Cecelia Ahern - Flawed / Perfect

“I can’t taste anything anyway.”

“Dr Smith says your taste buds will come back.”

“I can taste blood, so I must be okay.” Bad joke. And I’m not sure I can taste blood. My tongue is blistered and scabbed, and I just imagine it flowing down my throat whenever I swallow.

Mum winces.

“Maybe it’s better if I never taste again anyway, given the food I have to eat every day of the week for the rest of my life.”

“It’s a healthy diet,” Mum says perkily. “Probably one we should all be eating. And we would, but we’re not allowed to join you, sorry.”

“Are you going to defend everything they do?”

“I’m just trying to look on the bright side, Celestine.”

“There is no fucking bright side.”

“Language,” she says, propping me up with pillows again, but she sounds like she couldn’t care less what I say.

“Are Flawed not allowed to swear, either?”

“I think more than anything, Flawed are entitled to swear,” she says.

We smile.

“There she is,” she whispers, tracing a line around my face with her finger. “My brave baby.”

I look at her properly. “How are you, Mum? You look tired,” I say tenderly.

“I’m fine.” Her resolve weakens. “I’ve booked myself in for an eye-lift,” she says, and we both laugh. It’s the first time she’s ever admitted doing any work to her appearance.

“Where’s Juniper?”

“She’s out at the moment.” She stiffens.

“She’s being funny with me.”

“She’s afraid, darling. She thinks you’re angry with her.”

I think of the sad way she looks at me when she sees me, the gentle tone in her voice when she asks me what she can do for me, and it makes me bark back at her. I’d rather we return to the banter that we used to have. I’m more comfortable with her being irritated by me, but instead now I see her pity. I think of the fact that she didn’t come to my aid on the bus and how she didn’t testify in court. Mum is right; I feel nothing but anger at her. I know I’m wrong, but somehow it is burning inside me.

“Are you angry with Art?” Mum asks. I know the point she is making: How can I be angry with my own sister and not Art? But somewhere deep down, I keep wondering why he didn’t try harder to make it stop. Why couldn’t he convince his dad? But I understand. I once trusted Judge Crevan, and he wouldn’t have expected his own dad to land me in so much trouble.

“Do you think he’ll come to visit?”

She purses her lips and pauses, and I know it’s a no. “I’m sure he just needs to think about a few things. Away from his father,” she says, and I see the anger in her eyes. “But, Celestine –” she thinks about how to say it – “don’t expect him to—”

“I don’t,” I interrupt. “I already know.”

The realistic view would be to believe that Art will never come back to me. I know that. But it doesn’t stop me from hoping. And it doesn’t stop me from dreaming of the way things used to be.

“I know you don’t want to talk about this, but we’re thinking of contacting Mr Berry to discuss the extra brand.”

“No,” I interrupt before she takes it any further.

“Listen, Celestine, it wasn’t part of the original ruling. What happened is unheard of. We want to talk to him to see what your options are—”

“And what might they be?” I say angrily. “Are they going to make it disappear? Is Crevan going to say sorry? No. Just because it’s unheard of it doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. It’s Crevan. He does what he likes, and he can do whatever he likes to me again. Promise me you’ll leave it alone.”

She purses her lips and nods. “I understand, Celestine. Your dad wants to protect you; he wants to defend you. Fight for your name.” She smiles softly, loving this part of him. “But I agree with you. I think we should stay silent. If we talk to Mr Berry about it, then I’m afraid we’ll bring more attention to it. I’m not sure if he’s aware of it or not, but your file still says five brands. They haven’t contacted us to update it, and it hasn’t been in any of the media reports. They’ve only mentioned the five. Nobody in the media knows or is talking about a sixth brand.”

Yet . The silent word hangs in the air. This news does offer me some relief. I am still the most branded Flawed person in the world, just not yet known to be the most ridiculously branded. I never thought getting away with five would be a bonus.

Mr Berry knows about my sixth brand already. He saw it happen. I think about telling her, but I don’t. I don’t want to talk about what happened in the chamber. I want to forget. But I can’t. Carrick knows, too.

I see his hand pushed up against the glass, and I hear his voice from the corridor. “I’ll find you.”

I don’t know if I want him to find me like this.

And on that thought, I close my eyes and drift away.

Day six.

I have a nightmare. Juniper is sitting in the chair in my room beside my bed, just staring at me. Our eyes meet, and she smiles a wicked, satisfied smile. I wake up in a sweat, my sheets damp beneath me. Feeling dizzy, I look around. Juniper isn’t there. The house is quiet. It’s midnight. I was sure someone was in my room; I felt a presence. I get out of bed, open my door quietly and pad down the landing, limping as I keep the weight off my branded foot. I listen at Juniper’s door. It’s quiet. I slowly, quietly, push it open. I need to see her there, in bed, fast asleep. Her bed is empty. It hasn’t been slept in.

Day seven.

I meet Mary May for the first time. I am expecting a tank of a woman, instead I meet Mary Poppins. I have seen women dressed as she is before but never understood who they were or what they did. She’s wearing what looks like an ancient nanny uniform: a conservative black dress with a white shirt and black tie. The tie has an embroidered red F . She wears black tights and black brogues. Over her dress she wears a heavy black button-up coat with a wraparound collar and red velvet cuffs. She wears a black bowler hat with a red band and another F on the front. Her hair is pinned up neatly and sits in a bun below the back of her hat. Her face is make-up-free and stern. I’m not good at guessing ages, but she’s in her forties or fifties and is a tiny, birdlike woman. She looks like she’s dressed for the middle of winter. She stares at me as I walk in. She looks me up and down, as I have done with her.

“Hi,” I say. I’m not sure whether to shake her hand. The heavy black leather gloves tell me not to attempt it.

“I’m Mary May, your Whistleblower for the foreseeable future. You are aware of the rules, or shall I go through them again?”

I shake my head.

“Verbal communication,” she snaps.

“No, I mean, yes,” I stammer. “I understand the rules.” I’m nervous because I don’t want to make a mistake, I don’t want to be punished again. I don’t know what’s right and wrong, what’s expected of me in this new world. I’ve read the rules, I’ve been told about them, but the reality is quite different. My family is all sitting at the table watching me with her. I can feel the tension in the room. I can’t make a mistake. Not again.

She likes how she has unnerved me. I see the smile in her eyes.

I sit for dinner for the first time since I’ve returned. A regular family dinner. Mary May remains in the corner, hat, coat and gloves still on, her presence as calming as the Grim Reaper’s. Mum has turned on music to fill the uncomfortable silence. Juniper is at the table, eyes down that nervously flit to me when she thinks I’m not looking. The more scared of me she acts, the angrier she makes me feel. Ewan won’t stop staring at me, as though I’m not here to see him.