Flawed / Perfect

Half an hour later, with quivering legs, I stand at the enormous wooden double doors, with their elaborately carved embellishments, that lead out to the infamous cobblestoned courtyard. I know it from the daily news, seeing people walk back and forth from the court to the Clock Tower, giving the public and the media an opportunity to see the accused and vent their feelings. Mum and Dad are on one side of me, Mum linking my arm, and Mr Berry is on the other side. We are flanked by Tina and Bark.

Mr Berry adjusts his tie. “Is this straight?” he asks Tina.

Tina nods and then throws Bark a look that is easily deciphered.

I take a deep breath as the doors open, and I am greeted with sights and sounds that I could never have prepared myself for. The first thing I see is a cabbage that flies directly at me and hits me square in the chest. Boos and hisses fill my ears and my head. Mr Berry starts walking, taking me along with him. For a moment I can feel Mum’s hesitancy, but then, as though she’s on a catwalk, she gets into her stride and I follow her lead, lifting my chin, trying to avoid the flour, eggs and spit that are flying from the public.

Mr Berry is giving me orders through his big smile: Smile, don’t smile, chin up, don’t look worried or guilty, don’t react, ignore that man, watch out for that flying dog shit. All this he says through a perfect smile. Dimples and all.

I link Mum even tighter, moving my body closer to hers, and take a quick look at her. She is holding Dad’s hand, her head up, her face completely serene and her hair in an elaborate chignon. I try to copy her, nothing out of place, composure, innocence, serenity, perfection.

The cameras are in my face; the flashes are blinding. I hear some questions, but others I can’t.

“Are you Flawed, Celestine?”

“Who are you wearing?”

“Do you believe the Guild will give you a fair and balanced trial?”

“Are you hoping for the same outcome as Jimmy Child?”

“Who’s your favourite music artist right now?”

“Is it true you got a nose job?”

“What is your opinion on the government and the Guild’s current relationship?”

I think of the many people over the decades who have walked this walk, who walk over perfect and walk back Flawed, through a courtyard of catcalling and convictions, over cobblestones of prejudice. I think of Carrick, who returned this morning with flour on his T-shirt. I understand why now. We are to be held up to the rest of the world as a mirror of their worst nightmares. Scapegoats for all that is wrong in their lives.

Cameras are in my face, and this feels like the longest walk ever. Microphones, jeering, catcalls, wolf whistles. I feel the muscles around my eyes tremble and wonder if it’s noticeable. I quickly search the faces in the crowd. They are the faces of normal, everyday people, but filled with loathing. Some are merely interested to see what’s going on; others throw themselves into it. One woman gives me a nod. It’s respectful, and I’m thankful for that one effort.

And then we are inside.

“I see people need convincing of our story,” Mr Berry says, a little shaken as he brushes down his suit.

Three judges in blood-red robes sit at the head of the room, at a raised level. The majority of the room is laid out with rows of chairs. It is not a typical courtroom, because it is in a ballroom of the old castle. There is not a free seat. At the back, people are crushed and standing. I assume they are the press, but on closer inspection, I see that they are all wearing armbands and that they are all Flawed. They stand in twos, broken up by a member of the media or a public spectator in accordance with the Flawed gathering rules.

I sit at my table at the head of all the seating, beside Mr Berry.

Mum and Dad sit in the front row behind me. There is no sign of Juniper. I look around desperately for Art, hoping for the energy that simply seeing him will give me. No sign of him, which breaks my heart. I see my granddad and I almost weep. He tips his hat.

Bosco asks me to stand.

“Celestine North,” he begins. “You stand before me charged with the offence of being a Flawed citizen of this country, for acting on an error of judgement, and as a result face ousting from regular society. Do you deny or accept this accusation?”

“Deny,” I say, my voice tiny in the large room, and I’m glad it’s over, that it’s the only thing I have to say today, because I fear that my legs, which are shaking so much, will crumple beneath me.

“Very well. We hear your plea and will over the course of your trial hear from witnesses to both the event and your character. Based on that, we will announce our findings. You may leave now, go to your home, and return to us here tomorrow morning at—”

“Just a moment, Judge Crevan,” Judge Sanchez interrupts. “Myself, and Judge Jackson, would like to put forward the motion that Ms North remain in our holding cells until the trial is over.”

Bosco looks surprised to hear this.

“We feel that due to the status of Ms North, and the attention garnered, that her going back to her home, to her life, could give her opportunity or give others opportunity to use her and her situation to their advantage.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of this,” Bosco says angrily. “And I am opposed to the idea. We only detain the accused if they pose a risk of running, and Ms North is not a threat. It would be impossible for her to disappear given the attention on her.”

“Indeed, Judge Crevan, but given the attention on her, we would like to prevent a circus, a spectacle being made of such a serious case.”

“But if she stays in her home, speaks to no one?”

“This was the same for Jimmy Child, and we know that the parameters put in place were breached.”

Bosco bristles at this, as though it has been directed at him personally. “Ms North is not Mr Child.”

“No, but we have learned from it. We feel that it is in the best interests of the Guild and the accused to confine this case within the walls of Highland Castle.”

“We need to discuss this in my chamber. This is not something that can just be—”

“I propose it now,” Judge Sanchez says coolly.

“And I favour it,” Judge Jackson agrees.

“And I oppose it,” Bosco says, bewildered. “She is just a child.”

“She will be eighteen in six months, and she is being held away from the other detainees. Only one other accused is in the same chamber as her, an eighteen-year-old detainee, which is the best we can do given the circumstances.”

Bosco is speechless.

“And so it is passed. Celestine North will return to her holding cell for the duration of her trial.” Judge Sanchez bangs the gavel against the block and looks smug.

The room erupts.

Mr Berry stares at Bosco in stunned silence, while the rest of the room is in constant movement, spinning.

“How can this happen?” Mum is asking Mr Berry, who is so still it is as though he can’t hear her. She grabs the arm of his suit, which is pin-striped with pink fine lines. “How could you let this happen?”

“There’s something going on,” he says, more to himself, but I hear him.

He looks at me, and there is a crack in the smooth exterior. I see pity in his eyes, and that, from him, terrifies me. “I’m sorry, Ms North. It appears even Judge Crevan’s enemies have decided to use you as a pawn in their game.”

When I return to the holding cell, covered in I-don’t-know-what was thrown at me on the return journey, Carrick immediately jumps up. He is as surprised to see me as I am to be back here. I am dazed and confused. Tina guides me into the cell. I have already said goodbye to my parents. Carrick follows me all the way from the door to my bed, the entire length of the cell. For the first time since I got here, he demands my attention. Even though this is what I’ve wanted since I saw him, I can’t look at him. He wants an explanation. Everybody thought I’d go home; everybody thought I’d get away with this. Carrick thought he knew the rules, but the rules changed. He needs to know what is going on more than anyone else. If I am doomed, then so is he.

I can’t be bothered to give him an explanation. I don’t have one. I feel completely numb. I sit on my bed, staring into space, still feeling his eyes on me. He stands at the glass, two hands pressed up against it, almost ordering me to look at him. I want Art. I need Art. Only he could make everything all right, right now. I lie down and turn my back to Carrick, and I don’t move all night, because I don’t want him or anyone else to see me cry.

After a night of nightmares, of hearing that man in the Branding Chamber screaming in anguish, of dreaming of bleeding tongues and of ghoulish Flawed reaching for me and grabbing at me from the barricades as I walk through the courtyard, I wake up feeling exhausted and scared, confused as to where I am. It is the day that I will testify on my own behalf. The day I tell Bosco’s lie. It is Naming Day.

I’m awake at five am, lie still until five-thirty and then get up, pacing like a caged animal waiting for everything to commence. Carrick wakes at six and lies in his bed, sleepily watching me from under his blankets. After a while, he sits up, back against the wall, knees raised, elbows resting on his knees, already familiar with this routine. This frustrates me even more. There is nowhere I can escape him, apart from the small toilet, but I can’t spend any amount of time in there longer than necessary. I’m sure they’ve made it the size of a hole for a reason.

At eight am Tina and Funar come to our cells, and we are guided to the showers. I expect Carrick to ignore me as he did most of the day yesterday, but he gives me a light nod, and there’s something softer behind his eyes. Perhaps I’ve gone up in his estimation in not being sent home yesterday, and I understand. I have always felt that he and I are in this together, ever since I saw him walk into the holding cells. For him, it took about eighteen hours to agree. Even in all the times I woke up during the night, afraid and disoriented, I looked across at Carrick and immediately felt oriented. He was the trigger to calm me, nothing else in the room. I don’t know if having someone of his build on my side is simply wishful thinking. I know this connection seems so intense over such a short period, but I feel as though I’m in a pressure cooker, and he is the only person in it with me who could possibly understand. Experiencing it at the same age only adds to that connection.

I smile a good morning, and he holds out his hand to let me walk ahead of him. Funar whistles lightly, childishly, a whit-whoo, and Tina tells him to shut up. I smile and look behind me quickly to catch Carrick’s reaction. Not so much a smile as a light behind his eyes. Maybe they’re green. Our eyes meet to share the joy of Funar’s embarrassment at being silenced, and then I quickly turn back to follow Tina. I feel self-conscious that Carrick’s behind me, and I’m also hoping we’re not being taken for another “lesson”. I guess that we’re not, seeing as Tina is here, and I wonder if I should tell her what happened yesterday when she was upstairs, or if I should suck it up as Carrick has done. Perhaps there are rules in bravery. If so, I will follow Carrick’s lead.

He’s taken left; I go right. After the shower, I dress in fresh clothes and I’m taken back to my cell. Carrick is already in his cell, sitting at a table with a dumpy man in a tattered suit. Carrick’s hair has a shine to it, still wet, and he looks freshly shaven and is in a new sludgy-green T-shirt. I’m sure Mum would have chosen something else, something warmer, to bring out his eyes, whatever colour they are, but I like it. It’s like he’s a soldier, because it strikes me that he’s not looking for clemency, he’s looking for a fight. I study him when he’s not looking, to see what colour his eyes are. I don’t know why I’m obsessing over this. I suppose it’s because Art’s are so clearly blue. You see them before you see him. They’re one of the things I love most about him, whereas with Carrick, his eyes seem black, but they can’t possibly be. Perhaps his pupils are just constantly dilated from anger.

The dumpy man in Carrick’s cell has a red, flustered face, and it looks like breathing is a difficult act for him. He rifles through papers. They’re talking and it’s intense, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. The man is explaining something. He is hot and bothered, and Carrick’s face is angry already.

My door opens. It’s Tina.

“Who’s he?” I ask.

“His adviser.”

I notice she never uses Carrick’s name.

“But I thought he was representing himself.”

“He is, but he still needs assistance. Paperwork to be filed, et cetera. Paddy is his mentor. You would be sent one, too, but you have Mr Berry.”

I look at Paddy, who seems like he’s about to die of a coronary, and I’m once again grateful for Mr Berry despite the fact that in any other situation, I wouldn’t trust him. Just enough to trust him with my life.

“There’s someone here to see you. In the canteen.”

My heart flips. Art. I need him. I want to be back on the summit with my legs wrapped around him, feeling his heartbeat through his chest. I know that as soon as I see him, I will feel calm and human again, and not like this caged animal.

As we’re walking by Carrick’s cell, something, a flash of colour, attracts my notice. I don’t hear anything, because the glass is soundproof, but I see it out of the corner of my eye. I stop walking and look to see a tray of food fall from the window to the ground, cups and saucers and food lying in pieces on the floor of his cell. Behind it is an angry Carrick, the one responsible for firing it directly at my head, his face twisted in anger and aggression.

I’m stunned. It was clearly aimed at me, but I can’t figure out what I’ve done.

Tina surprises me by laughing. “So I guess he just found out.”

“Found out what?”

“Bark! Funar!” she calls. “Bad egg.”

Funar appears at the guards’ office door and grunts.

She turns back to me, and we continue walking. “He’s learned that his case is on hold until yours is finished,” she replies. “That’s the fourth time that’s happened. First Dr Blake, then Jimmy Child and then Angelina Tinder.”

“How long has he been here?”

“A few weeks.”

“Weeks?” I ask, shocked. “And how much longer will he be here?”

“Whenever you’re finished. He’s a flight risk and has anger issues, obviously. Can’t risk letting him go. Been trouble ever since he got here. Serves him right, to be honest. If he didn’t act like such an animal, his case could have been pushed through by now. Now come along this way. You can get breakfast here, too.” She takes me by the elbow and pulls me along.

I look back at Carrick. He stares at me with his cold, hard eyes, chin raised, chest heaving up and down at the exertion of his fit of rage. Tina called him an animal, but I don’t blame him at all. A few weeks in this place and I’d start to behave like one, too. I try to give him a look of apology, but I’m not quite sure how to pull that off. I need words, and he and I have never shared any. I half-walk, half-run along as Tina pulls me. He stands still, hands on his hips, and watches me all the way out the door, probably wishing I’d never come back. Maybe his eyes really are black.

My heart is pounding when I arrive at the canteen, and it is a remarkably different atmosphere from the one I’ve just left. It feels like civilisation, and I can hardly believe it was only yesterday morning that I, too, was walking around freely. People having breakfast meetings before work, lots of dark suits with heads close together, tablets out on every table. Free people who come and go when they want. And Art. Somewhere in this room is Art. My stomach flutters.

“He’s over there.” Tina points and backs away. “I’ll come back in half an hour so you can get ready for your big moment.”

I swallow hard at the thought of it.

I go in the direction Tina pointed me to, searching for Art, for his white-blonde hair, for his turquoise-blue eyes, but I can’t find him anywhere. I’m aware of all the eyes on me as I weave my way between the tables. When I get to the end of the room, I look around, confused, then I start walking back again.

I feel a hand, a rough grip, around my wrist.

“Ow,” I say, pulling away. An old, wrinkled hand with protruding veins grips my arm. “Granddad!”

“Sit down,” he says harshly, but his face is soft.

I embrace him quickly and then slide into the seat before him, happy to see him, but trying to hide my devastation that Art hasn’t come to see me. I wonder if it’s because he’s not allowed or because he doesn’t want to.

I don’t get to see Granddad as often as I used to after he and Mum had their falling out last Earth Day. He’s welcome in our home, but only when invited, and he isn’t invited as much as he used to be. It is all on Mum’s terms now. Grandma passed away eight years ago, and he lives alone, tending to his dairy farm.

He looks around conspiratorially, and for once he’s not just being paranoid. Most of the people here are staring at us.

“We have to keep our voices down,” he says, moving his head close to mine. “Did you see this?”

He reaches inside his jacket and retrieves a newspaper. It’s folded lengthways, and he slides it across the table to me. “They won’t want you to see this one, that’s for sure.”

I open the paper and am shocked by what I see. My photograph takes up practically the entire front page, with only a small space for a dramatic headline and the rest of the story inside. My mouth falls open. The headline shouts, the face of change?

He slides another across to me. It’s a variation of the same photo, with the headline north. NEW DIRECTION FOR FLAWED CAUSE.

“What? Which papers are these?” I ask, not recognising them.

“You won’t see these around here,” he whispers. “They’re not Crevan’s. He doesn’t own them all, you know.”

“He doesn’t own any of them, Granddad. They’re his sister’s, Candy’s,” I correct him, scanning the articles.

“In name only. You’re about to learn Crevan’s more involved with those papers than anybody else is. You’re all over Crevan’s papers, too. However, their slant is slightly different. All about the girl who protects society from the Flawed. You’re a hero on both sides. Or a villain, depending on your opinion.”

Which explains the reason for the level of anger outside in the courtyard. I’ve annoyed just about every side you can imagine. Nobody comes to watch a Flawed cross the courtyard to support them.

Granddad’s conspiracy theories are what Mum fought with him about. It was fine and harmless for him to believe them on his own, on his farm, in the middle of nowhere, but when he kept bringing them to her doorstep, he was, as she said, bringing danger into our home. Particularly when he was sitting at the same table as Bosco. I thought it was funny at the time, the comments he used to make, but now I see why Mum was afraid.

The sight of me on the front pages is overwhelming, the things they are saying about me, how they are analysing and dissecting my actions when I, who actually did these things, gave them much less thought. If I am who they say I am, which side am I to believe? I don’t think either of them knows me at all.

“Granddad, have you spoken to Juniper? Do you know anything? Is she okay? She won’t be a character witness for me. Does she hate me?”

“I haven’t seen her and I’m sure she doesn’t hate you. Your mother won’t let me into the house. I’ve tried, but she thinks I’ve lost my mind. It’s just that I’ve got all this. This proof.” He starts taking out scraps of paper from every pocket of his jacket, some cut-outs, some with scribbles on them. “I’ve been collecting information. A lot of which I think will help you. Your mother won’t listen, but you need to. There are two very important names to remember, Celestine: Dr Blake and Raphael Angelo. Forget Mr Berry. They can help you with your case. We need to find them—”

“Granddad, stop please,” I say gently, closing my hands over his. “It’s going to be okay,” I say, sounding calmer than I feel. The Branding Chamber really shook me up yesterday, and I know it was a warning from someone. I’m not about to ignore that warning. “Bosco is helping me.” I keep my voice down incredibly low. “We’ve talked already. I just need to do what he and Mr Berry say, and it will be okay.”

But the old man won’t be okay, my conscience tells me. The old man I’m about to accuse of breaking the Flawed rules. The man who reminded me of my own granddad. How could I do it to him? I push it to the back of my mind, knowing I must stay in survival mode.

Granddad snorts. “Celestine, whatever that man has promised you, I would not rely on it. He was double-crossed yesterday by his own two judges. Sanchez and Jackson have had enough of him and his double standards, and it will happen again. They’re not happy about his decisions lately. They feel he’s using his ties to the media to push through whatever decisions he wants, trying to convince the people of his beliefs, not to mention what he did to that poor newspaper editor’s wife. There’s a war brewing, Celestine. Don’t let them use you.”

“Bosco wouldn’t use me, Granddad.”

He studies me. “Do you believe in what you did, love?”

I look down. Then back at him and nod.

“What are you afraid of then?”

“Being Flawed! The pain, the scars, the rules, the curfew, the life, the Whistleblowers, losing my friends, people laughing at me, staring at me. Being thought of as one of them. Yesterday they made me listen to a man in the chamber, Granddad. He screamed so loud I’ll never forget it,” I say, my eyes filling.

“Ah, love,” he says, taking my hand. “They’re playing tricks on you, you know that. It’s all mind games. It’s about power. Control. This society we live in.”

He loses me with his conspiracy words again.

“Live with me,” he says, suddenly full of enthusiasm. “It’s a simple life, but you can live as you like, no one looking over your shoulder telling you what to do and who to love. I won’t bother with the curfews, don’t bother with the diet nonsense. You can go to bed when you like and get up when you like, eat what you like, go out with whatever fella you like. It’s not like here in the city. You can be as free as you can be.”

“They have Whistleblowers in the country, too, Granddad,” I say gently, grateful for the thoughtful offer, but it’s not something I could even contemplate. “I can’t do it. I can’t be Flawed. And I’d miss Art. Tell me, have you seen him? Has there been anything about him in the paper? I thought maybe he’d visit me or send me a message or something …” I chew on my nail.

Granddad goes quiet and studies me, concern in his eyes.

“I just …” I pull my finger from my mouth. “It’s not just a childish thing, you see, me and him, it’s serious. We have plans. We’ve talked about everything we want to do after school, together. I really, you know, love him.” I haven’t even said this to Art myself yet, but I will. As soon as I get out of here, it will be the first thing I’ll say as I feel it more now, away from him, than ever before.

Granddad looks sad. He reaches inside his pocket, and I wait to see another newspaper, but instead he slides an envelope across the table. “This is from him. I didn’t want to give it to you. They’re not your sort, Celestine, that family.” He shakes his head. “You’re better than them. But I can’t play God in your life. You have to make your own decisions now. And you’ve some big ones to make.”