Ink

by Alice Broadway

  Mum gives my shoulder a placatory rub. “My love, it was the hardest, worst thing I’ve ever had to do. Every day I wanted to tell you – to tell everyone.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “But you were also the best and most beautiful thing that had ever happened to me. Try to understand. If they marked your dad with a crow back in Riverton simply for helping save a blank, imagine what they would do if they discovered you were the child of a blank? The descendent of the White Witch? Just imagine if they found out you had survived?”

  She sighs heavily, tears and regret in her breath.

  “I know it’s not right, Leora, and I know it’s not much, but your life was in danger and every day I kept you safe. I think Dad wanted to tell you. I think that’s why he gave you his pendant. A sign of allegiance to the blanks.”

  I take my necklace out and examine it. Not a leaf then; a feather. “How come I’ve never been able to read this on you?”

  “I’ve often wondered why you didn’t see; I thought our marks would give us away. My guess is that sometimes we see what we need to see – that sometimes the truth is wound too tight for us to unravel.”

  I frown, trying to take it in.

  “But also, it’s not a lie – you’re on my tree because you’re my daughter. You may have arrived in an unconventional way but you’re mine – you made me a mother the moment I held you in my arms. You know that, don’t you? I’ll understand if you can’t see me that way any longer, but you will always be my girl – the one I raised, the one I’ve adored every single day you’ve been in my life. I would still do anything for you, even if you feel I can’t be anything to you.”

  It’s dark now. My head is aching and I pull up my bedcovers. I’m out of emotions; I don’t know how to respond or what to feel. I can’t fit all of this into the puzzle of my life.

  Mum leaves me then. She tucks me up like she used to when I was a child and she goes. I lie wide awake trying to decide what to do. I don’t want to stay here and pretend everything is how it’s always been. Everything’s changed. Everyone else has been keeping my life a secret from me. Now, I want to own it and see how I do.

  “But,” I whisper to myself, “there’s no point leaving in the middle of the night and wandering the streets when there’s a perfectly good bed right here.”

  I take my own advice and settle down to sleep in the early hours. I’ll make a decision in the morning. As I sleep the words from the notebook entwine with my dreams.

  I dream of a man, branded and banished from his own people.

  I dream of a woman, who looks like the White Witch, falling in love with the marked man.

  I dream of the disapproval from her family.

  I dream of her tight white stomach growing and blossoming.

  I dream of her tiny baby and her weakening body. All her strength gone into bringing this life into the world.

  I dream of the baby, marked at birth.

  I dream of the death of the witch and the wailing of the marked man.

  I dream of the screams of father and child.

  I dream of his walk through the woods.

  I dream of a woman who hides the baby.

  I dream of the one who holds the baby to her chest as though her soul is now complete.

  I dream of nothing nothing nothing.

  When I wake, Mum has already left for work. I’m not sure where we stand with each other, but my mind is clearer, and I understand more. I’ll stay here while I work out what to do next. There’s water in the kettle and tea leaves in the jar. I’ll make a pot of tea – tea solves everything, right?

  There’s a knock on the door when I’m just pouring my second cup.

  “Sophie?” Verity calls. “Are you in? I’ve got a letter for Leora.”

  I take a deep breath, stand up and open the door.

  If there was one person I didn’t want to hurt – if there was one person who was totally innocent in all this – it was Verity. She looks at me open-mouthed, an envelope in her hand. She tries to speak but she has nothing to say to me. She just shoves the letter in my hand and walks away, turning back once to give me a look that says more than her words ever could.

  And I don’t go after her.

  I watch my best friend walk out of my life.

  I sit at the table looking at the government seal on the envelope. I smack my fist on the table and scream with sadness and anger and frustration. There was so much I wanted to say: I wanted to apologize, to find out what happened to her after. She must still have her job, or she wouldn’t be delivering letters from the government. But is she OK? I guess it was easier with Obel and with Mum – we all had things we’d hidden; we all had things to forgive. But Verity has been nothing but good, nothing but brave, nothing but on my side, always. I don’t deserve her. I betrayed her.

  I leave the letter on the table and keep an eye on it while I go to tip the rest of my tea down the sink. I can’t drink it now, I feel too sick. I don’t turn my back on the letter, as though it’s a poisonous insect that might scuttle away.

  I step towards the table, pick up the letter.

  There’s a story of a girl who was given a box and told never to open it. Everyone knows that a gift you can’t open isn’t a gift at all, but a test. She fails the test – she opens the box and in doing so unleashes every kind of evil into the world. We shake our heads when we’re told the story – stupid girl. All her fault.

  I break the seal. I read the letter.

  Dear Leora,

  Do you have an answer for me?

  Come to the government building at 10 o’clock tomorrow.

  I’ve booked you in for a truth-telling and then we can

  talk.

  Mel.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I barely notice the cold while I walk to the government office for my truth-telling. It’s only when I’m struck by the heavy heat inside that I realize how chilled my body has become. I take a left into the truth-telling waiting room, knock on the door and let the man with the machine know I’ve arrived. The first time I was here I was so afraid, but Dad was with me. Now he’s gone and I don’t care about the test. I’ll give them answers; let the alarm sound. Let it catch the lies, if it can.

  The man gestures for me to sit on the chair at the wooden desk, and I place my hand on the metal dome. I breathe deeply and wait for the questioning to begin. I know what he wants to hear.

  “Is your name Leora Flint?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you had any contact with blanks?”

  All my life.

  “No.”

  “Have you committed any crimes that require marking?”

  Broke in to the government building, stole skin.

  “No.”

  “Do you know of people who are not loyal to our leader?”

  Where do I begin?

  “No.”

  “Are all the marks on your body an accurate representation of your life?”

  My marks are just the visible bit of the iceberg.

  “Yes.”

  With each reply and every lie I wait for the alarm to sound, but it stays silent. Just as it did when Dad was tested. The system relies on our fear. We have to be so afraid of being forgotten that we will obey. We have to be so terrified of being marked as unworthy that we dare not lie. But if you don’t care any more, they can’t scare you and they can’t catch you.

  It’s just a show.

  When I’m finished I walk out of the truth-telling section into the reception of the government building. The usual surly girl is there and she tries to give me a scornful look. But I’m beyond feeling intimidated and so I ignore it and tell her who I’m here to see.

  “She’s in a meeting,” the girl says, checking a book.

  “She’ll want to see me.”

  The girl sighs and wanders away slowly, but when she comes back to the desk she looks sheepish.

  “I am so sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Flint. Come this way; the storytell
er will see you in just a moment.”

  Her politeness looks like it almost kills her.

  “How funny, Leora,” Mel says as I walk into a small, hot meeting room with brown upholstered chairs. Isolda sits next to her, looking at me; her little shadow. “We were just discussing you in the meeting I was in. The Mayor has been very interested in your case.”

  “Mayor Longsight?” I stare. I hadn’t expected this. “He knows who I am?”

  “Of course, Leora, and he’s very keen to meet you when you start your work here.”

  “If I start work here,” I correct.

  Mel just smiles. The door opens and the light is almost blocked by the man who enters. “You’ve met Jack Minnow, of course.”

  The heat is beginning to make me sweat. I shake his hand clammily and feel like the room is shrinking.

  Mel goes on. “I was quite open with you, Leora; I have never lied to you. The role the government are offering you is tailored to your unique skill set. They’re keen to make the most of your remarkable reading abilities. You will be changing lives – offering hope for the living and the dead.” She smiles. “You will be joining the ranks of a new role, as an editor.”

  “What’s an editor?” I ask, after a startled pause.

  “The job is as it sounds. You would alter marks as we see fit, for those we feel are deserving. It would involve a combination of skills: reading, inking, flaying…”

  “But … isn’t that deceptive?”

  Mel smiles patiently and tousles Isolda’s hair. “I sometimes forget how young you are.” She lifts Isolda on to her knee. “When we’re young, we see the truth in black and white – true or false, right or wrong. But, as we grow older we see the nuances. We can’t always put things neatly in our black-and-white world.”

  “So you prefer grey?” I ask, trying to mask my confusion.

  She laughs – really laughs.

  “Oh no, Leora! I love black and white. I love our society. I love fighting for the truth and for our stories to be told. But sometimes people need a little help.” She sits back in her chair. “We all make mistakes, Leora.”

  I nod, and I think of Mum’s lie, Dad’s wife, Obel’s skin, Oscar’s dad. I think of me at the weighing and I don’t know where I belong – black or white? Right or wrong? True or false?

  “Sometimes it would be cruel to let those mistakes dictate our future, don’t you think? You wouldn’t edit just anyone. It would be in specific cases, when someone is particularly good or worthy. Someone on whom society depends. Surely there is room in our world for forgiveness, for hope, for redemption?”

  Slowly, I nod again. “So we can cover up people’s mistakes – remove them, if need be. Let their goodness show through?” I ask.

  “Exactly, and you will be the one to do it! You’re an exceptional reader. You can know their hearts – you can know what their marks truly mean, you will know if they deserve to be remembered and, if they do, we can make a little tweak here, a little snip there…”

  I think of Oscar’s dad. Of the cruelty and finality of his public mark. I think of my dad. There was no mercy for them. “Who gets to decide who gets edited?”

  “Obviously the process will be stringent. Society’s values need to be upheld. But we must be willing to do what it takes to keep the peace and to honour those who are most valuable to our community. There will always be those who have nothing to offer. People will always be forgotten.”

  “What if I say no?”

  I hear Jack Minnow shift as he stands in the corner and I remember the owl.

  “This decision, like all the other big opportunities in your life, will be marked on your skin,” Mel’s voice is smooth. “Who knows how this will look when it comes to the weighing of your own soul.” The threat is obvious.

  “And if I say yes?”

  There is a pause. “There are ways of resurrecting the dead, Leora.”

  For a moment I don’t understand. And then I realize. “Dad?” I ask.

  “We can make one book look much like another in the hall of judgement, Leora. It’s theatre. You just assumed that the correct book was burned.”

  I’m being offered the chance to save him still. If I want to. “I will give you until the end of next month to make your decision. It gives you just over four weeks. I’m being extremely generous. Think carefully, won’t you?”

  The cold slaps me this time – the heat of the government building tricked my body into comfort. My eyes prick with tears from the icy wind.

  I sense rather than hear someone behind me. What if it’s Verity? My heart is pining for my friend. I step back towards the building and call out her name.

  “Do you even know what Verity means?” Jack Minnow steps out from the doorway he was sheltering in. My heart sinks with disappointment. “It means truth. And look what you made your poor friend ‘Verity’ do. She lied for you; she hid the truth for you. And you threw it all into that fire.”

  He walks close to me. Too close. His hand closes on my wrist.

  “Oh, and don’t be too hard on Karl if you see him again, Leora. He did want to help you. All he did was tell you the truth. And you know what they say: the truth will set you free.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  I don’t want to go back to the studio but I feel I must. I need to, for one last thing.

  I enter through the back-room door. Obel is with a client and I decide to wait. I go over to the shelf where he has placed the Encyclopaedia of Tales: the book of fables with the beautiful, blank White Witch at its heart. I touch its spine. And then I give in; I heave the book off its shelf, sit at the table and read.

  I don’t notice when Obel comes in. I am jolted into alertness when he turns on the tap to fill a glass with water. He gulps it down while he looks at me. I have time to notice that he’s touched up the marks he had erased yesterday – so perfect, so silent.

  “I’m sorry I ran off yesterday.” I break the silence.

  Obel puts the empty glass in the sink and continues to regard me.

  “It was such a shock. It’s all new to me.” I close the book carefully. “It’s hard to change what you’ve believed all your life, Obel. I truly am sorry though.”

  I walk towards him and he just stays there. The image of his arm yesterday flashes from my memory and I see him there, in my mind’s eye, completely blank and empty. Everything I’ve been taught whirrs in my mind and tells me to retreat, to protect myself from him, from his disgusting kind (my kind?). But my heart is breaking and I reach out and touch his beautifully empty, painted skin. I trace my fingers over his marks.

  And finally, finally he smiles at me, holds my hand and draws me into a hug which reminds me so much of my father I’m laughing and crying all at once.

  After a long moment, he speaks. “You know, Leora, people will still remember your dad.”

  “Well, they’re not allowed to any more,” I say. “We shouldn’t even be talking about him.”

  “You can’t stop memory though, can you, girl? And anyway, we don’t live by the same rules, us blanks. We choose what makes someone worth remembering. He was brave, you know? He left everything because he fell in love. And then gave it all up again because he loved you. He loved Sophie as well – it wasn’t pretend.”

  “Was it you who put the feather in my pocket on my first day?”

  Obel gives a rueful nod. “It was supposed to be a clue. I wondered how much your dad had told you about what he’d been doing, so I wanted to send a message in case you knew already. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

  “I’m frightened, Obel.” I blow my nose on a handkerchief and put it in my bag. “There is so much wickedness.”

  “You still think we’re bad, don’t you? You still think you lot have the last word on truth and on goodness.”

  “Mel says it’s black or white – you’re good or bad, no grey,” I say and Obel raises his eyebrows at me.

  “You know what the real alternative to black and white is, don’t you?”<
br />
  I look at Obel, confused. He goes into the store cupboard and gets out the paints we sometimes use when we’re designing marks. He does a quick picture of me, all black lines on the white paper. It’s a pretty good likeness. He smudges over it with white paint until all that’s left is a grey shadow of what he’d first drawn.

  “Leora. Things don’t have to be black, white or grey.”

  He cleans his brush and begins to paint. The picture is of me again but this time he puts in every detail – every bit of shade, every line. Every splash of light is rendered in brilliant colour. The picture is so vibrant it’s almost breathing.

  “We’re all a bit bad. We all have things in our lives that bring us shame and regret. Things that have hurt our souls or hurt the people we love. But we’re all a bit good too. I reckon we’re mostly good actually. And life is about trying to learn the balance, plot our place on the continuum. We’re a little bit good, a little bit bad – but that’s not grey. That’s this.” He gestures to the painting. “We’re not just made up of good and bad: we’re everything else too.” He points at me. “For instance, you’re a little bit moody, a little bit creative, a little bit funny, a little bit in love with Oscar.”

  I look up at that one, mouth open, ready to deny it, but he stops me with a smile and I just shake my head. I tuck the idea away to think about another time. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. “But how can you know any of that if it’s not marked on someone’s skin?”

  “This isn’t the real me, Leora.” He brushes his hands over the marks that are on display. “This isn’t my whole story, just part of it. Aren’t you more than your marks?”

  I sigh. “I only have official ones.”

  “Even if every inch of you was covered and every word you have ever spoken was written on your skin, would it be enough? Would it be all anyone needed to truly know you?”

  I close my eyes and imagine what that would be like. I think of my words and actions over the last week. “It would be enough to condemn me, I think.”