Ghetto

by M L Sparrow

  Sidling up to a man I’ve played video games with hundreds of times, yet never been formally introduced to, I ask innocently, “Are you guys going to help collect the delivery?”

  “Yeah,” he answers, leaning casually back against the wall with his hands sunk deep into his trouser pockets, “you comin’ too?”

  Mirroring his position, I voice my next question nonchalantly, “Remind me, when are we leaving?”

  A snort of laughter. “Now.”

  Any trace of regret I may have felt just moments ago shrivels up and dies. Catching sight of Sin across the room, I narrow my eyes on the back of his head. The bastard tried to trick me.

  The surprised look on Sin’s face when he turns and catches sight of me across the room makes me smirk in smug satisfaction, however, the expression is fleeting. “Gather ‘round,” he calls. Immediately, the rooms’ occupants cluster around him and I move with them. “For those who don’t know the rules,” he looks directly at me as he speaks, “it’s very simple. Move fast, be quiet and if you get caught you’re on your own.” That makes me frown, it sounds very cut-throat. Before I have time to dwell on it though, we are moving down the corridor, out of the front door and into the street.

  Our small party of no more than seven or eight, blend into the shadows as we sneak through the Ghetto at this forbidden hour, using the alleyways to avoid being seen. Often we see the glow of torches at the end of the street, or hear the echo of footsteps on the uneven cobbles, warning us of an approaching patrol. The robotic policemen are easy to avoid, because they are programmed to walk only certain routes, usually the main roads, however, the humans are under no such restrictions, which makes them unpredictable. Several times we have to double back because of a patrol heading straight towards us. Yet, despite having to go the long way around, we do eventually reach our destination.

  On the outskirts of the city, where the smell of the rubbish tip is carried through the shanty town to us on the breeze, we duck beneath a faded blue, hole ridden tarpaulin. Inside, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness without the silvery moon to light the way. A couple of men, bundled in ratty blankets, are huddled inside the small space, but they barely glance our way as Sin lifts a wooden board to reveal a square hole in the ground and stairs leading downwards. The tarpaulin had obviously been erected as a cover when the original building crumbled to the ground. In the cellar are even more homeless people, crammed in together so tightly that we have to wait on the steps while they shuffle around to make a narrow path for us to walk through. They seem to know exactly where we are heading and a space opens up to reveal a circular metal disk. Upon closer inspection, I realize that it’s a man-hole cover.

  Crouching down, Sin and another man lift it up and scoot it to the side with the grating of metal against stone, which sends shivers down my spine. Without hesitation, one member of our group lowers himself through the hole and lands with a splash. Quickly, the other men in our group, as well as the one woman, all disappear into the sewers, until I’m the only one left. Taking a deep breath, ignoring the smell, I bite my lip, unable to believe I’m once more throwing myself into the unknown. Without thinking about it further, I follow them.

  It’s a short drop. The smell hits me first, making my eyes sting. Next is the chill of the water swirling around my ankles. Upon landing, I stumble and for a moment I think I’m going to face-plant into the filthy water, but someone grabs my arm and hauls me upright.

  “Careful,” Sin’s voice is a low rumble in my ear, “you really don’ want a mouthful of that.” As soon as I’m steady, he lets go and I hear splashing as he moves away. Above us, people shuffle around and then we’re plunged into darkness as the man-hole cover slides back into place.

  “Let’s move.”

  Sloughing through the water is hard going and I can feel things bumping against my legs, though I dare not look down to investigate for fear of what I might find; though I have grown somewhat desensitized to it, the smell of faeces, urine and other undesirables still makes me want to gag every time I breathe in too deeply.

  After what seems like an eternity, Sin calls a halt to our little procession, pointing the beam of his torch up at the curved ceiling, indicating our way out through another man-hole cover. Using a thin metal rod with a hooked end, extracted from the back-pack slung over the shoulder of one man, they push it open. As if in sync we all turn our torches off and fall silent, whilst Sin gets a boost up and grabs the edge of the hole, pulling himself through with a grunt of effort. We wait, craning our heads up at the circle above us, showing the black, star studded night sky, until Sin’s voice calls an all clear. The other woman gets boosted up first and then apparently it’s my turn, because one of the men is standing in front of me with his hands together.

  Placing a foot in his cupped hands, I stretch up, reaching for the lip of the hole as he sends me sailing up and through it. Shockingly, I land on my feet, despite the fact that my arms and legs flail idiotically while air-borne. Stepping away from the edge, so that I don’t accidentally step back and fall in, I glance around to see that I’m standing in the middle of a deserted patch of concrete, hemmed in on three sides by a dark, ominous looking building which I recognise as the school several blocks from my home. Mason College, I believe it’s called, named after the man who funded it. Most students are enrolled in school over the internet, however, there are still parents who want their children to have a sociable, hands on, ‘real’, school experience and they pay through the nose for it. I know this because my dad went through a phase of wanting me to attend, but I’d been perfectly happy with my internet classes and refused.

  Once everyone is out and the metal cover replaced, we head around to the back of the building, past a set of dumpsters with green lids, indicating that they are for recyclable goods only, out onto another street. Without being told, the group splits into three smaller subgroups, each heading in a different direction. The fact that no one needs instructions, except me, implies that these were the people who regularly went to collect the food… or they had discussed the game plan before I arrived at the canteen. The latter option reminds me of his deceit and renews my anger at him, so when he orders, “You stay with me”, I tighten my lips and nod stiffly in response without saying a word.

  Soon, we’re alone. Walking down a main street, the evenly spaced street lights show us the way. Sin sets a leisurely, unhurried pace and we walk in silence, a safe distance apart. At least, that is until we turn onto a busier street with lit shop fronts, restaurant and a fair number of people late night window shopping after an evening out. Taking my hand, Sin pulls me into him, but in my lingering anger I tug free, glaring at him. My reaction doesn’t seem to faze him; his expression remains the same. The next time he grabs my hand he hangs on tight when I try to jerk back.

  “You’re mad at me, I get it. I’m mad at you too, but we need to blend in, so you gotta stop lookin’ at me like you wanna rip my head off.”

  Though unwelcome, his words make sense; the last thing we want to do is draw attention to ourselves, therefore, after a moment, I grudgingly consent to let him tuck my hand into the crook of his elbow. Like that, we commence walking, strolling alongside all the other couples, lingering occasionally to glance into the shop windows. It feels strange to be so terrified whilst doing something so mundane. My heart feels like it’s about to explode out of my chest and every time someone glances our way I’m convinced they’ll recognise me.

  Stopping to peer into a toy shop window, my worry dims a little as I wonder at the brightly coloured, aesthetically pleasing toys on display. They are old-fashioned toys, not things many children nowadays would possess, but beautifully crafted, each one of them obviously handmade and individually painted: rocking horses, a dolls house, a pull-along train and a miniature model of Noah’s Ark, complete with pairs of animals lined up to board the ramp.

  Another couple pause alongside us to marvel at the creations and I sneak a peek at the woman. Dressed
in a flattering, red, wrap-around dress and matching heels, she hasn’t got a hair out of place. Polished and perfect. That’s how I used to look to the public, but I never really enjoyed all the make-overs and fashion, so why does a small part of me feel a pang of jealousy? How can I miss a life that was so fake and self-absorbed, surely that’s wrong, immoral even?

  Only a few inches away, the woman sniffs the air, then wrinkles her nose in disgust. “What’s that smell?”

  It takes me a moment to realize that they’re not talking about the scent of burnt pizza coming from the Italian place across the road. They’re talking about us. Luckily, Sin is faster off the mark and is already beginning to steer me away when the woman’s companion answers, “It smells like sewage, maybe there’s a leak. We should call it in.”

  Striding away, I have the sudden, hysterical desire to laugh, but I manage to contain it until we round a corner into a street of residential flats, leaving the minimal crowd behind. Once we’re alone a spurt of laughter bursts forth and I lift my free hand to clamp over my mouth to prevent more from escaping. It’s useless; the sound simply trickles between my fingers. Brows drawn, Sin stares down at me as if I’m insane, before shaking his head, a crooked half smile tilting his mouth upwards. Dropping my hand from my mouth, I reach up to press my fingertips to his gaunt cheeks, tracing his smile with my thumb.

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” I murmur, the words slipping easily from my lips without conscious thought.

  “Me too,” he admits, lifting a hand to mirror my movements, his large palm practically covering the side of my face, his fingers tangling in the loose curls at my temple.

  “So are we okay now?”

  He huffs a laugh, “Until the next fight.”

  Meeting up with the others in an unlit back alley, the sort that would be considered dirty and dangerous in the city, but positively sparkles compared to the Ghetto, we head towards the rear of a small grocery store; most people ordered their food online nowadays and had it delivered straight to their door within hours, so Supermarkets were practically non-existent, but some smaller places like this made a profit by selling fresh fruit and veg, which many people still preferred to select themselves. A shady figure is standing by the back door, smoking a cigarette, the cherry-top glowing red in the darkness. As we approach, he nods gravely at us, before tossing the cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with the heel of his shoe and leaving it there – despite the fact that littering is illegal – as he turns and re-enters the shop.

  “Over there,” Sin points to a row of dumpsters and two of the other men rush forward, pulling one of them out to reveal piles of cardboard boxes stacked behind it.

  I’m disheartened at the sight. “Is that all?”

  Someone chuckles and claps me on the shoulder, explaining, “This is only our first stop.”

  “Oh.” It had never even occurred to me that there might be a whole underground community that were sympathetic to the plight of the Ghetto Folk. “So how do we get it all back?”

  Hefting a box up in one arm, Sin points back to the main street, before he is required to use both hands to carry his burden as someone stacks two more boxes on top of the first. I turn in time to see a large white van pull up alongside the mouth of the alley, headlights off. Picking up a box, I follow the others to the vehicle. It takes a couple more trips to load up all of the boxes. Once they’re all stacked inside, we climb in too and shut the door behind us. Like all other vehicles, the van is electronic, therefore, doesn’t need a driver, however, our destination does need to be programmed in. I’m about to ask who’s going to get out and do it, when the vehicle suddenly starts to move, the engine all but silent. Confused, I glance around, but none of our group is absent and no one looks surprised. A second later, the small window separating the front and back slides open, revealing a man I don’t recognise. Middle aged, he’s a serious looking man with a round face and dark whiskers covering his chin and cheeks.

  “Hey, guys, good to see you all. I wasn’t sure you were going to make it, what with all the new precautions.”

  “It wasn’t as easy as usual, but we made it.”

  Resting a hand on my shoulder, Sin leans into me, saying, “This is Joel, he thought of this whole thing and set it up, before we were just livin’ off government rations and that ain’t enough to keep a rat alive.”

  “Really?” I study the man closely. “What made you want to help?” Not that I didn’t admire what he’d started, it’s just that people were brainwashed into believing that all the Ghetto Folk were criminals, scum that deserved what they got, like I had been, and not many thought to look past the government propaganda.

  Seemingly surprised by the question, his eyes find me, shrouded in the shadows of the vans’ interior, and a second later they widen in recognition. “Jesus! You’re… you’re the Presidents’ daughter. I thought it was just a rumour, something else to make you look bad… “ Trailing off, he scrubs a hand down his face, shaking his head and muttering under his breath, “If we get caught we are in so much trouble.” With that, he shuts the partition once more.

  “His fiancé was sent to the Ghetto just before they were meant to be married,” Sin answers my question, speaking low for my ears only, “along with the rest of her family, because her brother stole something.”

  “What was her name?” I ask, my head already spinning with romantic notions of reuniting the pair, “Where is she now?”

  Sin’s grim reply puts an end to my imaginings. “Her name was Lauren and she died of pneumonia.”

  Several stops later, the back of the van is crammed full of so many boxes that we’re forced to stand pressed against one another, with barely enough room to breathe.

  “That was the last one,” Sin informs me, bracing one hand on the wall above my head to steady himself as the van glides forwards. This journey takes longer than all the others combined and by the time we stop my legs are aching and my sore ribs are hurting from where someone accidentally fell into me as we rounded a corner.

  Opening the double doors, the others bundle out first and then I hop down, looking around to find myself on the outskirts of the city, in the wide open yard of what appears to be some sort of warehouse. I crane my neck to peer up at the name across the top of the building to see if it will give me any clue as to where we are. Mason & Sons. The name niggles at me, but I can’t think where I might know it from. Surely the owner can’t be an associate of my dads’, since he’s assisting the Ghetto Folk?

  “You gunna stand there gapin’, or you gunna help?” one of the guys huffs and I glance around to see that the others have already started unloading, whilst Joel jogs up to the building and unlocks a side door. Reaching into the back of the van, I scoot a box towards me and then I lift it into my arms, following the sole other female as she heads into the warehouse. Inside it’s dark and creepy, until Joel hits the lights and the space is illuminated by overhead lights so bright that they hurt my eyes, revealing a room that is empty for the most part, except for a couple of large, metal shipping containers and a fork-lift truck with high-vis vests hung over the long spikes protruding from the front. Following the others towards a door at the back, which reads PRIVATE, we wait as Joel opens it by scanning his Brand and then entering a code on the screen in the centre of the door. The click of the lock sliding open is loud in the silence, echoing around the cavernous room.

  “Come on, guys,” Sin’s voice makes me jump, “we gotta be outa here before it opens.” Glancing up at the digital clock on the wall, I note that it’s just gone 3:30am, therefore, we probably have until six at the latest. That realizations spurs everyone into action.

  Behind the door is an office, with a glass topped desk, atop of which a large screen is suspended; it’s off, so I can see straight through it to the book shelves lining the back wall. Not many people read actual books anymore, they simply download the electronic versions, but this persons’ shelves are filled with hardbacks, the rows separated every so often
by photo frames which flicker smoothly from one picture to the next. However, it is not the books which surprise me, it’s the fact that, when Joel pulls one out it comes down like a lever and the entire unit of shelves slides backwards and then eases to the right to hide behind its matching companion, showing a hidden tunnel. I’d thought things like that only happened in old movies.

  Heading down an immobile escalator, I realize we’re heading into the subway once more, but this time the ceiling is studded with hanging lantern style lights so that we can see where we’re going. At the bottom, we follow the precession of lights to a platform with a row of shopping trolleys which have somehow been welded to the tracks so that they will slide easily along. Dumping the boxes in the trolleys, we hurry back upstairs to find that the others have begun stacking the boxes in the hidden entrance to the underground. Picking up another load, panting with effort, I pick up the pace, well aware of our limited time ticking away.

  When we’re finished loading up the shopping trolleys and there are no more boxes left, Sin bids Joel farewell and thanks him for his help, an exchange that, though sincere, looks oddly stilted and rehearsed, as if they traded the exact same words every time they parted ways. With the formalities over and done with, Joel turns and follows the lights back up the stairs, presumably to lock up and leave, whilst we divide ourselves between the trolleys. There are only five and seven of us, so we decide to take turns with me and the other girl walking at the back of the group for the first stretch.

  “Ain’t it great bein’ a girl?” Grinning over at me, she indicates the men with a tilt of her head, hunched over the trolley handle bars as they push them along. She’s got several inches on me, but it’s not exactly hard to be taller than I am, and I have to crane my neck back to look up at her. The colour of her skin and the shape of her face hint at some Asian heritage. Her dark hair is cut brutally short and a silver ring glints in her lower lip. “I’m Jai, by the way,” she introduces herself holding out a hand, which I shake.