Cecelia Ahern - Flawed

“Do you think Carrick would have gone if he’d known you were there?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s just that, he knows where you are, Celestine. Everyone does. All you have to do is open a newspaper or turn on the TV to see reporters standing outside your house. If he wanted to find you, he would.”

I feel hot as tears spring in my eyes. That has upset me. “Okay, fine,” I snap, “he doesn’t want to find me.”

“No. What I mean is, I hope Crevan hasn’t got to him already, Celestine.”

That’s my fear, too. We continue the journey in silence. But I don’t think Crevan has found him; otherwise, why would he be panicking? I’m the only person left who knows what he did, and he has full control over my every move. I think of what I know of Carrick, of what I’ve learned about him. He’s clever, he’s smart. He must be biding his time.

“I don’t think that you should go home,” Granddad says.

“Why not?”

“The Whistleblowers were looking for you in there. I’ve no doubt about that. They wanted to catch you speaking, stirring up anti-Guild feelings. They didn’t. But they know you were there. Some traitors would have made up anything just to save their skin. It’s true the Flawed cause is gaining more support, but like we’ve seen tonight, it can just as quickly scare people away. People like to support the underdog, but not when it gets dangerous. Dangerous times, Celestine.”

“But where will I go if I don’t go home?”

“Stay with me. I told you I’ll keep you safe on the farm, away from Crevan. You think Marcus and his wife are the only Whistleblowers on your side? There are plenty more where they came from.”

“But, Granddad, if I don’t get home for the curfew, everyone will be punished. Mom, Dad, Juniper, Ewan. I can’t do that to them! I have to go home and face whatever it is.”

Granddad nods solemnly.

“Anyway, I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, my anger rising again. “I was invited, by my teacher, to go to a counseling session. What happened was her fault. Not mine. They’ll listen to Marcus. He saw the whole thing.”

“That’s the spirit.” He smiles sadly, because we both know nobody will listen to my version of events.

“They’ll have seen your truck there,” I say, finally. No point hiding it. The Whistleblowers would have taken note of everybody’s vehicle in the parking lot.

“The truck isn’t registered to me,” he says.

I look at him in surprise. “Who’s it registered to?”

He chuckles. “Never you mind. I’ll have to dump it, though.”

I shake my head in disbelief at him.

“Well, that took me back, all that ducking and diving.”

I twist my body around to face him. “What is it exactly that it took you back to?”

“Ducking and diving.” He winks.

“Granddad,” I say suddenly, fearfully, seeing a drop of blood appear at the line of his cap. It slowly trickles down his face and cheek. “Stop the car! You’re bleeding!”

“I’m fine.” He wipes it away quickly and concentrates on the road. “I just banged it dodging one of those Whistleblowers before Marcus found me and took me to the hiding place. My own fault.”

I lift his cap and see he’s received a blow to the head.

He flinches as I go near it. “I think you need stitches.”

“I’m not getting stitches.”

“Granddad!”

“I’ll have someone look at it at home, someone who won’t ask questions, thank you very much.”

“But it will take you hours to get home. We have to put something on it.”

He doesn’t disagree.

“Stop at the supermarket. It’s two minutes away. Let me just clean you up a bit, stop it from getting infected.”

“I’ll do it after I drop you home safely.”

But neither of us knows that we don’t know what will await me when I get home. We need to give him medical attention now.

“Okay.” He pulls over gruffly, at the back of the supermarket, near the loading area, so that the truck isn’t on the main road. “I’ll be right back.”

“No way. You stay here, I’m going in. You’ve lost a lot of blood already.” I look at his saturated cap.

“They might be looking for you,” he says.

“Where? Here? At a random supermarket? And anyway, we’re just jumping to conclusions. What happened at Alpha’s might have nothing to do with me at all. Alpha is stirring up something dangerous, an opposition to the Guild. Maybe they know. Maybe they’re pretending to play along, but really they’re waiting to catch her out.”

He nods in agreement. “When did you get so sensible?”

I laugh and kiss him on his forehead.

“Go in and straight back out again,” he says. “Don’t get into any trouble.”

I get out of the car and lean in through the open door. “I’ve been trouble since the day I was born,” I echo his phrase from earlier, and he laughs.

SIXTY-TWO

I ENTER THE supermarket. It is nine PM. I have two hours until the curfew, and we’re ten minutes from my home. I have plenty of time. I can do this. I think of Granddad’s gash and I quicken my pace. My heart is pounding as I walk through the store by myself, with all eyes on me. Women pull their children out of my way when I’m near; teenagers stare, call out insulting things to me. Those who recognize me take photographs. One man even follows me for way too long holding his phone up in the air and recording me. Another makes kissing noises near my ear. I keep my head down, I watch the floor, and I stay close to the shelves. So much for going in and out unnoticed. I want to be invisible, but the bright red patch on my arm marks me, as does the scar on my temple. I see another Flawed woman making her way along the supermarket. She is holding hands with a little girl. Somebody kicks the bag from her hand, and the group starts laughing. The woman stops, keeping her child close to her as she bends to put everything back in her bag. The group taunts her. The child stares at them with big sad eyes, while her mother is on her hands and knees picking up rolling fruit.

I hug the walls, keep my chin down. I need to get out of here drama-free. I can’t afford the extra attention. I feel like a rat scuttling along the gutter, getting under everybody’s feet, in everybody’s way. My eyes fill, and I let my tears fall, but nobody asks me if I’m okay, because nobody cares, which hurts even more.

I make my way to the cash register. I keep my eyes down. I hear my name on some passerby’s lips. I don’t look up. I don’t want any trouble.

“Hey!” I hear a man call angrily. I keep my head down. It can’t be directed at me; I have done nothing wrong.

I study the cotton pads, antiseptic, and bandages and focus on the branding: the swirl of the writing; the happy little cotton ball characters on the packet, with arms and legs and smiling faces. Everything has been given a soul in advertising. Yet the soul is being taken from people. Humanizing objects, dehumanizing people.

“I said, hey!” he yells again.

My heartbeat speeds up. This does not sound good. Slowly, I look up. He’s staring at me. As are others. I wonder why the woman at the cash register has slowed down. Why can’t she just hurry up so I can get out of here? But I look to her seat and realize she’s gone. She is standing away from us. Just as everybody else is doing. Everyone is moving away. A man on my left remains, and so does a man on my right. They are taller than me—I barely reach up to their shoulders—but as I look at them, I understand immediately what the problem is. The flash of red on their armbands is like a warning light right in my face. They are Flawed. Both of them. As am I. Three of us stand together. This is not allowed.