by Emma Pullar
As I negotiate the packed streets, sidestepping my way through the New Year revellers, I spy a table of food which is different from the others: a few elders have brought bare-cupboard cake. Where they got the sweetener is a mystery. There is nothing more sought after than sweetener and nothing harder to obtain. I’ve never seen it in its purest form. I wish I had time to stop for cake. I don’t. I start to jog, I have to hurry but I can’t bring myself to run, I’m weary from long hours at the factory, blistered feet protesting. I force my aching legs to carry my tired body a little faster. I sprint past Mr Lotus – an elder who lives in my cube complex.
‘Good luck at Showcase, Sky!’ he shouts, waving.
I want to shout back something aggressive. I want to yell Screw Showcase! I hope no one picks me! But I don’t. The shock of my little secret would raise too many questions and if I don’t have time for once-a-year cake, I certainly don’t have time for questions.
‘Thank you!’ I yell back, without stopping.
I stick to the sides of towering cube blocks, hidden by their shadows, keen to avoid more New Year’s revellers. I prefer not to be seen, hidden away from the judgemental eyes of others. I’ve been labelled as aloof. I guess that’s because I don’t share in the frivolities, and I care least of all about the New Year celebrations. In fact, I haven’t been excited about anything since my grandfather died. That goes for all city ceremonies, or noted achievements, for that matter. I don’t want to be ‘Skel of the Month’, living for pats on the back for being the best at working myself to death. None of that matters. It’s all pointless – puerile.
I need to cross the street but the surging crowds unnerve me. I don’t want to go through them, too close to others, I don’t like strangers touching me. A gust of wind rustles through the leaves of the tree beside me, throwing my long hair into my eyes; I claw it from my face, gather it up and hold on to it before stepping away from the shadows and into the stream of human traffic. Skels hurry past me on either side like ants avoiding an obstacle in their path. Some bump and brush me, apologising profusely but never stopping. The trees on the other side of the street sway in the wind. I squint … what’s that? A red dot glows beneath the creaking branches. My muscles lock and my heart crawls up into my mouth. Thump, thump, thump. Spit it out. It’ll draw their attention to me. Another red dot appears. Two lenses? They don’t hunt in packs, do they? The celebratory music drums faster, keeping up with my accelerating pulse. I try to calm myself with a gentle reminder. Mutil don’t come tonight, they don’t! Another glowing dot appears, four, five. I take a cautious step back and a rush of black feathers shoots towards me.
‘CAW! CAW!’
I duck down and throw my arms over my head, trembling. Children with toy torches set to the red filter run out from behind the tree screaming and giggling. They laugh at me as they pass. I want to yell at them, little shits! I breathe out, letting my heart slide back down my throat and into position. Their silly prank can be forgiven; they weren’t born when it happened. I wonder if the birds remember things as we do. Do they remember that day? The day Kian was the only one left standing. I watch as the tree crows join the circling ones and I conclude that they do remember. They know what they did. Central say they’re dumb birds, they don’t remember anything. I don’t believe that.
I hurry towards the bathing block, which stands like a last thought. Builder: What next? Central: Better build somewhere for the workers to wash, I suppose. So, they built a concrete box and plonked down in the middle of the road, splitting it, forcing traffic (if there was any) to go around either side. Vehicles can be used as weapons. Central banned them too. The Sky Train is the only transportation.
I yank open the nearest door. The pungent smell, of a bathroom seldom cleaned, assaults my nose – this is one of the cleaner blocks. Inside, the fluorescent tube is so dirty the light struggles to shine through. The power remains on even though Skels don’t use the block at night, it’s bait for those who break the law. Runners are wise to it, yet some still risk dealing from the blocks. If Skels do try to use the blocks at night, Central come for us – except for tonight. I throw my bag to the floor and stare at the brown girl in the cracked mirror above the grubby basin. Dark circles mark her fresh face. The sharp jaw line enforces her undernourished existence. I don’t really know this girl. I never see her much. I prefer not to see her. She reminds me that I’m a slave to the system. No choice in my occupation. I’m a Skel – assigned to the meat factory and that’s where I’ll work, from now until the day I die. Unless I impress at Showcase and I have no intention of doing that.
I turn on the stubborn tap and splash my face awake with cold, rust-coloured water. I shake off the smell of corroded pipes and slip out of my snood and work clothes, reach into my bag and pull out a cake of soap wrapped in a face cloth.
This block doesn’t have a lock. Most palm-pads have been removed, or deactivated. I don’t use the blocks that still have working pads, they’re not reliable. Faulty is what they are, and I don’t fancy spending the night locked in a filthy bathroom, although part of me thinks it would be better than attending Showcase. Sometimes I find a wooden stick that people use to jam the door. Tonight, there isn’t one. I’ll have to be quick.
I soak the cloth with the rusty water, rub it with soap, wring it out and then scrub it over my exposed flesh until I’m satisfied that the meat smell from the factory is eradicated. I wash the suds from the cloth and wipe the perfumed residue from my goose-fleshed skin, then wrap the soap back up, fold my clothes around it and stuff everything except my snood into my bag. I reach into the side pocket and carefully pull out the flimsy dress. I go to slip it over my head and realise my bra doesn’t match my knickers. I only own one bra. It’s badly fitted, the elastic is worn in places and it’s black. My knickers are tan! I can’t wear the bra. They’ll make me take it off. I’ve heard of girls being told to remove dark-coloured underwear. Oh, why didn’t I ask someone if I could borrow a light-coloured bra? My lip trembles, I don’t want to do this. I already feel violated.
‘Suck it up, Skyla; you’ve survived a lot more than this minor humiliation,’ I whisper to myself.
Truth is, I would rather suffer torture, or starvation than walk around semi-naked in public. My body is mine. It’s all I have.
Hands shaking with cold and anxiety, I slip the golden material over my head. It drops down over my skin and I feel like I’m caught in a net. The dress pulls in at the waist and strokes over my nipples when I move. They stand to attention and my cheeks flush. It isn’t long enough either; the hem dusts my crotch; my long legs are completely exposed. I already feel self-conscious and there’s no one staring at me, or judging me. I reach into my bag for the last time to retrieve the comb and stick. I scrape my sandy hair up into a ponytail, then wind it around and force the hand-made wooden pin though it. The bun isn’t perfect, but it’ll do.
I pinch my cheeks and my olive skin pinks. I have to look as if I’ve made some effort even if I don’t want to. Then I fasten my bag and gently push the snood over my hair, careful not to unravel the bun. I tug the hem of the black snood down as far as it will go – not far enough for my liking, I can do nothing about my knickers showing. I leave the bathing block as another girl hurries in. I’ve seen her before, I think she works as an attendant on the Sky Train. She’s cutting it fine.
I always take note of people around me, but I don’t make friends. Skels don’t have much time to socialise and when I do, I always choose Kian as company. It’s easier than hanging out with the girls in my community and pretending to be excited about becoming a host. There’s a chance Kian will be at Showcase, he’s been looking into guard training. I despise guards but it would be good to have someone on the inside. Nearly all the guards and potentials will be at the hall tonight.
Before long I’m standing, shivering with dozens of other young women at the bottom of the sandstone steps. The night is calm. The warm midday breeze which gave way to a chilly evening gust has l
ong retreated beyond the wall and into the desert, leaving the giant flags that flank City Hall’s glass-fronted double doors, limp. The squat building normally looks ridged, stark lines carved with an air of importance. This changes for one night only, when City Hall is given a New Year makeover. Gold banners and strings of stars are draped over the triangular roof. If I was to liken the building to a person’s face it would be my grandfather’s on ‘The Day of the Bird’. He’d sit at the dinner table, forehead twisted in a bumpy frown, an imaginary storm cloud brewing over his head, bony arms folded across his chest, unamused by the weaved hat placed on his head (usually by me) and say: ‘To celebrate such a day is ridiculous! We don’t celebrate the land wars so why this?’ He’s right, to celebrate a day famed for the murder of hundreds of Skels is insane. Perhaps this is why it’s called a ‘murder of crows’? I blank the killer crows from my mind and smile to myself at the thought of my grandfather’s grumpy old face. Then my lip trembles and my eyes sting. I miss him so much.
I blink away pending tears and look beyond City Hall to the towering Morbihan apartments which chisel into the dark sky like silver missiles aimed at a far-off planet. Squares of light are dotted up and down the high-rise buildings. I wonder what the inhabitants are doing. Excited twittering erupts as more young women join the group. Reality crashes into my daydream and my eyes track back down to the dwarfed sandstone hall and linger on the city emblem, the same one as on the wax seal. A crow holding the sun is carved into the stone, along with the words: GALE CITY HALL.
Two guards stand on the topmost steps, hands fastened behind their backs, still as statues and in full uniform: knee-high black boots, tan jacket and trousers, belt and beaked helmet, patched with the city emblem. They wear their crimson desert scarves wrapped tight across the nose and mouth. I’m curious as to why their mouths are covered, there’s no dust storm. Maybe it’s so they don’t feel the urge to talk – but guards don’t need to be gagged, they do as they’re told. I search their bodies with my eyes, what weapons are they packing this evening? Peeking out from behind the right shoulder I see the handle of a sabre sword, and behind the left, a long baton. They don’t often have guns, as guns are hazardous in the wrong hands and guards are still bred from Skels. If Central were guards, I’d bet they would always carry a shooter. Since the gangs have guns, it seems a bit unfair not to arm the guards, but then guards are disposable, Central doesn’t care how many are shot; there’ll always be more to take their place. I know guards carry a bowie knife, only because I once felt the sharp edge of one when caught sneaking out of my front door at night. I rub my arm. The scar from the knife wound reminds me of my place in this city. My throat tightens. I’m starting to feel uncomfortable about entering a room full of guards. A room full of puppets, their strings pulled tight, they do the dirty work of the repressors, enforcers, and punishers.
My head turns when the crowd hushes, a gap widens between City Hall’s front doors. The crowd falls silent. A small man with a snake’s smile steps out and, either side of his short shadow, the orange light from inside spills over the steps. I know who he is, even though I’ve never laid eyes on him before. His name is Chester Stout – a High-Host Central suck-up. He stands in-between the guards, shoulders back, pot-belly forcing the touchpad he’s hugging to stick out diagonally. High-Host family members are over-fed and over-confident about their place in the system. Chester is, by his own admission, very high up in the ranks of society.
‘Welcome potential hosts!’ he bellows importantly, holding out a porky hand in a triumphant gesture. ‘Form a line and follow me.’
I close my eyes for a second and swallow my pride. The other girls immediately do as they’re told. I’m soon sandwiched between excited young hopefuls, the sheer material we all wear one degree away from nakedness. I’m glad of my snood.
‘Hi, Sky!’
The girl in front of me turns and accidentally elbows me in the breast, then almost blinds me in one eye as her long braids lash my face like a cat o’ nine tails. Ouch. I wince.
‘Oh sorry,’ she says sweetly.
‘Hey, Andia,’ I say, cupping my stinging eye.
‘Isn’t this exciting?’ She beams, broad grin exposing her big front teeth.
Andia works at the factory. A simple soul, slightly annoying and incredibly awkward. She frustrates the hell out of me, in an itchy rash kind of way, irritating at first and then a sense of relief and almost enjoyment once you scratch it. It’s hard not to like her.
‘Sure is.’ I try to sound enthusiastic.
We ascend the steps in single file, my reluctance to enter the building unnoticed. My unease is swallowed up by the elated mutterings coming from the line of shimmery dresses, sparkling in the moonlight.
‘Just think,’ Andia squeaks over her shoulder, ‘in a few hours, our lives could change forever!’
She skips through the huge double doors.
‘Forever …’ I mutter miserably to myself as I’m nudged over the threshold by the pile-up of girls behind me. I don’t particularly like my job but I know I’ll like being a host even less.
2
Showcase
Outside, City Hall is immaculate. Skels paint it twice year because it’s close to the Morbihan side of town, it’s what links the two sides of the city. Inside, City Hall is old. Clean but worn. It reeks of lost generations. The tired wooden floors are polished but well-trodden and uneven, and despite every effort with the perfectly placed vases of flowers around the room, the smell of mothballs and musk manages to win through.
I shuffle forwards, my personal space invaded by bodies in front and behind as we are prodded along like cattle by the officials. Once at the front desk, a guard orders me to remove my boots and snood and to hand over my knapsack. I can hardly hear his voice over the roaring chatter and shuffling noises of potential guards and hosts finding their way to their registration points. I do as I’m told, removing my snood (security blanket) last. I cross my arms over my breasts before being pushed along by a short, darker-skinned girl with her finger in my back. I pull my body away from her jabbing finger and push up onto my toes but I can’t see much, only heads bobbing up and down. Potential hosts like a pack of nervous rats, twitching around, surveying their surroundings.
Guards stride around the room making sure potentials find their way, with the exception of about a dozen muscular bodies up near the stage; a wall of tan uniform, locked shoulder to shoulder. Sometimes, I think they’re as mindless as the Mutil, and as I walk past stony face after stony face, I wonder if they’ve been conditioned. Mind fucked and broken. Kian isn’t a troublemaker but he isn’t compliant either, would he cope as a guard?
There’s a whistle behind me, I turn my head to the sound. It’s as if Kian has walked out of mind and into reality. Tucked away in the corner nearest the front doors, Kian sits smiling at me, touchpad on his lap, guards in training on either side of him. I unfold my arms to wave and he raises his thick eyebrows, runs his fingers through his wavy hair then shoots me an uncomfortable frown. The young man beside him nudges him in the ribs and smirks, the crooked-nosed one on Kian’s right winks at me. My face burns. I flick them my middle finger, then cup my breasts in my hands. They laugh and hoot. I ignore them, immature little boys. Nose in the air, determined not to let my nakedness overpower me with anxiety, I stride forward until I’ve bridged the gap in the line left by stopping to wave at my friend. I realise that soon enough everyone will be staring at my breasts. I swallow my insecurities. I can’t let things get to me. It’ll be over soon, and life will resume as usual.
Once we are in the centre of the room, Chester strolls past us, moustache twitching like a restless slug glued above his lip, touchpad under one arm as if he’s captain of the guard. He orders Skels to different tables around the room. I take the opportunity to look around at my supposed competition. Most are darker than me. I have one of the lightest skin tones in the room. They won’t want me. Morbihan favour the darker-skinned, they think they’re h
ealthier than lighter Skels. Morbs are so pale, and in a way, they envy our sun-kissed skin. I bet they’d burn up in the sunlight, spontaneously combust, or something. Our skin is the only thing they envy about us but they would never admit it. The lighter a Skel’s skin, the less desirable, and although my skin is brown, it’s more like sandstone at sunset than beautiful bark. I’m bottom of the pile. Good!
A freakishly tall girl barges past, knocking my shoulder; she takes her position next to me. My hand instinctively reaches for the knife I keep in my boot, of course, it’s not there and neither are my boots. I straighten up and compose myself. The girl beside me is older, she must be coming to the end of her ideal fertile age and she has a desperate look etched into her hard features. She also has light-brown skin and her hopes of being chosen will fade with age. I feel a guilty fish swim in my stomach, she really wants this and I don’t. I should want it too. I shuffle on the spot. I want to leave. Behind me, any hope of running is gone; a wall of guards blocks the exit. Unblinking. Interlocked. Immovable.
The short girl in front of me, a puff of dark hair making her seem an inch taller than she is, leans back and whispers.
‘She’s been fed.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You know, her folks gave her their rations and any fruit and veg they could barter for at market … or they might have used sweetener, to feed her up. Make her look more fertile.’
I glance over my shoulder at the curvy beauty behind me.
‘Oh,’ I say, unaware of this ‘feeding’ practise. People really will do anything to be picked.
‘So many have been fed this year.’ She turns around and continues to whisper, her hot breath depressing the flimsy material covering my chest, ‘It’s just me and my kid brother, I couldn’t bring myself to eat half of his food in the run up to Showcase, just to gain a few pounds. They’ve got an unfair advantage over scrawny girls like us. Look at the curves on her! She’ll get picked.’