Flawed. Cecelia Ahern
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am fighting two sides, dear Celestine.”
I swallow hard.
“And I agree that no one can be seen to be above the Guild. No one can be seen to escape the justice of the Guild.”
I think of the definition of what the Guild is: it is not a function of the Guild to administer justice; its work is solely inquisitorial. I want to say it aloud, but I know I shouldn’t. Now is not the time for my black-and-white logic, though shouldn’t it be?
“Do you realise just how much trouble you are in, child?” Bosco asks.
“Child,” I say suddenly. “They can’t send me to prison. I’m not eighteen for another six months.”
“Celestine,” he says, “an individual over sixteen can be deemed Flawed, and for a punishment of imprisonment, we can delay the start date until the day of your eighteenth birthday.”
Bosco had said I could have a party on his yacht for my eighteenth birthday. Instead, I could be spending my first night as an adult in prison. I don’t deserve this. Do I? Does anybody? Angelina certainly didn’t.
I look over at the boy in the next room, who is sitting on his bed, with his head down. I wonder how long he has been here; I wonder what he did. Bosco follows my gaze. As if sensing our stares, the boy looks up and looks directly at Bosco with a cold, hard stare, eyes filled with hate. Bosco matches the boy’s look but holds such disgust and contempt for him that I shrivel and almost want to apologise on his behalf.
“You shouldn’t be in here with such scum,” Bosco says simply, and I’m glad the boy can’t hear.
“What did he do?”
“Him? He’s Flawed to the bone,” he says, disgusted. “Though he doesn’t know it yet. I don’t even need to listen to the facts of the case to know his type. I can see it in him. Not like you, Celestine. You are pure. You should not have the future that is destined for him.”
“What do I need to do?” I ask, voice shaking.
“You repeat the story we just discussed, and when they ask you about helping the old man into a seat, you say that you did not, that he sat there himself.”
My mouth falls open. “But the old man will be punished for that.”
“Yes, he will. He’s old and very sick. He’ll probably die before Naming Day anyway.”
The old man did not sit down. He did everything in his strength to stay standing. It was me who helped him to the seat.
“I can’t …”
“You can’t what?” Bosco looks at me.
“I can’t lie.”
“Of course you can’t,” he says, confused, looking at me as if he doesn’t recognise me. “To lie would be to prove that you are Flawed. I would never ask you to lie,” he says, as though insulted. “It is the only way you will go free, prevent being branded for life. It is the only way. What we discussed here now is what happened, and you will confirm that in court, you will say loud and clear for all to hear that society must seek out and oust the Flawed scum in our society. It is the Guild’s work, and you, in full support of the Guild and its values, were working under its rules. You didn’t aid a Flawed. What you did was aid the Guild and, in turn, aid society. That’s what you will tell them. Are we agreed?”
I’m the poster girl. One side wants to use me to prove the Guild is biased; the Guild wants to use me to prove that it isn’t. The perfect girl to prove its power. It wants me to feed the fear.
“Agreed,” I say shakily.
My hearing is this afternoon. The boy in the room beside me, whom I have nicknamed Soldier, has continued to ignore me. I’m sure that seeing me embrace Bosco didn’t do much to sway his initial feelings about me. The word that Pia Wang has been pushing on behalf of Crevan is that I was trying to get rid of the Flawed man from the bus, not help him. If Soldier has seen these reports, which I’m sure he has because Flawed Court TV is the only station we can get on the tiny television in our cells, then that is why he isn’t looking at me. I can only gather from this that he is not anti-Flawed, that he feels my actions were unfair. If only he knew the truth, then he would know he had an ally in the cells. I know this untruth will save my life, but I can’t help but feel embarrassed that this is the perception out there of me. I feel Soldier’s disgust through the wall, and I don’t blame him, but I wonder, if he had the same chance to get out of this, would he take it?
Dad goes back to work and Mum stays with me. She has brought with her a suitcase of my clothes for the trial, and it looks like she went into a clothes store and grabbed every item from the racks. Soldier watches with a sarcastic look as Mum lays out the clothes on my bed, hangs them from every point of the cell she can. He shakes his head and goes back to pacing. I feel self-conscious about all the fuss in my cell when he has been alone all morning, but I try to put his presence out of my mind and concentrate on saving my own life.
“That’s a lot of pink,” I state as I run my eyes over the selection.
“We’ve got pale pink, baby pink, orchid pink, champagne pink, pink lace, cherry blossom pink, lavender pink, cotton candy, hot pink …” Mum lists the shades as she moves along the line, already eliminating the ones she doesn’t like and tossing them back into the suitcase. The hot pinks, candy pinks and lace are removed. The suggestive tops with the low fronts are taken away. We settle on baby pink: skinny cropped trousers and a blouse so light pink it is almost white, buttoned up the centre with ruffles, and a pair of ballet flats. A walk across the cobblestoned courtyard in heels is too much of a stage set for a tripping/heel-getting-caught disaster. Not a good look for the cameras and the hysterical public, who will be there to watch me. The flats are pink and tan leopard print.
“They’re sweet, but they say ‘don’t mess with me’, too,” Mum says. “Remember, in this world, image is everything.”
Tina arrives with a male mannequin, then leaves.
“Sweetheart, this is Mr Berry,” Mum says. “He will be representing your case. Judge Crevan recommended him, says he’s the best. He represented Jimmy Child.”
The mannequin suddenly moves. He offers me a big smile, a smile I don’t believe, a smile that is as fake as the smooth skin on his face. From the neck down he looks sixty; from the chin up he looks thirty. He wears a dapper suit – like he’s just walked out of the airbrushed pages of a magazine – shiny shoes, a handkerchief perfectly positioned in his pocket and gold cuff links to match his gold tie. His face shimmers where his cheekbones have been accentuated, and I definitely see powder on his skin. He’s perfect, and yet I don’t trust him. I look over at Soldier, who is glaring at my newly appointed representative with suspicion. I must say I agree, once again, with his instincts. Our eyes meet, and he shakes his head as though I am nothing and then walks to the far corner of his cell, as far away from me as he can physically get.
“Celestine,” Mum says. She jerks her head in Mr Berry’s direction, and I realise I haven’t acknowledged him yet.
“I’m sorry.” I move forward hastily, as if I’ve been pushed.
“I understand,” he says, devoid of all understanding and affection, through his big white teeth. “So let’s get to it.” He takes his seat and bangs his briefcase down on the table before him. Gold clasps spring open. “Today is just procedure. You won’t be required to say or do anything at all apart from deny the Flawed claim, then they’ll set a time for your trial tomorrow and send you home.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Celestine,” he says, noticing my nerves, “you just