by M L Sparrow
“It looks worse than it is.” The brief flash of pain has been reduced to a dull ache, but it still stings when I probe at it once more with the tip of my tongue.
“That was stupid,” Ben states bluntly from where he stands with his hands on his hips.
“Well, you weren’t doing anything.” I snap defensively.
“I was goin’ to.”
“Next time do it faster.”
Face set into a scowl, he opens his mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but a husky whisper interjects, “Now, now, let’s not fight. I’m grateful to you both, so grateful. You” – she levels a crooked, claw tipped finger at Ben and reiterates her earlier statement, “look after this one, she’s a pearl, an absolute pearl, not many like her anymore, so don’t you be mad at her.” The look of incredulity on his face is almost comical and I quirk a brow when our eyes meet, daring him to say something else. He doesn’t.
Still attempting to contain my grin, I say, “We should probably walk you home to make sure you get there alright.”
“Oh, that’s sweet of you, dear, but it’s not necessary.”
“I insist, I wouldn’t feel right leaving you to make your own way back after what just happened.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?” Ben challenges, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Of course you do, either you can come with us, or you can stay here.” I cast him only a brief glance, before looking back at the old lady and gently patting the hand that is still resting on my forearm. “Come on, let’s get going.”
Though he complains, Ben does accompany us on the trip to the outer edge of the Ghetto, bordering the dump, where Miriam lives. However, he only does it out of duty; I assume he has been tasked with making sure I don’t do another disappearing act. If he could, I reckon he’d simply toss me over his shoulder and march me straight back to my room at Base, but that would risk making a scene and provoking wagging tongues, something I can’t imagine Sin being too happy about.
The further out we get the filthier the streets become, until we’re walking not on pavement but upon a fine layer of garbage, mud and God knows what else. I try not to breathe through my nose. Shadows squat at the side of buildings, watching us pass and every time we do Ben moves closer to me, hovering over me like a huge, bothersome guard dog.
Finally we reach a tall, ramshackle old building, just a few feet from the shanty towns separating the brick and mortar buildings from the dump. The front door is handing off its’ hinges and, inside, the hallway is decorated with graffiti. There’s a lift at the far end of the hall, but, even in the dim light coming in through the broken windows, I can make out the words ‘OUT OF ORDER’ scrawled in large messy red letters. With effort Miriam pushes open a door half way down the hall and leads us into a drafty stairwell, adorned with yet more obscene scribbling. Five flights of stairs later and I am sucking in short, sharp inhalations, letting them out again in long, wheezing breathes. I’m terrified that Miriam is about to have a heart attack, but at last she pushes open the door on the next landing we reach and beckons us into another long, narrow hallway lined with numbered door.
“It’s actually number one hundred and seventy nine,” she informs us, stopping in front of one of the doors, still struggling to catch her breath, “but the seven fell off a long time ago. I’ve still got it somewhere, I put it away for safe keeping. Gerry always said he’d nail it back on for me someday, but he never got around to it.” The lack of a seven isn’t the only thing wrong with the numbering; the last digit is also hanging upside down, making it look more like a six than a nine. Ignoring the scanner beside the door, Miriam simply pushes it open.
“You don’t lock your door?” I ask in dismay.
“That thing hasn’t worked in years, dear,” she explains with a huff of what sounds like laughter, “we got no power here. Only the inner-city is supplied with power nowadays and without it there’s no way to lock the door. Besides, I haven’t got anythin’ anyone would want to steal.”
Hanging back as she shuffles into the apartment, I whisper to Ben, “Can’t you do something to help?”
“Me personally?” he parries flippantly, stepping back to let me enter first.
Feet firmly planted, I angle my body to face him as I answer, “Your organisation, or group, or whatever you are. You help people don’t you? That’s what you’re about, right?” I don’t know how I made that leap when I have only heard a handful of hushed conversations and seen snippets of life at Base, but it feels like the truth on my tongue.
“There’s too many people to help everyone and there are a lot of things worse than an unlocked door.”
“But it’s a safety risk.”
“Not as much of a risk as starvation.” He strides into the apartment. End of conversation.
Inside, the apartment is small, but clean and uncluttered, though that probably had something to do with the fact that there was almost nothing in it, except a threadbare sofa, a tiny kitchenette with the bare essentials and two doors leading off into what I guess are the toilet and the bedroom.
“Sit, sit,” she waves a frail, liver spotted hand at the sofa, “would you like a drink? All I have is water, I’m afraid.”
“Water is just fine,” I assure her, going over to place the single tin of food on the counter, alongside the dirty lettuce – I had offered to go back and try to get her something else to replace it, but she had insisted that it would be perfectly alright after a quick rinse. Waste not want not, were her exact words.
“Please, sit, sit,” she reiterates, so I do. Sitting beside Ben of the sofa, I fold my hands neatly in my lap and watch as Miriam bustles around the little kitchen, collecting glasses from her mostly empty cabinets and running the water in the sink. Like the taps at Base, it runs brown at first and she waits a minute before filling the glasses, though the liquid still has a yellowish tinge to it. I grimace inwardly at the thought of putting that in my body; it’s probably teeming with parasites, but when she brings it to me, I take the glass and take a dutiful sip. Ben chugs his down without a qualm. Having turned the glass so that I can drink from it without encountering any of the many chips, I’m surprised when it comes away streaked with crimson, only to realize that it’s leftover blood from earlier. The water tastes bitter, but at least it’s cold and soothes my parched throat. The second sip is easier to swallow.
We stay for a while and Miriam seems glad for the company; she doesn’t get many visitors, she tells us. My heart goes out to her, because now I know how that feels. Therefore, as she walks us out, I stop just before the threshold and turn to clasp both of her hands in mine.
“I’ll come back to visit you when I can. I don’t know how soon that will be, but I promise I will.”
“That’s nice of you, dear,” her old eyes almost disappear into her wrinkles as she smiles, “I’ll look forward to it.”
She is still standing in the doorway when we reach the stairwell and I turn to lift my hand in a final farewell. As I turn away, Ben whispers, “You shouldn’t have said that.”
“What?” I ask, looking up at him.
“You shouldn’t have promised to visit her.”
“Why?” I must sound like a complete idiot asking one word questions, but I’m genuinely confused.
“Because now she’s gunna to be waitin’ for you and when you don’t come she’ll be heartbroken. My Pa always said not to make promises you can’t keep, but then I suppose yours probably never told you that.” No, my dad would lie through his teeth to get what he wanted. He had broken plenty of promises and never turned a hair. The truth in his words makes me defensive and sarcasm is a knee-jerk reaction.
“Wow, Ben, I think that’s the most I ever heard you say. Is it difficult for you to string so many words together? And for your information, I wasn’t lying, I wholly intend to visit Miriam again when I’m able, but, unfortunately, that probably won’t be possible until I have found a way out of my current predicament, will it?”
Af
ter that tense exchange we walk back in silence. When we reach Base it is to find that nearly everyone has gone; only a couple of desperate people remain to search the abandoned cardboard boxes scattered around the room in search of anything which may have been overlooked. Leading me straight past the canteen, without slowing, Ben marches down to my room and deposits me there. And leaves. Back within the four walls of my cell, I stand in the centre of the room and click my tongue against the roof of my mouth, at a loss for what to do now. I don’t have to wonder long, because less than ten minutes later heavy footsteps proceed Sins appearance. Striding into the room, he immediately comes over to where I’m now sitting on the edge of the bed and towers over me. Gripping my chin between thumb and forefinger, he tips it up to look intently down into my face for a moment before releasing me.
“You’ll live,” he proclaims, “but I’m beginnin’ to think you have a death wish. What were you thinkin’?”
“I had to do something.” I snap, standing up so that he’s forced to take a step back. “Now you answer my question, why does everyone keep criticising me when I did the right thing?” Tilting his head, he considers me with those gunmetal eyes.
“Around here,” he begins slowly, “if you see a crime bein’ committed, you ignore it. You don’t get in a fight unless you know you can win. And you will never be able to win.”
“Oh,” my voice lowers dangerously and my eyes narrow, “and why’s that?”
Oblivious to the warning in my voice, he replies, “You’re too small. You have no muscle.”
“Maybe,” I concede, “but I do have a brain.”
“Hasn’t helped you much this far, has it?” Balling up a fist, I hit his arm with a fierce scowl.
Straight faced, he intones flatly, “Oww… that hurt.”
“Arsehole,” I spit and the right side of his mouth twitches.
“I’ve been called worse.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
Another twitch, before he turns away and goes to leave, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll send someone to take you to get cleaned up.” He’s just about to close the door behind him when he pauses, turning back to look at me. “You did a good job today,” he hesitates, before saying, “thank you.” Once more he starts to leave before stopping, “For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing, too. With the old woman, I mean.” For reasons unknown, that statement does mean a lot to me and my heart lifts.
Chapter 8
“You look like you’ve been through the wringer!” Maya exclaims the next day, “Jeez, what does the other guy look like?”
“Worse,” I assure her, though it’s a complete lie, which she knows because she meets my eyes and bursts into laughter. “Don’t laugh.” I stomp my foot and pretend annoyance, all the while resisting the urge to join in with her maniacal giggling.
“Sorry,” she covers her mouth with one hand and wipes a tear from the corner of her eye with the other, “but the idea of you in an actual fight tickles me.”
Suddenly unsure if I should feel offended, I mutter, “Thanks.”
“Don’t look like that,” Maya sobers, but a grin continues to split her face, “I’ve got a surprise that will turn that frown upside down. Guess what it is?” Bouncing excitedly up on her toes, she doesn’t give me time to even open my mouth, before she’s off again, “Kit’s gunna take us out, ‘cos Sin’s got a job for us.”
“Out, as in out of the building?”
“Yeah, we’ve gotta deliver something.”
“Are you sure?” This is the last thing I expected to hear.
“Of course I’m sure,” she flicks her dark hair back over one shoulder, “would I lie to you?”
As it turns out, she’s not lying… or exaggerating as I suspected. Later that morning Kit comes to collect us, along with a man I vaguely recognise – as soon as Kit introduces him as Jay, I realize he’s one of the men who helped capture me, which immediately puts him in my bad books.
“You two ready?” he asks from behind the tower of boxes in his hands, craning his head around them to look at us.
“Sure,” Maya jumps to her feet, eager as a puppy.
I follow at a slower pace, asking, “Do you want me to take one of those?”
“Please,” he puffs, bending down slightly so that I can take the box from the top, leaving him with the other two. Following my example, Maya does the same for the other guy.
“So, where are we going?” she enquires, tucking the box against her stomach with her arms wrapped around it.
“Wait and see.” Kit’s grin peaks over the top of his cargo. We head up the basement stairs in good spirits and head towards the front door. Despite the fact that I was only outside yesterday, my heart begins to pound in excitement at the thought of stepping out into the fresh air once more. That excitement stutters and jumps at the sight of Sin standing beside the door leading to the outside world, unsure whether it should increase or dim. Slowing almost to a halt, I drop back behind the other three as they continue onward. When we reach him, everyone stops, waiting to hear what he has to say.
“Four out, four in. I don’t care if you have to drag her back by her hair, as long as she comes back.” Ignoring my scowl, he continues, this time talking directly to me and not the two other men, eyes boring into me. “If you cause any trouble you’ll never see daylight again, got it?”
“Well, you’re speaking English, aren’t you?” I challenge, but something inside of me withers when the stony expression on his face doesn’t erode. Huffing out a breath, I grumble, “Of course I get it, I’m not stupid.”
“I never said you were,” he tilts his head, “you’ve just done lots of stupid stuff.”
Those words stay with me as we walk through the Ghetto. It was true I hadn’t made the best decisions lately, in fact it was entirely my own fault that I was in this situation. If I hadn’t gone looking for that typewheel… Seriously, what did the restoration of an old typewriter matter in the grand scheme of things? It was just a hobby that I had allowed myself to become obsessed with.
“This way,” Kit says and I turn in the direction of his voice without even having to think about it, letting my feet carry me down the narrow alleyway and over a makeshift bridge, made by planks of wood tied together with rope. It’s rotting at the edges and wobbles precariously. Sewage water swirls beneath us, almost black in colour. A little way from us a group of children crouch on the bank, leaning dangerously far forward as they throw dandelions into the murky water. On the other side, I glance back to watch the bright yellow weed drift along on the current before being submerged and dragged to the bottom of the stream of filth. Now, there are only a couple of rows of brick buildings between us and the slums. Though I am slightly intrigued to see it in daylight, I’m thankful when we take a turn just before it and squeeze between two rows of closely packed buildings.
Finally, we arrive in front of a two story house, out of place wedged between the taller flats either side of it. The squat little building only has three sloping walls and half a roof which sags dangerously where it should have met its mate. In place of the forth wall there are multiple tarpaulins and blankets strung up to cover the gap. It is a fruitless effort to afford the inhabitant some privacy, however, it only gives the idea of such because in reality the shadows of people moving on the other side can be seen, along with the sound of voices which don’t even try to keep it down.
“Eddie! Give it back. Berta, tell him to give it back. I had it first. It’s mine. Eddie!”
Laughing at the girl’s outraged shout, Kit puts down the boxes to lift up a corner of the cover, saying, “In you go.”
Stepping inside, I stop dead in my tracks, gaping at the mess of children. Obviously, chaos reigns supreme here. A boy, probably seven or eight, barges past me and I’m forced to take a step back. Appearing beside me, Kit grabs the earless teddy bear out of the boys hand and returns it to the little girl chasing after him.
Clutching the toy to her chest,
the child smiles sweetly up at him and says, “Hi, Kit, did ya bring us goodies?”
“Sure did.” Having picked the boxes back up to cart them inside, he puts them down once more and lifts the girl into his arms. At the child’s squeal of delight, heads begin to turn and suddenly we’re being besieged. Children surround us, jumping up, tugging at our clothes, talking all at once. A cat winds around my ankles, making me jump. At the same time a group of older boys rip into Kit’s discarded boxes, searching through the items inside. Another child grabs my arm, swinging off of it and almost causing me to drop my own box.
“Whoa, careful guys!” Kit yells to be heard over the hubbub, “Calm down.” He may as well have been talking to himself for all the good it does.
A shrill whistle cuts through the deafening noise. Immediately the room falls silent.
“Where have all your manners gone?” a stern voice asks, parting the crowd like Moses parted the sea as she walks towards us. She’s a small, grey haired woman with a kind face but the sort of aura that said she didn’t take any nonsense.
“Kit’s here!” one of the younger children enthusiastically informs her, quite unnecessarily.
“I know, sweetie,” the woman says taking the child’s small hand as some of the others snicker, “and he’s brought some friends.”
Moving forward to hug the woman, Kit turns to me and introduces us, “You already know Jay and these are my friends Maya and Sunny.” He’s doesn’t even attempt to cover up or alter my real name, as if he’s just begging for someone to recognise me. “Girls, this is Berta, she runs the orphanage.”
These children actually live here? Scanning the room with new eyes, I don’t like what I see. This building isn’t safe for an animal to live in, let alone small children; the walls are cracked and crumbling, sloping inwards as if one little push would send them tumbling down upon the room’s occupants. Lifting my gaze, I notice that the second floor is almost none existent, except for a slim border which appears to be reached by a rickety wooden ladder, which is missing several rungs. It’s a death trap. Maya appears to be thinking along the same lines.