The Blemished
Sarah Dalton
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EBOOK EDITION
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Copyright © 2012 Sarah Dalton
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs
ALSO IN THE BLEMISHED SERIES
The Vanished (Blemished #2)
The Unleashed (Blemished #3)
The Fractured: Elena (Blemished #2.5) (Fractured 1)
The Fractured: Maggie (Blemished #2.5) (Fractured 2)
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR:
My Daylight Monsters
Table of Contents:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
A Note From the Author
About the Author
Also by the Author
1
Once, my mum told me a story about a princess, and it began with her stuck in a castle. My story begins with my head stuck in the toilet.
It was my first day in Area 14 and my first opportunity to make a good impression at the school appropriately named St Jude’s. Any school with the Blemished as pupils deserved the saint of lost causes as their patron. I’d approached the old Victorian building with a hopeful feeling; this was a new start, a chance to finally make friends. But it was the same hopeful feeling which was beaten away within the hour. An hour was all it took for a GEM to push my head down the toilet and flush.
Her bony hand squeezed my skull. Water pulled my skin. It flooded my nose. I choked and my fingernails scraped the porcelain. I thought – this is how I am going to die, with my face being sucked down a drain. Then, I almost did it again. In the twitch of my fingers I felt the urge to do the one thing my father told me I could never do. The thing which would get us both killed.
“Now you know your place, Blem,” said the girl. She released me and I gasped for air. “Next time I won’t let you go.”
Her heels sounded against the tiles and the girl and her group ran off in giggles. I dragged myself up from the floor with shaking legs. At the sink, I took a deep breath and tried to calm my pounding heart and quell the rising disappointment. This was supposed to be my fresh start away from Area 10. I removed my headscarf and laughed. Moving here was supposed to keep me safe. Like my dad said – out of the frying pan and into the fire.
“If you can’t stand the heat…” I mumbled to myself.
“Are you all right?”
I jumped. When I turned there was a dark skinned girl staring at me sheepishly with a charming gap-toothed smile. On her black tunic she wore the Symbol of the Blemished – a circle containing a simple cross to remind us how we are the cross that society has to bear. Just like me. She was slightly plump and I estimated her age at fourteen, perhaps a tall thirteen, with pretty brown eyes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t step in…” she trailed off and stared down at her hands which never stopped worrying the long sleeves of her tunic.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s no point both of us getting a beating.” I forced a smile to show no hard feelings. After all, I needed at least one ally in this awful school. I turned back to the sink and squeezed at my soaked headscarf.
“It’s just that, well, these toilets are GEM only and I only popped in because I was desperate,” the girl rambled. “Elena Darcey is a total cow. She thinks she owns the school because she might have a shot at London.”
A jolt ran down my spine. I had to remind my hands to keep going.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” the girl asked, her face scrunched with concern.
“Perfectly,” I lied.
“I’m Angela by the way.” She stepped towards me but I didn’t turn around, just watched her in the bathroom mirror. “You must be Mina Hart, the new girl.” She laughed quietly. “We don’t get many new girls at St Jude’s. Well, at least none that are Blemished. Here, let me help. It’s the least I can do.”
Angela pulled the scarf from my fingers and stretched it out underneath the hand dryer. The dark fabric billowed out, reminding me of the Resistance flag. I’d seen photos of them protesting once, my dad showed me. But then I thought of her and I had to close my eyes to regain composure.
“Is it always like this here?” I asked to break the drone of the hand dryer, raising my voice above the noise.
“Elena is nothing compared to the teachers,” Angela replied with a sigh. “Don’t talk back to the GEMs or Murder-Troll will put all Blemished on cleaning duty after class.”
“Murder-Troll?”
“That’s what we call her – Mrs Murgatroyd. You’ll know why when you meet her.” Angela’s eyes widened to address her point, the whites bulged from her dark skin. She handed me back my headscarf. It was warm and soft. I pinned it into place, fingers working quickly through the folds, and Angela nodded as if in approval. “There you look like nothing ever happened! Come on, I’ll take you to kitchen duty. You’ll be fine with me.”
She led me through the echoing corridors of the old-fashioned school. It turned out I’d wandered into the GEM section, a place where Blemished were not allowed. The Ministry were strict on segregation – at least in schools – the Blemished had their place and the Children of the GEM, or GEMs as we called them, had everything else.
St. Jude’s made the most of its Victorian design which, at one time, separated boys from the girls. There were even two entrances and the School Council used these to ensure GEM and Blemished never had to mix. As she pulled me through corridors and swing doors it was quite clear from dingy grey, paint peeled walls that we had moved into the Blemished quarters. I noted our symbol painted neatly onto a classroom door, the only spot of fresh paint.
“What are your classes like?” I asked.
“The usual,” she said with a shrug. “Kitchen duties, needlework, cleaning class and sex Ed. Gardening in the spring.”
I nodded. The same as Area 10. With a sinking feeling I realised that despite fleeing my old home everything would remain the same. They would figure out my secret and then we’d have to run away again, leaving my friends and home behind.
“Excuse me. I think I’m lost.”
The sound of a male voice in the Blemished corridors startled us both, and we spun around in unison. Our heads would have collided if my headscarf hadn’t caught on a protruding nail from the wall to the right. It yanked me backwards ripping the scarf away and letting my damp hair tumble around my face. I shrieked and tugged, but it was stuck.
“Can I help you with that?” said the boy.
He was a GEM, h
e had to be. There were no Blemished people with skin as perfect. He was around my age – fifteen – with black eyes and brown hair. He had the chiselled look to his face that GEMs usually prefer; high-cheekbones and a strong jaw which often made them seem cruel. But this time the enhancements had stopped at just the right moment to achieve balance in his good-looks.
“No,” I said sharply. “You can’t help me.” I placed a warning hand between us, palm up. The boy should know the boundaries between Blemished and GEMs. I wondered why he was acting so friendly.
Angela helped me with my headscarf, our fingers working together in the tangle.
“You need to go down the corridor, turn left and through the swing doors to get to the GEM side of the school,” Angela said hurriedly, her eyes never meeting his. “You shouldn’t be talking to us.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that it’s my first day here and I don’t know…”
I finally pulled the scarf from the nail and hastily covered my hair. “We’re Blemished and you are GEM.”
“My name is Sebastian,” he said, ignoring my warning. He held out a hand for me to shake. “What’s yours?”
Whether it was the surprise of a GEM wanting to know my name or the way Sebastian’s eyes seemed to search my own – I don’t know. But I found myself putting my hand in his, feeling the instant warmth of his skin. It sent tingles of heat through my fingertips and along my arms.
“My name is Mina,” I breathed. “Mina Hart.”
“What a beautiful name,” he said.
I couldn’t control it any longer. My fingers twitched again and the door behind us swung open, almost knocking Angela over. Sebastian and I broke our contact and I backed away self-consciously, aware of my red cheeks and disorganised headscarf. Sebastian smiled and walked away leaving us alone in the corridor. At least, I’d thought we were alone. As I turned towards the entrance to the kitchen I was aware of someone watching us.
A middle-aged woman, thin to the extreme and sour faced, stood in the kitchen doorway with her arms folded tightly across a bulging chest. She was exactly like the kind of woman I had seen in the rich part of Area 10, the mothers of the first generation of clones who are desperate to be as beautiful as their genetically modified daughters. They could never be GEM so rely on the surgeon for nips and tucks and silicone and Botox until their faces concaved and protruded almost comically.
There was nothing comic about this woman; the look on her face chilled me bone-deep. The collagen in her lips made her mouth baggy and shiny, like slugs inside loose skin. Her cheekbones were too high and puffed outwards and upwards before disappearing into gaunt cheeks. Her forehead had the kind of shiny quality of a cheap plastic doll or stretched cellophane. Bright red tumbling curls sprouted from her head in an unruly and fierce fashion making me think of Boudicca, the warrior woman from ancient times. She didn’t say a word to us, only beckoned with a finger and disappeared through the doorway. Angela looked at me and I heard the “gulp” in her throat.
I suppressed a shudder. I knew instantly that this woman was not to be crossed. I knew instantly that this woman would not approve of a Blemished girl touching a GEM boy and it was at this moment that I realised just how dire my first day at St. Jude’s had turned out.
Well at least things can’t get any worse, I thought to myself.
2
“How long is it until you have the Operation?” Angela asked.
My knife faltered. I sliced a chunk of onion dangerously close to my fingers. We were in the kitchen preparing the meals for the GEMs. In Area 14, or indeed any Area outside London, school for Blemished means learning how to be their maids, cooks, cleaners, personal assistants, nannies – slaves.
“Just over six months,” I answered. I smiled grimly and added, “Things will be better after the Operation. Are you looking forward to it?”
For just a second I saw a glimmer in Angela’s eye, something that gave me hope. But it was soon gone and replaced by a glassy stare, watery from the onion vapours. “Of course. It is a great gift from the Ministry. But I have another fifteen months. I’m only fourteen.”
Despite her age Angela had an air of maturity, the kind of maturity that only comes from life experience – difficulty, pain. All are things the Blemished know about.
I looked around the kitchen at my classmates, about a dozen in total, all girls – male Blemished are sent on work experience – all concentrating on their tasks. We varied in height, age, build and skin colour, but we all wore the Symbol of the Blemished, the same uniform of black tunic and black headscarf, and we all wore the same grim expression.
After Sebastian shook my hand in the hallway my nerves had been a jangle. I thought about how stupid I was for letting myself lose control like that. After all the lectures from my dad about blending in and not drawing attention to myself, the first thing I did at school is show my hair to a GEM and even shake his hand.
I’d expected a big reaction from the teacher, detention or a humiliating dressing down, but she had not spoken a word to us. She only watched from the front of the kitchen, occasionally walking around the students, her high-heels clicking on the wooden floorboards, watching us. She always watched us.
“One hour until serving,” Mrs Murgatroyd said. The sound of her voice sent a jolt down my spine. There was nothing harsh about her words, but her cold tone gave me the creeps. With relief I saw her stride the width of the room and leave.
“She really is scary,” I said in a low voice to Angela.
“Hey new girl?”
I turned around to the speaker, a tough looking girl with frowning brown eyes. She held a large chopping knife in one hand and a carrot in the other. I thought to myself that without the carrot she would cut an intimidating figure.
“What are you thinking going round touching GEMs like that? Don’t you know the rule at St. Jude’s?”
I shook my head.
“One crime – all punished.”
“That’s not fair,” I stammered.
She exhaled air in a pffft noise. “Wake up, girl. Being Blemished isn’t fair. You should know that already. Where are you from anyway?”
“Area 10,” I answered. The rest of the class stopped working and turned to watch our exchange.
“Bunch of pussies down there. No wonder you’re going around touching GEMs. Bet you’ve never even had anyone in Twitching Sundays,” she said with an almost triumphant sneer.
“Billie,” Angela warned, “go easy on her. She’s new.”
Billie ignored Angela’s plea and continued. “Area 14 has the highest number of executions. Higher than London and definitely higher than Area 10.”
I cringed at the mention of Twitching Sundays, it always brought back bad memories for me. Despite many Blemished living in poverty and instead of paying for extra food and clothing, the Ministry had chosen to foot the bill for the electricity to our ridiculously large TV screens set up in every house. There was one channel – their channel – and most of the time it churned out inane beauty contests, GEM soap operas and reality competitions to find the next “star”. But every fourth Sunday of the month the Ministry played live footage from the execution ground into our homes.
Once, as a child, I watched Twitching Sundays with my friends. It was a dare. I remembered it all with startling clarity – a Blemished woman convicted of conceiving illegal children, her hands bound by cuffs. They put a black cloth over her face and a noose around her neck. With a sick feeling in my stomach I remembered the way her feet had danced as she died. I’d never watched it since; instead I hid in my room or played outside trying not to think about the way she’d twitched.
“Is that really something to brag about?” I said bitterly.
Billie stepped forward, brandishing the knife. “You’ve got a smart mouth on you.” She glared at me with her dark eyes, fierce, almost protective. Despite her threats there was something likable about her. There was something which reminded me of photo
graphs of my mum, the same fierceness in her eye.
“Billie, really. Would you just calm down?” Angela stepped between us, a reluctant mediator. “It’s her first day here for God’s sake. She’s not even had chance to get settled yet.”
“I don’t see what that has to do about it. She almost got us all in trouble once today. Murder-Troll’s gonna be watching you like a Hawk from now on so don’t do anything stupid,” she said pointing the knife at me again.
I held my hands up as if in surrender. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I just want to keep my head down and get on with things. That stuff with the GEM – it won’t happen again. You have my word.”
Billie’s features softened and she nodded in approval. “That’s good then. I have people to think about.” Her eyes drifted to a short girl with a large frame leaning over the counter at a funny angle. She stood with her back arched as though she found the weight of her body uncomfortable. Her tunic was baggy, at least a few sizes too big even for her plump body. I couldn’t pin-point what it was, but I felt there was something off about this girl.
“That’s my sister,” Billie said. “You’d do well to keep out of her way.” Her words came out in a hurried manner, almost urgent. She was nervous. Billie’s sister looked up with a sheepish smile.
“All right,” I said to Billie. “Just let me get on with my work.” I turned back to the counter and my dissected onion, feeling the weight of Billie’s stare.
*
It didn’t take long for the sound of chopping, stirring and bubbling water to fill the room and I took the opportunity to ask Angela some more questions. Under the noise of a busy kitchen we could whisper without Billie hearing us.
“The girl hunched over the counter is Billie’s sister, Emily.” Angela’s eyes widened. “She used to be a skinny thing. She used to be really chatty too, but now you can barely get a syllable from her. Plus Billie is crazy protective. They usually just sit in a corner and talk amongst themselves. In fact, that outburst from her – that was weird.”
“So, she’s not always like that?”
“No way. Like I said, they keep themselves to themselves. They rarely mix with the rest of us. Or at least that’s what they’ve been like for the last few months.”
I dared to turn a fraction and watch the two of them over my shoulder. I saw Emily in profile with Billie on her left. Emily seemed in pain, her smile tight and forced, and the blood drained from Billie’s face. The two of them whispered something and then Emily shook her head.