Flawed (36 page)

I hug the walls, keep my chin down. I need to get out of here drama-free. I can't afford the extra attention. I feel like a rat scuttling along the gutter, getting under everybody's feet, in everybody's way. My eyes fill, and I let my tears fall, but nobody asks me if I'm okay, because nobody cares, which hurts even more.

I make my way to the cash register. I keep my eyes down. I hear my name on some passerby's lips. I don't look up. I don't want any trouble.

“Hey!” I hear a man call angrily. I keep my head down. It can't be directed at me; I have done nothing wrong.

I study the cotton pads, antiseptic, and bandages and focus on the branding: the swirl of the writing; the happy little cotton ball characters on the packet, with arms and legs and smiling faces. Everything has been given a soul in advertising. Yet the soul is being taken from people. Humanizing objects, dehumanizing people.

“I said, hey!” he yells again.

My heartbeat speeds up. This does not sound good. Slowly, I look up. He's staring at me. As are others. I wonder why the woman at the cash register has slowed down. Why can't she just hurry up so I can get out of here? But I look to her seat and realize she's gone. She is standing away from us. Just as everybody else is doing. Everyone is moving away. A man on my left remains, and so does a man on my right. They are taller than me—I barely reach up to their shoulders—but as I look at them, I understand immediately what the problem is. The flash of red on their armbands is like a warning light right in my face. They are Flawed. Both of them. As am I. Three of us stand together. This is not allowed.

My first reaction is to step away. I have recognized the problem, and now I know the solution. If I step away, then there will be only two. But that is a bad move.

“Stop! Stay right where you are!” The man shouting at me is a policeman.

I step back into line.

“Don't move, Celestine,” the man on my right says gently. “It will be okay.”

“You know me?”

“We all know you.” He smiles.

“Don't talk!” the policeman yells again.

“We've got a wild one,” the man on my left mutters to us both.

“Back away from the desk, the three of you,” he says, panicking. “I need to see you.” He is getting himself worked up over nothing. He is young. He is alone. He is making a stupid mistake.

Despite the fact that we are Flawed, and I am in the middle of them, I feel somewhat safe between the two men. I feel protected. They are young, in their thirties, and they are well built. Strong. One has an
F
on his temple, the other I can't see; it could be his chest, hand, foot, or tongue. Perhaps their age and strength are what panics the police officer all the more. They look like they could do some damage. Wide jaws, broad shoulders, big hands. They remind me of Carrick. Soldiers. I have never stood between two Flawed before, and now I know why we are not allowed. It gives us strength. Security in numbers. They don't want us to feel safe. They don't want us to have power.

“We were just standing in a line,” I finally say, annoyed by the crowd that has gathered to watch this. I feel like an animal in a zoo. I need to get back to Granddad, who is waiting for me in the car, bleeding. “I'm buying cotton balls.” I lift the package up to the police officer. “Nothing dangerous is happening here.”

A few people snigger at my joke.

The police officer's face reddens. “There are three of you standing together. This is against the law.”

“It's not a law,” I say, and the two Flawed men look at me in surprise.

I'm more surprised that the police officer doesn't know this.

“It's just a rule that an organization enforces with punishment. It's not
law
. You can't put me in prison for standing beside these two men. You are a police officer, not a Whistleblower. Your job is to work with communities to protect and serve.”

“Yeah, protecting us from you,” a man shouts out from the crowd.

“No,” I disagree. “Your job is to protect and serve
me
,” I say to the policeman. “I am a part of this community.”

“I won't serve you,
Flawed
,” he snarls, like I'm diseased.

He is a police officer—a member of a force I once trusted, admired, felt protected by. I think of the people who have hissed at me on my walk here today, the children who have been pulled out of my path. I think of the lack of eye contact. The anger rises. Nothing makes sense.

I am a girl of definitions, of logic, of black and white.

“HARP!” I shout at the police officer, feeling the anger fully within me now. I learned this at school. I learned all this. Why doesn't he know these basic principles that I was taught, that he was surely taught, too? Why doesn't anybody in the real world do what we're taught? “
H
is for honesty,” I say, hearing the tremble in my voice, not from fear but from anger. I try to control it. “Being honest and ethical and adhering to the principles of fairness and justice. That's what a police officer must do.
A
is for accountability. Accepting individual responsibility and ensuring public accountability.”

There is a rumble in the crowd. I continue, not moving my eyes from his.

“
R
is for respect! Having respect for people, their human rights and their needs.”

Members of the crowd start to mumble in agreement. The police officer steps closer to me. He lifts his receiver to his mouth and calls for backup.

“Watch it now,” the man to my left says quietly.

The police officer is standing right before me now with a sneer on his face.

“Let them go,” somebody calls from the crowd.

“Yeah, they're not doing any harm. They're just shopping.”

People begin calling out their opinions, which I see panics him some more. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead. He is beginning to lose control. He is badly outnumbered.

“She's the girl from the TV, the famous one,” someone calls out. “You can't arrest her.”

“The girl who has five brands.”

The police officer narrows his eyes as they wander over me, and it registers with him who I am. He looks afraid of me.

“She's the most Flawed of all,” someone else shouts, and others call for him to shut up. The people in the crowd are beginning to argue among themselves.

The police officer lifts the baton from his hip belt.

“Whoa, now,” the man to my right says. “What are you going to do with that?”

“You keep quiet,” he says, sweat on his upper lip now.

“She's just a child,” a woman calls out. “For the love of God, would you all leave her alone.”

Her desperate cry introduces a whole new wave of emotion.

“And you”—he looks at me menacingly—“need to keep your mouth shut. Understand?”

I take a deep breath. I'm not finished. It would be logical to at least finish what I was saying before the inevitable happens. Granddad will know something has happened if I'm not back outside in three minutes. He will know to start the engine and get out of here. Whatever he did in the past will give him that gut instinct.

“Professionalism,” I say, finally, gently, just to the police officer. “Providing a professional policing service to
all
communities.”

He looks over my shoulder, and I twist my body around to see what he's looking at, but there's nothing behind me. By the time I realize he was trying to trick me, he brings the baton down and hits me across the back of my legs. I crumple and go down. The antiseptic bottle smashes as it hits the ground.

It's almost as if there is a second when everybody takes a moment to make a decision, to pick a side, to figure out who it is one really is. And then the riot begins.

 

SIXTY-THREE

THE FEET I
see standing around us, once observers, are now in on the act. They suddenly take flight, and they are everywhere. Some are on me, trampling me, some are doing their best to block for me, but every time I try to get up, I am swiftly brought back down to earth again. With a bang, with a knock, winded, I lie on the ground, hands covering my head, waiting for the black spots in my vision to clear. I feel hands trying to pull me up, hands trying to push me down. I can barely breathe. Then I hear the whistles. The Whistleblowers have arrived, and I see black leather boots descending on the scene. Some people run away, more people hear about what's happening and join in. I see fists flying, blood spraying. I don't even know who is on whose side anymore. At one point, when I manage to see straight, I think I see Enya Sleepwell standing at the door of the supermarket, watching. But I have been knocked on the head too many times, and I know I'm seeing things. I give up trying to fight, trying to stand, and, instead, I lie down as I feel another blow to my head as a boot steps backward, not knowing I'm there, and I feel the leather on my cheek. Then it's all a blur.

I hear noises and then I hear nothing. A buzzing in my ear seems to block out most of the sound. I'm on the ground, and then I'm floating, and I wonder if I'm dead, if this is what it's like to rise toward the light. But the light is only the strip lighting of the supermarket, and I realize I'm alive, but I'm flying. Then I feel hands around my body, large, comforting, safe. Those hands place my arms around his neck. I feel flesh. My head rests on a chest. I feel flesh on my cheek. I focus on the chest and see an
F
, just like mine, below the clavicle, where a T-shirt has been ripped in the fight. A Flawed man is carrying me. He smells good, of clean sweat and something else I can't place, but I feel safe. He carries me like I'm a baby, and I cling to him, turning my head to his chest, my head resting beneath his chin to block out the light that hurts my eyes. As we move, I run my fingertip over the
F
on his chest, which makes us stop moving. I have never felt anybody else's scar. It feels like mine. Five of mine, but not like the final one on my spine. The one that was done without any anesthetic, which made me jump and the sear moved, smudged. I see his large Adam's apple move as he gulps at my touch. I allow my finger to rest there on his chest. Even though he's a stranger, the feel of the brand is comforting, like my own skin.

I know immediately who this is. I move my head away from his chest and look upward and see that he's looking down at me.

Carrick.

With his intense eyes, worried and concerned as I smile at him. Carrick, who I only ever really saw through glass. There's no glass now. Despite the madness around us, he returns my smile.

“I told you I'd find you.”

And we float away, away from the light, away from the sound.

 

SIXTY-FOUR

I WAKE UP
with a groan, feeling raw from head to toe. I'm in my bed, in my house. It is dark apart from the light from the landing shining through the gap in the door. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, but soon I can make everything out. There is no one in the chair beside my bed. I am still wearing the clothes I was wearing earlier. It is night outside, which means only a few hours have passed since I remember being awake. The events in the supermarket come back to me in a rush, and I think of Granddad, of his waiting outside for me and of his bleeding wound. I need to get my phone to call him, to make sure he escaped safely, but voices downstairs stop that thought.

The voices are low and urgent. Then I hear Mom's voice, quick and pleading, higher and faster than usual, and it is quickly talked over by someone else. I recognize the voice, but it can't be.
Crevan, downstairs!
I must be dreaming. He wouldn't be here, in this house. I try to sit up but groan again. My stomach is sore; my ribs must be broken, at least one of them. My hand goes to my stomach and I feel a bandage wrapped around me. I swing my legs out of bed. I'm dizzy. I wait with closed eyes for the floor to stop spinning, for the nausea to pass.

I see water beside my bed and gulp it down. I manage to stand, feeling an ache everywhere, in every muscle. I don't remember getting home, though I remember the floating sensation in the supermarket, being held by Carrick, feeling so comfortable and safe in his arms. His smiling at me, my resting my head against his chest and closing my eyes. After that, my memory is gone, and I wonder, did I imagine him? Was he real?

My door opens, and Juniper steps inside. There is panic on her face, and I know something is very wrong. “Celestine, you're awake.”

“What's wrong?” I think of Granddad being left behind and prepare for the worst.

Her breathing is fast. “Crevan is here. Downstairs. He's threatening Mom and Dad. He says Dad will lose his job and they will be imprisoned if they don't hand you over right now.”

My mouth falls open.

“He's going to call the Whistleblowers to take you away if they don't bring you downstairs themselves, but I don't believe him. He would have called them by now himself. He's up to something. I think he just wants to take you somewhere himself. What does he want to do with you, Celestine? Do you know? Is it about Art? He asked them where the video is. They don't know what he's talking about. Do you? He says you have it and he needs it.”

I look at her, feeling dizzy, confused. He knows about Mr. Berry's video.
How?
He thinks
I
have it. I need to speak with Pia. She's the only person who knew about it other than Mr. Berry and Carrick. She was the one searching for it. Suddenly I'm worried for her. I haven't heard from her in days. Then I remember my phone call with Mr. Berry's husband. Crevan must have been listening in. My phone was bugged.

“Mom and Dad are trying to talk him out of taking you. He says you were at a Flawed rally this evening. And then caused a riot at the supermarket. Two people died. The police fired tear gas. It's all over the news. There are riots on the streets. The media are blaming you. Somebody filmed it, but Celestine, my God, Celestine.” Her eyes fill up, and she starts crying. “I watched it, and I am so proud of you. I could never have said what you said, could never have done what you've done. The court, the chamber, the supermarket … I don't know how you've done it, but you're amazing, and I'm so proud of you. He says he'll drop the charges if you give him the video.”