Perfect

by Cecelia Ahern

  “He’s very handsome.”

  “He is.” I smile.

  “Well? Tell your mother.…”

  “I don’t think I need to tell my mother anything. You always know exactly what’s going on.”

  She smiles, and I see the concern in her eyes.

  “I know, I know. Be careful, be wise, etcetera.”

  “Good. He seems like a good person. He cares about you, I know that. He’s risking a lot to help you.”

  “So are you,” I say, feeling afraid for her. “So has Juniper.” My eyes fill, thinking of my sister in that place right now. And of Granddad in his cell.

  “I’m not afraid, and neither was Juniper,” she says. “I can’t wait to march into that place and demand for my daughter to be returned. It’s everything I wanted to do when you were in Highland Castle but couldn’t, so I get my chance to do it now.”

  “Thank you, Mom. I’m so sorry I’ve put you all in this situation.”

  She places her hands on my cheeks. “Don’t you ever be sorry for what has happened. You tried to help a man. You were a bigger person than any of us could be.”

  I appreciate those words.

  Silence falls between us. And now’s the time.

  “How is Dad?”

  “He’s okay.”

  “Is he still working at the station?”

  “Yes, just about, and it’s killing him to be there working for the Crevans, but…”

  “You need the money.”

  “No,” she says, which surprises me. “I mean, of course we need the money, but he can work anywhere. Your dad wants to know what’s going on with you, and working at News 24 means he gets to find out what exactly they know about you. He’s like a little spy.” She laughs.

  I smile, thinking of him there, guarding me. “I need his help.”

  She looks at me, intrigued.

  “Carrick thinks I’ve arranged to meet you to discuss plans to get Juniper.”

  We both look at him standing at the water’s edge, hands still in his pockets, looking out, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  “But I don’t want him to know about this. Because if he knows, then it won’t work.”

  I show her the USB. “It’s footage of Crevan giving me a sixth brand.”

  She looks at it in shock. “Crevan branded you? Himself?”

  I nod. I refused to ever discuss it with her before.

  “Mr. Berry filmed it,” I explain. “Now Mr. Berry has gone missing, as have all the guards. It’s what Crevan has been looking for.”

  She takes it in her hand, squeezes it angrily, while it all sinks in. What this man has done to her daughter. I can tell she’s looking forward to her invasion now. “This is what they’ve been searching the house for?”

  “And why he’s been hunting me. He doesn’t want me. He wants this. I need you to give it to Dad. I need Dad to make copies. Then I need him to find Enya Sleepwell. She and I have made a plan. She’ll know exactly what to do with it.”

  “Enya Sleepwell, the politician?”

  “We can trust her.”

  “Okay. But I don’t understand why Carrick can’t know about this.”

  “Because this is a backup plan. The fewer people who know, the better chance it has of working, and I’m hoping I won’t need to use it. I need you to take this laptop. Keep it safe somewhere. Carrick transferred the footage to this, too. I need to hold on to the original USB. I have a meeting with Judge Sanchez.”

  Her mouth falls open. “You what?”

  “Plan A.” I grin.

  The sun appears on the horizon, and the new day begins.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  BACK IN THE turret room with Jackson and Sanchez, I look at the clock.

  There’s a plasma screen on the wall. Jackson presses the power button on the remote control.

  My entire body tremors, from nerves, adrenaline, and the pain of my abdominal wound.

  Sanchez’s eyes widen as she watches the television. It looks like she’s not breathing. The party political broadcast is on every channel.

  “Hello, my name is Enya Sleepwell, and I’m leader of the Vital Party. We began five years ago with relatively small numbers but we are now the fastest-growing political party in the country. Since I became leader two months ago we have taken a look at our policies and reinvented ourselves. We are representing the real desires, hopes, and dreams of real people. We are the party that stands by our beliefs; we ask the difficult questions, find the solutions. We want to make this country strong again, undivided, working in harmony, leading and taking it forward using compassion and logic.

  “We’re also about lifting the veil on hypocrisy, revealing the truth about the leaders in our society. What you are about to see may be distressing to many. It is shocking and deeply disturbing. Our current government is fraught with danger; our current government allows this to happen.”

  The broadcast cuts from Enya to the footage of the Branding Chamber. Me, strapped in the chair. Judge Crevan stands before me in his bloodred robe shouting at me to repent. I refuse, and instead hold my tongue out, my first act of defiance against him. Bark places a clamp on my tongue and brands it with the hot weld. The sounds that come from me are like those of a wounded animal.

  It’s distressing, and I see Jackson hold his hand to his head. I doubt he’s ever witnessed a branding in his life.

  Then Judge Crevan shouts at me some more, accuses me of being Flawed to my very backbone. He orders the sixth branding and Jackson sits up, turns to Sanchez in shock, then back to the screen again. He can’t believe what he’s seeing.

  I hear sounds from outside. The crowd. Restless.

  I stand up and make my way to the window that overlooks the courtyard. Neither Sanchez nor Jackson stops me; they seem frozen by what is happening on the screen.

  Outside, the thousands of Flawed who gathered earlier are now gone, but the courtyard has been opened up again to members of the public, who are always invited to come to the courtyard to watch as accused Flawed are taken from their holding cells in one building, across the courtyard to the courtroom on the other side.

  Many of the people outside are dressed in red, but they aren’t Flawed. They are members of the public, they are protesting against the Guild. I see them wearing T-shirts just like the ones Mom, Juniper, Ewan, and the students were wearing, reading ABOLISH THE GUILD. The courtyard is mixed with protestors and regular people, and they are letting out shouts of disgust. Boos.

  And then I realize why.

  They are all watching the footage of my brandings on the large screen people watch trials on. Somebody has switched the station from Flawed TV to this. More and more people flood through the gates of the castle to watch, to see what all the fuss is about. I see them hold their hands to their mouths in shock as they witness Crevan in action.

  Bark refuses to brand my spine. He says that there is no anesthetic.

  I hear the people gasp, I see them grab the arms of the people next to them. They are starting to realize what they are about to see. These are not just protestors: There are other members of the public there, too, who came to witness a Flawed being brought to court. I sense them changing sides.

  Crevan takes the searing hot rod in his hands. The guards are emotional and crying, trying to murmur words of support in my ears, trying to hold me still. Crevan brands my spine and my scream echoes and rebounds off the Highland Castle walls in the courtyard and out over the city.

  The crowd howls in disgust. My body is trembling.

  “No.” Sanchez stands. She is visibly shaking, her red robe quaking around her body.

  “What is this?” Jackson asks. “Is this real?” He looks to Sanchez and then to me. “Dear God.”

  After the harrowing footage, Enya Sleepwell returns. “I apologize for having to show you that. I apologize to Celestine North for what happened to her. We cannot let this happen to the innocent people of our great country. It is because of this that the Vital Party is o
ne hundred percent behind abolishing the Guild. If the Guild itself is Flawed, how can it continue? We need to address it now. No more baby steps, it’s time to take leaps and bounds, and bring this country forward.

  “Vote the Vital Party, for fairness and justice, for strong leadership, bringing this country forward with compassion and logic.”

  There’s silence in the room.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  GUARDS RUSH INTO the turret room.

  “Rioting outside. We need to move you to safety.”

  Jackson stands up so quickly the chair topples backward and he doesn’t bother picking it up. He looks at me, his face filled with utter shock, fear, and disgust.

  “Dear girl,” he whispers, apology all over his face. He struggles to find words. He looks at Judge Sanchez; his contempt for her is clear.

  “Judge Jackson, you should come with me quickly,” the Whistleblower interrupts Judge Jackson’s thoughts. His red robe billows behind him as he exits to save himself.

  “I guess the deal is off,” I say to Sanchez.

  She turns to me then and I almost think I see a look of admiration: I successfully managed to pull the wool over her eyes. But then she coldly turns and hurries out of the cell without a word, under guard.

  I’m left alone, in the round room, without a word of explanation as to what will happen to me. I wonder about Carrick, Raphael, and Granddad, if they’re still passed out. I pace the cell, heart hammering. I look outside and see the Whistleblowers back in their riot gear. More members of the public are streaming through the gates, and it’s not to cheer on the Whistleblowers. They are punching their fists in the air, demanding answers, demanding change. I want to be down there, not trapped up here.

  The door bursts open.

  It’s Art.

  “I heard there was a damsel in distress in the tower,” he says. “Princess, I’m here to rescue you,” he adds dramatically, with an awkward laugh.

  I roll my eyes; now is not the time for one of Art’s jokes.

  But before I say anything he adds, “I’m rescuing all of you.”

  “They’re out cold,” I tell him as I move as quickly as I can to the door, trying to ignore the pain in my stomach. “How will we get them out?”

  “I have a van ready at a side exit—we just need to get them to it,” he says, starting to run down the spiral staircase. On every level I can see staff members using the emergency exits to escape.

  “The lawyer should be easy enough to lift. I’ll take him, you get your Granddad,” he says, and I shake my head at another of Art’s jokes, his coping mechanism in times of stress.

  As everybody floods out of the building, we head in the opposite direction, going down, down, down to the basement.

  I stop running. “Come on, Art, stop, let’s think. Seriously, how can we do this? We can’t carry them on our own.”

  He stops rushing down the stairs and looks back up at me. “Maybe they’ll be awake by now.”

  “Art, focus. Last time I was drugged, I was out for most of the day, and when I woke up I was paralyzed from the waist down.”

  “The last time you were what?”

  “But that was an injection; this could be something else. Maybe they’re just sleeping pills. We need to think of something else. We need more help. We need people from outside to help us.”

  He thinks it through. “The Flawed are rioting. Members of the public are charging the gates in protest. Some fool accidentally pressed a button to air the Vital Party’s announcement around the courtyard. They want my dad’s head on a plate.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

  “It was me who did it,” he says.

  I look at him, stunned.

  “Okay, so maybe the people outside can help. We should go out there and talk to them. Only…” He looks down at his uniform.

  “It’s not safe outside for you, Art. You stay here, make sure they’re safe, unlock their cells. I’ll get help from outside.”

  The role reversal is ironic.

  “I can open their doors from here.” Art enters a private staff-only room, filled with CCTV cameras showing the cells downstairs. I go inside with him and urgently scan the screens for signs of Granddad, Raphael, and Carrick. They’re all still where they were when I left them, no sign of movement at all.

  “Mary May!” Art suddenly says, and I turn around quickly.

  Mary May stands at the door, watching us, back in her Mary Poppins Whistleblower uniform, and her face is a picture of anger, twisted up so tight it’s as though if she unscrews it, her face will come flying at me like a catapult.

  I instinctively leave the room, not wanting to be locked inside the windowless space. Art follows.

  “I’m taking her out of here. She’s innocent, Mary May,” Art says, standing in front of me, blocking her way. “Did you see the broadcast? It’s all over.”

  “I don’t care about any broadcast,” she says dismissively, as if she has no idea of what has gone on. “You were in my home,” she says to me slowly. “You spoke to my mother. You were in her bedroom.”

  Art turns to look at me, and the look on his face would be comical under different circumstances, but not now, because when we both look at her, she has a gun in her hand.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  “WHOA! MARY MAY, put that thing away!” Art shouts, hands out in front of him. “What the … where the hell did you get that thing?”

  She ignores him, as though she can’t hear or see him, as though it’s just me and her in the room. She takes a few steps forward and I start to edge back. I think of the unlocked doors in the holding cells downstairs, and I hope they will realize it, that whenever they do come around, they’ll be able to escape.

  “You were in my home,” she repeats. “You were in my mother’s bedroom.”

  “You were in my home, too,” I say, hearing the shake in my voice. “You took things from me, remember? I was just getting them back.”

  “What did you do to my mother?” she asks, as though she hasn’t heard a word that I’ve said at all, like she’s just listening to the voice inside her own head.

  Her pace quickens and I continue to back away, feeling Art’s hand on my elbow. I don’t want to turn my back to her, I don’t want to test whether she will shoot me. My legs feel weak and yet there’s a delirious giddiness awakening inside me. A feeling that none of this can be real, that after all of this struggle, it ends like this, a psychotic episode at the hands of a sad, lonely woman.

  “I didn’t do anything to your mother,” I say nervously.

  “Keep walking,” Art whispers, guiding me down a corridor. We walk backward, always keeping Mary May and her raised gun in our sight. As soon as we turn a corner and she’s out of sight, we pivot and run.

  Art runs to the exit door. He waves his security card over the panel beside it, but nothing happens. Everything has been locked up to prevent protestors from breaking in to the building.

  “It needs a real key,” I tell him, and he curses.

  He takes out a ring of keys and with trembling hands starts to try the first key in the door.

  Mary May appears, walking at the same speed; slow, deliberate steps, hand holding the gun extended out in front of her.

  “She said you sat by her bedside,” she continues as though in a trance. “She called you her angel.” She cocks her head to the side. “Why would she say that, Celestine?”

  “I don’t, I can’t…” I can barely formulate a thought as I stare at the gun pointed at me.

  Art continues working his way through the key chain for the correct key. These doors are old and the keys are enormous. Art has only ever had to use the security system where he waves his card, and he’s clearly unfamiliar with the locks. I’m backed up against Art, but Mary May continues to advance toward me.

  “She said she wanted to see the others. I told her no. Alice doesn’t deserve to see Mommy, not after what she did. None of them do. They all knew about him and her. Just befor
e she went, Mommy said she forgave me. Forgave me for what?” Mary May asks. “Everybody gets what they deserve. I don’t need her forgiveness. They all got what they deserved. Alice stole him from me and they all knew about it. All of them. I spared Mommy,” she says. “I did her a favor. You were in my house. What did you do to my mother?”

  “I told you I didn’t do anything. I retrieved what was mine, the things you stole from my bedroom. I took them back. I found the footage you were searching for. We put it on TV. Everybody saw it. Everybody knows. It’s all over.” I try to bring her back to the here and now.

  “She woke up this morning. Ten past eight. She wouldn’t eat her eggs. Two boiled eggs and two asparagus is what she eats every morning. She wouldn’t eat them. Odd.”

  Despite the situation, I snigger, nervously I suppose.

  “I didn’t do anything to stop her from eating eggs,” I reply.

  Art swears behind me as he tries another key in the door.

  “Yes, you did. Because she’s dead now.”

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  “WHAT?” I WHISPER.

  Art stops at the door and looks up at me.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say. “I swear. Open the door,” I say desperately now, understanding her motivation. Her mother is dead; she blames me; she’s holding a gun: This cannot end well.

  “She didn’t eat her eggs,” she continues. “She always eats her eggs, so I knew something was up. She said an angel had come to her during the night and it was time for her to go to the Lord. I told her not to be silly. Said she was having ridiculous notions again, because sometimes she did. Things would come and go for her. She asked for a bath at lunchtime and I bathed her.”

  Art finally finds the correct key and pushes the door open. I smell the fresh air immediately, hear the sounds of shouting in the air. I breathe in the air and step outside, moving away from her as quickly as I can. However, it’s a courtyard, it’s wide, it’s vast, a perfect square of cobblestones: There’s nowhere to hide. I’m a sitting duck for Mary May.