Perfect

As a result, I was seen to have lied to the Guild. I brought them on a journey of deceit, grabbed people’s attention, and then admitted the truth publicly. They had to make an example of me. I understand now that my brandings were really for misleading the Guild, for embarrassing them and causing people to question their validity.

One of the strengths of the Guild is that they feed the media. They work alongside each other, feeding each other, and the media feeds the people. We are told that the judges are right, the branded are wrong. The story is obscured, never fully heard, the voice of reason lost through the foghorn of a Whistleblower siren.

Among the long list of anti-Flawed decrees, Flawed are not allowed to have positions of power in the workplace, such as managerial roles or any functions where they have influence over people’s thinking. In theory, non-management jobs are open to the Flawed but, despite that, most Flawed are discriminated against in the workplace. Granddad isn’t one of those employers. He goes out of his way to find Flawed workers, to treat them exactly as he’d treat anyone else.

Dahy is his longest-standing employee. With Granddad for thirty years, he has an ugly scar on his temple for his bad decision to grab the child. His brand was seared before the Guild managed to finesse the Branding Chamber and its tools. Still, it is nothing in comparison to the sixth brand on my spine, the secret one that Judge Crevan gave me. That’s a personal message, and it was done in anger, without practice and without anaesthetic. It’s a raw, shocking scar.

Dahy is making another bad decision right now, colluding with Granddad in hiding me. Granddad could get a minimum of six months’ prison time for aiding a Flawed, but as a Flawed man, helping another Flawed, I dread to think of what Dahy’s punishment could be. As a Flawed person you think life couldn’t be any worse for you until the Guild turns on your family and uses them to inflict further punishment and pain.

The three of us stare down into the rectangular pit in the ground. I hear doors slam – multiple doors – and I imagine a Whistleblower army in their red combat gear and black boots. They will be with us in a matter of minutes. I lower myself into the pit and lie down.

“Cover me,” I say.

Granddad pauses, but Dahy tugs at the sheet and gets it in motion. Granddad’s hesitancy could cost me.

Once the sheet is over me, they start adding the wood and moss that I gathered from the forest that morning. Never mind digging my own grave: I’d prepared the coffin too.

The footsteps draw near.

“We need to get to Carrick immediately,” Granddad says quietly, and I agree silently.

I hear the crunching of boots on soil.

“Cornelius,” Mary May says suddenly, and my heart pounds. Everything about her terrifies me, a woman so heartless she reported her entire family to the Guild for immoral practices in their family business, in retaliation for her sister stealing her boyfriend. She has always been present for the searches of the farmhouse, but now it seems she has returned with an army. Or at least twelve others.

“Mary May,” Granddad says gruffly. “Siren run out of batteries today?”

Another stick lands on top of me, hard. Thrown into the pit casually to throw her off the scent, no doubt. It lands right on my stomach and I fight the urge to groan and move.

Mary May doesn’t do banter, or humour, or conversation. What she says goes. “What’s that?”

“A food pit,” Granddad says.

The two of them are standing over me, on my left-hand side. I feel logs land on me from the other side, which means Dahy is still here.

“Which is?”

“Have you never heard of a food pit? I thought a country girl from the yellow meadows like you would know all about it.”

“No. I don’t.” Her words are clipped. She doesn’t like that he knows where she’s from. Granddad enjoys doing that, putting her off, showing her he knows things about her. It’s subtle, and it’s jolly in tone, but the undertones are threatening.

“Well, I dig a hole, put a sheet on the base. Cover it with logs. Light them. Then when it’s smouldering, I add the food and cover it with soil. Twenty-four hours later the food is cooked in the ground it grew from. Absolutely delicious. No food like it. Learned it from my pops, who learned it from his.”

“That’s a coincidence,” Mary May says. “Digging a hole just before we arrive. You wouldn’t be hiding anything in there, would you?”

“No coincidence when I wasn’t expecting you today. And it’s an annual ritual – ask anyone on the farm. Isn’t that right, Dahy?” Another bunch of logs and moss land on my body.

Ow.

“That’s right, boss,” Dahy says.

“You expect me to believe a Flawed?” The disgust at even being spoken to by one is clear in her voice.

There’s a long silence. I concentrate on my breathing. The sheet hasn’t been flattened on all sides, air creeps in, but not enough. This hiding place was a ridiculous idea, but it was my ridiculous idea. I’m regretting it now. I could have taken my chances hiding in the forest – maybe Mary May could have got lost in there forever too, the two of us hunting and hiding from each other for the rest of our lives.

I hear Mary May slowly walking round the pit, perhaps she can see my body shape, perhaps not. Perhaps she is about to pull it all off me and reveal me right now. I concentrate on my breathing, everything is too heavy on me, I wish they’d stop piling on the wood.

“That wood’s for burning, then?” she asks.

“Yes,” says Granddad.

“So set it on fire,” she says.

“What?” says Granddad.

“You heard me.”

On top of me is the white sheet. Above it, firewood and moss. Suddenly, something shifts and the sheet that has been rucked up, giving me space to breathe, collapses to my skin. I try to blow it away but I can’t move it. And now Mary May wants to set me on fire. She knows I’m here. I’m the mouse caught in the trap.

Granddad tries to talk her out of it. He wasn’t intending on lighting it quite yet. The food isn’t ready; it needs to be wrapped up. It will all take time. She tells him she has time. She tells Dahy to prepare the food, but she doesn’t care about the food: she is more intent on setting me alight. She tells Granddad to concentrate on the fire. She’s not asking him – she’s telling him. She knows there’s nobody on this farm to share the food other than a bunch of Flawed, and she has no respect for their plans.

It’s happening now.

I feel another bundle land on my legs. Granddad is taking his time, chatting, dilly-dallying, doing his old-man-persona trick.

“Put one there,” she says.

It lands on my chest.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I close my eyes, try to return to the yacht. My eighteenth birthday, the chocolate fondue, the music, the breeze, the person I should be, not the person I am. I try to go far away, but I can’t disappear. I’m here and now. The logs are heavy on my body; the air is close.

Mary May wants him to hurry. If I’m discovered, then Granddad will be punished too. I take deep breaths, not wanting my chest to visibly rise and fall beneath the sheet and logs.

“I have a lighter,” Mary May says.

Granddad laughs at that. A big hearty boom. “Well, that won’t do. My tools are in the barn. You stay here with Dahy, watch how he prepares the food. I’ll be back.”

It’s the way he says it. So untrustworthy, it’s obvious that he’s lying. He’s so clever. She thinks he’s trying to get away from her, that there’s something or someone in the barn that he needs to hide from her. He’s so insistent on her staying here with Dahy that, of course, her attention leaves the pit and she insists on going to the barn with him. Dahy can help me out of here, lift some of the wood off.

But of course she then contacts her fellow Whistleblowers and tells them to accompany Dahy, to help him gather all the Flawed workers and line them up at the cooking pit.

She’s going to burn me out for everyone to see.

As soon as I hear their footsteps die away and their voices fade, I try to come up for air. Terrified it’s a trick and that Mary May will be standing beside me with a swarm of Whistleblowers, I fight my way out from under the sheet and timber. It’s more difficult than I thought; it’s heavy – Granddad has really piled on the wood.

No longer concerned about the possible trap, I don’t want to suffocate, and so I use both legs to kick up. The timber goes flying. I do the same with my arms, pushing the wood up and out. Some of it lands on my legs and shins, and I gasp with pain. I pull the sheet away and feel the air on my face. I gulp it in hungrily. I climb out of my grave and run towards the woods. As soon as I’m at the edge of the farm that leads into blackness, and safety, I look back. The pit is a mess. If I leave it like that it will be obvious that Granddad hid me and led Mary May away for my escape. He will suffer for my carelessness. They’ll know I’m here and they’ll find me in seconds. I will have no hope escaping from so many Whistleblowers in this wood.

I hear Granddad’s and Mary May’s voices in the distance as they return from the barn. Granddad is speaking loudly, perhaps deliberately, to warn me.

I look to the pit and back to the woods to possible freedom. I have no choice.

I sprint back to the pit, fix the sheet and the strewn timber and moss as quickly and neatly as I can, hearing their footsteps, so close now. My heart thumps wildly; I feel the throbbing in my neck and head. It’s as though I’m moving in slow motion, like this is a nightmare that I can only hope to wake from. But it’s not. It’s happening for real. I see the flash of red of Mary May’s uniform, then I run again. I’ve barely entered the woods and hidden behind the first tree when they come fully into sight. I’m sure they’ve seen me. Terrified, I push my back flat against the trunk, heart pounding, chest heaving.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t just use my lighter,” Mary May says, irritated. She’s annoyed she didn’t find me in the barn.

Granddad laughs, mockingly, which I know will anger her further. “No, no. You’ve got to be authentic. This tradition is thousands of years old. It’s one thing you forcing me to do this before I’d intended to, but if I’m lighting it, I’m lighting it my way.”

He sounds adamant and I know none of it is for real. Though he does like authenticity, he isn’t adverse to matchsticks or lighters; he simply went to the barn to give me a chance to escape.

He starts to light a fire using flint and his penknife. I’ve seen Granddad do this numerous times; he can light a fire in a matter of seconds but he messes around now, playing the part of a confused old man. He’s buying time, either because he knows I’ve escaped and is giving me time to hide or because he’s afraid I’m still under the pile of stones and he doesn’t want to set me on fire. I want to shout to him that it’s okay, that I’m not in the pit, but I can’t, so instead I listen to his agonising wait and steal a glimpse of his face. He’s not so confident now.

“What’s wrong, Cornelius?” Mary May asks slyly. “Afraid to set it on fire?”

Granddad looks lost. Torn. Tortured.

Dahy arrives with more Whistleblowers, not the huge army I’d expected. Two men and one woman, and a line of the eight Flawed farmworkers. They look haggard, as though Dahy has told them what’s about to happen.

“His papers and all the others are in order,” a female Whistleblower says to Mary May.

“Still in order since you checked them yesterday,” Granddad says. “And two days before that, and two days before that, and the three days before that. You know I might report you to the police for intimidation.”

“And we might take you in for aiding a Flawed,” the Whistleblower replies.

“On what grounds?” Granddad demands.

“On the grounds that the only people you seem to hire are Flawed workers, and you house them right here on your land.”

“I’m only doing what’s legal.”

“You’re going beyond what’s legal. Most Flawed get minimum wage. All your workers are on more. They get paid more than some Whistleblowers.”

“What do you think, Flawed?” A male Whistleblower takes over, while Mary May is silent. “Is the old man giving you special treatment? Think you’re able to escape us here?”

Dahy is wise enough to not say anything.

“I don’t let anything get past me here,” says Dan, the Whistleblower in charge of the Flawed farmworkers. This is his patch, his colleague’s suggestions that he lets them have free roam is an insult.

“Light the fire,” Mary May says, ending the feud.

Finally the fire sparks. There are so many Whistleblowers I’m afraid to move in case they hear me. The forest floor is covered in branches, twigs, leaves, everything that can give me away in seconds.

Granddad takes the flame to the moss and I’m afraid that he won’t do it, that he’ll give the game away, that they’ll find me. Have faith in me, Granddad. I’m your flesh and blood; have faith that I got away.

“What are you hiding, old man? Celestine? Is she under there? If she is, don’t you worry, we’ll smoke her out,” Mary May says.

“I told you she’s not here,” Granddad says suddenly, and he throws the flame on to the pit. The moss lights quickly and spreads to the twigs and logs. Dahy looks at Granddad, head hanging weakly; Granddad and the Whistleblowers watch the fire spread, waiting for the sounds of my screams. I watch them thinking that I’m under there, the smugness and satisfaction on the Whistleblowers’ faces. This fills me with so much anger and hatred for them that any thoughts I had of giving myself in, of giving up on my freedom, dissolve immediately. I will not give up; I can’t let them win.

“So what now?” a male Whistleblower asks, disappointed that the show hasn’t delivered.

“Well.” Granddad clears his throat, trying to keep his cool, but I know that he’s rattled. He has either set fire to his granddaughter, or he hasn’t. I could have passed out from lack of air; I could still be under there. The fire is spreading.

“We let it burn until it smoulders, then we pile the food in and cover it with soil.”

“Do it.”

Granddad looks at Mary May, lost, old, hope seeming to be gone. But the hate in him is clearly greater than ever. “Waiting for it to burn to a smoulder will take hours.”

“We have time,” she says.

They stay there for three hours.

My muscles burn, my feet ache, but I’m afraid to move.

When the fire has reduced to a smoulder, Granddad and Dahy are ordered to place the bundles of food on to the coals. The farmworkers watch from their orderly line, their F brand armbands all visible on their right arms, just above their elbow.

This was supposed to be a celebration, a coming-together to show that the Guild couldn’t beat them down. Now the Whistleblowers themselves are here. Hiding behind the tree, huddled on the ground, hugging my legs, shivering from the damp forest, I can’t say that I feel empowered. This feels like a defeat.

Granddad and Dahy cover the food with the soil so it will cook under the ground in the heat. Granddad looks at the ground, his work finished, as though he’s buried me alive. Again I want to call out to him that I’m okay, I made it out, but I can’t.

A phone rings and the female Whistleblower takes it. She steps aside, walks away from the others, so she can talk in private. She moves closer to me in the woods. I tense up again.

“Judge Crevan, hello. It’s Kate. No, Judge, Celestine isn’t here. We’ve checked everywhere.”

Silence as she listens and I hear Crevan’s voice from where I stand. Kate walks further and stops by my tree.

I press my back to the tree, squeeze my eyes shut, and hold my breath.

“With all due respect, Judge, this is the Guild’s sixth visit to the property and I believe Mary May was meticulous in her search. We’ve checked everywhere you can imagine. I don’t believe she’s here. I think the grandfather is telling the truth.”

I can hear the frustration in her voice. They’re all under pressure to find me, pressure placed on them by Judge Crevan. Kate takes a few more steps, right into my eyeline.

She slowly scans the forest, her eyes searching the distance.

Then she looks right at me.

I expect her to tell Crevan that she’s found me, hang up, call to the others, blow the large red whistle that hangs on a gold chain round her neck, but she stays calm, her voice not changing. She is looking right through me as though she can’t see me at all. Has it come to this? Have I been hiding so long that I’m no longer visible? I actually look down at my hands to make sure I can see myself.

“You’d like us to take the grandfather to Highland Castle,” Kate says, looking me up and down, continuing the conversation as if I’m not there.

Why isn’t she telling him I’m here?

The news that they’re going to take Granddad to Highland Castle, to Judge Crevan, the man who personally branded me and destroyed my life, causes the panic to well in my chest. It’s quickly followed by a large wave of anger. They can’t take my granddad.

“We’ll bring him in now,” she says, eyes still on me, and I’m waiting for the bombshell, for the moment she tells Mary May and Judge Crevan that I’m right here, beside her. “We’ll be with you in two hours.”

I’m about to scream at her, punch her, kick her, yell that she cannot take me and my granddad, but I stop myself. There is something peculiar about the way she is looking at me.

She puts the phone in her pocket, fixes me with a long stare as if she’s trying to think of something to say, then decides against it, and turns and leaves.

“Right, old man,” she calls to Granddad. “We’re taking you in. Judge Crevan needs words with you.”

Even after I hear the vehicles drive away, I stay where I am. I sit in the cramped and damp conditions of a hollowed-out tree, trying to understand what exactly has happened.

Why didn’t she take me?

It’s been one hour since Mary May left with my beloved granddad in tow, carting him off as if he’s some kind of criminal. I’m still huddling behind the tree, exhausted, hungry, cold, and very afraid. I can smell the smoke from the pit, smouldering under the earth, cooking the food that probably no one will eat now that Granddad is gone. I feel an overwhelming guilt at his being in this position, and I’m scared of what they’ll do to him in Highland Castle.

I’m scared, too, of what he might be thinking. Does he fear he burned me alive? I wish there was a way to tell him I wasn’t there, in the pit.

When all the vehicles left, initially I was afraid to move, thinking it was a test or a tease, that as soon as I came out of the woodwork they’d grab me. Then I waited, thinking perhaps the farmworkers would come for me, but they didn’t, in lockdown at this hour by their Whistleblower, Dan.

It’s after the 11:00 PM curfew, the time when checkpoints and searches on individuals increase. It’s not a good time to be roaming alone, though at least I can move around under the cover of darkness. I’ve decided that going back to the farmhouse is out of the question, despite its warmth and the welcoming light on the porch.

Perhaps I can make it to Granddad’s nearest neighbour. Can I trust them for help?

But then what did Granddad tell me? Rule number one: Don’t trust anybody.

Suddenly I hear a vehicle return. A door slams. Followed by two more. They’re back. I feel so stupid now. Why didn’t I run? Why did I allow them to return to get me?

I hear footsteps nearby. Male voices I don’t recognise, and then one that I do, clear as anything.

“Here’s the pit,” Dahy says. “She was in here.”

Can I trust Dahy? Or is he the one who called the Whistleblowers in the first place? Has he sold me out, or has he been forced to help another Whistleblower team to find me? I don’t know who to believe. I’m cold; I’m scared; I could either jump up and yell “Save me!” and ruin everything I’ve done to get to this point, or I could sit tight. Sit tight. Sit tight.

“She must have gone into the forest,” another man says.

I see the light from a torch stretch in front of me, illuminating the black forest for what seems like hundreds of miles. Tall, thick tree trunks for as far as the eye can see. Even if I run that way and the Whistleblowers don’t see me, I’ll be lost in no time.

It’s over, Celestine; it’s over.

But even though I tell myself that, I’ll never give up. I think of Crevan’s face as he hissed at me in the Branding Chamber asking me to repent; I think of Carrick’s hand pressed up against the glass as he watched it all unfold, the offer of friendship. The anger burns through me; I hear the footsteps near my tree and I unfold myself from my cramped position. I stretch my arms and legs, and on one, two … I fire myself out of the hole, catapulting into the woods, startling whatever is living nearby and I sprint with stiff legs.

The men jump into action straight away.

“There!”

The torch moves to find me; I dodge its line of fire and instead use it to see what’s in front of me. I dodge trees’ long, thin pine needles; duck and dive; and hear them closing in fast behind me.

“Celestine,” a voice hisses angrily, coming close. I keep running, I smack my head against a low branch and feel momentarily dizzy, but I don’t have time to stop and centre myself. They’re closing in on me, three of them. Three frenzied torch beams as they run.

“Celestine!” A voice calls louder, and another hushes him.

Why are they hushing? I’m dizzy, I think I’ve cut my head, all I know is that I need to keep running; it’s what my mum told me to do. Granddad said don’t trust anyone. Dad said to trust Granddad. I need to keep moving.

The torches suddenly go off and I’m running in pitch blackness. I stop still, my breathing all I can hear. I don’t know which way is forward or which is back the way I came; I am utterly disorientated in the dense forest. Panic descends again, then I take control. I close my eyes, allowing calm to encapsulate me. I can do this. I turn round, trying to see light from the farmhouse in the distance, or any clues. As I move, twigs snap between my feet.

Then I feel strong arms round my waist, a smell of sweat.

“Got her,” he says.

I fight against his grip, but it’s no use: there’s no room to move. I keep trying anyway, wriggling with all my energy to hopefully exhaust him, hit him, scratch him, kick him.

A torch goes on, someone is shining it in my face. Both my captor and I look away from the harsh light.

“Let her go, Lennox,” says the man holding the torch, and I stop wriggling immediately.

The arms release me, and the torch is passed to Dahy, who holds it so that the speaker is illuminated.