There’s a subtle prod in my back. One of the production crew, a young woman, furiously indicates for me to show my face.
I lift my head and stare vacantly at the crowd, rubbing the back of my neck; my breath hitches when Jojo’s gaze meets mine. The puppy leaps out of Tabby’s arms and heads for the stage. The presenter tries stopping her, but the crowd objects and she refrains, smiling and shrugging. I scoop Jojo up and bury my face in her fur.
“Congratulations, Miss McQueen,” the prime minister says. His soft voice carries across the stage as he walks over to me with a warm smile.
He hands me a certificate and trophy. Light bulbs flash and the hovering cameras go manic as I’m congratulated. The PM shakes my hand as he faces the cameras.
“I wish to say a personal thank-you to Miss McQueen. She demonstrated the most honorable racing I’ve ever had the privilege to watch. Despite knowing that rising out of the way of a certain crash might cost her the championship, she still acted in the best interests of a fellow human being.”
My eyes prickle. Don’t you dare.
The PM nods. “If we all look out for one another this way, there will be no danger to our numbers. And nothing may ever defeat us. On behalf of the entire nation, I thank you, Miss McQueen. An example to us all.” He claps for me.
The room erupts in cheers and applause. The PM returns to his seat.
It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Papa will remain locked up somewhere.
I stare into the space ahead. The presenter leans in for a comment. Her fixed smile soon wanes when she’s met with nothing.
I breathe a sigh of relief, and Jojo relaxes in my arms when the hovering equipment and frustrated presenter move on down the line to the first runner-up.
Following prize allocation is an announcement: Contestants must remain in the observatory for all pictures and interviews. At long last, someone shouts, “Cut!”
I stumble off the stage. As I do, I catch Captain Sebastian move to a corner of the room, aggressively waving away a Newsbot as he does. I pause to watch. He speaks intensely into his Bracelet, his features twisted with tension.
And then he suddenly whips his head in my direction and looks straight at me.
The look he throws my way could freeze the entire waters. My legs and insides quiver.
Why didn’t they grant my request?
What is really going on?
Where is Papa?
I exit the hatch and drag my legs along the gloomy corridor to the flat, Jojo in my arms. I wince as I move my head around. The constant twisting my neck during the marathon is kicking in now. Maybe the Medi-bot will help.
Ahead, in the hallway, I lift the champion’s trophy. I close my eyes, walking through the realistic images of the holographic projections flashing up and down the lengthy space. In one image, I’m rising out of the other contestant’s way in the last seconds before impact. I look around and none of the news highlights show my Ultimate Prize request being rejected. Funny that.
Papa’s face flashes in front of me for the umpteenth time and I flinch; my chest is tight, all twisted inside. The entire marathon and prize-giving ceremony are just a blur now. I reach for the door’s security scanner. My hand freezes in midair.
The door is already ajar.
Oh God. I inhale sharply; my lungs ache in response. The puppy tenses. What to do? I push the door fully open, my hand shaking. Jojo leaps down and runs in, ignoring my hushed calls. Inside, my brolly lies on the floor. I grab it. The stand it usually hangs from is on its side, my belongings everywhere. My heart has stopped, I’m certain. I take long, deep breaths; pain stabs at my chest.
The puppy returns whimpering but not growling. I turn to the lounge with my brolly ready.
The door slides open. I gasp and shuffle back a step. It’s as if I’ve left my mind outside in the corridor and am not really seeing, feeling. I don’t know where to look.
Everything is destroyed.
All my belongings are smashed, ripped apart. Every bit of furniture is on its side, stuffing from upholstery and cushions everywhere. Pictures from the walls lie in pieces on the floor.
I stand in the doorway for several moments. Finally I edge into the kitchen and bedrooms. The entire place has been turned inside out. I gasp in Papa’s room, a sour taste in my mouth. On tiptoe, I reach up for the high shelf and relief washes over me; the Qur’ans are still in place on it. Thank God they didn’t fling them to the floor. I shudder at the thought.
I turn back to secure the front door; the lock wasn’t forced. What does that mean? Something cracks under my foot as soon as I enter the lounge. Mama’s beloved Afghan tea set is sprawled about in sharp, jagged pieces, no longer taking pride of place on the shelf. My origami models mix with the rubble, shredded. Why?
I draw in breath. Oh no. A heap of turquoise pieces now rest where Mama’s vase used to stand. She crafted it for Papa after they were engaged and he adored it, refusing to ever put anything inside. It was a feat of beauty in itself, he always insisted. I scoop up a handful of the smaller shards. They glisten in my palm. I let them slip through my fingers.
I hesitate. “Jeeves?” The wall flickers to life, thank goodness.
“Good evening, Miss Leyla. May I congratulate you on your outstanding achievement today in—”
“Please run the flat’s security data for today.”
I shuffle through the space, my arms wrapped around myself. I shake my head; a million memories all eerily tainted now. Mama’s drawings of her favorite poets, Jalaluddin Muhammad Rumi and Robert Frost, are slashed. The folding screen catches my eye; it’s been ripped off the wall and thrown on the floor. No. I step over the carnage and grab it, holding my breath as I open it. My shoulders slump in relief. All my handmade maps are still inside. Hours and hours of drawings, ever since I was a child. I prop the screen up against the wall.
Something smooth sticks out beneath the sofa—the Medi-bot. I pull the rectangular-shaped aid out. It’s crushed on one side, the trays all damaged. There’ll be no pain relief. Jojo’s hammock lies in pieces beside it, and I pick up one of the wooden parts. Who would smash a puppy’s hammock? Papa crafted it with his own hands, insisting the lazy pup would love it, and she did. I throw the wood back. Nothing makes sense.
“There is no available security data for today, Miss Leyla. The security system was disabled today at five thirty p.m.”
Someone is responsible for this, and for wiping the data clean afterward. But who, and more importantly, why? My heartbeat whooshes away. I can feel it in my chest, ears, neck. My legs won’t stop trembling. I need to sit.
“Who disabled the system, Jeeves?”
“The system was disabled by you. Your personal ID was used. It—”
“What?” Everything is wrong.
“Your personal ID was used to override the internal system. Miss Leyla, is there a security problem? Would you like me to alert the authorities?”
I frown. “Yes, please.”
Mama’s handwoven wall hanging catches my eye. The tapestry is ripped to shreds. It was passed down from her great-grandma. I press a hand to my head. Think.
“Miss Leyla, you are scheduled for a visit from the police at eleven a.m. tomorrow. You are advised to find a suitably safe place for the night if security has been compromised and—”