symbol on his armband and I shudder, annoyed with myself for ever thinking someone like him could possibly be related to me.
My prejudice strikes me. I had been repulsed by the reaction of the woman with the crutches to the Flawed woman smiling at her, but I hold equal views of my own without ever realising it.
The man is in his seventies or eighties. I’m not sure. He’s old, and he is dressed in a smart suit and polished shoes, as if he’s on his way to work. From this angle, I can’t see any signs of branding, though it could mean it is on his chest, tongue, or foot. He looks respectable, and again I study him, surprised by his appearance. I always thought of the Flawed as less than us, and I can’t believe I have admitted that to myself. He is unable to sit, because the two Flawed seats are taken – by two women who are not Flawed but who are so busy chatting that they don’t notice him. He stands near them, holding on to the pole to stay upright.
I hope they notice him soon. He doesn’t look like he will go very far standing.
A few minutes pass. He is still standing. I look around. There are at least a dozen free seats where he could sit, but he is not allowed to. I’m a logical person, and this does not seem logical to me.
I look across at Juniper, who has taken off her headphones and is sitting up, poker straight, alert and looking at the same situation that I am. Juniper has always been more emotional than I am, and I can see her on the edge of her seat, ready to pounce.Instead of fearing she will do something stupid, for once I am glad she and I feel the same.
The old man starts coughing. And then he won’t stop.
His breath is wheezy, barely still for a moment before he coughs again. He takes out a handkerchief and coughs into that, trying to block the germs and noise. His face goes from white to pink to purple, and I see Juniper move closer to the edge of her seat. She looks at the two women chatting, then back to the old man. Finally, he stops coughing.
Moments later he starts again, and all heads turn away from him and look out of the window. The fat lady stops talking to look at him, and I’m relieved, knowing she will finally let him sit in the seat he is entitled to. Instead, she tuts as if he’s bothering her and continues her conversation.
Now I straighten up in my seat.
The coughing is bothering her. It is bothering everyone on the bus. His loud gasps for breath can’t be ignored, and yet they are. Rules state that if anyone aids a Flawed, they will be imprisoned, but not in this case, surely? Are we to watch him struggling right before us?
The coughing stops.
My heart is pounding.
I let go of Art’s hand. It feels clammy.
“What’s up?”
“Can’t you hear that?”
“What?”
“The coughing.”
He looks around. “There’s no one coughing.”
The coughing starts again, and Art doesn’t bat an eyelash when he looks at me intimately and says, “You know I can’t wait to be somewhere alone. Why don’t we miss the first class?”
I can barely hear him over the coughing, over my pounding heart. Does nobody hear the old man? Does nobody see him? I look around, flustered. All eyes are staring out of the window or on him in disgust, as if he’s about to infect us all with his flaws.
Juniper’s eyes are filled with tears. My own flesh and blood agreeing with me is validation enough. I make a move to stand up, and Art’s hand suddenly clamps around my arm.
“Don’t,” he says firmly.
“Ow!” I try to move, but instead his grip feels like red-hot iron. “You’re hurting me.”
“And do you think when they sear your skin it won’t hurt more than this?” He squeezes tighter.
“Art, stop! Ouch!” I feel my skin burning.
He stops.
“How is this fair?” I hiss.
“He has done something wrong, Celestine.”
“Like what? Something that’s completely legal in another country but that people are prosecuted for here anyway?”
He looks as if I’ve stung him.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Celestine,” he says, sensing he has lost the argument. “And don’t help him,” he adds quickly.
“I have no intention of helping him.”
How I walk by this coughing, wheezing, struggling-to-breathe old man is beyond me, but I do, seeing the faint F scar on his temple as though it has been there a very long time, like it’s as much a part of him as the freckles and hair alongside it. I walk straight to the two women in the Flawed seats. They are chatting about making jam, as if nothing is wrong.
“Excuse me,” I say sweetly, offering them the most polite smile I can muster. They respond immediately with their own bright smiles. Two polite, friendly women from the suburbs willing to help me with anything. Almost anything.
“Yes, dear.”
“I was wondering if you could help me.”
“Of course, dear.”
“Could one of you sit in any of the available seats here? Or I could offer you two seats together where my boyfriend and I are sitting so that you can continue your conversation?”
As I look up at Art, all I can see is terror on his face. Funny, I no longer feel it. I like solutions. The problem was disturbing me, and fixing it just made sense. I’m not doing anything wrong; I’m not breaking any laws or rules. I’ve always been complimented on my timing, my perfection. I come from a good home. I have a pleasant manner. The anklet of geometric harmony proves it.
“May I ask why?” the woman with the broken leg asks.
“Well, this man here – ” I point to the old man – “is clearly Flawed, and you are in the Flawed seats. He can’t sit down anywhere else. And he is struggling.”
I notice a few faces turn to stare at me when I say that. I expect them to understand. I expect there to be no further conversation. I even expect the few who have overheard to step in and agree, make sense of the situation. But they don’t. They look confused, some even scared. One man looks amused. This is illogical. This is Juniper’s territory, not mine. I look at her. She has the same expression of terror as Art. She is not moving. If I ever thought she was going to back me up, I know now that she won’t.
“But we’re talking,” the other woman says.
“And he’s choking,” I say with the same smile on my face, which I know looks a little psychotic, because we are no longer being polite.
“Are you trying to help him?” the woman with the crutches asks.
“N-n-o,” I stutter. “I’m not. I’m trying to help the situation …”
