Ghetto

by M L Sparrow

  “We were notified of a commotion, Mr President.”

  “Thank you for hurrying over here, Officers, but everything’s alright, my daughter and I were having an argument. You know what teenagers are like.”

  “Yes, Sir,” one of the officers gives a huff of laughter, “I’ve got two girls. The oldest is seventeen and she’s constantly challenging everything. The other’s thirteen and she wants her belly button pierced for her birthday.”

  “Well, you understand then. I’m sorry for any inconvenience we may have caused by making you come all this way for nothing.”

  “It was no problem, Sir, we were in the area and I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

  I roll my eyes at the man’s gushing, but just then a new voice says, crisp and clear, “CCTV has picked up a man acting suspicious walking down Crane Street.”

  “That’s not far from here,” one officer says to his partner. “Team 107 responding.”

  My stomach sinks. Surely Sin would have gotten further away than Crane Street by now? Unless he’d lingered, hesitated. But he knows how to blend in, how to go unnoticed. Despite these thoughts, my heart races and my palms begin to sweat. Scrambling to my feet, I rush over to my desk and clip the keyboard onto my tab, my fingers flying over the keys. The internet is still accessible to me, but the CCTV feeds are blocked. It’s like someone is shadowing my every move and throwing up obstacles at every turn. My fingers cramp, so I shake them out, crack my knuckles and keep trying. By now he’ll probably be gone, I realize. Or arrested. If it was even him. Frustrated, I gnaw on my thumbnail. There’s not much there to chew anymore. Deciding to try a different tactic, I find my way to the mainstream News site on the assumption that, if the police had picked Sin up, they would have realized he didn’t have a Brand by now, therefore, there was a chance it would be on the news. Thank God there’s nothing to indicate anything of the sort.

  As I scroll through the site, I hear the phone ring and then my dad starts to curse out in the hallway. A few seconds later I hear the elevator ding. I assume he’s left. Let’s hope there’s not a fire, I think irritably, because he hasn’t unlocked the door.

  Chapter 22

  I fall asleep that night angry and worried, but with a faint sense of optimism. All that is shattered early the next morning when my dad barges into my room. The lights activate automatically and I’m blinded for a moment. Groaning at the rude awakening, I half lift my head to look at him as he stalks over to the bed, even as I pull the covers up further.

  “Did you know?” he seethes.

  “Know what?” I mumble into my pillow, dropping my head back down.

  “Did you know that…that…boy didn’t have a Brand?”

  Instantly, I’m awake, sitting bolt upright. “What? How did you..?”

  “Jesus Christ, you knew!” One hand lifts to rake through his greying hair in frustration. “Sunny, you know the law. It is illegal to be unbranded and now you’re guilty of a crime by association.”

  “What’s going to happen to him?” I whisper, afraid of the words, even though I already know the answer.

  “He’ll get the death penalty. He’s broken our most crucial law.”

  The blood freezes in my veins. “No. Please, there has to be something you can do. Please, Daddy, I’m begging you.”

  “I’m sorry, Sunny, really I am, you obviously care about this boy, but there’s nothing I can do for him now. I could overlook him sneaking out of the Ghetto, I could even let him go knowing his relationship with you, but this I can’t let him get away with.”

  “Of course you can, you’re the President, you can do anything.”

  “Sunny, too many people know about him now. I can’t just let him walk away, it would ruin my career.”

  “So your career is more important than his life? You’re not even a very good politician, all you do is copy other men’s policies. When have you ever done anything that was completely your own idea? Never, because you’re too gutless to think for yourself!”

  My dads’ face is turning purple, he’s so enraged. For a moment I think he’s going to hit me again, but he doesn’t, instead he slowly backs away, watching me as if I’m a stranger. At the door, he pauses, saying, “It will be a public execution, to serve as an example to others.”

  I have nothing to say to that.

  For several hours, I remain patched into the News site, waiting for the story to break. It is kept under-wraps which tells me exactly how desperately the police and government want to be in complete control of this situation since it’s amazingly hard to keep something of this scale secret in this day and age, what with all the advanced technology. It is actually surprising that the News didn’t pick up on it before the police. Finally, however, the story is released with my dad front and centre giving a speech that I block out.

  The execution date is set for three days from now. Lethal injection.

  It will be broadcast on all the screens around the city, as well as on a massive screen set up outside the Presidential building where my dad will watch and give a speech afterwards. Everyone will be out in mass to watch, like it’s an entertaining TV show.

  I have to do something. Anything. But what?

  I’m still drawing blanks, even after having taken a shower to clear my head, having discovered that my dad had left my bedroom door unlocked, though I am still denied access to the elevator. I’m just making myself a cup of coffee, in the hopes of firing up my brain cells, when I hear the elevator ding, announcing an arrival. Expecting my dad, I’m readying myself for round two when I walk into the living room and stop dead.

  It’s not my dad; Emilie stands in front of the elevator. I wonder what kind of relationship she and my dad have that would allow her clearance to just waltz into our apartment. Wearing a pristine white suit, paired with a bright pink silk shirt, matching heels and gold jewellery, she looks me up and down and I immediately feel inferior in my comfortable old jean and baggy shirt. That moment of coldness only lasts a second before she dons her mask and smiles at me, asking, “Is your dad home?”

  “No, he had something to deal with.”

  “Oh yes, that terrible case on the News, about the boy with no Brand. I should have realized that your dad would be busy with that.” Clearly, she expects me to say something in reply, but I don’t and she cocks her head to the side, observing me with those cold blue eyes.

  It hits me like a sledgehammer. She looks uncannily like Sin. The eyes, the hair, the cheekbones, the facial expressions. It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence. Sin was abandoned in the Ghetto at birth, what would make a mother discard her child in such a way when she could have just dropped him off in an orphanage somewhere? The only thing I can think of is shame. Maybe she had been underage, or she had slept with someone beneath her social status.

  “Do you want a cup of coffee?” I ask.

  “I’d kill for an espresso.”

  “Coming right up.” I force a smile before heading back into the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, “Please, take a seat and make yourself comfortable.” In the kitchen, my heart races with the sudden possibility. It might just be a wild guess, but I don’t think so. Pressing the right button on the coffee machine, it takes barely takes a second to produce the drink. Carrying my own mug, as well as the dinky little cup with Emilie’s’ espresso in, I make my way back into the living room, where she is sitting in the arm chair my dad usually prefers, straight backed and proper, with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Setting her drink down on the low glass coffee table, I sit on the sofa, unconsciously mirroring her position, before catching myself and forcing my body to relax back into the cushions.

  “So, you and my dad seem close,” I fish, taking a sip of scalding hot coffee while waiting for an answer.

  “You were gone for a long time, Sunny, you’re dad needed someone to talk to.”

  I nod, “that’s understandable. I guess, if you and my dad are close, we should probably make more of an effort to get to know each
other.”

  “That would be nice,” she says with a small, fake smile before taking a sip of her drink.

  “Is Augustus your only child?” I ask immediately, not wasting any time.

  “I also have an older daughter, Tianna, who’s twenty two. You’ll meet her at the Summer Social next week, unfortunately she couldn’t make it to your homecoming party.”

  “So no other sons?”

  Is it just me or does unease spark in her eyes for a moment? “No,” her voice is clipped, “Augustus always wanted a brother, but I thought two was enough.” She laughs lightly, but there’s something tense behind it, “A third would ruin my figure forever.”

  Shrugging, I murmur, “That’s fair enough, motherhood isn’t for everyone.”

  Again, she tilts her head at me in that eerily familiar way, eyes narrowing slightly as she stares at me. It makes me nervous, but I force myself not to squirm. If I can stare down Sin, I can handle Emilie.

  “Well,” she says after a minute, “I best be heading off, I’ve plenty of important things to do today.”

  “Of course,” I stand up, forcing a polite smile as I extend a hand, “it was nice talking to you.”

  “You too, my dear. I’ll see you soon.” Her cool fingers fold around mine, her manicured nails lightly scratching the back of my hand when she pulls away.

  Once she’s gone, I stand staring at the closed elevator doors for a minute, making sure she doesn’t return for any reason, before hurrying back to my bedroom. I have no way to lock the door behind me, but I still close it and then go to sit at my desk, clipping the keyboard onto my tab and logging in.

  I can’t get into any official databases, thanks to my father, but then I doubt there would be any record of what I’m looking for anyway, namely Sin’s birth parents. I already have a suspect though and since she’s spent her life in the limelight, I think I may have a way to prove, or at least validate, my suspicions. Typing Emilie Germain into the search engine produces hundreds of results, mostly newspaper and magazine articles. There’s even a Wikipedia page dedicated to her.

  Clicking on the Wiki page, I scroll through, reading quickly. Her maiden name was Beringer. She was born December 2482. And apparently she was a descendent of both British and German royalty, before the monarchy fell, of course. It turns out she was a bit of a wild child in her teenage years; there are pictures of wild parties and numerous men. Drink, drugs, you name it she tried it and the tabloids exploited every single escapade. And then it all just stopped. For almost a year she disappeared from the spotlight, only emerging to wed billionaire Max Sanders, a man over three times her age, though apparently he was in pretty good shape for an old man. He lived until the ripe old age of a hundred and twenty and died only four years ago of natural causes. There are plenty of articles about her during her married life, fundraising parties for various local projects and announcements for the births of both her children. However, those aren’t the births I’m interested in.

  Looking back to the time she disappeared from the papers, I look for any clues as to why. Rehab perhaps, since she came back and that was the end of all the parties, but then there were no rumours of extreme alcohol or substance abuse in any of the gossip rags, though she definitely experimented. In my head pregnancy is a viable option. If that’s true it makes Sin roughly twenty-three, which is a shock since I’d thought him to be considerably older, but I guess a lifetime in the Ghetto took its toll. Scanning the pictures dated just before she stopped showing up in the tabloids, I scroll through them, noting how she went from wearing clothes that are so tight that it looked like she’d been be sewn into then, to looser attire. What I really need to do is review her medical records; surely she must have gone for at least one check-up, even if it was just to confirm the pregnancy, but I’m pretty sure my cyber-shadow wouldn’t allow it. However…

  Biting my lower lip in lieu of my nail, since both my hands are occupied, flying over the keys, I rush headlong into executing my hastily cooked up master plan. Creating a temporary program that will mimic my patterns, using the sites I’ve accessed over the last few days, I put it into action. With the distraction set in place, I split the screen and really get to work, my movements masked. Hacking into the Medical Database is surprisingly easy; for a generation practically raised by computers, their protection is sadly lacking. Emilie’s files are relatively easy to find, though I have to troll through a surprising number of files belonging to people with the same name.

  The file contains all of Emilie’s medical details since the moment she was born, up until the most recent shot of All-Cure, which was administered for nothing other than a common cold. What a waste of resources, I think, when there are people out there who really need that magical cure. She’s also on anti-depression drugs. Interesting. However, that’s not what I need to be looking at. Going back twenty two years, to when she would have been only seventeen, I click on the first date that corresponds with the dates of her disappearance from the public eye.

  The files are sealed. That’s not suspicious at all. A few clicks and I’m in. Well, well, well, looks like she booked to have an abortion, but never went through with it. For whatever reason, she decided to have the baby and on later dates she is prescribed a cocktail of pre-natal vitamins and booked into birthing classes, though the records show she doesn’t show up for them either. That’s where the clues end. There’s no records of a birth, neither is there any mention of any kind of aftercare which would indicate she lost the baby.

  Covering my tracks, I leave the site, sealing their firewalls after me, before disabling the program I’d created to trick my shadow, who seems none the wiser. Going back on line, not caring if someone is monitoring me now, I flick through the gossip sites and try to find the last man she was seen dating. There are several, but one name keeps popping up over and over again. James Holt. The name sounds familiar, so I Google it. Apparently James Mason was the youngest son of infamous tycoon Colton Holt, but he died in a fire – according to my maths he died just before Sin was born. His dad was the man who stumped up the funding for the creation and experimentation of All-Cure, as well as later shipping the medicine worldwide so that it could help countless other people. As well as that, Colton Mason owned several other smaller, less well-known companies, mostly dealing with import and exportation. There’s a picture of the man and both his sons and though I don’t recognise the young man Emilie was apparently dating, I do recognise his dad. It’s the kind old man I met at her party.

  Suddenly, looking at the man’s face and seeing that surname printed on the screen in big black lettering, my mind begins to connect the dots that it had somehow missed up until now. As clear as day, the memory of the night I helped collect food with Sin and the others springs to mind, the sign above the warehouse flashes before my eyes. Mason & Sons. Then there’s the School. Suddenly I know what to do. He’ll help me, I know he will, even if it turns out Sin isn’t his grandson.

  Now I have a plan. Step one; get out of here.

  In my bedroom, I throw some clothes into a rucksack, along with my toothbrush. I briefly consider taking my Tab, because being without it would be a major disadvantage, but having it on me means that I can be tracked. I could turn off the tracking devise, however, they’re easy enough to turn back on remotely, so I don’t want to risk it. I do take my tool kit though, just in case. It’s pitiful really, I have so many possessions, more than I can count, yet the things I want to take with me don’t even fill my bag. Ludo sits by the window, recharging using a solar-panel. I can’t take him with me and I think that hurts more than leaving everything else behind… even my dad. On my bedside cabinet, there’s an electronic frame, alternating between pictures, all of which are of my dad and I. None of the photos are particularly recent and they were all taken at high class functions, with both of us dressed to the nines and smiling at the camera, but in all of them my smile is forced.

  I leave the frame where it is and head out of the room.

&nbs
p; The Comm Panel used to access the elevator can also be used to reprogram the rest of the electronic appliances in the apartment. Predictably, my dad has changed the access code and I chew my thumbnail as I consider what he may have change it to; I only have three chances before it locks me out and sends out a signal to the security company to inform them that someone may be trying to hack the system. Knowing my dad, the code will be something he can easily remember, so a birthday or significant date is the most likely. It won’t be my birthday, since I’ve pissed him off so much. I try his instead. 01.05.68. Wrong. My heart begins to race; only two tries left. The date my parents got married flashes up wrong as well.

  Third try. I have just entered the first two digits of the date my dad was first elected, when it occurs to me; my birthday was also the day my mother died. In many ways that is still the most significant date in my dads’ life, the most memorable. Deleting the numbers I’ve already put in, I type in the date with a shaking hand. 03.12.93. With a chime, I’m allowed entry to the system. A sigh of relief filters through my lips.

  Working quickly, I reactivate my elevator privileges and wait a moment for the changes to save, before scanning my Brand and waiting impatiently for the door to open. When it does, I heft my rucksack up onto my shoulder and step in, turning around for one last glimpse of the pristine, white living room before the doors shut once more. I know instinctively that I won’t be coming back here again. The elevator deposits me down in the lobby and I stride across the marble floor and out the doors without a backwards glance.

  Out on the street, I press the button to call for a car and wait nervously for it to arrive, clutching the strap of my bag so tight that my knuckles begin to turn white. When the car finally turns up, I fling open the door and scramble inside, slamming it shut behind me. An electronic voice asks me to scan my Brand, so I do, before typing in the address I found for Colton Mason.