Cecelia Ahern - Perfect

“Carrick!” Rogan yells, and runs to his brother.

“Art!” I try to get up from the ground but he’s so heavy and I don’t want to hurt him further.

“It was an accident,” Mary May says from the ground. “It was an … I didn’t mean to.…”

Her family gets to their feet and surrounds her. Her brother takes the gun away from her.

Her sister leaves her brothers and runs toward us. “I’m a vet. Or I was.” She feels his pulse.

“Is he alive?” I cry.

“Celestine!” Carrick calls. “Are you okay?”

I can’t answer him—my focus is completely on Art.

Alice nods and moves Art. He groans, and I’m so relieved to hear his voice.

“Get your hands off him!” Judge Crevan booms. I look up and see him running across the courtyard toward us. “He’s my son.”

Alice looks at Crevan and down at Art, making a connection. For an awful moment I think she won’t want to help him because of who his dad is. But she makes a decision. “Last I heard, there was no rule against a Flawed aiding a Whistleblower,” she says.

“He’s not a Whistleblower,” I say. “He was helping me escape.” I need as many people to hear this as possible for Art’s sake. He wouldn’t want to be thought of like his dad: That was his greatest fear.

“Celestine,” Carrick calls again, and I look up. He’s desperately trying to make his way toward me. Rogan is trying to help him to his feet. I’m torn. I don’t want to ignore Carrick, but I can see that he has help now, and I need to concentrate on Art.

Art, Art, Art.

SEVENTY-NINE

ALICE TAKES OFF her cardigan and wraps it around the wound on Art’s stomach, and she presses down.

He acted as a shield for me; he took the bullet square on. He saved my life.

“Ambulance is on its way,” a Whistleblower calls.

Crevan falls to his knees. Art’s head is in my lap. I cradle it, run my fingers through his curls with my trembling fingers. They’re covered in blood.

Crevan sits on the other side, leaning over his son, showering his face in kisses. The two of us are crouched over, crying.

“He’ll be okay?” He weeps. “Tell me he’ll be okay. I can’t lose him. He’s all I have.”

Art’s eyes flicker open and closed again.

“Who did this?” Crevan asks angrily, looking at me.

“Her,” I say, venom in my voice.

Crevan turns around and we see Mary May on her knees as though praying for forgiveness, guarded by her three Flawed brothers, who look like they want to put her in the ground at any moment. She is a shell of herself, like her spirit has died and her whole life has fallen apart.

“Sir. Judge Crevan.” She swallows. “It was an … I didn’t mean to … I was trying to … I wanted to … It was Celestine,” she says, the anger for me growing within her again. “That girl. I was trying to get that girl for you.”

“I said monitor her, not kill her,” he yells. “Guide her on the right path, not become a damn murderer!”

“Please, forgive me. This job is everything. This is my life. I always have and always will be answerable to you.”

“He won’t forgive you now, Mary,” one of her brothers says. “You’ve failed. It’s over.”

“There’s nothing left of the Guild,” Crevan shouts at her. “Look around you!” And as she does, she becomes smaller, she shrinks down into her heels.

I cling to Art as he comes and goes, eyes flickering, coughing and moaning.

“Celestine,” Carrick calls out one final time. His voice is hoarse from shouting.

I look up and see him sitting by the door of the castle, the one we escaped from. Rogan is on the ground beside him. Our eyes meet. He looks sad, lost, hopeful. In those green eyes I know he’s asking me a question.

And then the arrival of the ambulance breaks our look, ending the possibility of an answer, which is just as well, because right now I don’t have one.

EIGHTY

I SIT BY Art’s bedside at the hospital, in complete stillness, surrounded by stillness. It’s a stark contrast to the hours leading up to this, and the journey in the ambulance to get here.

Art is stable. The irony is that he was lucky, the bullet missed his small intestine, colon, liver, and abdominal blood vessels. He is going to be okay. Physically anyway: What the scars of a gunshot to the stomach will do to his already wounded mind, we will have to wait and see.

My eyelids feel heavy, like life has given me a rest. Over the past three weeks I have felt that if I didn’t keep moving, then I’d never move again, and yet life has stopped me dead in my tracks as if to say, No more, Celestine, no more. I don’t even feel like moving now. I wouldn’t know where to go if I did move. Here is the only place I need to be.

My skin carries brands; Art has a bullet wound. Our scars and imperfections all have stories. My scars give me strength, remind me how I can overcome the toughest times in my life; his wound will remind him that he protected me, that he did good, that he came to the aid of a Flawed. He redeemed himself and in so doing defended me in more ways than he could realize. He defended my actions, too. Every day we look at our bodies, we live in our skin, and we will never forget.

A nurse arrives, Judy, she’s nice. She removes my cold and untouched green tea from the bedside unit and replaces it with what smells like berry tea.

“I’ll keep trying,” she says, good-humored. “This was sent from the castle for you.” She hands me my backpack, the one that was taken from me when I was brought to the fish-gutting warehouse this morning. I’m grateful for it, desperate to get out of the detainment clothes I was given at the castle to replace the red slip, and not just because they’re soaked in Art’s blood.

“Mr. Crevan, there are some men here to see you,” she says, the kindness gone from her voice.

Crevan lifts his head from the bed where he’s had it buried beside Art ever since we arrived. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, his nose constantly streaming like his eyes. We have been sitting together, quite comfortably, in complete silence for hours now.

“Is it the police?” he asks, sniffing. “You can tell them to come in.” He wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt in preparation.

Two men in suits enter.

“Mr. Crevan, we’d like a word with you in private, please.”

“It’s okay.” He stands, pulling his jeans up by the waist. “Celestine was there when it happened. She’s a witness, too. We’ve already talked to your men, uniformed police, but I’m glad and appreciate you’re taking this so seriously. You’re detectives?”

They nod.

He makes his way over to them to shake their hands.

“Mr. Crevan, we’re here regarding other matters. This is not about your son. Mary May has been arrested and taken into custody.”

“Oh. Then what is this about?”

The two detectives look at me and my stomach churns. This is about me. About the footage that was aired.

“As we said, we think it’s best if we talk to you in private.” This is said more officially, but Crevan is not ready to go without a fight.

“If this is about the actions of the Guild, then I can tell you it’s already been addressed. I no longer work for the Guild, I’ve been removed from my position. There will be an announcement made first thing in the morning at a press conference. I’m also told there’s an inquiry into the Guild’s rulings, so I’m sure you’ll find this is all in hand, gentlemen, it is being dealt with internally. I suggest you talk to the head judge, Jennifer Sanchez, about any matters.”

He is in judge mode, trying to control everything, trying to be above everyone and everything. But he lacks power now, gone is his vibrant red robe, his Purveyors of Perfection crest, replaced with a crumpled checked shirt and bloody jeans. This is off-duty Crevan trying to command control, cleaning-out-the-garage Crevan, wash-the-car Crevan, drive-Celestine-and-Art-to-the-local-farmers’-market Crevan. I never saw the monster in him.