Cecelia Ahern: Perfect

“What is this?” Jackson asks. “Is this real?” He looks to Sanchez and then to me. “Dear God.”

After the harrowing footage, Enya Sleepwell returns. “I apologize for having to show you that. I apologize to Celestine North for what happened to her. We cannot let this happen to the innocent people of our great country. It is because of this that the Vital Party is one hundred percent behind abolishing the Guild. If the Guild itself is Flawed, how can it continue? We need to address it now. No more baby steps, it’s time to take leaps and bounds, and bring this country forward.

“Vote the Vital Party, for fairness and justice, for strong leadership, bringing this country forward with compassion and logic.”

There’s silence in the room.

SEVENTY-THREE

GUARDS RUSH INTO the turret room.

“Rioting outside. We need to move you to safety.”

Jackson stands up so quickly the chair topples backward and he doesn’t bother picking it up. He looks at me, his face filled with utter shock, fear, and disgust.

“Dear girl,” he whispers, apology all over his face. He struggles to find words. He looks at Judge Sanchez; his contempt for her is clear.

“Judge Jackson, you should come with me quickly,” the Whistleblower interrupts Judge Jackson’s thoughts. His red robe billows behind him as he exits to save himself.

“I guess the deal is off,” I say to Sanchez.

She turns to me then and I almost think I see a look of admiration: I successfully managed to pull the wool over her eyes. But then she coldly turns and hurries out of the cell without a word, under guard.

I’m left alone, in the round room, without a word of explanation as to what will happen to me. I wonder about Carrick, Raphael, and Granddad, if they’re still passed out. I pace the cell, heart hammering. I look outside and see the Whistleblowers back in their riot gear. More members of the public are streaming through the gates, and it’s not to cheer on the Whistleblowers. They are punching their fists in the air, demanding answers, demanding change. I want to be down there, not trapped up here.

The door bursts open.

It’s Art.

“I heard there was a damsel in distress in the tower,” he says. “Princess, I’m here to rescue you,” he adds dramatically, with an awkward laugh.

I roll my eyes; now is not the time for one of Art’s jokes.

But before I say anything he adds, “I’m rescuing all of you.”

“They’re out cold,” I tell him as I move as quickly as I can to the door, trying to ignore the pain in my stomach. “How will we get them out?”

“I have a van ready at a side exit—we just need to get them to it,” he says, starting to run down the spiral staircase. On every level I can see staff members using the emergency exits to escape.

“The lawyer should be easy enough to lift. I’ll take him, you get your Granddad,” he says, and I shake my head at another of Art’s jokes, his coping mechanism in times of stress.

As everybody floods out of the building, we head in the opposite direction, going down, down, down to the basement.

I stop running. “Come on, Art, stop, let’s think. Seriously, how can we do this? We can’t carry them on our own.”

He stops rushing down the stairs and looks back up at me. “Maybe they’ll be awake by now.”

“Art, focus . Last time I was drugged, I was out for most of the day, and when I woke up I was paralyzed from the waist down.”

“The last time you were what ?”

“But that was an injection; this could be something else. Maybe they’re just sleeping pills. We need to think of something else. We need more help. We need people from outside to help us.”

He thinks it through. “The Flawed are rioting. Members of the public are charging the gates in protest. Some fool accidentally pressed a button to air the Vital Party’s announcement around the courtyard. They want my dad’s head on a plate.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

“It was me who did it,” he says.

I look at him, stunned.

“Okay, so maybe the people outside can help. We should go out there and talk to them. Only…” He looks down at his uniform.

“It’s not safe outside for you, Art. You stay here, make sure they’re safe, unlock their cells. I’ll get help from outside.”

The role reversal is ironic.

“I can open their doors from here.” Art enters a private staff-only room, filled with CCTV cameras showing the cells downstairs. I go inside with him and urgently scan the screens for signs of Granddad, Raphael, and Carrick. They’re all still where they were when I left them, no sign of movement at all.

“Mary May!” Art suddenly says, and I turn around quickly.

Mary May stands at the door, watching us, back in her Mary Poppins Whistleblower uniform, and her face is a picture of anger, twisted up so tight it’s as though if she unscrews it, her face will come flying at me like a catapult.

I instinctively leave the room, not wanting to be locked inside the windowless space. Art follows.

“I’m taking her out of here. She’s innocent, Mary May,” Art says, standing in front of me, blocking her way. “Did you see the broadcast? It’s all over.”

“I don’t care about any broadcast,” she says dismissively, as if she has no idea of what has gone on. “You were in my home,” she says to me slowly. “You spoke to my mother. You were in her bedroom.”

Art turns to look at me, and the look on his face would be comical under different circumstances, but not now, because when we both look at her, she has a gun in her hand.

SEVENTY-FOUR

“WHOA! MARY MAY, put that thing away!” Art shouts, hands out in front of him. “What the … where the hell did you get that thing?”

She ignores him, as though she can’t hear or see him, as though it’s just me and her in the room. She takes a few steps forward and I start to edge back. I think of the unlocked doors in the holding cells downstairs, and I hope they will realize it, that whenever they do come around, they’ll be able to escape.

“You were in my home,” she repeats. “You were in my mother’s bedroom.”

“You were in my home, too,” I say, hearing the shake in my voice. “You took things from me, remember? I was just getting them back.”

“What did you do to my mother?” she asks, as though she hasn’t heard a word that I’ve said at all, like she’s just listening to the voice inside her own head.

Her pace quickens and I continue to back away, feeling Art’s hand on my elbow. I don’t want to turn my back to her, I don’t want to test whether she will shoot me. My legs feel weak and yet there’s a delirious giddiness awakening inside me. A feeling that none of this can be real, that after all of this struggle, it ends like this , a psychotic episode at the hands of a sad, lonely woman.

“I didn’t do anything to your mother,” I say nervously.

“Keep walking,” Art whispers, guiding me down a corridor. We walk backward, always keeping Mary May and her raised gun in our sight. As soon as we turn a corner and she’s out of sight, we pivot and run.

Art runs to the exit door. He waves his security card over the panel beside it, but nothing happens. Everything has been locked up to prevent protestors from breaking in to the building.

“It needs a real key,” I tell him, and he curses.

He takes out a ring of keys and with trembling hands starts to try the first key in the door.

Mary May appears, walking at the same speed; slow, deliberate steps, hand holding the gun extended out in front of her.

“She said you sat by her bedside,” she continues as though in a trance. “She called you her angel.” She cocks her head to the side. “Why would she say that, Celestine?”