by M L Sparrow
“What?” Those words have piqued my interest and my head snaps up, “What’s wrong with his Brand?” Instantly her eyes widen and her mouth forms a silent ‘O’. I can see the cogs in her brain working as she decides whether or not to tell me. “Maya,” I prompt, “you can tell me.”
She doesn’t take much persuading, the words burst from her as if she’s been dying to tell someone for so long that they can no longer be contained, “He has no Brand.”
I remember glimpsing his right forearm in the alley when he caught me, it had been bare, I hadn’t been imagining it… but still, “That can’t be right.” Everyone, everyone, was registered at birth. Everyone. Even the Ghetto Folk were allowed to leave the Ghetto, with an escort, to go to the registry building. No parent would ever not get their child Branded, it was to condemn them. It was a crime, the most heinous in their society, punishable by death. The idea of someone not having a Brand didn’t even compute. But why would Maya make something like that up? And then there was the day he’d caught me trying to escape… I could have sworn I’d seen no Brand on his forearm, but the idea was so implausible I’d just dismissed it.
“How?”
Over the next thirty minutes Maya discloses the secrets of Sins’ upbringing. She wasn’t here at the time, it was doubtful that she was even born, she admits freely, but she hears things and Sin seems to be a favourite of the rumour mill. Apparently he was brought to the Ghetto, by someone beyond the fence, as a baby and given to a couple living on the fringe. The pair were barely surviving by scavenging from the dump, so they were more than willing to accept the baby for a price. However, that money was soon gone and they were left with another mouth to feed. They kept their word, though, despite the dire situation and raised the child along with their own, but not without much bitterness, feeling they had been short-changed. Hearing the story as if it’s a fairy tale – one of the tales written by the Grimm brothers, in the 18 hundreds, without happy endings – I chew absently on my thumbnail as I watch Maya’s lips form each word. I don’t know how true any of it is, but if that child faced any of the resentment Maya describes then I sympathise with the man he’s become. He’d have to become hard as stone to withstand such cruelty.
All too soon, our time together is up and Maya departs with a smile and a promise to return the next day, leaving me with a lot to think about. I want to ask Sin about it, to affirm the truth, but I don’t dare call out. I don’t really want to ask those questions; knowing the answers would be too personal and I don’t want to get attached. I don’t want to feel sorry for him when he’s the one holding me hostage.
True to her word Maya returns the next day… and the next and the next. Between her and Kit I have plenty of company, so why do I feel the need to yell up to Sin when I hear him pacing in the room above. It can’t be loneliness which begs me to ask him to come down and talk to me. Still, I resist the urge and am grateful, though slightly disappointed, that he never speaks directly to me when we see each other in passing. As far as I’m aware, the police are still searching the Ghetto for me, but nobody in Base seems overly anxious so I guess they can’t be too close by. Therefore, after seeing Maya every morning for over a week, I begin to worry when one morning she doesn’t come. I ask the man who delivers my breakfast, but as usual he doesn’t answer, just leaves me to stew until he returns a short while later to escort me to the bathroom. Upstairs, the building appears to be deserted, except I can hear a hubbub of noise coming from down the hall. We don’t go that way, however; we head in the opposite direction, away from the noise, taking a route I had not yet been down.
“What’s going on down there?” I ask. I don’t really expect a reply and he doesn’t disappoint, though his lack of response still irritates me slights. It’s just bad manners. Glancing over my shoulder, I sigh, but trudge on behind him. Just as we’re about to take a flight of stairs up to the next level a voice from behind us calls out.
“Hey, Ben, I need a word.” At least now I finally know the name of the silent giant. Ben turns and strides back towards the other man and instinctively I follow. When we reach him, the man glances pointedly at me and moves away.
“Stay there,” Ben says gruffly and follows his friend to the other side of the hall. For a minute or two I stand there obediently, watching them discuss something in hushed tones, but it’s not their voices which call to me. It’s the multitude of voices that I can still hear at the other side of the building. Glancing over at Ben, my curiosity gets the better of me when I realize that he is so deep in conversation that he wouldn’t even notice if I were to slip away. I don’t feel any regret this time as I make my escape. My footsteps sound obscenely loud as I hurry away. It takes mere seconds to retrace my steps and from there I simply follow the escalating noise.
Turning a corner, I stop dead in my tracks, eyes widening at the scene in front of me. The sound is deafening now, the corridor a hive of activity, crowded with an abundance of humanity, all heading toward the canteen. I don’t recognise any of them… except for the man who now pushes his way into the doorway and yells for order – I play video games with him. No one pays him any attention. I’m still gaping at the mayhem when a hand closes over my elbow.
“What the hell are you doin’?” a voice accompanies the stern grip and I jerk around to look up into the glowering face of the guard I just ditched. Instinctively, I yank away. For a moment my mind scrambles for an answer, but then good sense kicks in and instead of speaking, I simply duck into the crowd, using the mass of people as a barrier. People grumble and yell, telling me to get in line, but I don’t listen as I push and shove my way towards the canteen, putting as many people as possible between myself and Ben. I hear him shout my name, but don’t look back.
Slipping into the canteen, I’m amazed to see even more people crammed into the usually empty space. Pushing up onto my tiptoes, I attempt to see over the many heads between where I stand and what is going on at the other end of the room. My height is against me, however, luck is on my side. I spy Kit standing head and shoulders above the rest and I employ even more pushing to get to him – I step on some woman’s toes in the process and half turn to apologize, but the words are lost in the chaos.
It seems to take forever to reach my destination and when I finally arrive at Kit’s side I am sweating and panting as if I’d just run a marathon, hair sticking to the back of my neck and beads of sweat tickling the sides of my face.
“Kit!” I shout his name, but even though I’m right beside him he still doesn’t hear, so I lightly touch his elbow to get his attention. He glances at me in blind distraction, looks away, then does a double take.
“What are you doing here?” His tone is incredulous and immediately his eyes begin to scan the sea of heads, supposedly looking for the escort I have obviously escaped from. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Ignoring him, I ask, “What are you doing? What is all this?”
He hesitates, but clearly finds no reason not to answer. “We’re givin’ out food.”
“Why?” The condescending look he shoots my way makes me wince. “Okay, stupid question. Here’s a better one. How did you get all this?” I gesture to the boxes of food stacked on and beneath the tables, which I can now see are being given out to the dirty, grasping skeleton hands that reach for it. The beggars clutch the packages to their chests, as if they’re life vests and they’re being dragged out to sea, before hurrying off. Children and adults, teenagers and elderly. Men and women. There is no discrimination, everyone gets a hand-out, but even I can see that the supplies are dwindling fast and there won’t be enough. Kit’s lips press tightly together, refusing to answer the question. Without another word he gets back to handing out the produce in front of him: bags of rice, tinned goods, energy bars, fresh fruit and vegetables. I can already see that it won’t do me any good to press the matter, so I forget it for now and once more look out over the crowd.
There is a little girl in the thick of it, struggling to get through, bu
t every time to she manages to gain an inch she is pushed aside by someone larger. Scowling, filled with anger on her behalf, I crouch down to grab a bulging cardboard box from beneath the table. It is surprisingly heavy and my arms strain to lift it as I straighten, leaning back slightly so that I don’t topple forward. I am pressing back into the crowd by the time Kit notices what I am up to.
“Sunny,” he hisses my name, obviously not wanting to draw attention to the fact that I’m here, “where are you goin’? Get back here now. Sunny!”
As soon as I enter the crush of people his voice is drowned out by other sounds and the shift of bodies. Now that I am carry one of the sacred boxes people seem to move out of my way, casting me curious looks as they wait to see what I will do with my cargo. When I reach the child, I kneel down and drop the box to the floor with a thud. Big, innocent blue eyes look up at me and I smile tentatively. I don’t have much experience with children, except for the obligatory orphanage campaigns I had to do with my dad, but they were basically just posing for pictures, not actually interacting with the children.
Yanking open the flaps, I reveal the goodies inside and say, “What would you like?” She regards me shyly for a moment, before her eyes dip into the box. Careful she selects a bag of rice and a bag of apples, which surprises me because I expected her to go for the sugary treats or a pack of crisps. I have noticed that each person is only getting two items each, but I can’t resist taking on of the chocolate bars and slipping it into her hand; I think she deserves a treat, the poor little thing.
“Thank you,” her voice is small and timid as she clutches the items to her skinny chest.
“You’re welcome,” I reply softly, watching her scurry away, weaving through the forest of legs and out the door.
I remain crouched there until the little girl disappears from sight, but as I move to stand I become aware of another child inching his way closer. This time it’s a scrawny, barefoot little boy, with too long blonde hair and dirt giving the appearance of a tan, who is staring at me with large, wary eyes. Recognition slams into me; he’s the boy from the dump, the boy who led me into the trap. The little brat! He recognises me too and those eyes grow impossibly wider. My lips press together, but then I look at his malnourished body, the matchstick arms and legs, the sticky-out collarbones, and the anger seeps away. He’s just a child, no more than eight or nine, not even into double figures yet.
Sighing, I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Would you like some?”
Nodding fervently, he hurries forward and drops to his knees in front of me with the box between us. Both hands leap forward, but suddenly stop and he glances up at me for permission, which I give with a slight inclination of the head.
Grabbing what he wants, the boy pauses once more, glancing up at me. “Sorry,” he says after a moment. A couple of seconds later he is gone, quick as a flash.
An idea has taken root and I stand slowly, hefting the box up with me and resting it on one hip. Making my way through the crowd, I scan for more children – it looks like the system here is first come first served, but in my mind children should be the priority. I go through a further two boxes like this, even leaving the canteen to scan the line, which continues winding through the halls almost all the way to the front door.
Someone has either clued Ben into what I’m doing, or he’s decided to leave me to it, because, though he stands at the end of the hall, watching me with his arms crossed, he doesn’t attempt to pull me away. Carrying my third box, which is almost empty, I’m about the head back up the line when I spy an old lady, small and frail, attempting to get through the tide of people. Except she is going in the wrong direction. Empty handed, the hunched woman is trying to get to the front door. A young man clashes shoulders with her and she staggers backward. The culprit rights her but then carries on without a backward glance, trying to shoulder his way closer to the canteen. It was a fruitless effort. She reaches the door and something compels me to follow.
Stepping outside, the suffocating heat of hundreds of people crammed into one place is brushed away by a refreshingly cool breeze. The raised voices dim.
“Excuse me,” I call, but she doesn’t seem to hear me as she hobbles down the uneven street, so I hurry after her. “Excuse me,” I repeat, reaching out to touch her shoulder. Flinching away, she jerks around unsteadily, locking cataract filled eyes on me. The cloudy film over the pale blue is slightly unnerving and I falter.
“I saw you leaving without any supplies” – only years of practice talking through nerves allows me to speak without tripping over my own tongue – “and I thought you might like these.” I hold out the box, tilting it slightly so that she can see inside. For a moment there is only silence and I begin to wonder if she can hear me alright, but then a smile cracks her weathered face, deepening the trenches bisecting it.
“Thank you, dear,” the words whistle out between her missing front teeth, “this will help me a lot. It’s been such a struggle since my dear Gerry passed away, I rely on these handouts, but I didn’t get here early enough today and I’d given up hope of gettin’ in. That’s why I was leavin’.” Her accent is almost perfect, except from the dropping of her g’s at the end of words, a strange combination of sophistication and Ghetto. I wonder how long she has lived here, but I don’t get time to ask because someone comes barrelling out of the front door. Spinning around, I think for a moment that the man has been thrown out head first, but then I realize that it is Ben who has just come hurtling out.
“You,” he points a blunt finger at me, his face a hilarious mix of frustration and anger, “inside.”
“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” I roll my eyes at him; it’s not worth running, he’d catch me in an instant. Turning back to the old woman, I hand over the box, empty except for a couple of tins and a ratty looking lettuce, saying, “Here, I hope it helps.” I’m just turning to leave when bony fingers wrap around my wrist in a fragile grip.
“Thank you,” she repeats, then looks over my shoulder to fix Ben with her watery gaze, “this girl” – said with a pat on my arm – “is a pearl. You look after her, do you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the big man replies gruffly, with a surprising amount of respect. The irony in the exchange almost makes me laugh. Instead I smile softly and walk over to him. As soon as I’m close enough, he places a hand surreptitiously on my arm and, as soon as the woman turns around, begins steering me back towards the door. Beside me his breathing is heavy and uneven – I must have panicked him when I left the building. I try to hide my smirk, but fail. Not that it matters, because it’s wiped away a second later by a shrill cry from behind us.
Spinning around, I instinctively start towards the sound, but the hand on my arm pulls me back. “Are you just going to stand there?” I demand angrily, attempting to yank my arm free.
His grip doesn’t falter and his eyes narrow on me, as if he expects me to use this as a chance to escape. Another scream spurs him into action, however, and he releases me to stride towards the sound. I follow on his heels, almost tripping over him in my haste to get down the street and turn the corner.
Slap bang in the middle of the street, in broad daylight and plain view of anyone passing by, a pair of young men wrestle with the old lady for the box. They could have just reached inside and snatched the produce out, but they don’t seem to be smart enough to think of that and the woman clings tenaciously to the cardboard flaps as she shrieks, “Let go you hooligans! It’s mine.”
“Leave her alone,” I yell, streaking past Ben and into the fray.
Grabbing the arm of one of the thugs, I’m promptly swatted away like an annoying fly. So, naturally, I try again. Only to receive an elbow in the mouth. My lips grind into my teeth and I taste blood. Reeling back, I lift a hand to my bloody mouth, touching the raw flesh. At the same time, the old woman falls to her knees and I swear I can hear her brittle bones hitting the concrete. The cardboard box rips, the content spewing across the street. The lettuce rol
ls into a muddy puddle at the side of the road, propped drunkenly against the curb. One of the men grabs a can as it trundles away, making off with it. There’s nothing I can do about that, but I can save the other. The second man and I both rush for it. He lunges, but I’m closer. Closing my fingers around the cool metal cylinder, I clutch it to my chest, falling to the floor and curling my body around it as he lands on top of me, attempting to wrench it from my grasp. I receive another hit to the face and a knee jams into my stomach, making my eyes water. For a moment, his weight crushes me and I struggle to breathe as my ribcage is ground into the dirt. A second later, the weight is gone and our tussle is over.
Sitting up, I wince, pushing back the tangles of ginger hair that had come loose from their bindings to obscure my vision, only to see that Ben has the remaining thief pinned against the wall with a hand around his throat.
“I suggest,” his gravelly voice is low and threatening, “that you get outa here and don’t come back. You’re no longer welcome.” Those words seem to settle on the man’s shoulders, weighing him down and I can now see that he’s not a man, but a boy, scared and hungry. I open my mouth to say something, to beg for leniency on his behalf perhaps, but then I catch sight of the little old lady struggling to pick herself up from the floor and I hurry to help. By the time I turn back around Ben has let the lad go and he is fleeing down the nearest alleyway, his footsteps echoing behind him.
“Are you alright?” I ask, as the woman clutches my arm for support, leaning heavily against me as she regains her breath. “Are you hurt?”
“No, my dear,” her voice is a thin rasp of sound that barely reaches my ear, “I’m just a little shaken.” Lifting her gaze to mine, her weathered face creases in concern. “Oh, but you’re bleedin’.”
