Ghetto

by M L Sparrow

  “It’s only natural,” he says absently, “we’ve known each other for a long time, I knew you before you were even born. But tell me, if you weren’t kidnapped then why are you here? Dear God, you’re filthy my girl!” I don’t correct him about how I came to be here because I don’t think it’s necessary, but I do glance down at myself and wince inwardly; the bottoms of my jeans are frayed, there’s a hole in the cuff of my right sleeve which I have stuck my thumb through and I haven’t washed my hair today, merely scraped it back in a messy bun. I suppose I do look a little different to the last time he saw me. Glancing back up at him with an apologetic shrug, I catch his frown just before he says, “And you’re very pale. Are you feeling alright?”

  Instantly I recoil from those cursed words, but before I can answer a shrill cry whips both our attention to the interior of the ambulance. “Doctor! She’s not breathing.”

  Leaping into action, Dr Wong moves surprisingly fast for someone his age. He has a bit of troubling clambering into the back of the ambulance, so I grab his elbow and help hoist him up, following him in. Frantic, the mother thrusts her baby into the doctors waiting arms and I watch from the doorway, frozen as he verifies that the child isn’t breathing before starting CPR, breathing short, quick breathes into her rosebud mouth before tapping two fingers over the babes miniature heart and starting the cycle again. The noise outside becomes non-existent as the pounding of my own heartbeat fills my ears. Everyone seems to hold their breath until the baby draws in a shuddering breath and lets out a bleating cry on the exhalation.

  “Oh, thank god, thank god…” The mother clasps her hands together over her breast as if in prayer.

  Placing the tiny baby on the adult sized gurney, Dr Wong demands, “How premature was she?” When the woman looks stumped he elaborates hurriedly, “How early?”

  “About… about ten weeks.”

  “Then it is probably that her lungs didn’t get the chance to develop fully. She should be in an incubator…” The pain on his face is clear to see; there are no hospitals in the Ghetto, no facilities to take care of an ailing baby, if she stays here she will likely die, yet it is forbid to take her from the Ghetto.

  “Sunny,” his voice, sharp and urgent, makes her jump, “close the doors. Quickly!” I do as I’m bid, slamming them shut with a thunderous clang that rattles the whole interior. Leaning down, Dr Wong whisks out a bag tucked beneath the gurney, saying, “What I’m about to do will save your daughter, but it is illegal and I could get into a lot of trouble, therefore, I need your word that you won’t tell a soul.”

  “Yes, yes, you have my word,” the mother nods, wide eyed and terrified. He glances over his shoulder at me and I nod. With that he pulls out a packaged pressure injector, along with a small vile of familiar gold liquid. Even the woman, who I doubt has had any experience with the miracle cure, recognises it.

  “All-Cure,” she breathes in disbelief. Filling the injector, Dr Wong eases the blankets away from the child, baring one pale little leg.

  “I’m afraid this might hurt a little,” he murmurs to the child, who is breathing in shallow, rapid pants, her bony chest rising and falling, eyes closed. The infants’ tiny body jerks slightly when the needle slips in, but she doesn’t make a sound, too weak to do anything but lie there.

  Within a minute the baby’s breathing has evened out, her breaths no longer stuttering in and out, and her skin is no longer the colour of death. She begins to move, kicking her legs and flailing her little arms, struggling to be free of the dirty blankets swaddling her. Bright blue eyes flash open. A hiccupping sob escapes the mother as she rushes to scoop her child up into her arms, clutching it to her chest as she showers kisses on the bald little head, her other daughter bouncing excitedly beside her, squealing shrilly. Watching the happy trio, I catch Dr Wongs’ eye and don’t even try to resist mimicking the satisfied smile on his face. A job well done.

  Once his patients have gone, after the mother extended her heartfelt thanks for the last time, Dr Wong once more shuts the door, allowing us some privacy. “So…” He leaves the single, short word hanging as he sits in the seat attached to the wall facing the gurney, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees and creating a steeple with his bony fingers. Instead of answering, I go over to the gurney and hoist myself up, sitting facing him with my legs hanging over the edge. Kicking my feet back and forth, I pick at the cuff of my sleeve. Before long, he asks, “Are you really here by choice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “The same reason you’re here, I suspect. I want to help. This isn’t fair. Most of these people don’t deserve to be here.”

  “I quite agree, but what can you hope to achieve by actually being here?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I have to do something.” We’re silent for several minutes, mulling over those words. What was I going to do? How could I possibly hope to make any meaningful differences to the lives of these people? I have no real skills that could be helpful, unless… An idea takes root and begins to grow, but it doesn’t get enough time to blossom because the doctor suddenly repeats his earlier question.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling alright, Sunny, you do look rather pale? Do you have any symptoms?”

  “No,” I answer immediately, but in my head I run through the list. Paleness? Check. I’d had that flash of dizziness earlier, however, I’m sure that was simply hunger and nothing more sinister.

  “Well,” Dr Wong frowns, looking unconvinced, “if you’re sure, but if you insist on staying here you’re going to need to keep a close eye on your health. You know that your leukaemia has a nasty habit of reoccurring.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” I say dryly, arching a brow.

  Giving me a chiding look, he continues, reaching for the zip bag he had retrieved the Cure-All from earlier, “I only have one dose left, but it’s yours if you want it. Unfortunately, my dear, it is unlikely that one dose will keep you healthy for long, after a while you’re going to be forced to venture back into the city for another shot.” My stomach clenches because I had been thinking the same thing.

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” I murmur after a moment, “but thank you for your concern and for this,” I hold up tiny bottle of golden liquid he presses into my hand along with an injector, “and for all the times you’ve helped me in the past.”

  “It was my pleasure, my dear, and may I say it’s a joy to see the woman you’ve become. Your mum would have been so proud.” Emotion sticks in my throat, chocking me up for a moment and all I can do is nod in response.

  When we leave the muffled confines of the ambulance several minutes later and step out into the pale summer sunshine, the sudden rush of noise makes me wince. However, it’s not that which makes me freeze guiltily; my gaze is immediately caught by a pair of grey-blue eyes. For a split second Sin looks stunned and then his expression clouds over. Fortunately for me his angry step forward is halted by the injured man half slung over his shoulder, which probably saves me from getting throttled. On the other side of the injured man, whose bloody leg is wrapped haphazardly in makeshift bandages, with something that looks suspiciously like bone sticking out of his knee, Ben doesn’t look nearly as shocked as Sin, he simply shakes his head despairingly.

  “How the bloody hell do you keep losin’ my freakin’ guards!”

  “Guards?” Dr Wong steps protectively in front of me, though I don’t quite know what he would do if Sin actually decided to fight him. He glances back at me, saying accusingly, “You told me you were here by choice.”

  “I am,” I rush to say and the look on Sin’s face is comical, “the guards are… for my protection.” When he still looks unconvinced, I add, “Why would I lie about being held captive.”

  Though he continues to regard Sin with narrowed eyes, the good doctor does concede that point with a slight, reluctant nod. However, when the nameless man strung between Ben and Sin groans, all else is forgotten as he ushers them into the
improvised operating room. They aren’t in there long; there is a lot of cursing and shuffling before Dr Wong opens the door and evicts the two men who are surplus to requirement, ordering them to, “Get out of the way,” his thin, reedy voice, surprisingly strong.

  Once the ambulance doors slam shut again, with enough force to make the whole vehicle rock, Sin looks at me and I stare straight back at him. When he doesn’t say anything, merely continues to study me with his head tilted to one side and eyes narrowed, as if I’m an inordinately hard puzzle he just can’t make sense of.

  Mimicking him by angling my head to the side and arching one brow in challenge, I ask, “So, did I pass the test?”

  Slowly, humourlessly, Sin shakes his head. “I can’t figure you out. You’re either really smart, or really stupid. Why would you tell that man you chose to be here? Are you playin’ mind games or some’it?”

  “Is it so hard for you to believe that I’m being sincere?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “‘Cos I don’t get why someone’d choose to stay in this hell hole.”

  I shrug, “Fair enough. I don’t really get it either.” Again, we stand in uncomfortable silence.

  “Do you want me to walk you back to Base?” Not an order, or a presumption, but a question. It feels nice not to be treated like a prisoner.

  “Okay,” I answer, before frowning at him, “but shouldn’t you wait for your friend?”

  “I have no friends,” he answers bluntly.

  “That’s sad.” The words are out before I can think about them and for a moment shock flashes across his face, a crack in that blank, emotionless mask he usually wears. Another hairline crack appears – irritation. I wonder what it looks like when he smiles, not a sarcastic, mocking smile either, but a real smile. Quickly pushing that thought away, I ask, “What about the guy in there?”

  “Not a friend, just someone I know. Ben has gone to tell his family, they’ll be here soon, so there’s no need for me to wait.”

  “Fine,” I shrug again, dropping the subject since I can’t see it going anywhere, though I still think it’s sad that he doesn’t have anyone he considers a true friend, despite the fact that so many people rely on him and his men. Sweeping an arm out in front of me, I exclaim, “Lead the way.”

  Chapter 10

  That night I ask myself if my trust has been misplaced. I wonder if the doctor will keep my location secret, though I never officially asked him to, or if he’s already told my dad. These questions don’t bother me as I drift off to sleep, nor do they plague me during the night, however, in the early hours of the morning I am forced to ask myself, Have I been betrayed?

  The door slams open and before I can blink my eyes open Kits’ voice is yelling at me to get up, dragging me from my nice cosy bed at the same time and yanking me towards the door.

  “What’s going on?”

  “No time to explain.” Kits’ eyes, large with panic, unnerve me and I stumble, tripping over my own two feet, but he pulls me back up without a word. I’m only dressed in an old man’s shirt that barely hits mid-thigh, so as we leave I have the presence of mind to reach out with my free hand and grab my clothes. Clearly, Kit also thinks this is a good idea because he snatches up my shoes from beside the door.

  Upstairs, the corridors are alive with people, most dressed in their night clothes, clutching shoes and other items of clothing to their chests. Kit pushes into the crowd streaming towards the front door and I have to break into a run to keep up as the current carries us along. My heart is racing, fear of the unknown making me nauseous. Only one thing could make a band of hard-assed rebels evacuated their lair in such a hurry… the authorities.

  Just as I think this, someone shouts, “Hurry, they’re comin’! Hide everythin’ an’ get out.”

  “The police?” I ask of nobody in particular, having to shout to be heard over the pounding of feet.

  Glancing back at me, Kit nods stiffly; he was a little annoyed that I ditched him yesterday and I don’t think I’m completely forgiven yet. When we get outside, I look up and down, but there’s no swarm of black and white uniforms descending on us.

  Catching my look, Kit explains, slowing his pace only a little, “They’re a few sweets over, headin’ this way. They’re doing a street by street search. Chances are they’re lookin’ for our Base… or you. We’re lucky someone gave us a heads up.” There’s a sickly sinking feeling in my stomach; surely it couldn’t be a coincidence that on the day I speak to someone from my past, the authorities should start doing house searches. Sin appears suddenly, materializing from the crowd. Grabbing my arm, he pulls me away from Kit.

  “Sunny, you come with me. I don’t want Kit getting’ in trouble if you’re caught.”

  “If we’re caught I’ll tell them…”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re here willingly,” he interrupts, rolling his eyes, still leery, “it won’t make any difference.”

  “But what if you’re caught?” Kit protests, loudly enough that some of the people hurrying past us pause briefly to look. “You’re our leader, we need you.”

  “If someone stops you in the street, any of you, unless they know without a doubt that you’re a rebel, there’s a chance you could bullshit your way outa any trouble. If someone stops me I’m dead anyway.” He half lifts his arm, as if to remind us that beneath his sleeve there is no Brand adorning his skin.

  Neither of us say anything, because there is nothing to say to that; having no Brand is an automatic death sentence. No trial, no excuses. The reason? The Brand is a way of recording, worldwide, everything about a person from birth to death. It’s a way of keeping order and preventing crime. People whose past is unknown are dangerous, unpredictable, a threat to national security because officially they do not exist on the system. They’re ghosts and a person who is unknown can do whatever they want. I still don’t agree with it though and I’m sure many others feel the same way; surely it is the parents’ responsibility to get their child Branded at birth, therefore, punishment for not having one shouldn’t fall upon the child once they are grown. It is a harsh system, cruel and unfair in many ways, but it’s still the law.

  Kit doesn’t argue the point further, though he doesn’t look best pleased, as Sin leads me through the crowd, his hand slipping down my arm until our palms meet, fingers knitting together. At first I don’t think anything of it, don’t even really notice as the people around us knock and jostle me, however, as soon as we turn into a quieter alley I become hyperaware of the place where our skin touches. Half-heartedly, I attempt to pull away, but he doesn’t let go, just keeps walking, and I give up, disgusted by my weak-willed effort.

  “Where’s everyone going?” I ask, panting a little as I try to keep up with his longer strides, glancing over my shoulder to see people scattering in different directions. Without a word, Sin lifts a finger to his lips, ordering me to be silent. However, after a minute of walking, he leans down a little so that his mouth is closer to my ear; for a moment I think he’s going to kiss my cheek for whatever reason – I’m surprised to find that the idea doesn’t totally repulse me – but then he speaks.

  “We hide down in the tunnels, but everyone goes in a different way to avoid drawin’ attention.”

  I nod, “That’s smart.” His answering snort seems to say ‘What, didn’t think I had a brain?’ and I can feel my cheeks reddening. Before I can think of something to say in my defence though, we have reached our destination.

  “Stay here.”

  Doing as I’m told, I wait patiently as Sin scans the street to make sure that no one is watching, before darting across the road to the opposite pavement. Crouching down, he runs his hands over the ground, searching for something, and I watch in fascination. Once he finds whatever he’s looking for, he adjusts his stance, the muscles in his shoulders straining as he pulls up one of the heavy flagstones. Glancing around again, he motions urgently for me to hurry over, which I do, my bare feet slapping against the grou
nd as I run. Something sharp digs into my big toe, causing me to hobble the last few steps. I hope it’s a stone and not glass. Kit still has my shoes, I realize regretfully. When I reach him, Sin takes my hand, but doesn’t immediately help me down into the hole; instead he uses a precious moment to study me. A blush colours my cheeks as I realize standing in front of him, wild haired and practically naked; the long shirt I’m wearing has risen up precariously and I shimmy it back down in mortification. The quick movement prompts him to snap out of it with a small shake of his head, his fingers tightening around mine. Taking the bundle of clothes from my arms, he throws them unceremoniously into the hole.

  “Sit on the edge,” he orders abruptly, his voice gruffer than usual, “I’ll lower you down.” Sitting down as gracefully as possible, I swing my legs into the darkness and peer down. Sensing my doubts about the wisdom of this descent, Sin assures, “Your eyes won’t take long to adjust and there are torches down there.” Sitting down on the other side of the black hole, opposite me, he instructs, “Hold onto the edge and let yourself hang.”

  My palms are sweating profusely, butterflies rioting in my stomach, but I force myself to lower my body into the abyss, holding my weight on straightened arms. The darkness swallows my legs, tugging on my bare feet, and my arms tremble.

  “Hold it for a sec… there, got you. You can let got now.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  His chuckle is quickly hidden, “‘Course you can. Just trust me, I won’t let you fall.”

  “Why should I trust you? You don’t trust me.”

  “Darlin’, this really ain’t the time to be hashin’ this out. I won’t let you fall, what use would you be to me dead?” That almost reassures me for a second, but then I recall the discussion I’d overheard that first day in the underground cell that doubled as my bedroom. Sin didn’t want to use me for blackmail, or ransom, he wanted a distraction, because while the police and my dad were focused on finding me they would be oblivious to whatever else Sin and his band of rebels were doing. I wondered what Sin’s plan was, what did he need a distraction for? But I don’t wonder long because my arm muscles are screaming, threatening to give out. Lifting my eyes to his face, which is swathed in shadows with only two pools of silvery grey shining out, my gaze clutches at him desperately.