Ghetto

by M L Sparrow

  Thankfully, Joel was right and it takes me just under half-an-hour to reach the correct exit, which is easily identifiable by the arrow pointing upwards towards a grate cover which lets light stream down to make stripes on the ground at my feet. Switching off the torch, I stare up at the grate with a frown, wondering how I’m going to get up there. I’m just wondering if maybe I should continue onwards to see if I can find another, more easily accessible exit, when a face appears, peering down at me through the grate.

  “Hiya!” The middle aged man grins at me, showing off a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Hang on a sec, doll, I’ll have ya out in a jiff.” His face disappears from view and then several pairs of hands reach down to grip the bars. With a rusty squeal, they pry it loose and lift it away.

  A second later someone yells, “Mind out the way, I’m comin’ down.” I’ve just taken a couple of hasty steps backwards when someone squeezes through the rectangular opening and lands heavily besides me. Straightening, the young man wiped a hand on his trousers before offering it to me. As I reach out to shake it, he says, “They call me Crow. Joel sent word that you would be comin’, so Ben sent us to fetch ya. Here, let me give ya a boost.” Crouching down, he cups his hands, waiting impatiently for me to set a foot into the cradle he’s created. When I do, he barely gives me a moments warning before thrusting me upwards.

  Once I’m out on the street, a cool breeze hits me and I lift my head to greet it, breathing in the fresh air as Crow climbs out after me. Looking around I see two other men – the crooked toothed man from before and another young man with brown hair and a scar marring the right side of his face. When he catches me staring, the young man nods silently at me, before helping the others to replace the grate.

  “Come on,” Crow says cheerily, once it’s safely back in place, motioning for me to follow him as he lopes up the street, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder to make sure we haven’t fallen too far behind. As we walk, the two other men talk amongst themselves, good-naturedly ribbing each other, clearly good friends despite the age gap. That or relatives, though I see no family resemblance.

  It turns out that we’re not far from Base and we get there after only a few minutes of speed walking. A reception awaits me. Stepping foot into the building I’m set upon by Kit and Maya, who squeals excitedly, “I missed you sooo much!”

  Laughing despite myself, I hug her back fiercely, responding, “I’ve missed you too.”

  “Good,” she declares, pulling back with a wide grin. Over her shoulder, I spy Kit watching and lift a hand in greeting as Maya untangles her arms from around me.

  “How bad is it?” I ask him without pre-empt.

  Wincing slightly, he admits, “Pretty bad. Sin didn’t have any close friends, but his men are loyal. They will kill to get him back, or to get revenge if he is killed. Add a load of guns and a few hot-heads to the mix and you’ve got a right clusterfuck.”

  Nodding in agreement of his diagnosis, I bit my lip, thinking. “Who’s in charge?” I ask after a minute.

  “It’s kinda a mix of all Sin’s advisors.”

  “I need to speak to them, can you get them all in one place for me?”

  Kit looks doubtful, but nods slowly anyway. “I can try.”

  It takes at least twenty minutes to get all five of the rebels’ temporary leaders into one place and when they’re finally all gathered in the canteen, I await impatiently for them to all settle themselves at one table, before standing at the head of said table. Clearing my throat to gain their attention, I wait until all eyes are on me before beginning. As quickly as possible, I give then the lowdown of what I know and suspect, though I sensor it slightly since I’m not entirely sure if I can trust these men, as well as telling them that I plan to free Sin without violence.

  “You don’t seem to realize,” says the middle aged, grey haired man who’d challenged Sin about giving me a room in the main building, “this thing is bigger than just one person. Of course we want to help Sin, but if we throw away this opportunity to gain our own freedom it may never come around again.”

  “I can understand that, but at least let me try this my way first. If there’s one thing I know it’s politics and I truly believe we can resolve this without bloodshed. Just give me one chance and if it doesn’t work feel free to try it your way.”

  “It would be a waste of time,” the same man who’d spoken before argues, however, Ben, the only person here I know by name, cuts him off by standing abruptly.

  “I say we let her. What can it hurt?” Though we were on good terms by the time I departed, Ben was still one of the last people I would expect to see things my way. I look at him in surprise and he nods at me.

  “I agree,” someone else speaks up, followed by a couple of others assent. Now it is only the grey haired man who is in disagreement, sitting with his arms crossed and a furious expression on his reddening face.

  “It appears I’ve been outvoted,” he snarls. “But when you fail let me be the first to say I told you so.” With that he stands, showing back from the table and making the bench wobble, dislodging everyone on his side. Stomping from the room, he spins on his heel at the door and delivers his parting words, “We’ll be ready when you fail.”

  “I won’t fail. This is too important.”

  After Ben, Kit and Maya escort me back to the tunnel, Maya gives me a tight hug before Ben lowers me down and Kit descends after me, to help me get out once we reached the exit. The visit had been brief, but productive and I faithfully promise Maya that I’ll come back soon as Ben replaces the grate. They peer down at me as I locate the torch I’d left down here and head back towards the city, following the arrows in reverse. I have just over an hour and a half left.

  Back in the city, I get in a car and head to the building I used to call home. If I’m going to make a speech in front of hundreds of people, as well as being televised throughout the entire city, then I need to look my best. I’m actually surprised when I’m allowed up to the penthouse, I’d assumed my dad would have barred access once he figured out I’d left. Thankfully though, he’s not home, so I don’t have to worry about having that argument right now.

  In my room, I lock the door and glance around. Everything is as I left it. Strange that I only left yesterday, yet it feels like I’ve been away forever. Going to my wardrobe, I tap on the screen set into the door and scroll through my clothing options. Usually Micah does this for me. There are hundreds of choices, it would take me several hours just to sift through them all, but, aware that I’m on a tight schedule and that I have something more important to do before I leave, I quickly settle on a simple sleeveless black skater dress, with a high neckline and a thin tan belt around the waist. The computer very helpfully suggests a pair of matching tan shoes, with a small, sensible heel. Smart but understated. The doors slide open and the rail turns until the dress appears front and centre, the shoes coming around on the conveyer belt built into the floor seconds later. Picking up both items, I quickly slip into them, spritz on a little perfume and drag a brush through my hair, leaving it lose. My makeup skills max out at lip gloss, so that’s all I apply – the last time I tried to do my own makeup I’d poked myself in the eye with the mascara brush and put on so much foundation that I looked like I’d had a really bad fake tan. Thankfully, I have a good complexion most of the time, apart from the smattering of freckles across my nose and cheeks in summer, so I don’t really need all that much.

  Half an hour left. Good thing it’s all occurring directly below me; a quick glance out of the window tells me that people have already begun to arrive, crowding around the wooden stage and big screen. Sitting at my desk, I quickly create a slideshow, using images already stored on my Tab, and look up a few last minute statistics, before downloading it all onto an USB stick and heading towards the elevator, my heart already pounding as I silently go over my speech in my head, my fingers curling around the small devise in my hand.

  Downstairs in the lobby, I gape at the amou
nt of people who’ve turned up since I last checked. The area around the stage is packed and people are still joining at the back of the crowd, craning their necks to see despite the fact that the ‘show’ has yet to start. Slipping into the crowd, I keep my head down as I linger near the stage, waiting along with everyone else. We don’t have to wait long. The moment my dad steps onto the stage everyone goes silent. The screen behind him blinks to life.

  Chapter 25

  Sin stares defiantly out from the screen, those blue eyes hard and unreadable. He’s sitting in a heavy metal chair in a clinical, white walled room, with his wrists cuffed to the arms and his forearms facing upwards. His lack of a Brand is glaringly obvious in this position and his veins stick out a dark greenish blue in his muscular arms. Inserted into one of those veins in his right arm is a cannula, which will be how they get the deadly poison into his system. He will be dead within seconds. Supposedly it will be a totally painless death. And, to avoid any one person receiving any negative repercussions, five people are given an identical button to press at the same time, not know which one will release the poison.

  On the stage, my dad clears his throat, just to make sure he has everyone’s attention before he begins. “Thank you, everyone, for gathering here today to witness the law being upheld,” he begins. “Despite the ugliness of this affair, it is important that justice is done and crimes are punished.” Clearly Colt hadn’t had any luck talking to him.

  “There has been no crime!” someone protests loudly.

  Another person yells out, “This isn’t justice!”

  The desperate pounding of my heart calms; not everyone here is out for blood. Others are taking up the cry in Sin’s defence and my dad is suddenly looking very uncomfortable, running a finger under his collar as a flush colours his neck and face.

  “Everyone, please, listen!” he calls out to the masses. “I assure you, I find all this just as distasteful as you, however, as President it is my duty to see that the law is upheld despite the circumstances. The simple truth of the matter is that this man is a criminal who has broken many of our laws, the most serious of which is his lack of a Brand, as you can well see.” Motioning up to the screen, he pauses before continuing, “Brands are what keep our society safe and well structured, not to have one is to presume you are above the law and that you can do whatever you want without consequences. Many of you don’t understand the significance of this law, but believe me it is paramount to the order of our great city, without it we would fall into disarray and mayhem.”

  As his speech is wrapped up, his supporters cheer and clap, whilst the small group of protesters boo and holler insults. I look up at the screen. Turning his head slightly, Sin makes a fist and releases it, flexing the muscles in the arm that holds the cannula, his features tight. I had briefly forgotten his needle phobia.

  Blowing out a pent-up breath, I make my way over to the stairs and start ascending, but someone sticks out an arm to bar my way, saying, “Miss, you can’t come up here.”

  Before I can say anything, another man appears behind the first, dressed in a smart, dark blue suit, and I immediately recognise him as one of my dads’ advisors. With his hand on the other man’s shoulder, to gain his attention, he snaps, “She’s Mr Beaumont’s daughter, let her through.” If only he knew what I was about to do, he probably wouldn’t be saying that.

  On the stage, I walk directly over to my dad and stand behind him, waiting for him to realize. It only takes a second; he turns to me and the look on his face is priceless, a mixture of surprise and dread.

  “Sunny…” Standing so close to the mic makes his voice boom out over the crowd and he winces, stepping away, pulling me along with him by clasping my arm. “Sunny,” he tries again, “don’t do this now.”

  “When else should I do it, Dad? After the execution would be a little late, don’t you think?”

  “Sunny,” his voice is chiding as around us his advisors begin to mutter amongst themselves, “you, like others here today, don’t understand the magnitude…”

  “I understand just fine,” I interrupt with a snap in my voice, “and I think, deep down, even you know how wrong this is, but you can’t bear to lose face by admitting it, so let me help.” I sweep out a hand to indicate the restless crowd, “Let me talk to them.”

  “I don’t think that’s a wise idea.”

  “You’re my dad and all my life I’ve looked up to you, but right now all I feel is disappointment and I really don’t give a damn what you think because you’re wrong.” Fired up, I move to approach the mic, but he pulls me back, his hand still curled around my upper arm.

  “She’s entitled to her say,” announces a familiar voice and I glance out over the sea of heads to find Colt scowling by the front of the stage.

  “Yeah!” several people cheer, though they don’t know what for. Not bothering to look back at my dad, I yank my arm free and walk to centre stage, reaching out to lower the mic to a better height. For a moment, I just stand there, unsure how to start, watching the crowd shift in front of me. In the end I decide to just jump straight in.

  “I’m sure most of you already know who I am and by now most of you also think you know this man.” I gesture to Sin, continuing, “But the truth is you don’t. His name is Sin, because even when he was a baby, abandoned in the Ghetto by his mother, the people who took him in realized his lack of a Brand was wrong. He was condemned before he was even a day old. All his life he’s been ostracized and feared because of something that was the responsibility of his biological parents and later his foster parents.”

  Cheers from the supporters spur me onto make my next point. “Our society believes the false notion that being a criminal is genetic, despite having no solid, scientific evidence.” As I talk, I make my way over to the screen and run my fingers along the bottom until I locate the USB port, taking the mic with me. Inserting the dongle, I halve the screen so that I can still see Sin, who’s looking slightly confused by the delay, since he’s clueless to what’s going on this side, and bring up my slideshow on the other. The first picture appears and I lift the mic to my mouth. “This is Avery, he got sent to the Ghetto when he was a baby, along with his parents and two sisters, because his Dad got behind on their rent.” I wait for them to absorb that and give them a moment to study the picture of a skinny little boy in baggy clothes. Onto the next picture. This time an old woman with wrinkled, papery skin and thinning white hair appears. “Dora is ninety-eight. She’s been in the Ghetto for almost twenty years, because of a single case of petty theft by her youngest son. Finally,” – I present them with a picture of a sleeping new-born wrapped up in a blanket and cradled in her mothers’ arms, “I want you to meet Briella. She was born in the Ghetto because her mum was accused of prostitution. You tell me, does she deserve to grow up in such an environment?”

  The ensuing silence is satisfying.

  Smiling inside, I hit them with the statistics. “Only one third of the people imprisoned in the Ghetto are actually guilty of a crime, the rest are completely innocent, guilty only by association. Is that fair? Not only that, but do you think that it’s fair for people to be punished so harshly, even if they have committed a crime? In the Ghetto, there is no chance for forgiveness or self-improvement, putting people in an environment like that merely breeds criminals, it doesn’t deter them. People should be given a punishment fitting to the severity of their crime. For example, a rapist shouldn’t be given the same punishment as a petty thief and someone who’s ensconced in debt should be helped, not extradited.” Pausing the slideshow, I walk to the centre of the stage, staring down at my captivated audience. Some look shocked, others angry. I glance back at my dad and his advisors; they stare back impassively.

  “Sin is one of the many people who ended up in the Ghetto through no fault of his own, as I’ve already mentioned he was left there as a new-born. However, what I have yet to say is that at least one of his parents is a high-flying member of this community, someone who is supp
osedly descendent from both British and German royalty, gives thousands of pounds to various charities every year and is held in high esteem by everyone who knows her. The government does not deem her a criminal, yet her cruel and careless actions towards her own infant should be labelled criminal negligence.”

  I wasn’t going to mention any names, but as people begin to call out, wanting to know her identity, a sense of vindictiveness washes over me and I turn to look over at the seats that had been set out for VIP guests to the right of the stage, with a small screen of their own and robot guards to make sure they’re not bothered. It only takes a second to locate Emilie in the front row, wearing a neon pink sheath dress. Her face is deathly pale. Maybe it’s wrong, cruel even, but a savage thrill jolts through me anyway.

  “The woman I’m talking about is none other than Mrs Emilie Sanders.” All eyes turn to her. I hear a gasp from behind me, turn to see my dad’s shocked expression.

  After a second, Emilie regains her composure, sitting up straighter and pushing her shoulders back, chin raised as she says, “It’s all lies, of course.”

  “Actually,” I parry calmly, “there’s indisputable proof.” Going back to the screen, I continue the Slideshow. Thankfully, I had prepared for this. “This,” I point upwards, “is a sample of your blood taken from the official medical database and this,” I tap the screen to hurry it onto the next slide, “is a sample of Sins’ taken only a few hours ago.” I crane my head back to watch as Sins’ sample begins to turn transparent and layers itself over the top of his biological mothers’, showing the unmistakable similarities.

  “This is preposterous,” Emilie splutters, despite the fact that she’s been bested. The people around her whisper to one another and her acne covered son shifts uncomfortably, colouring at all the attention.