Ghetto Read online

  “But you admit that they do bite.” He doesn’t seem sure how to reply to this, so I take mercy and end his floundering by asking, “What are they arguing about?”

  He shrugs. “There’s always somethin’ to argue about, but I think this time it’s the internet. Our connection is totally useless and without it they can’t play their games.”

  “Hey, Kitty,” one of the men calls, right on cue, “come see if you can fix this damn thing.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Kit scowls at the other man, “and I want you to meet someone first.” All eyes turn to me. “This is Sunny.” Somebody laughs and the rest of the group follows.

  “As if that weren’t obvious, Kitty.”

  “Shut up,” Kit mutters, ducking his head in embarrassment, the colour in his face deepening.

  “I can sort that out for you,” I gesture to the TV. Everyone goes silent and a second later the laughter recommences.

  “That’s a good one!”

  “Is she serious?”

  Insulted, I defend hotly, “Hey, I’ve created my own programs, dismantled and reconstructed ancient pieces of equipment and hacked the government security system. Can any of you say the same?” Stunned silence.

  “I guess it can’t hurt to let her have a go,” a hesitant voice ventures.

  It doesn’t take long. It’s not a hard task. All I have to do is link the TV set directly to the satellite that supplies the cities internet. It is technically illegal, but then so is hacking – I reassure myself that it doesn’t matter because it won’t hurt anybody and hopefully it will help me. After all, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Last night I thanked Sin for letting me have a shower and this morning I had been allowed out of my room for the first time. A reward for good behaviour perhaps? Twisted as that may be. So now my plan is to be nice, to withhold the insults on the tip of my tongue, no matter how warranted, and endear myself to my captors. I would make them trust me, see how much freedom they would allow and then when the opportunity arose, hopefully, I will be in a better position to utilise it. As I work, I talk them through every step I take, being completely candid. By the time I’m finished they are all watching me with an awed kind of respect, which, if I’m honest, I quite like.

  Standing up, I dust off my palms and the knees of my jeans, declaring, “All fixed.” No one makes a move to challenge my announcement, so I gesture towards the outdated, but still functional set and urge, “Give it a go.” Handing over the remote control, a dated instrument which was nowadays mostly obsolete, since most TV models were either touch screen or voice activated, I step back as a young man, who I’ve heard the others call Gary, moves in front of the TV, navigating it with surprising ease. Selecting a game with a gruesome looking icon – an animated picture of a decapitated head amid a sea of blood – he logs into it by manually typing in the Brand on his forearm, exposed by the short sleeved shirt he wears despite the chill in the air. It doesn’t take the first time, which is obviously a regular problem because he simply rolls his eyes and enters it a second time.

  And the game begins.

  It’s a multiplayer game, able to accommodate up to four players at a time, however, there are only two controllers, so they are forced to play in pairs, with the rest of us watching on. Kit manages to secure a seat on the couch and pats the slither of space next to him. I’m small, but I’m not that small, so I shake my head with a smile of thanks, perching instead on the very edge of the arm, resolutely ignoring the speculative gazes that follow the movement. However, after a minute all attention shifts from me to the TV screen as the game heats up and the noise level begins to rise as the men either cheer the players on or good naturedly rib them over their performance. Soon everyone has forgotten that I’m even there. I, on the other hand, feel strangely as if I’m intruding; this is what I imagine a family to be like.

  “Do you want a go?” Kits’ voice startles me out of my thoughts, along with a gentle nudge of his elbow. These sorts of games have never interested me, I’ve always thought they were excessively violent and a complete waste of time, but I still say yes anyway.

  Kit gives me a brief download about the aim of the game: Kill your enemies and get the golden sword. My question? Why do you need a golden sword when you have a gun; surely gun outstrips sword any day of the week? When I ask this question Kit looks at me like I’ve grown a second head and someone behind us comments, “Girls… They just don’t get it.” The other men snicker.

  Swivelling my head around, I raise my brows at them. “It’s a valid question.”

  “It don’t matter,” Gary snaps, sitting cross legged beside me with several inches of carpet between us, “just play the game.” He grins, a bright slash of crooked teeth. “It’s not like you’ll beat me anyway.”

  Responding to a challenge, I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re on.”

  What seems like minutes later, though in reality it is probably at least an hour, I am victorious. My fingers ache from slamming on the buttons as I dodge missiles and fire bullets at unsuspecting bad guys. It’s a very therapeutic activity, I find, and slightly addictive.

  “Ha!” I exclaim, dropping the controller into my lap and pumping my fist in the air, “I win.” The look on my competitions face tells me that beating him and then bragging probably wasn’t the best idea if my goal is to make friends. However, after a moment, just as I’m thinking I’ve made a fatal error, Gary’s face cracks into a smile.

  Reaching out, he claps me hard on the shoulder, “You’re good… for a girl.”

  “She beat your arse,” someone puts in with the utmost glee. I toss a grin back at them.

  “That was wicked,” Kit holds out a hand with a broad grin and I don’t hesitate to let him pull me to my feet, “no one’s ever beaten Gary. Ever.” He stresses the word, dragging it out, “He’s the all-time champ.”

  “Not anymore,” I say in a sing-song voice, eliciting a chorus of laughter. Turning around to face our audience and let someone else have a go, the smile immediately slips from my lips. Lounging in the doorway, shoulder braced against the frame and arms crossed, Sin is watching us. Or, more specifically, he is watching me, his expression indecipherable. It makes me uneasy. Everyone follows my gaze and the conversation ceases.

  “Oh, hey, Sin,” Kit is the only one to greet him, the rest all look vaguely intimidated, “you wanna join us?” I swear I could hear the unanimous ‘NO’ that was screamed silently at him by the rest of the group.

  “Nah,” Sin straightens, “got stuff to do. I just wanted to check up on our… guest.” That word thrusts me back into reality; I’m not a guest, I’m not their friend, I’m a prisoner. Getting close to the men may be part of my plan, but I don’t have to enjoy it. They are not my friends and they never will be. Meeting Sin’s unyielding gaze doesn’t help my sudden sense of nausea, however, he doesn’t hold it long before nodding and leaving the room. His nod seems to be trying to convey some kind of meaning, but I don’t know what.

  “What’s his deal?” I ask of Kit a while later, when we are preparing lunch for the group, in the large, but mostly empty canteen, having been the unlucky two voted to do so. Next door we can hear the others continuing their game.

  Someone yells loudly, “Give me a grenade. A grenade, god damn it! Ah, shit…”

  “What?” he asks absently, concentrating on mutilating the handful of pathetic looking vegetables which he then throws into the pot of boiling water on the hob. I had thought that the awful meals I was getting were on account of my being a prisoner, but as I stir the beginnings of a watery stew I realize that everybody is eating the same way – I may even be getting special treatment because I usually get a thin slice of bread to go with it.

  “Sin,” I clarify, “what’s his problem?”

  “Oh, well…” The teenager shifts uncomfortably, “I don’t think that’s something we should be talkin’ about.”

  “Come on, Kit,” I try out an inviting smile on him, reaching out to rest my
hand in the crook of his elbow, “who would I tell?”

  “I’m s-sorry,” he stutters slightly, “but I can’t.”

  Sighing, I draw back my hand and return to stirring the pot, “Fine, but at least tell me why everyone’s so scared of him. Is he violent?”

  “No,” Kit answers cautiously, clearly choosing each and every word with care, “Sin’s a good guy.” I repress my snort of derision, however, a thought niggles at the back of my mind; he could have broken his word in the shower room, but he didn’t, he could have left me in the dark, but he didn’t, he could have hurt me when he knocked me out, but he didn’t. “It’s just that, well,” he continues hesitantly, tossing the last of the vegetables into the stew, splashing water over the side, “he’s got a bit of a temper. He doesn’t lose it very often,” he rushes to amend, “but when he does,” he whistles between his teeth, “well, let’s just say you don’t wanna see it.” I don’t doubt that at all; Sin is an intimidating figure, he practically radiates power from every pore.

  “So why aren’t you afraid of him?”

  He laughs, “Sin wouldn’t hurt me, he’s my brother.” As soon as the words are out, he looks as if he wishes he could suck them back in, but before I can ask him any of the thousands of questions filling my head a voice hollers from the other room.

  “Yo, where’s the grub? We’re wastin’ away in here.”

  “If you got off you’re lazy arse and helped it would go faster!” Kit yells back. And that’s the end of our brief conversation.

  Once the meal is cooked, everyone piles into the canteen and the noise is almost deafening as they clamour for space on the three, long rickety tables. Their numbers seem to have doubled. Kit spoons out the stew and passes bowls into eager hands.

  “Go grab a seat, before they all go,” he instructs loudly over the commotion, but I shake my head, unwilling to enter the fray on my own, preferring to lingering by his side. Soon the sound of spoons scraping and clinking against bowls adds to the voices – some of the men don’t bother with implements though, simply swigging it from the bowl. When there are no more comers Kit ladles some out for each of us and hands me one of the warm bowls.

  “There are no more spoons,” Kit winces apologetically, but then rushes to say, “I’m sure I can…”

  Holding up a hand to stall his next words, I assure him, “It doesn’t matter.” To prove it I lift the bowl to my lips and take a sip of the mildly flavoured water – Kit added some kind of stock cube to the mix in an effort to add a little something to it. A piece of carrot crunches between my teeth. For a moment Kit watches me and then, satisfied, transfers his attention to his own meal. He finishes quickly, as do most of the other men, practically inhaling it and then glancing longingly at the empty cooking pot. I feel an unwanted twinge of pity as I scan the faces in the room; they are all malnourished, with hollow cheeks and hungry eyes. The remainder of my meagre meal tastes like ash in my mouth, because if this was the state of a gang who clearly had the means to obtain some kind of headquarter, then what condition were the rest of the Ghetto Folk living in?

  People are just beginning to trickle out of the room, when Sin once more appears in the doorway, however, this time, instead of lingering silently, he raises his voice to be heard above the din. “Right, you slackers, we got a delivery, you know where you should be and it ain’t here.” Immediately the room is a hive of activity, with people abandoning their bowls and chairs to rush from the room. The canteen is clear of all except Kit and I, with Sin watching us from the doorway, in mere minutes.

  “She needs to go back to her room.”

  “What?” my voice is almost a shriek. Though I had expected as much, the very idea gave birth to a strange, desperate kind of panic which tightened my vocal chords and made my stomach clench painfully as my lunch threatened to reappear. “No,” I deny the words, backing away from them until my back hits the counter, the jolt knocking me out of my sudden spin. Calmer now, but no less determined, I lift my jaw defiantly and state, “I don’t want to go back.”

  “No,” Sin speaks as if I’m not even there, “I’ll take her, you go.” Clearly uncertain, Kit glances at me. He opens his mouth to speak, then snaps it shut. “Now, Kit.” That hurries him along. Once he’s gone, I stare at Sin; I just can’t believe the two are brothers, from what I have seen they have absolutely nothing in common, not even looks.

  “Don’t think that tone is going to work on me,” I warn.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” he smirks, “but unless you want to clean all this,” he gestures to the mess of dirty bowls and toppled chairs, “you’d better come with me.” I narrow my eyes at him, attempting to communicate without words exactly how much I hate him.

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Really?” he asks, sounding only mildly interested.

  “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

  “Is it working?”

  “No.”

  Shrugging casually, he saunters further into the room and sits at the nearest table, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the edge, his eyes beckoning me as he says, “Come sit with me... Or not.” He adds the latter when I don’t make a move to obey. “I want to ask you a question.” When I don’t respond, he simply continues, “Are you and your dad close?”

  Out of all the things he could have asked, that is definitely not what I expected and it shocks a single word out of me. “Why?”

  “It’s been nearly a week and, as far as I can tell, he hasn’t even started lookin’ for you.”

  The floor drops out from under me.

  He’s not looking for me? Why? Doesn’t he care? Those thoughts bring tears to my eyes and my vision blurs. My hands clutch the counter behind me. My lower lip trembles. It feels like someone is ripping my heart apart. I can’t quite catch my breath.

  “I want to go back to my room now.”

  Chapter 5

  The journey back to my room is undertaken in silence. I walk tentatively with my arms wrapped around my stomach, holding myself together. At my door, I wait to be let in, but Sin doesn’t open it immediately. A brief touch of fingertips on my chin urges me to look up. I tilt my back, but refuse to lift my eyes; I can’t bear for him to mock the wet sheen in them.

  “Look at me,” his voice is soft, more a suggestion than a demand. Still, I don’t comply. After a moment, he sighs and pushes open the door. Turning towards it, I start forwards. “I’m sorry.” The solemn words make me pause, but then I step into the room and shut the door. For what seems like an eternity I stand on the other side, my gaze fixed on the shadow of his feet showing beneath the slab of wood which separates us, but eventually he fits the key into the lock, turns it and leaves.

  Once he is gone I crumble. Why isn’t he looking for me? A thousand possibilities race through my head, but finally I think, maybe he hasn’t even noticed I’m missing? There have been plenty of times where he has been away for weeks on end, maybe he just hasn’t been home to notice my absence. The only other human I had regular meetings with is Micah and there are no official events that would require his services for at least another week. Though it still stings that my dad doesn’t care enough to contact me when he’s away, it doesn’t break my heart as much as the idea of his knowing I’m missing and not doing anything about it.

  But the next day, the same thoughts continue to plague me. I am weighed down by a mixture of disappointment and grief. I shouldn’t really be surprised, though, I tell myself, my dad has never been particularly attentive, but he does love me and he will come for me. Still, I can’t help thinking, what if he doesn’t, what will I do? The knock on my door is an unwelcome distraction; all I want to do is wallow and yet I still agree when Kit offers to take me upstairs.

  Upon our arrival in the rec room a voice rings out, “Good she’s here, gives me chance to win back my title.” Gary and I compete in another round. Though my heart’s not in it, I still win, much to Gary’s chagrin.

  “Another game.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, come on Gary,” someone groans, “let us have a go.”

  “Just one more try,” Gary insists, staring intently at the screen as he adjusts his grip on the controller, “third time lucky.” This time when I defeat him, I can’t help but feel my spirits lifting; the horrified look on his face is almost comical. Finally, he grudgingly admits defeat and two other men take our place in front of the machine.

  That is how I spend the next four days – time is easier to navigate now that I have access to a room with windows and a clock – occasionally playing, but mostly watching. A clean pair of clothes is brought to me in that time and the food improves for a couple of days: bread, butter, a variety of meat, fruit, vegetables without a dusting of mould, and even a bar of chocolate which tastes like heaven as it melts in my mouth. No coffee, though. The delicious feast doesn’t last long, however, and soon we are back to watery porridge and bland stew. Nobody complains, too glad for the brief reprise. Depression rests heavily on my shoulders and, though I go through the motions of acting normal, I can’t quite shake it. I don’t attempt, or even really think about trying to escape, but on the fifth day an irresistible opportunity presents itself.

  That morning, instead of being woken by a knock on the door, it is the sharp toll of a bell that jolts me from a deep, dreamless sleep. Thundering footsteps shake the ceiling. Distant voices can be hear yelling, “Red. Red. Red.” It sounds like there is some kind of emergency. I strain to listen, but can’t discover much more than that. Nobody comes for me that morning. It is only later on that Kit appears, looking anxious and harried.

  “What’s going on?” I demand immediately.

  “Nothin’ to worry about,” he answers lightly, but his expression says differently.

  Pretending to accept his words, I change tact, grinning as I ask, “Are we going to the rec room, I feel like whipping Gary’s arse again?”