“You don’t think we should wait for Bob and Angelina?” Dad asks.
“And Colleen,” I add, and Juniper rolls her eyes again. She hates that I pick on every little detail, but I can’t help it.
“No, I don’t think so,” he says simply, firmly, not adding any more.
“Okay,” Mum says, standing and making her way to the kitchen, all calm and placid as if nothing has happened at all, which tells me that, underneath, her legs are paddling wildly.
I look at Art in confusion and know that he feels the tension, too, because I can sense a new joke forming in his mouth, the thing he does when he feels awkward or scared or uncomfortable. I see how his lip has started to curl at the thought of his punch line, but I never get to hear what he has to say because then we hear the siren.
The siren rings out, long, low, warning. It makes me jump in my seat, startled, and it sends my heart beating wildly, every inch of me sensing danger. It is a sound I have known my entire life, a sound you never want directed at you. The Guild calls it the alert signal, a three- to five-minute continuous siren, which rings out from the Guild vans, and though I’ve never lived through any war, it gives me a sense of how people must have felt then before being attacked. In the middle of any normal moment, it can invade your happy thoughts.
The siren sounds close to home and it feels sinister. We all momentarily freeze at the table, then Juniper, being Juniper, who speaks before thinking and is clumsy in her actions, jumps up first, bumps the table, and sends the glasses wobbling. Red wine sploshes on to the white linen like blobs of blood. She doesn’t bother to apologise or clean it, she just runs straight out of the room. Dad is close behind her.
Mum looks completely startled, frozen in time. Drained of all colour, she looks at Bosco, and I think she’s going to faint. She doesn’t even try to stop Ewan from running out the door.
The siren gets louder; it’s coming closer. Art jumps up, then so do I, and I follow him down the hall and outside to where they’ve all gathered in a tight huddle in the front yard. The same is happening in each yard around us, old Mr and Mrs Miller in the yard to the right of us hold each other tightly, looking terrified, waiting to see whose house the siren will stop at. Directly across the road, Bob Tinder opens his door and steps outside. He sees Dad, and they look at each other. There’s something there, but I don’t quite understand it. At first, I think Dad is angry with Bob, but then Bob’s face holds the same stare. I can’t read them. I don’t know what’s going on. It’s a waiting game. Who will it be?
Art grips my hand tightly, squeezes it for reassurance and tries to give me one of his winning smiles, but it’s wobbly, and too quick, and only carries the opposite effect. The sirens are almost on top of us now, the sounds in our ears, in our heads. The vans turn on to our road. Two black vehicles with bright red F symbols branding their sides, letting everybody know who they are. The Whistleblowers are the army of the Guild, sent out to protect society from the Flawed. They are not our official police; they are responsible for taking into custody those who are morally and ethically Flawed. Criminals go to prison; they have nothing to do with the Flawed court system.
The emergency lights on the van roofs spin around, rotating their red lights, so bright they almost light up the dusk sky, sending out a warning beacon to all. Clusters of families celebrating Earth Day cling to one another, hoping it’s not them, hoping one of theirs won’t be plucked from them. Not their family, not their home, not tonight. The two vans stop in the middle of the road, directly outside our house, and I feel my body start to shake. The sirens stop.
“No,” I whisper.
“They can’t take us,” Art whispers to me, and his face is so sure, so certain, that I believe him. Of course they can’t take us, we have Judge Crevan sitting in our home for dinner. We are practically untouchable. This helps my fear somewhat, but then anxiety turns to the poor, unfortunate person they are targeting. This surprises me, because I’ve always believed that the Flawed are wrong, that the Whistleblowers are on my side, protecting me. But because it is happening on my street, at my front door, that changes. It makes me feel it’s us against them. This illogical, dangerous thinking makes me shudder.
The van doors slide open, and the whistles sound as four uniformed Whistleblowers leap out, wearing their signature red vests over black combat boots and shirts. They keep blowing their whistles as they move, which has the effect of numbing my mind and stopping me from being able to form a single thought. In my head is just panic. Perhaps that’s the intention. The Whistleblowers run, and I stand frozen.
But they don’t run to us; they go in the opposite direction, to the Tinders’ house.
“No, no, no,” Dad says, and I can hear the surge of anger in his voice.
“Oh my God,” Juniper whispers.
I look at Art in shock, waiting for his reaction, but he stares ahead intently, his jaw working overtime. And then I notice Mum and Bosco still haven’t joined us outside.
I let go of Art’s hand and rush back to the door. “Mum, Bosco, quick! It’s the Tinders!”
As Mum races down the corridor, hair from her chignon comes loose and falls across her face. Dad acknowledges her and shares a look that means something only to the two of them, his fists opening and closing by his side. There is no sign of Bosco joining us.
“I don’t understand,” I say, watching as they approach Bob Tinder. “What’s going on?”
“Shh and watch,” Juniper silences me.
Colleen Tinder is now in the front yard with her dad, Bob, and her two little brothers, Timothy and Jacob. Bob stands in front of his children, blocking them, protecting them, puffing his chest up and out against the Whistleblowers. Not his family, not his home, not tonight.
“They can’t take the babies,” Mum says, her voice sounding slow and far away, so that I know she is right here and panicking.
“They won’t,” Dad says. “It’s him. It must be him.”
But the officers walk straight by Bob, ignoring him, ignoring the terrified children, who have started to cry, and waving a sheet of paper in his face, which he stalls to read. They enter the house. Suddenly realising what is happening, he tosses the piece of paper in the air and chases after them. He shouts at Colleen to look after the boys, which is a hard task because they’re starting to panic now, too.
“I’ll help her,” Juniper says, making a move, but Dad grips her arm tight. “Ow!” she yelps.
“Stay here,” Dad says in a voice I’ve never heard him use before.
Suddenly there’s screaming from inside the house. It’s Angelina Tinder. Mum’s hands fly to her face. A slip in her mask.
“No! No!” Angelina wails over and over again until, finally, we see her at the door, held at both sides by a Whistleblower. She is almost ready for our dinner, wearing a black satin dress, pearls around her neck. Her hair is in curlers. She is wearing jewelled sandals. She is dragged from her home. The boys start to scream as they watch their mother being taken away. They run to her and try to reach her,