It’s a private courtyard, for staff, not open to the public. Through a locked barred gate I see mayhem in the main square. One small group of staff sees Mary May with her gun and screams and runs in the opposite direction. This isn’t the help I need. Where are the authorities? I realize that no one will come to my aid. Despite the fact Mary May is holding a gun, which is not an authorized Whistleblower weapon, I am Flawed and she is a Whistleblower and nothing can be done to stop this. If anyone tried, they may be seen as aiding me. The only people who could come to my aid are the police, and my last run-in with one at the supermarket didn’t end well.
“After her bath, Mommy said she was tired,” Mary May continues as though we haven’t scared away a bunch of suits and are now surrounded by mayhem as the Flawed and the public protest in the public courtyard next to us. She’s in a world of her own. “She sometimes has a morning nap. So I put her to bed. That’s when she told me about you. She called you her angel, but I realized it was you. She said that you visited her last night, that you helped her get water from the lake. I thought she was making it up. Then she said she forgave me. That she will speak for me when her time comes…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but a single tear runs down her cheek and her hand starts to tremor. “You killed her,” she says.
“Hey, stop it,” Art says, stepping in front of me. “Put the gun down, Mary May, this is crazy!”
“You killed my mommy,” she says, ignoring Art.
The gate into the courtyard opens and I quickly glance in its direction to see people flooding in. Flawed and public, escaping the main courtyard. I think I see Carrick’s brother, Rogan, leading the pack, but I’m not sure, I’m afraid to take my eyes off Mary May and that gun.
“There she is!” someone yells, and I assume it’s Whistleblowers coming to get me, and for a moment I feel relief, I don’t care who the rescue comes from as long as I’m not shot, but it’s confusing as everyone is wearing red now, so it’s difficult to distinguish the difference. It’s as though we’re all the same.
“Don’t you tell me how to do my job,” Mary May finally addresses Art. “Your father instructed me to look after this girl and I will follow his instructions. My job is my life. I gave up everything for this, to answer to your father. I gave him everything. And I have never not finished the job I started,” she yells, clearly uncomfortable with the growing presence of others in the square. She’s attracting attention, too. People are moving close. Calling out to her to put the gun down.
“Here! I told you she’d be here.” I hear a familiar voice and I look to the left and see Rogan. It is him. He’s with a small group and he’s pointing at Mary May. “You should have taken me in when you had the chance,” Rogan shouts at her. “Look who I brought to see you.”
Mary May finally hears them and turns to her right. She looks at them and her face changes, mouth open, skin pale in utter shock and terror.
“You can’t ignore your family now,” a man yells.
“Remember us, sis?” the woman says, and I look at them in surprise. It’s her sister, Alice, and her three brothers.
“We want to see Mommy,” Alice says.
“What did you do to her?” a brother asks.
“Nothing. Nothing. It was her,” she says weakly, the power all gone from her as the family she was responsible for branding Flawed gangs up on her. Her father is dead, and now her mother is, too.
Her power has disappeared and it’s as though she suddenly realizes it. She glances at the madness around her. Flawed, Whistleblowers, and members of the public all running wild. The Whistleblowers are now the hunted; the Flawed and unflawed are together, the hunters.
She lowers her gun; I see the panic start to show in her eyes. She backs away and starts to run. But she doesn’t get far, because a hand appears from inside the door that we came through. A hand that pulled its body along the cold, hard floor of the holding cell floors, and up the winding staircase.
Carrick appears, sweating, panting, exhausted, just in time, to wrap his hand around her ankle, stopping her from getting away.
She starts to fall to the ground, and as she does her hands instinctively go out to break her fall. Forgetting the gun is still in her hand, she squeezes the trigger.
The gun fires. The sound echoes around the courtyard.
Everybody, everybody drops to the ground.
SEVENTY-SIX
WITH EVERYONE DOWN on the ground I don’t know if anyone has been shot. There’s a shocked silence, as everybody stays down.
But the screaming that begins is a hint. It’s high, hysterical, and out of control. It’s panicked. It tells me somebody has been hit.
And when I try to focus on where it’s coming from, I realize it’s coming from me.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
ART IS ON top of me, guarding me like a shield. He’s not moving.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
“ART!” I SCREECH.
“Celestine!” Carrick calls out.
“Carrick!” Rogan yells, and runs to his brother.
“Art!” I try to get up from the ground but he’s so heavy and I don’t want to hurt him further.
“It was an accident,” Mary May says from the ground. “It was an … I didn’t mean to.…”
Her family gets to their feet and surrounds her. Her brother takes the gun away from her.
Her sister leaves her brothers and runs toward us. “I’m a vet. Or I was.” She feels his pulse.
“Is he alive?” I cry.
“Celestine!” Carrick calls. “Are you okay?”
I can’t answer him—my focus is completely on Art.
Alice nods and moves Art. He groans, and I’m so relieved to hear his voice.
“Get your hands off him!” Judge Crevan booms. I look up and see him running across the courtyard toward us. “He’s my son.”
Alice looks at Crevan and down at Art, making a connection. For an awful moment I think she won’t want to help him because of who his dad is. But she makes a decision. “Last I heard, there was no rule against a Flawed aiding a Whistleblower,” she says.
“He’s not a Whistleblower,” I say. “He was helping me escape.” I need as many people to hear this as possible for Art’s sake. He wouldn’t want to be thought of like his dad: That was his greatest fear.
“Celestine,” Carrick calls again, and I look up. He’s desperately trying to make his way toward me. Rogan is trying to help him to his feet. I’m torn. I don’t want to ignore Carrick, but I can see that he has help now, and I need to concentrate on Art.
Art, Art, Art.
SEVENTY-NINE
ALICE TAKES OFF her cardigan and wraps it around the wound on Art’s stomach, and she presses down.
He acted as a shield for me; he took the bullet square on. He saved my life.
“Ambulance is on its way,” a Whistleblower calls.
Crevan falls to his knees. Art’s head is in my lap. I cradle it, run my fingers through his curls with my trembling fingers. They’re covered in blood.
Crevan sits on the other side, leaning over his son, showering his face in kisses. The two of us are crouched over, crying.
“He’ll be okay?” He weeps. “Tell me he’ll be okay. I can’t lose him. He’s all I have.”
Art’s eyes flicker open and closed again.
“Who did this?” Crevan asks angrily, looking at me.
“Her,” I say, venom in my voice.
Crevan turns around and we see Mary May on her knees as though praying for forgiveness, guarded by her three Flawed brothers, who look like they want to put her in the ground at any moment. She is a shell of herself, like her spirit has died and her whole life has fallen apart.
“Sir. Judge Crevan.” She swallows. “It was an … I didn’t mean to … I was trying to … I wanted to … It was Celestine,” she says, the anger for me growing within her again. “That girl. I was trying to get that girl for you.”
“I said monitor her, not kill her,” he yells. “Gu
ide her on the right path, not become a damn murderer!”
“Please, forgive me. This job is everything. This is my life. I always have and always will be answerable to you.”
“He won’t forgive you now, Mary,” one of her brothers says. “You’ve failed. It’s over.”
“There’s nothing left of the Guild,” Crevan shouts at her. “Look around you!” And as she does, she becomes smaller, she shrinks down into her heels.
I cling to Art as he comes and goes, eyes flickering, coughing and moaning.
“Celestine,” Carrick calls out one final time. His voice is hoarse from shouting.
I look up and see him sitting by the door of the castle, the one we escaped from. Rogan is on the ground beside him. Our eyes meet. He looks sad, lost, hopeful. In those green eyes I know he’s asking me a question.
And then the arrival of the ambulance breaks our look, ending the possibility of an answer, which is just as well, because right now I don’t have one.
EIGHTY
I SIT BY Art’s bedside at the hospital, in complete stillness, surrounded by stillness. It’s a stark contrast to the hours leading up to this, and the journey in the ambulance to get here.
Art is stable. The irony is that he was lucky, the bullet missed his small intestine, colon, liver, and abdominal blood vessels. He is going to be okay. Physically anyway: What the scars of a gunshot to the stomach will do to his already wounded mind, we will have to wait and see.
My eyelids feel heavy, like life has given me a rest. Over the past three weeks I have felt that if I didn’t keep moving, then I’d never move again, and yet life has stopped me dead in my tracks as if to say, No more, Celestine, no more. I don’t even feel like moving now. I wouldn’t know where to go if I did move. Here is the only place I need to be.
My skin carries brands; Art has a bullet wound. Our scars and imperfections all have stories. My scars give me strength, remind me how I can overcome the toughest times in my life; his wound will remind him that he protected me, that he did good, that he came to the aid of a Flawed. He redeemed himself and in so doing defended me in more ways than he could realize. He defended my actions, too. Every day we look at our bodies, we live in our skin, and we will never forget.
A nurse arrives, Judy, she’s nice. She removes my cold and untouched green tea from the bedside unit and replaces it with what smells like berry tea.
“I’ll keep trying,” she says, good-humored. “This was sent from the castle for you.” She hands me my backpack, the one that was taken from me when I was brought to the fish-gutting warehouse this morning. I’m grateful for it, desperate to get out of the detainment clothes I was given at the castle to replace the red slip, and not just because they’re soaked in Art’s blood.
“Mr. Crevan, there are some men here to see you,” she says, the kindness gone from her voice.
Crevan lifts his head from the bed where he’s had it buried beside Art ever since we arrived. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, his nose constantly streaming like his eyes. We have been sitting together, quite comfortably, in complete silence for hours now.
“Is it the police?” he asks, sniffing. “You can tell them to come in.” He wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt in preparation.
Two men in suits enter.
“Mr. Crevan, we’d like a word with you in private, please.”
“It’s okay.” He stands, pulling his jeans up by the waist. “Celestine was there when it happened. She’s a witness, too. We’ve already talked to your men, uniformed police, but I’m glad and appreciate you’re taking this so seriously. You’re detectives?”
They nod.
He makes his way over to them to shake their hands.
“Mr. Crevan, we’re here regarding other matters. This is not about your son. Mary May has been arrested and taken into custody.”
“Oh. Then what is this about?”
The two detectives look at me and my stomach churns. This is about me. About the footage that was aired.
“As we said, we think it’s best if we talk to you in private.” This is said more officially, but Crevan is not ready to go without a fight.
“If this is about the actions of the Guild, then I can tell you it’s already been addressed. I no longer work for the Guild, I’ve been removed from my position. There will be an announcement made first thing in the morning at a press conference. I’m also told there’s an inquiry into the Guild’s rulings, so I’m sure you’ll find this is all in hand, gentlemen, it is being dealt with internally. I suggest you talk to the head judge, Jennifer Sanchez, about any matters.”
He is in judge mode, trying to control everything, trying to be above everyone and everything. But he lacks power now, gone is his vibrant red robe, his Purveyors of Perfection crest, replaced with a crumpled checked shirt and bloody jeans. This is off-duty Crevan trying to command control, cleaning-out-the-garage Crevan, wash-the-car Crevan, drive-Celestine-and-Art-to-the-local-farmers’-market Crevan. I never saw the monster in him.
“If it’s about Celestine, then she has been granted her freedom. That, too, has been settled within the Guild. She was due to start a prison sentence, but I think that will be waived. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
“This isn’t about the actions of the Guild, it’s about your actions against Celestine North, which are a criminal matter,” the detective says.
The other pipes up, less sensitive than the first. “We’re also investigating the claims of Pia Wang, Nathan Berry, five guards who were present during the Branding Chamber crime, and four teenagers from Grace O’Malley secondary school, among others.”
Crime.
And there it is, the face that I wanted to see for so long. The look of shock, at being put in his place by people in authority, by the law, a realization that he was wrong, that he is not above everybody, that what he put me and so many others through was wrong. I see it flash in his eyes, the confusion, the self-doubt, the self-hate, the apology, the questions. The veil of self-assurance all falls down.
“We’re told that your son is in stable condition. We did wait for this news before talking to you. We’d like you to accompany us to the station.”
Crevan appears torn at the prospect of having to leave Art. I think of being dragged off the bus away from Juniper and Art, the whistles ringing in my ears. Paraded through the courtyard to a hissing crowd, the branding chamber, the pain of six sears on my body, in bed for a week, tied up and locked away by supposed friends, the supermarket riot, buried alive, paraded half-naked through the streets. The worst thing of all, having to run from my family. This was all at his hands.
I watch Crevan being taken away. Our eyes meet, and in that look I see everything I have felt over the past five weeks. And I know he is feeling it, too.
The question is, does it make me feel better?
EIGHTY-ONE
NO.
For someone to win, somebody else must lose. For that person to have won they must have lost something in the first place.
The irony of justice is that the feelings that precede it and those which fruit from it are never fair and balanced.
Not even justice itself is perfect.
EIGHTY-TWO
I WATCH ART for some time after his dad leaves. He looks like an angel, his face completely unharmed, his baby skin, the light shadow of facial hair emerging. I run my fingers over his hands; his skin is smooth, his fingers are long. I see them playing the guitar and singing about the giraffe that couldn’t find a turtleneck to fit, the monkey that had vertigo, the lion that couldn’t use a smart pad, the zebra that had polka dots. We all used to sit around crying with laughter as he entertained us, but I guess we never put it all together. He always sang about something that didn’t fit in, someone who was left out, someone who was losing or missing something.
Art has been living with his own demons since his mother died, no wonder he joined the Whistleblowers. I can actually begin to understand him now, imagine I can even forgive
him, such is the depth of my understanding. Compassion and logic are all that’s ever needed. Can I forgive him? Yes, I can even do that.
I pull the curtain around his bed, for privacy, so I can change into my jeans and T-shirt. They’re the clothes I was wearing with Carrick when he helped me escape from Crevan’s secret hospital, when he helped me break into Mary May’s home for the snow globe, when I was taken from Sanchez’s apartment to the docklands, when I was stripped and dressed in the red slip for the parade through the town. I imagine they smell of Carrick. Do I ever want to wear these clothes again? Will it feel like I’m going backward?
I dig deeper in the bag for something else to wear and my hands brush against Carrick’s notebooks. I recall the last time I saw him before seeing him again in the castle. I had said good-bye to Mom; he was going in the car with her to rescue Juniper from the dreaded skin graft operation. Carrick was going to guide her there. I was to wait at the lake for Raphael Angelo, who was going to drive me to see Sanchez to make our deal.
I remember as the car drove away wanting to shout after them that he’d forgotten his books, which he’d trusted me to carry, but I stopped myself. I selfishly wanted to keep them. Not because I wanted to read them—well, of course I wanted that—but I wouldn’t betray his confidence; it was because if I had something of his, it meant that I would absolutely have to see him again. It would mean he would be safe. A deluded thought process, but that’s where I was at the time. He’d have to come for me to get his books back, or I would have to find him to give them to him.
Now, for the first time since the whole episode occurred, I start to wonder why on earth Carrick was in the cells at all. How did he get there? If he and Mom had gone to get Juniper from the hospital, and Juniper and Mom were safe and well, and the others—Mona, Lennox, Fergus, and Lorcan—all said that he’d gotten away safe and sound, then how did he end up in Highland Castle?
I do a quick search on my phone and among the hundreds of changing news stories documenting what’s happening in our country I see it in black-and-white. Carrick Vane, accused of being on the run with Celestine North and evading Whistleblowers and breaking Guild rules, handed himself in.
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