“Now, smile.” I lighten my tone.
“What?” They look at me in confusion.
“Smile,” I say perkily, through gritted teeth.
They attempt to smile.
“Chins up, let’s get through this with some dignity.”
They lift their chins, and it has the effect of working its way through the crowd. Our show of togetherness wipes the smirks off the Whistleblowers’ faces.
The Whistleblowers blow their whistles so loudly, together, that we have to block our ears. We’re moved like cattle into a series of single files, broken up only by the long fish-gutting tables. I stand behind Lizzie. Even Whistleblower Karen must embark on the next journey, whatever that is, and she knows what’s coming and looks pale, lost, as though she’s going to vomit.
The old lady continues to cry in the line beside me. She stands in her tight red slip, stripped of all her modesty, her pride, her aged flesh sagging, her varicose veins on display. Bodies burst out of the slips, boobs too big, butts and hips straining the fabric. Others are too tiny, having to pull up the strings and tie bows at the top to protect their bodies. All of our shapes are on show. A girl who looks younger than sixteen but can’t be, due to Flawed rules, tries to hide her changing body with her hands and arms, red-faced.
As women, we dress to please ourselves, to hide our imperfections, to accentuate our best features. Our clothing is an extension of who we are, a reflection of what we are thinking and feeling. This is ripped from us now, we are laid practically bare, all the parts of us, the parts we want to hide, the parts we are ashamed of, or the versions of ourselves we don’t want anybody to see. And even if anybody isn’t self-conscious of their bodies, the wearing of a uniform is simply demeaning. They have stripped us of our individuality, our uniqueness. They have told us we are not to be differentiated, we do not matter, we are insignificant. We are just numbers, a weakened army of imperfections.
And we all wonder the same thing: What is this in aid of? What’s going to happen next?
We’re each handed a pair of flip-flops, the soles so thin I can still feel the cold of the clay tiles through them once I put them on. The lead Whistleblower patrols the line, inspecting us. She stops at me, looks me up and down, with a face like she’s smelling raw sewage.
“You. Celestine North. You like to play at being a leader, don’t you?”
I don’t answer.
“Well, now’s your time to shine,” she says nastily. “Front of the line.”
I walk through the single files, all eyes on me.
“Go on, Celestine,” one woman says.
Another person claps, like they’re gearing me up for something, like I’m about to walk into a boxing ring. I feel pats on my shoulder, on my back, receive encouraging winks and nervous smiles. The entire room starts to support me, and I feel the tears come to my eyes, tears of appreciation and pride to be so propped up.
The Whistleblowers blow their whistles to stop the rising support, which the lead Whistleblower hadn’t counted on. I take my place in the front of my single file. We will be the first line to move, and I will be the first in line, though I don’t know where we’re going.
The warehouse door slides open and light fills the space, and we’re told to walk.
FIFTY-EIGHT
AT EXACTLY THE same time as we exit, the men exit their quarters beside us. They wear red tank tops and boxer shorts. From the look of some fresh bleeding noses and shiners it’s clear their uprising was lost, too. Some women start to cry as they see the men. Some men start to cry, and others look away out of respect, when they see us.
The man who leads the Flawed line looks at me and curses when he sees what we have to wear. The male lead Whistleblower immediately clatters him across the head, which silences him. We meet in the middle and are ordered to walk alongside each other. I lead the women; he leads the men. I wonder what he’s done to be picked to go first; I’m sure men weren’t fighting over their boxer shorts. I scan the men’s line to see if I can find any familiar faces, but a whistle is blown loudly in my face, signaling that I must keep my head straight.
“You’re Celestine North?” the man beside me asks, lips not moving.
“Yes.”
“What’s going on here?”
I look around. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I hope you have a plan of some sort,” he says.
We step onto the docklands and the streets are lined with people, members of the public who have come out from their houses and workplaces to see the Flawed parade through the streets. The walk of shame. The walk of blame. Dotted along the sidewalks are Whistleblowers dressed in their riot gear, shields in their hands.
We are in the old part of the town. On the other side of the river is the urban, vibrant, modern city, which rises from the once-derelict docklands. On this side, the old cobblestoned roads have been maintained, home to the market traders, wholesale and retail, from fruit and vegetables to meat and fish—a thriving, busy, colorful world filled with people and life. And so this is where we begin our journey, from the warehouses, past the stallholders in the market, and I feel it’s fitting. I feel like cattle about to be traded, sold, gawked at, and valued.
Then the laneways widen and bring us by cafés and restaurants, stories of apartments above, people out on their balconies, watching us with steaming cups in their hands. The cobblestones are difficult to walk over in our flimsy flip-flops, and more than once I stub my toe on the sharp edges of the pitched paving and am not alone in stumbling. A few people fall to the ground, cutting their knees, and are helped up by their fellow Flawed.
Through the city speakers we hear Crevan’s voice, a recorded version of what he said earlier. Snippets of phrases that have been cut, edited, now replay over and over again.
“Today is the day we say thank you to the Flawed population for helping us cleanse our society of imperfection and for allowing us to have an organized, decent society.” This one statement is popular and plays over and over like a broken record.