Ghetto Read online

  Ghetto

  By M L Sparrow

  Copyright © 2015 M L Sparrow

  Cover Design by Ermisenda Alvarez

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination.

  For my mum. Thanks for always being there for me, for being my personal spell-checker (no, I can’t just use a dictionary!) and for playing ‘what’s the word I’m thinking of’ with me when I’m experiencing a momentary block. But most importantly, for just being my mum!

  I love you!

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  A quick peak at The Demon Inside!

  ‘If you are silent about your pain, they will kill you and say

  you enjoyed it.’ – Zora Neale Hurston

  Chapter 1

  A Sunny smile wins the election, reads the headline of the Sunday News. Internally rolling my eyes, I skim read the rest of the article. President Beaumont wins another election, in no small part thanks to the charm of his beautiful daughter, Sunny, and her contagious smile.

  Since I was said daughter, I knew that a lot more work had gone into my dad winning the election for his second term as President than the News let on. All I had done, all I had ever done, was smile politely at his side as he gave his speeches or attended required functions. I wasn’t charming and I wasn’t particularly beautiful; there was nothing even remotely remarkable about me, except for my hair. It was ginger, not strawberry blonde, not red, but proper carrot-top ginger. Still I liked to think I pulled it off, with the help of my highly skilled make-up artist slash stylist who assists me whenever I had to make a public appearance. Twisting one of the wild curls in question around my middle finger, I close the newspaper and remove my Eye-Net, on which I had been reading it, using the small movements of my eyes to navigate. There’s a knock on the bedroom door, just as I set the glasses down on the desk, beside the mechanical odds and ends I’m using to take apart and rebuild an antique, old world computer in the hope that it will one day work once more.

  “Come in,” I call, already knowing who it is, the verbal command unlocking the door and causing it to slide open, revealing my dad standing on the other side. Today he had secured his position for another five years, yet instead of celebrating his victory he’s here preparing to take me to the clinic. Of course, I know my dad loves me, he just doesn’t say it often. We weren’t particularly affectionate and could go days without seeing each other, despite the fact that we lived in the same apartment, but it was times like this that I knew that I was the most important thing in the world to him. When my mum had died in childbirth it had devastated him, to hear him tell it he’d loved her with all his heart, and I sometimes wonder if the only reason he loves me is because I am a part of her, a mirror image.

  After all, how could he not resent the person who had taken away the love of his life?

  “Are you ready to go, Sunny-girl?” Standing in the doorway, wearing the suit he’d worn this morning to make his acceptance speech, Peter Beaumont looks grey and sombre. Pushing back my chair, I rub my hands down the jeans I’d changed into when I got home and no longer needed to look like the perfect daughter, before getting to my feet.

  I’m halfway to the door when he says, “It’s a little cold outside, you should put on a coat.” Usually I would protest that it wasn’t that cold, but right now I feel numb so I just turn back around and head towards my wardrobe, using the screen in the door to select a fitted black jacket. It takes a second for the high-tech wardrobe to find the item and bring it to the forefront. It’s thin and light, but has a thermal layer for warmth and, from the moment I slip it on, I can feel myself beginning to sweat. Still, I’m silent as I join him in the hallway.

  Being a penthouse, our apartment is far bigger than we need it to be for only two of us and, since neither my dad nor I are interested in decorating, the place looks exactly the same as when we moved in five years ago, when he first became President, all white walls and cream furniture. In fact, as we walk through the open plan living space the only things I can see that belongs to us are our robot Ludo, sitting immobile on a stool in the corner recharging, and a bronze statue of a rearing horse that I’d brought my dad for Christmas from a Third Class flea market when I was nine. Eight years later, I thought it was kind of tacky and ugly looking, but it still remained in the middle of the mantle, empty space stretching out on either side of it.

  Standing in front of the elevators shiny doors, which throw our reflections and that of the room back at us, my dad pushed up the material covering his right arm to reveal the numbers stencilled into his skin like a bar code. In this day and age of skyscrapers and advanced technology, everyone was Branded at birth – it wasn’t as archaic as it sounded, it wasn’t done with fire and metal; it was more like a tattoo, done with a laser and using special ink that had been developed so that it grew as the person did. Not only was it against the law not to have one, because it was a means of identification, but it was also impossible to live without; long ago people had used little plastic cards, slips of paper and coins to pay for things, but now all they had to do was scan their code and be done with it. It was the same for getting in and out of their properties, workplaces and any official buildings.

  A green light scans the inside of his forearm and one by one each number appears on the small square screen set into the wall beside the elevator. Once the code is complete, the machine takes a moment to verify and seconds later more numbers appeared on the screen in rapid succession. The numbers represented every aspect of him: eye colour, hair colour, height, age, bank balance, residence, job, known associates, even grades from way back when he was in school. The computer geek in me marvels at how a person can be reduced to nothing more than a series of numbers on a screen, but I don’t get long to study them because the elevator doors ping open a couple of seconds later.

  Stepping into the empty space, the doors close us in and a detached, mechanical female voice asks for our destination. Angling his face slightly towards the tiny microphone in the top right-hand corner, my dad answers, “Lobby.”

  My stomach drops, but it has nothing to do with the downward plunge of the elevator; I get like this every time we have to visit the clinic, anxious and scared, even though I know they will be able to cure me… for now. However, in the back of my mind there is always this niggling thought that maybe when your time is up you should just go, but if that were true I would have been dead years ago when I first contracted the disease eating away at me.

  “We have reached our destination,” the female voice intones as the elevator comes to a smooth stop and the doors emitted us. Once we step out the voice wishes us a good day and the doors close once more. Inside my jacket pockets my fists clench as we step outside; it’s not cold, in fact, wh
en the wind lets up it’s quite warm. Most of the crowds and news reporters from this morning have dispersed, but a few determined individuals remain at the end of the street, their path barred by police robots. Vaguely, I can hear a cry go out, people calling our names and in my peripheral vision I can see camera’s flash. Thankfully, there is already a car waiting by the side of the road.

  It only takes a moment for my dad to scan his Brand and open the back door, ushering me inside before closing the door and striding around the back of the black car to get in the other side. Sitting beside me, he reaches over to pat my knee reassuringly, but instead of saying anything comforting, he orders, “Put your seatbelt on.” Dutifully pulling the belt across my body, I click it into place and lean back into the cool leather seat, as he leans forward to type the address into the central panel between the two empty front seats. Pressing enter with his middle finger, he leans back and puts on his own seatbelt as the car eases forwards, beginning the short journey.

  Approximately a quarter of an hour later, the car slides to a smooth stop outside of the clinic. Getting out, I wait with my back to the car, staring at the glass and steel building towering above us, as he once more scans his Brand to pay before joining me. We walk into the building and take the elevator up to the tenth floor, a familiar journey that ends with us standing in front of the reception desk, waiting for the receptionist to finish on the phone and notice us. Hands still buried deep in my pockets, to stop me from biting my nails, I try not to look around but can’t resist a quick peak. It hasn’t changed since I last came; the walls are still white and unadorned and there is a row of comfy armchairs along the back wall, behind the large reception desk a wide screen plays the News on silent and to one side a long corridor leads to the private rooms. This place never seems to change, the only thing that does are the receptionists; this one is blond with red painted lips and a tongue stud flashing as she talks, whereas the last time it had been a bucktoothed brunette with a lisp and the time before that a tiny Asian woman who could barely see over the desk. Once there had been a robotic receptionist but, for reasons unknown, she hadn’t lasted any longer than her human counterparts. Putting down the phone, the aforementioned blond drops her eyes to the computer screen set into the polished wood and taps something into it.

  “Are you Dr Wongs’ three thirty appointment?” she asks without looking up, too busy using a stylus to scribble across the screen. Without giving us time to answer, she continues, “Because there’s been an emergency across town, so you’ll either have to wait or reschedule.” Lifting her gaze for the first time, the woman went owl-eyed, her mouth falling open as a faint blush stole into her cheeks beneath all the make-up. It would have been comical any other time. “M-Mr President, Sir,” she stuttered, “I apologize. I’ll find a doctor who can see you right away.”

  “Thank you,” my dad inclines his head slightly, his voice low and reasonable; he had the kind of voice that could convince anybody to do anything he wanted, it was a voice that inspired confidence and trust, that made people feel safe, “but we would prefer to see Dr Wong, so we’ll wait. Do you know how long he will be?”

  “I can give him a ring for you right now and find out,” she gushed, suddenly eager to please, already reaching for the phone – most people and companies used ear pieces nowadays, but for some reason the clinic had opted for an old fashioned, handheld phone instead, which I liked. Anything like that intrigued me; I liked to take it apart and see how it worked, before putting it all back together and seeing if I could improve the performance without changing the outer packaging.

  “Please, take a seat,” she gestures towards the waiting area, “can I get you anything, a drink perhaps or an earpiece so that you can hear the TV?” When we both answered negatively, she smiles brightly, “Okay, my name’s Darleen, if you need anything at all, just give me a yell.”

  Leaving Darleen to make her phone call, we go to sit down. Leaning forward to brace my elbows on my knees, I cradle my head in my hands, stare at the blue carpet beneath my feet. Why blue, I wonder, surely it would have been better to go with cream, since everything else in the clinic was a variation on white? Reaching over, my dad briefly touches my shoulder. We’re not a touchy feely family, though sometimes I wish we were, I wish he would wrap his arms around me and hold me tight, but I know he never will and I will never have the guts to ask him to.

  “Don’t worry, they can cure it,” he says with absolute certainly, returning his hand to his lap, “it’s just one little injection.” Of course I know that, they can cure anything with a single injection of a nifty little drug, which had been aptly named All-Cure, because that was exactly what it did. It could successfully treat any ailment, from a tiny paper cut to terminal cancer, which was exactly what I had.

  Like my mum before me I suffered from reoccurring acute myeloid leukaemia, which was okay now that a tiny dose of All-Cure could get rid of it every time it reared its ugly head, but I couldn’t help but think that the fact the disease kept coming back was a sign that I wasn’t meant to keep surviving it. What if, like my mum, I was destine to die early? What if the Grim Reaper wouldn’t give up until he got me, one way or another?

  Though she had technically died due to complications in childbirth there had also been other contributing factors to my mum’s death, the most important being that she had forgone treatment for her illness in fear that it would hurt the baby in her womb, because for some reason All-Cure saw pregnancy as a disease, which it attempted to cure by aborting the baby. The plan had been to inject her the moment she gave birth, but by that time it was too late; she was already gone, the combined effects of labour and leukaemia having sapped her strength and ultimately her life. Swallowing tightly, I force down the lump in my throat as I nod in response to his comment, but I don’t have to make myself say anything because suddenly Darleen is standing in front of us.

  Showing us into a room, she announces, “Please, make yourselves comfortable, Dr Wong will be with you any minute now.” Apparently he had already been on his way back when she had called him, because he hadn’t wanted to miss their appointment. “Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?”

  Behind me, I can hear my dad answering for both of us, but I’m not really paying attention to the conversation that is struck up, because my attention is captured by the white leather examination chair in the centre of the square room. It wasn’t anything particularly fascinating, except to me, because it held so many memories. I used to hate coming here, sitting in that chair, being poked and prodded and discussed as if I weren’t even in the room. Once I had even attempted to hide a broken arm from my dad because I was terrified of being brought here to have it fixed, after all, this was where my mum had died and to a seven year old that was a scary thought… it still was now. Of course, when my dad did find out I was dragged here regardless of my protests and over the years I’d simply become accustom to the place, so much so that it no longer fazed me. Or so I tried to convince myself every time I stepped through those sliding glass doors. Sucking in a deep breath, I perch myself on the edge of the chair, knowing I will be reclining on it soon regardless, leaving the armchair in the corner for my dad and the swivel chair on the opposite side of the room, tucked beneath the desk, for Dr Wong once he arrives.

  We don’t have to wait long, only eight minutes – I know because I sit watching the digital clock for want of something better to do. I suppose my dad and I could talk, but we hadn’t done that in years, so why start now? I swear I hear him give a sigh of relief when the door slides open and the elderly doctor steps in. I guess he’s as bored as I am.

  “Sunny,” the white haired man smiles at me and immediately comes to shake my hand, “how are you, my dear?” I have been coming to Dr Wong since before I was born; he was my mum’s doctor, therefore, he knew us before my dad’s rise to fame and power, so he’s in no way star struck by the fact that he’s in the same room as the President, which is nice because he recognises that I am his patient and
talks directly to me, instead of addressing my dad as if I weren’t even in the room. Over the years I have come to like him; he’s a kind man, the sort I can easily imagine as someone’s grandfather, though he’s told me before that he has no children, that he’s never even been married, because he is too dedicated to his job for any other commitments. That’s sad, I think, because who will mourn him when he’s dead? Sure, his colleagues and patients may feel a certain amount of sadness, but in the end they will move on and forget him, because to them he is replaceable.

  “I’m holding up,” I tell him, pulling my clenched fists out of my pockets and forcing them to unfurl so that I can lay them neatly in my lap, folded over one another.

  “What are your symptoms?” he asks, directing his gaze from me to the thin tab he pulls from a desk draw, barely thicker than a piece of paper, pausing with his stylus poised above it for me to give him something to write down.

  Taking another deep breath and flexing my finger in an attempt to stop them curling back up into my palms, I begin the long and familiar list with as little emotion as possible. “Frequent nose bleeds, tiredness, bruises, my entire body aches and I’ve had a cold for the past few weeks that I just can’t seem to shift.”

  Glancing up to stare at me with narrowed, watery brown eyes, the doctor asks, “How long have you had the cold exactly?”

  “Not too long.” I try to shrug, but I’m not very good at lying, I never have been, which is hilarious since my dad is a politician and I’ve long accepted that he lies for a living. But if a lie is told for the greater good, is it still bad?

  “Five weeks,” my dad butts in, “and she’s also had a couple of really high temperatures reaching forty degrees, but they went down with ibuprofen.”

  At the mention of the medieval medicine, which few now used, Dr Wongs’ face screws up in disapproval, “And why didn’t you come to me five weeks ago, All-Cure can treat the common cold, as the name suggests?”