Cecelia Ahern - Perfect

“I love you, baby. I’m so proud of you,” she says, barely able to keep it together. “Chin up, Celestine.” She raises her voice. “Chins up, all of you. We’re here to support you.”

I lift my chin and I intend to keep it up. Then we let go.

And there are the very special people in our lives who have the endless capacity to love us for all of our flaws.

SIXTY

THE SINGLE FILES of men and women merge together as we enter the courtyard of Highland Castle, familiar territory for all who took steps from our normal lives to Flawed lives. We are wedged together, thousands of us; it’s hard to breathe. A temporary stage has been set up beneath the Clock Tower, the headquarters of the Guild.

Crevan’s red robe blows in the light breeze as he makes his way from the offices to the stage. Art stands beside the stage, guarding, eyes running over the crowd. Seeing him like this doesn’t have the same punch-in-the-stomach effect it had before. I’ve had time to relive the sight of him, think about it and picture it often. Now I study him curiously, trying to analyze what’s going through his mind. As Crevan passes Art he places an affectionate hand on his shoulder and grins broadly, proud to have his son by his side. Someone tuts beside me. Art is embarrassed by this public display of affection and lowers his head, cheeks rosy.

Crevan takes to the podium and looks around. Eyes searching. At first I think he’s taking it all in and then I realize he’s looking for someone. For me. He knows that I’m here.

I’m too far away from the stage.

“Celestine,” Mona hisses. “What are you doing?”

“I need to get closer.”

I push my way through people who are happy to let me pass; nobody is vying for the front row. Nobody here is present out of choice.

Crevan sees me moving through the crowd, which was the point, and I appear to distract him from his speech.

He pauses, put out for a moment, then continues. Art sees me, too, looks me up and down in my red slip, identical to everybody else’s. I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me—I don’t have time to wait, and my eyes are back on Crevan.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I gather you here today to thank you for taking part in the parade through our city. I appreciate your time. All across the country, similar parades are happening in towns and cities, as Flawed show their communities how we are being cleansed. I’ve brought you all here today to share a new strategy with you.”

It’s the look in his eyes, the way he does something with his mouth—I feel a slow dread beginning to crawl up my body.

“Yesterday I met with Prime Minister Percy to discuss a new plan, called the Reduction of the Flawed.”

Murmurs.

“The Guild felt that it was our duty to allow Flawed to live among the rest of society, to show society what can happen if they give in to their weaknesses, their imperfections, but in recent weeks, due to the rising danger and violence”—he looks at me—“it is clear that this two-tiered society is dangerous. It is for the best interests of everybody that a new system be implemented.

“The Reduction of the Flawed is an initiative to house the Flawed in their own community, to give Flawed the freedom to live as Flawed together , under Guild rules.”

There is an uproar as people start shouting up at him. It doesn’t matter how he tries to phrase it, how he tries to sugarcoat it as freedom for Flawed: It doesn’t sound good. My body starts to shake.

“You’re putting us in a prison!” someone shouts.

“Ghettos!”

“Camps!”

“This will not be a prison, a ghetto, or a camp,” he assures everyone calmly. “But it is clear that Flawed cannot live side by side with the rest of society.” Over the shouts from the crowd he continues for the purposes of the television cameras. “The proposal has been drawn up, and it will be put into action with the new government.” He’s looking into the camera now with that calm, reassuring smile, and I see him giving me that same look in another life. It’s going to be okay, Celestine . Before I got on water skis for the first time, when Art was driving us for the first time. Before I tasted oysters for the first time. After Art’s mom’s funeral, when Crevan caught Art crying in my arms, and he watched us from the doorway. His look always said, It’s going to be okay, Celestine.

The tears are streaming down my cheeks as the crowd erupts in anger around me, as Crevan marches off the stage with his cloak swinging, as he whips it behind him, as a stunned Art is pulled along with him, as the Whistleblowers move in with their riot shields raised and their batons out, expecting revolt.

But it’s not okay; none of this is okay.

I see the large old woman from the warehouse, arms still wrapped around her body in humiliation, crying and crying all alone in the center of madness. Another lady joins her and they hold hands. A younger teenage boy stands by her, all gangly, skin and bones and not a fighter. The woman takes his hand and the three of them stand together, as if in prayer. Some clusters of people are trying to talk to the Whistleblowers rationally. I can sense that sections of Flawed are starting to get so angry that it may become physical.

I rush to Mona, who’s arguing with a Whistleblower, telling her exactly what she thinks of her in a way only Mona could. I grab her by the arm and pull her away from the Whistleblower.

“Stop, Mona.”

“What? Celestine, get off me!” She tries to pull away from me but I dig my nails into her skin.

“Ow! What the…?”

“Stop it,” I say through gritted teeth. “You’re giving Crevan exactly what he wants. Look.”

She finally pauses and looks around.

“The eyes of the world are on us now and they want us to behave like animals. Crevan marched us through the streets and then gave us the speech about the Reduction of the Flawed, with cameras on every angle. We need to be locked away because we’re troublemakers. He’s set us up.”

Everyone watching at home will want us to be segregated, they’ll fear us and agree with his plans. Mona finally sees what I see. She taps Fergus. Then she kicks him when he doesn’t respond.

“What?” he replies, annoyed.

As she relays my words I leave their side and stand with the small group of people who are the calm in the center of the storm. I take the old woman’s hand. I grip it tight. She’s trembling.

“Everyone,” I say, loud but not shouting. “Everyone hold hands.”

“What the hell is she doing?” I hear Lennox ask.

“Carrick would want us to follow her lead. Enya would, too.”

They make their way over to us. Mona holds my hand, and Lennox holds hers on the other side. Fergus and Lorcan wrap their arms across one another’s shoulders, like brothers-in-arms. More people join us. It doesn’t take long, but soon we all stand in rows in the courtyard hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, united.

We are all silent. And yet I feel a power build inside me that I’ve never felt before, a sense of place stronger than anything. I cling to the old woman’s and Mona’s hands even tighter. I see the tears glistening in everybody’s eyes and the way Fergus’s jaw hardens as he struggles to compose himself.

The TV cameras capture it all, while the Whistleblowers look to one another, confused, waiting for something to happen. They were prepared for a riot. We won’t give them one. I study them. I want to take their power away from them. I feel so strong, stronger than ever before. I don’t know how I think about it, it just comes, but I start to whistle. A long, high-pitched whistle as close to their sound as I can make it. Mona catches on immediately and does the same. It spreads. Then three thousand people join in. Three thousand voices, three thousand whistles. The Whistleblowers are confused, how could they ever stop this when it’s not violent? We’re standing peacefully, mimicking their sound but making it our own.