial and error. Despite the fact that he seems offended by the opulence in which the other side live, he seems equally intrigued to hear about it. We’re careful to steer the conversation clear of any sensitive subjects which could result in an argument. After a while the acerbic edge to his voice softens.
Occasionally we lapse into silence, but it’s not the awkward kind which begs to be broken. It is the thoughtful sort, dare I say companionable. We talk well into the dead of night. Time whizzes past and the next thing I know someone is swinging the door open. Immediately, Sins’ head whips around to confront the intruder. The big man who usually brings my meals is stunned into silence, the tray drooping in his hands.
“You’re gonna spill that.” Sins’ tone is cool and collected, giving nothing away as he nods at the glass balanced dangerously close to the edge of the tray, water lapping at its’ rim and spilling over.
“Oh, er…” The other man looks around the room, anything to avoid looking at us sitting on the bed. After a minute of this stuttering and shifting, Sin’s had enough.
“Just put it down,” he snaps.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Instead of dumping it on the floor by the door, as is the norm, he hurries over and places the tray carefully on the stretch of mattress between us, before quickly leaving the room. As he goes, shutting the door securely behind him, Sin shakes his head and snorts in what sounded like amusement.
“Something funny?” I ask, leaning forward to wrap my fingers around the glass and taking a long swig of cold water. It slides down smoothly and I give a sigh of contentment; my throat hurts from talking so long.
Again Sin shakes his head and answers my question with a statement, “That guy’s double my size, he could probably floor me with one hit.” But Sin was intimidation, I think to myself, there was something about him that calmly stated that you could fight him but you wouldn’t win; the big man may be tough looking on the outside, Sin, on the other hand, was hard all the way d
own to the core.
I don’t say that though, instead I comment, “Obviously your reputation precedes you.”
“Obviously,” he echoes, watching as I pick up the bowl of watery porridge that is my normal breakfast. Holding it in the palm of one hand, I grab the spoon with the other and dig it into the mush. I’ve grown accustom to the lack of decent food, but I don’t think I’ll ever stop craving a strong cup of coffee first thing in the morning.
Glancing up, I hesitate but ask after a moment, “Do you want some?”
“Nah,” Sin shakes his head, stretching his arms up above his head and rolling his head from side to side, easing out the kinks in his neck, “I’ll get my own.” When he stands, I feel an unexpected pang of disappointment, but when he pauses in the doorway and turns back to me there is a moment of crystal clear clarity.
“This changes nothin’.”
“I know.”
Later, I am surprised when Kit turns up. Scuffing his feet in the doorway, he hunches his shoulders forward as he talks to a spot of wall just past my right ear. “Sin sent me. Said you might want some company.” Jerking to my feet, I stare at his pinched expression.
“I’m sorry, Kit,” the words fly from my mouth, “I hope I didn’t get you into any trouble, but you know I had to try? You understand that, right? Please say you understand.” Please forgive me.
Sighing, he drags a hand through his untidy hair and then scrubs it down his face. “Yeah, I get it.” It wasn’t quite forgiveness, but I’d take it.
Just like we used to, we head up to the rec room, but there is no one in there, after all, there is nothing to draw them in now that the TV is gone. No one has bothered to clear up the wreckage. Glass, plastic and other debris are still sprawled across the floor.
“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” Kit frowns, but I shake my head and make my way over to the mess. Crouching down, I gently touch the corner of the TV’s outer shell. It is irreparable. As always the destruction of machinery makes my stomach twist, they were a bridge between us and all the knowledge in the world, a human could never hope to know everything, but a computer did and they made it easily accessible to the masses. Immediately, I think of Ludo; I wonder where he is now, I wonder if I could have fixed him.
“Sin said you offered to fix it,” Kit says behind me, standing with his hands dug deep into his pockets, looking like a typical teenage boy as he slouches in his baggy clothes, “can you?”
“I didn’t realize how bad it was,” I say by way of a reply.
“I thought as much.”
Hearing the disappointment in his voice, I suggest despite myself, “If you could get me a TV from the scrap yard, I can take the functioning parts from this model and use them to repair it.”
“Surely it would be easier to get a new one,” he kicks at a piece of shrapnel.
“Do you have another one?” I enquire, although I already know the answer.
Lips pressing together, his brow creases as he answers grudgingly, “Not one that works.”
“Then I guess you either do it my way, or you and the guys are going to be very bored for the foreseeable future.” For a long minute he just looks at me and then he laughs.
“I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
Within minutes Kit has flagged down another member of the crew, all without leaving the room, and asked him to get me what I need. At first the man is leery, obviously unwilling to take from a young boy, but once he hears what we are trying to do he becomes far more cooperative and even ropes in several of his pals. They head off and whilst we wait, Kit and I clean up the mess, putting aside anything that is reusable and dumping the rest in a black bin liner.
It doesn’t take the others long to return with the equipment, as eager as they are. They have gone above and beyond the call of duty, bringing back several different TV’s, ranging from the huge, clunky old ones to the slimmer, newer models. Several were too beaten up to be of any use – one was even so banged up that it made Sin’s handiwork look like child’s play – however, that still left three to choose from. I select the most modern one; it could be no more than four years old and in good condition. It really was amazing what people threw away. Such a waste of resources. Since it’s in such good health, I don’t actually need to make any tweaks, all I have to do is plug it in and connect it to the internet. It’s irritatingly simple, part of me had been hoping for a challenge, a project of sorts to take my mind of the situation.
Stepping back, I frown, “Done.”
“You are brilliant!” one man exclaims, though I haven’t really done anything. Another claps me on the shoulder with enough force to jar my bones.
Appearing in front of me, a pair of grinning brown eyes stare into mine as their owner clamps my face between his hands. “I actually love you,” he proclaims exuberantly before laying a hard, smacking kiss on my lips.
“It didn’t take you long to wrap my men round your little finger, I see,” Sins’ voice comments wryly from behind us and I turn to face him, blushing furiously because I can still feel the imprint of the young man’s mouth on mine, “and all you had to do was fix the TV.”
“Just try not to break this one,” some brave soul calls good-naturedly.
Half expecting Sin to fly off the handle, I tense, watching him closely, however, all he does is give a snort of amusement as he shakes his head and vows solemnly, “I’ll try.”
“So, we playin’ or what?” yet another voice demands. In their exhilaration the men appear to be forgetting their fear of Sin, at least for the time being.
“You go ahead,” Sin begins to back away towards the door and I watch each step closely. I’m tempted to say something, to call him back, because there is something lonely about the way he’s constantly separating himself from everyone, but my attention is suddenly diverted when Kit walks over to the pile of spare parts still spread across the couch.
“I’ll throw these away.”
“No, no, no!” Rushing over, I snatch away the artefacts in his hand, “You can’t throw them away, they could be useful.”
“Useful for what?” Kit looks genuinely confused, as do most of the other men who are now staring at me.
“I don’t know yet,” I shrug, “but I’m sure something will crop up that needs to be repaired.”
“There’s always somethin’ around here that needs fixin’,” someone in the small group laughs, prompting others to join in.
“Well, if you ever need any help, I’m good at things like that.” I don’t know where the offer comes from, but, surprisingly, I don’t regret it.
Nobody seems to know what to do with that statement and for a moment there is silence, until Kit clears his throat pointedly and asks, “What do I do with all this then?” His eyes dart over to Sin, who is still standing in the doorway watching everything unfold. My eyes flicker towards him, too.
After a moment he shrugs carelessly, “Check ‘em, then she can have them.”
I smile in thanks. He turns and leaves without another word. I feel strangely disappointed at his sudden abandonment. Maybe I am developing Stockholm syndrome. That thought is terrifying, it makes a shiver race up my spine, it makes the breath hitch and stick in my throat. It makes me yank my gaze away from the empty doorway and stare blindly at my feet as I swear never again to let my softer emotions run away with me. Never again will I request his company, or feel something inside of me jump at the sound of his voice. Never again. Never. Never. Never.
Chapter 7
Despite my earlier vow, that evening when I hear movement in the room above, I only just resist the urge to call out. Instead I go to sleep and the next morning I have another visitor. It’s Maya, the girl from the street. She winces as she’s escorted into the room; the first thing she does is jerk her head towards the big man standing behind her and say, “He’s not very chatty, is he?” I quickly find that her smile is contagious.
“I’ve found that, too,” I grin, “I’m beginning to wonder if he e
ven knows how to talk.”
A muscle twitches in his cheek, before he backs out of the room, saying pointedly, “I’ll be back in half-an-hour.” The door closes, the lock clicking into place.
“Nice room,” Maya comments, looking around, “except for the lack of windows.” For a moment I stare at her incredulously, thinking she’s being sarcastic, however, there is nothing but sincerity on her face – I wonder what her living quarters must be like for her to consider this ‘nice’.
“It’s alright,” I concede before asking, “Why are you here?” The question sounds ruder out loud than it did in my head, but the other girl doesn’t take offense.
Shrugging, she answers, “I just wanted to see for myself. Are you really Sunny Beaumont, the Presidents’ daughter?”
Feeling suddenly defensive, I lift my chin and square my shoulders, “Yes.”
“Cool.” Her answer surprises me; there is no hostility or animosity in her voice, nothing to suggest she now regrets coming to visit me. “Plus,” she adds with a grin, “I wanted to see Sin. Damn,” – she pretends to fan herself – “he is smokin’.” All I can do is blink at her. A second later irrational jealously spears through me. Stuffing it down deep inside of me, I force a breath between my lips and drag another lungful in. Why should I care if Maya fancies Sin, it has nothing to do with me? “It really is too bad about his Brand.”