want nothing to do with this,” she says loudly, attracting more attention.
“With what?” I laugh nervously. “Your leg is fine. Perhaps if you just move to another chair and your friend stays here …”
“I’m staying right where I am,” she hollers.
Now we have the attention of the entire bus.
The old man, who is beside me, can barely stand. He is bent over coughing. He turns to me, face purple, and tries to talk, but he can’t catch his breath.
I don’t know what he’s trying to say. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what medical help to give him. Even if I knew what medical help to provide, I wouldn’t be able to give it to him. Think, think, Celestine. I can’t help, but a doctor can.
“Is there a doctor here?” I call down the bus, and I see Art put his face in his hands.
There’s an audible gasp in the bus.
I look around at everyone, the judgmental faces of surprise. I feel dizzy and confused. This man is going to collapse, maybe die. My eyes start to fill.
“Are we going to just watch this?” I scream.
“Stop it, dear,” a woman says to me in a hushed voice. She is clearly upset about it, too. It’s not just me, but she’s warning me. I’m going too far.
This is completely illogical. Have we no compassion for this human being, Flawed or not, that we won’t help?
Heads look away. Eyes are averted.
“Okay, okay,” I say to the old man, who by now is panicking severely. He continues to cough, and I can see the F on his tongue, which makes me recoil slightly. I can’t imagine the pain of receiving it. “It’s okay.”
He punches his chest, starts to fall to his knees.
I pull him up under the arms, and I bring him to the nearest open seat.
“Stop the bus!” I yell.
The bus stops, and I assure the old man everything will be fine.
I look over at Juniper and see that she is crying.
“It’s okay,” I tell her and Art. “It’s going to be fine.” My heart is still pounding. “This has all been so very ridiculous.” My voice is high-pitched and shrill; it doesn’t sound like mine. And then I hear the siren, loud, close, intense and threatening.
Everybody stays still in their seats, waiting, my heart beating loudly over the silence. Two Whistleblowers climb aboard blowing silver whistles so loudly most people block their ears. They make their way towards me and the old man.
“See? I told you it will be fine,” I tell the man over the noise. “They’re here. Help is here.”
He nods faintly, his eyes closed. I expect them to go to the old man, who has passed out on the seat, exhausted and taking short breaths, a fine layer of sweat covering his skin. But they don’t go to him. They come for me.
And then they take me away.
Juniper screams at them to leave me alone, held back by Art, who doesn’t look much better. As they hold me under the arms and drag me away by the elbow, Juniper screams, “My sister! My sister!” They lead me down the steps of the bus and into their van, the sound of the whistles ringing in my ears.
Before I was born, there was a great recession in this country; banks folded, the government collapsed, the economy was ravaged, unemployment and emigration soared. People were blindsided by what had happened, and the leaders were blamed. They should have known; they should have seen it coming. It was their bad judgement, their bad decisions that had led to the country’s collapse. They were evil; they had destroyed families and homes, and they were to suffer. They were the morally flawed people who had brought about our downfall.
As a result, anyone who made the smallest error in judgement was immediately punished. These people were publicly ridiculed, held up as examples of failure and forced to resign. They were named and shamed. They weren’t criminals, but they had made bad decisions. Society demanded leaders who would not have to learn from hindsight – leaders who would not make mistakes in the first place. No second chances, no sympathy, no explanations allowed nor required. Anybody who had made mistakes in the past couldn’t take leadership roles in the future. And as hundreds of thousands of people marched on the government, it was decided that any person who made any error of judgement was to be rooted out of society entirely. Hindsight would be a thing of the past. Everybody would always – always – look ahead before it was too late, no mistakes made.
Could perfection be bred? Many ways to achieve this were tried and tested and what the government eventually settled on was Crevan’s Guild and its Flawed brandings. No matter what you do, your Flawed title can never be removed. You hold it till death. You suffer the consequences of your one mistake for the rest of your life. Your punishment serves as a reminder to others to think before they act.
I’m taken to a holding cell in the basement of Highland Castle and guided to a desk upon which sits an information pack containing all the information about the Guild that I need to know. It has a chapter dedicated to the rules you must adhere to, living as a Flawed. It even has a comprehensive section on the searing of the skin: the process and how to treat your brand afterwards. I slam the pack closed and look around.
The holding cells are pleasant; they are newly renovated. There are four in total, two on each side of the room, separated by a walkway in the centre and enclosed by bulletproof and soundproof glass. According to the information pack, the glass represents the transparency of the system, but I feel it is to prepare us for the lack of dignity coming our way and the invasion into our lives. Each cell contains a table with four chairs, a single bed, a bathroom, and some randomly placed chairs should the desire for a holding-cell party take me. Everything is painted in earthy tones, to make us feel like this is the most natural place in the world.
Of the four cells, I am the only occupant. The two opposite me are empty, the one beside me has been recently occupied – I can tell from the clothes, the items of belongings scattered. I assume this person is in the courtroom now, awaiting his or her fate. The bathroom, thankfully, has solid walls, but it has been made so small that you can barely spend a minute in there before feeling suffocated. It is where I ran to cry, though I may as well have stayed here and done it in full view because my tear-stained face and red eyes are a giveaway, and there’s nobody here to see me anyway.
I have not had the opportunity to speak with anyone yet, to analyse, dissect and discuss what has happened. I was registered at reception by a nice lady in a Whistleblower uniform, who introduced herself as Tina, and then I was brought to this room beneath the Clock Tower, where the Guild has its offices. I know this from watching trials on
