Ghetto

by M L Sparrow

  “Come on,” he says, holding out a hand to pull me to my feet. We haven’t gone far when it hits me.

  “There’s no one around,” I half whisper, grabbing the elbow of Sin’s shirt to get his attention, since he doesn’t appear to be listening, “the streets are deserted.” At this time of day there are usually kids tearing around, woman hanging out laundry, old men sitting on the curb, people hollering out of windows at one another.

  “I know,” he murmurs back and when I glance up at his face it is to see his brows drawn, “I don’t have a good feelin’ about this.”

  “Me either,” the other guy admits, rubbing at the back of his neck as his gaze darts around.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper. Instead of letting go of Sin’s shirt once I have his attention, I slide my hand down his arm until I can twine our fingers together. He doesn’t bat an eyelid, but he does squeeze my fingers so tightly they ache.

  A sudden shout startles us. I jump and Sin twists around, dragging me along with him. There’s someone in a black and white uniform standing at the other end of the street.

  “You there,” the policeman shouts, “halt! What are you doing here?” Beside me, Sin’s muscles are coiled, whether to fight or flee I don’t know, either way, it’s redundant, because the man’s partner appears to our right, slinking silently down an alley towards us, Taser gun at the ready. My heart is racing as I let Sins’ hand fall from mine.

  “Let me do the talking,” I say quietly, for our ears only, before stepping forward, palms up in the universal sign for surrender and the most charming smile I can muster plastered on my face. “I’m sorry, Sir,” I call, “but we’re a little lost. We haven’t been here long, you see, and we haven’t quite got our bearing yet.” I’m unsure whether it’s my words, tone, or the ever persuasive smile, but the stern lines of the man’s face soften. A few more steps and I have passed the man in the alley, but I pretend not to have noticed him as I continue talking to the other officer.

  “Would you mind giving us directions to wherever we need to be?”

  “Everyone is supposed to be in the Square.”

  “Okay,” I nod agreeably and then glance around before looking back at him, “that way, right?” I already know I’m pointing in the wrong direction, so his negative answer doesn’t come as a surprise.

  “No, you have to go that way,” he gestures in the opposite direction, “then you turn right at the end of the street and walk all the way down until you reach the Square. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  “Thanks,” I smile, despite the fact that he’s just directed us the wrong way. Turning around, I head back towards the others, who are standing stiff and silent in the middle of the street, careful to remain unhurried and casual.

  “Wait.” The cop in the alley steps out in front of me, his voice sharp enough to make me flinch and set my heart to pounding, “We’ll escort you.” Once more, I say thank you, forcing the words passed my suddenly numb lips as I curve them upwards. Coming to stand beside me, the policeman scans me up and down, his gaze lingering on my face, which I’m sure is bruised from last night, before turning his attention to Sin, eying his stained shirt with the slash through it.

  “What’s with all the blood, son?”

  “Got in a fight,” Sin answers truthfully, shrugging his broad shoulders, expression indifferent.

  “I hope nobody was seriously hurt.”

  “People get hurt ‘round here all the time, you lot never cared before.” Standing just behind him, the man who helped me out of the subway goes wide eyed, staring at Sin as if he’d grown an extra head. I imagine my expression isn’t much different.

  However, the cop simply narrows his eyes, his hand dropping to the Taser gun now stowed in its holster. “The Ghetto’s a dangerous place. Not a surprise considering it’s populated by criminals.” Lips pulling back over his teeth in a furious snarl, Sins’ fists clench tightly and I jump forward, grabbing his arm just in case he decides to lung at the cop, who’s watching him with a smirk, goading him.

  “Maybe we should get going,” I prompt, polite but firm, “we wouldn’t want to be late for whatever’s taking place.”

  “Quite right,” the other policeman agrees, frowning disapprovingly at his partner, before gesturing for us to follow him.

  Walking once more, I drag on Sins’ arm to get him to slow the pace and wait until there’s a fair gap between us and the others, before whispering, “He’s taunting you, just let it go.” Frowning down at me, I think he’s going to argue, but then he nods and it’s like a weight lifted from my chest.

  The walk to the Square takes longer than it usually would, since the two policemen take us in the wrong direction before having to double back on themselves. When we do arrive it’s to find the Square literally crammed full of people, corralled by robotic guards who patrol with high calibre Tasers at the ready. Immediately, I duck my head, check that my sleeve is still covering my Brand and let down my hair to cover my ears; the newer robots are equipped with scanners in their eyes, which can be used to identify people through taking pictures of their Brand’s, ears and eyes and matching them up on the government database. A match can be achieved in mere seconds. Quickly, I whisper at Sin to follow suit, because if they scan him and can’t get a result they’ll instantly know that he’s not registered and a red flag will immediately be raised.

  “We need to get deeper into the crowd,” I say over the gaggle of voices, “then they won’t be able to get a clear lock because everyone’s so closely packed.” Without a word he shackles my wrist and begins weaving through the mass of people. At first they move out of our way, but the closer we get to the middle the closer everyone is pressed together, like sardines in a tin, and he has to resort to pushing and shoving, yanking me along with him, his tight grip forming another bruise for me to add to my growing collection. The pull on my arm makes my ribs ache and every time someone bumps into my sore side my vision blurs, but I blink it away and keep going. Finally, when we’re right in the thick of it and can go no further, Sin stops. Tucking myself beneath his arm, to avoid having to be in the same position with a complete stranger, I focus on breathing deeply and push away the claustrophobia threatening to suffocate me. It smells like sweat and unwashed bodies and everyone seems to be breathing and shifting in unison as if this whole thing was choreographed. Someone is leaning against my back, so I try to subtly edge away, but they move with me; every tiny inch of space is precious.

  We stand there without a word for several minutes, until I pluck up the courage to ask, “What do you think’s going on?”

  “Don’t know,” he answers shortly, the arm around my shoulders constricting to pull me closer as the body of people around us changes position once more, “I can’t see nothing with all these people.”

  “They’re lookin’ for the rebel leader,” someone supplies in a whisper and a woman across from us gives Sin a pointed look, causing him to tense.

  “No, no,” someone else argues loudly, “they’re lookin’ for that girl. You know, the President’s daughter?” If possible Sins’ muscles coil even tighter and I can feel his heart pounding almost as fast as mine. We’re in big, big trouble.

  “They’re just checkin’ Brands,” comes another voice, but I know that can’t be all they’re doing; if they’re checking Brands then they must be looking for someone and the most likely options are Sin and I, but I doubt the authorities have a clear idea of what Sin looks like, therefore, it’s probably me they want. Glancing over at Sin, I can see that he’s thinking along the same lines, his face lined with worry.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask quietly.

  I can see the answer in his eyes before he even opens his mouth to speak the words, “I don’t know.”

  Several minutes later, having been fruitlessly trying to see over everybody’s heads, Sin turns back to me, “I’ve never been here for one of these before, but they happen a couple of times a year. Normally we hide out. But from what
I’ve heard they don’t always have electric scanners, sometimes they just look. Why waste resources on us Ghetto Folk, eh? I think it’s more for show than anything.”

  “But that’s just speculation, you don’t actually know if that’s the case today.” Mouth pinched, he nods in stiff agreement. Rubbing my palms together, I draw in a calming breath to quell my rising panic. Blowing out my indrawn breath, piping my lips so that it blows away a strand of hair hanging down in front of my eyes, I whisper, “Okay, so let’s just assume they don’t have any electronic equipment, we’ll need disguises.”

  “Already on it.” Stooping down, a challenge in itself because of the limited space, he rubs his hands across the ground and, when he stands up, presents me with a pair of dirt smeared palms. Instinctively I recoil when he lifts them to my face, my expression one of disgust, but he continues forward nonetheless, wiping his hands over my cheeks, forehead and down my neck. I wait stoically for him to finish my makeover, wincing slightly as his hands brush over my bruises, before reaching up to wipe the dirt from my mouth.

  “Thanks for that.”

  Unrepentant, Sin shrugs. “You looked far too clean to belong in the Ghetto.” Canting his head, he considers me for a moment and then commands, “Tie your hair up, it’s too noticeable.” As I’m doing that, he leans down again to gather more dirt, which he proceeds to rub into my hair. Once he’s finished he moves quickly onto the next thing.

  “Give her your coat,” he orders a young man wearing a ragged, stained, faux leather coat.

  “No bloody way,” the guy protests, “it’s the only one I got.”

  “Just give it to her,” Sin snaps, “you’ll get it back and the next delivery we get I’ll let you have first pick.”

  Eyes wide, he fumbles with the zip. “Okay, that’s cool, man.”

  As he struggles out of the garment, I lean into Sin and murmur, “You’re making a lot of promises today.”

  Shrugging, he says, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep ‘em.” The jacket is handed to me and I pull it on, zipping it all the way up to my chin. It swallows me, but I guess that’s a good thing in these circumstances. After scrutinizing me for a long moment, Sin nods his approval, “I think that’s as good as it’s goin’ to get.”

  “Wow, you sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

  He doesn’t seem to know whether I’m kidding or not and, despite our surroundings, I have to fight back a smile. That is until I realize that we have forgotten one very critical point. The amusement vanishes in an instant, leaving a hallow kind of fear in its place.

  “You have no Brand,” I state the obvious, my gaze falling to his forearm, covered by his sleeve, imagining the unmarked skin beneath. “What are we going to…” I pause, thinking, “I have an idea. Anyone got a pen?”

  “Love, I don’ even know how ta write me own name, ya think I carry a pen ‘round?” someone calls out, followed by a chorus of laughter.

  “How ‘bout this?” another voice calls once the hubbub has dies down a little. Glancing around in search of the person who’d spoken, I spy a young, dark skinned man who I vaguely recognise, but I don’t know if it’s because he’s part of the rebel group or if I’ve just seen him around. The man crouches down and picks a twig off the ground, before using it to dig a clump of dirt out from between the worn paving stones. Transferring the mud into the palm of his hand, he adds a globule of spit, which makes me cringe, and then dips the end of the spindly twig into the mix. Pushing up his sleeve, Sin proffers his right forearm, validating the truth of the rumours. With an unsteady hand, the other man begins to write, but when I lean over to take a look, I realize it’s all wrong. Not only is he copying his own Brand, but the letters are also wobbly and ill-shaped.

  “No, no, no,” I interrupt, “they’re never going to buy that, any fool that can read will know that’s a fake.” As soon as the words have left my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said them, because I realize that most of the people here, especially those actually born in the Ghetto, are probably illiterate – Sin among them. Clearing my throat, I hold out my hand, “Let me.” Taking the twig, I hesitate before using my sleeve to wipe away the brown marks on his skin. The makeshift paint isn’t quite the correct colour, it’s more brown than black, but hopefully it’ll get darker as it dries and the guards won’t look too closely.

  “The first letters need to be your initials,” I explain as I begin with an S. “Do you have a middle name?”

  “I don’t even have a last name, darlin’,” Sin scoffs.

  “Seriously?” He simply arches a brow in response and I shake my head slightly in disbelief. “Well, for today your surname is Smith, if anyone asks.”

  “What’s the one mean?” someone enquires, peering over my shoulder as I continue.

  “One is for a man and two is for a woman,” another person answers correctly, “right?”

  “Yeah,” I nod, “because God supposedly created man first and woman second.” Moving onto the next series of numbers, I chew my lip since my hands are busy. Since he doesn’t have a Brand, it’s unlikely his birth was ever registered, therefore, I put down the code of the facility I was registered at. Glancing up at him, I ask, “What’s your date of birth?” Again, he gives me that look. “Really? How can you not know when you were born? Don’t your parents celebrate your birthday?”

  “I don’t have parents.”

  “Your foster parents then?” I correct myself. His expression frosts over, eyes going cold. I shrug, “You don’t want to talk about it, that’s fair enough.” It almost kills me to lock away my curiosity, but I recognise that there are more important things going on at the moment. “Do you at least know how old you are?” His silence is all the answer I need. Guessing him to be in his late twenties, I make up a birthday and put the year as ’85. Finishing up, I tilt my head to survey my work, before asking, “What do you think?”

  “It’ll do,” he answers bluntly. I roll my eyes; talk about a backwards compliment.

  “It’ll have to do,” the dusky skinned young man says, “‘cos we’re movin’.”

  It takes time and a lot of shuffling around, but eventually several lines begin to form. The process is slow going and I can count the hours that tick by using the progress of the sun across the sky. I’m sweating beneath the big, heavy coat, yet I dare not take it off. Eventually, the end of the line becomes visible. Craning my neck, I peer around the people in front of us to watch the uniformed guard beckon the next person forward. He briefly scans the man’s face and Brand before waving him through.

  “They don’t have electronic scanners,” I lean into Sin and whisper in relief, “and they’re barely even looking.”

  “Don’t get too excited yet,” he cautions, ducking his head when a robotic guard strides purposefully down the gap between our queue and the next one over. At the end of the line, the white armoured robot turns and walks back.

  When there are only a few people left between us and freedom, I begin to fidget, biting my nails. There’s a twinge of pain and I taste blood. Fingers wrap around my wrist and yank my arm back down.

  “Stop,” Sin hisses in my ear, “you’ll draw attention. Just relax.” I try but it’s impossible, my eyes keep scanning the barricade of uniformed officers penning us in like livestock, their guns at the ready. “Keep your eyes down,” he instructs, his breath warm against the back of my neck, making the tiny hairs there prickle, “it’s easier to be invisible if you don’t make eye contact.” There’s a brief pause before he adds, “Slouch a little, hands in pockets, look bored.”

  Blowing out a pent up breath, I force my shoulders to droop and my spine to curve. It’s uncomfortable, I’d been trained to carry myself with pride, head held high. Thrusting my hands into the pockets of my borrowed jacket hides their shaking and stops me from biting my nails.

  “Better.” His approval warms me inside and I can feel his body heat at my back. Momentarily, I lean back against him and, although I can’t see his face, I can feel his co
nfusion, but then he reaches around and grips my hip, squeezing it reassuringly before moving away, slipping into the line opposite.

  Surprisingly, it doesn’t take long to reach the front of the queue. I’m a jittery mess by the time my turn comes, but years of suffering through public events have enabled me to keep my composure on the outside. In front of me, the officer assigned to our line gives the woman before me a cursory look before allowing her to pass. I hope he does the same for me, though part of me is disgusted by their lack of thoroughness; not scanning peoples Brands is one thing, but some of the guards, I’ve noticed, aren’t even looking at them.

  The policeman motions me forward with a click of his fingers, as if I’m a dog. Swallowing, I dampen my suddenly dry lips with a swipe of my tongue and force myself to step forward. He looks me up and down with a bored expression, his mouth twisted into a frown. When he notices my black eye and split lip, sympathy flashes in his eyes.

  Reaching out a hand, he touches the tip of one finger to the colourful bruising around my eye and I somehow manage not to flinch away. “Bet that hurt.”

  Nodding mechanically, I push the words out between my teeth, “It did, Sir.”

  “Well,” he says gruffly, waving me through, “be more careful next time.”

  “I’m not planning on a next time, Sir.”

  “Good, good,” he nods, even as his attention is transferred to the next person in line.

  Not wanting to hang around, I duck into an alleyway so that I’m out of sight and loiter, waiting anxiously for Sin. Several people hurry past me, having obviously been released, but none of them are him. Nervous, I count the seconds. Three minutes pass. He wasn’t that far behind me, surely he should have been through by now.

  Gnawing on my thumbnail, I make my way hesitantly back down the alley to peak around the corner into the Square. He’s standing in line, several queue’s over from the line I was in, with only a couple more people in front of him. He must have switched lines again once I’d made it through, probably to make absolutely sure we weren’t linked to one another. He doesn’t look nervous, but I’m sure he is.