The Returners (17 page)
‘Good for you, son. I knew you’d come round.’
He grins and I grin back. It feels good. We are in control. We are together.
‘Father and son, changing things for the better. Sounds good, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, it does,’ I agree. I am not alone.
g
I go to school. My idea; Dad said I should stay at home. But I don’t intend to hide. Why should I? I am who I am. I am proud of who I am. I can see clearly now. Douglas was right. Why fight my destiny?
Anyway, I want to see her. Want to have the satisfaction of telling Claire I know the truth. I want to look at her with my cold, angry eyes. I want her to know, want her to see. I will enjoy it. She thinks she has control over me but she doesn’t. She is nothing to me any more.
When I get there, I see Claire standing at the school gate, waving. I walk past, ignoring her calls.
I walk down the corridor angrily, pushing people aside, not caring when they shout at me, when they turn round and threaten me. What are they going to do exactly? Nothing that worries me, that’s for sure.
I go to the boys’ toilets. Yan’s brother is there. He’s looking at me hopefully. There’s the hint of a smile on his face – tentative, friendly even.
He approaches me.
‘Hodge, I . . . Claire talked to me. She said that . . .’ His eyes cloud over as he talks. He isn’t getting the reception he was hoping for. He clears his throat. ‘Claire said that you . . . that this would stop. That you wanted it to.’
I stare at him. ‘Nothing ever stops,’ I snarl. I remember now. Pinning him against the wall, hitting him until he emptied his pockets. It’s a memory. It’s part of me. I am that person now. ‘So give me your money.’
His eyes widen. ‘But Claire said . . .’
‘You shouldn’t listen to girls,’ I say. ‘They lie. They’re pathetic. You should remember that.’
We’re nose to nose; I’m holding him by the scruff of the neck. He nods. He hands me his money. A crisp five-pound note. I take it.
‘You’re a loser,’ I say. It makes me feel better.
I can see the terror in his eyes. Yan’s brother is a parasite. He deserves this.
I let go of him and he slumps to the floor. I stay there, standing above him, for a few seconds. Just looking at him.
‘You thought things were going to change,’ I say. It isn’t a question. He is too scared to answer anyway. ‘Things don’t change,’ I say. ‘Nothing ever changes. We are who we are. I’m who I am, and you’re who you are. A snivelling wretch. A pathetic loser. You’ll never fight back, and your brother’s going to prison. That’s it. So get used to it.’
I push open the door and walk through, letting it swing back with a bang. I enjoy the noise; I’m full of adrenaline. I want a punchbag, want to run somewhere – anything to let off the steam that’s accumulating in my body. Is this how it always feels? Yes. It’s a good feeling. It is a feeling of power, of omnipotence.
I stride down the hallway. I have History now. I’m going to enjoy myself. My teacher will learn not to disrespect me. I will make her wish she’d never picked on me.
I sit down at a desk near the back. The other desks begin to fill up and then Claire walks in and I feel my chest clench for a moment, then I breathe deeply and relax. She has betrayed me. I feel nothing for her.
She smiles at me and I look away. She looks confused, then hurt, then she shrugs and sits down.
I try to freeze. I feel nothing.
No, it’s not true. I cannot ice over. I clench my fists but it’s no use – I can’t stop looking at her. Only when she’s looking away, when she can’t see, but my eyes won’t leave her alone. My head is full of images of her laughing at me with Yan, holding his hand, telling him that I’ll do exactly what she tells me to. The two of them together, walking away from me. Yan smiling the way his dad smiles at mine – the smile of a victor, the patronising smile of someone who’s won.
They took Mum and now they have taken Claire.
But they haven’t won yet. I do my best to steel myself.
The teacher walks in. She notices me, gives me a wry smile. A ‘nice of you to join us’ kind of smile. I look back stonily.
‘I’ve marked your essays on the legacy of the Second World War,’ she says. ‘Those of you who submitted them.’ She’s looking at me again, with a raised eyebrow this time; I look away, bored. ‘You made some interesting points, some of you,’ she continues. ‘Claire, I particularly liked your point about the huge changes that the war brought about but that change is rarely long lasting; as soon as another drama comes along everyone forgets and moves on to the next thing.’
I shoot a look at Claire, who is blushing slightly, like she always does when she receives praise.
‘Of course nothing changes,’ I say, more loudly than I’d intended. I was aiming for ‘under the breath mutter’ but I pretty much shout it.
The teacher looks at me quizzically. ‘And why’s that, Will?’
I fold my arms. Everyone’s looking at me. I brazen it out. ‘People are people,’ I say.
‘People are people? Will, insightful though that is, I’m not sure it’s really an argument, is it?’
Her lips are moving upward at the edges; she’s laughing at me. Like Claire. Like Yan. They’re all laughing. But they won’t laugh for long. They’ll be laughing on the other side of their faces soon. I can feel the white anger descending. But now I’m in control; now I know what I’m doing.
This is who I am
, I repeat silently.
I stand up. ‘You think the Second World War saw the last holocaust?’ I ask, my voice icy. ‘You think that people aren’t killing each other, torturing each other, all over the world, all the time? You think that there aren’t children being beaten, women mutilated, men killed, every single minute of every single day? That’s life. That’s humanity. That’s who we are. You’re either an abuser or a sufferer. You’re strong or you’re weak. No one learns anything from history; they just repeat it, over and over and over.’
The teacher is looking shocked; her mouth is open. Her eyes narrow, then she walks towards me.
‘Just what are you trying to say, Will?’
‘I’m saying that this is a waste of time,’ I say levelly. ‘Learning achieves nothing. We are achieving nothing sitting here.’
‘You may be achieving nothing,’ she says. ‘Perhaps if you applied yourself –’
‘Applied myself to learning about weak men who allowed others to brutalise them? What’s the point?’
I stand up and head for the door; I turn back to see her looking at me, her mouth open in astonishment. I smile to myself. She knows I am right.
‘There is no point,’ I say. ‘If I were you, I’d pack it in now.’
It’s only when I reach the school gates that I realise Claire has been following me. She calls out my name; I turn round.
‘Leaving lessons early? That’s not like you.’ I sound cold.
‘Will? What’s wrong with you? I thought yesterday . . . I thought you were OK. What’s happened?’
She looks concerned. I remind myself that it’s all an act. ‘What’s happened,’ I say, ‘is that I know what I’m doing. And I know what you’re doing too.’
‘What I’m doing?’ She frowns. ‘What do you mean? Will, you’re not making any sense.’
‘Yan,’ I say. ‘You’re doing all of this for Yan, not me.’
‘Doing what? Will, what are you going on about?’
‘It’s about him,’ I round on her. ‘It’s all about Yan.’
‘Of course it’s about him. He’s in prison, Will, for something he didn’t do. But it’s also about you. Tell me what happened since last night. You’ve changed. You’re different.’
I shake my head in derision. ‘I haven’t changed,’ I say. ‘I’m just being true to myself.’
‘Which self?’ Her eyes are challenging; she’s standing there, arms crossed, jaw firm.
‘Look, just leave it, will you?’ I grunt. ‘Just go back to your boyfriend and leave me alone, OK?’
She blanches; I realise it’s the truth. Even though I knew it before, it still hits me with a thud. ‘You know about me and Yan?’
‘I do now.’
‘Is that what this is about?’
I swing round angrily. ‘What this is about? No, Claire,’ I say icily. ‘No, this is not about you and Yan. This is about me, actually. Remember me? No, I didn’t think so. I’m hardly important, am I, unless I can help your precious boyfriend. All that crap about believing in me – you just wanted me to save your boyfriend’s arse.’
‘No, that’s not it. You’re a good person, Will,’ Claire says, her voice choking slightly. ‘I just wanted you to see that.’
‘You wanted me to testify against my own father,’ I said.
‘You have to,’ Claire says tentatively. ‘You still have to – you know that.’
‘No, Claire, I don’t have to.’ I stare at her for a few seconds; she walks towards me.
‘Yes, you do,’ she says insistently. ‘Will, don’t run away from this. Yan needs you. You have to do the right thing. My parents spoke to the Police Commissioner this morning. He said if you go to the police station right away, he’ll interview you himself. You have to go. You have to tell the truth.’
She’s in my face, with that superior expression of hers, like she knows it all, like I’m just a child. My breathing quickens; I feel cornered, feel trapped, like she’s bearing down on me. I want her out of my space. I push her. I don’t think about it; I just have to get her away from me. She falls to the ground, protecting her face with her hands. She looks up at me, shocked, scared, as if she’s seeing me for the first time. I’m backing away. Then I’m running, out of the school gates, down the road, towards the river. Always the river.
I reach a bench and sit down. I’m panting; my mind is racing. I can still see Claire looking up at me. She was scared of me. I pushed Claire. She said I’d never hurt her.
She was wrong.
Your life is not going to be easy, Will. You must prepare for that.
Douglas said those words to me. But he was wrong. My life is going to be very easy. No one will cross me; no one will dare. I am powerful. I am strong. They are weak – all of them, even Claire. Especially Claire. She will not learn; I cannot help her.
I close my eyes. Images fill my head, clamouring for my attention; I give in to them.
Claire again, her eyes wide with fear. She is older, much older. She is begging me, she is pulling at my arm and imploring me, her voice high and agitated. ‘You can’t do this, Will. You can’t get rid of them like this. They’re British citizens, they belong here. This is wrong. This is so terribly wrong.’
I see it now. It is a new holocaust. I am the architect. They have brought it upon themselves; they had every opportunity to go. Now they will go on my terms. They are told the ships will take them home, but in truth they have no home – no one will take them. So the ship will take them to their deaths instead. Out in the ocean, out at sea, where no one has to see, no one has to take responsibility. The bodies will be disposed of in fires, bright flames that signal the future. England for the English. We will take our jobs back, our money, our houses, our land, our dignity.
‘They are parasites and they don’t belong here,’ I say coldly. ‘I must protect our people. I am saving us. Saving our country.’
‘Then this isn’t a country I want anything to do with. You put them on the ship and I go too.’
‘You are English. You belong here.’
‘No, Will, I don’t. I belong with Yan, with my children. This isn’t my country any more.’
I watch as she walks towards the ship, towards her end. She is looking back at me, her eyes full of hate.
I open my eyes.
I am who I am.
I can see it now. The others, like Claire, do not understand. They cannot; they need me to lead them, need me to act for them.
I stand up. I am ready now. I start to walk back home, at a brisk pace but not running this time.
When I get home, Dad is waiting for me. He looks unsettled.
‘Son, what’s going on?’ he said. Patrick phoned to say the Chief Inspector’s expecting you. He says he wants to talk to you. What about, son? Why does he want to see you? You remember what we agreed? You remember we’re on the same side? Don’t you? Don’t you, son?’ His eyes are wide, his voice quivering.
Everyone fears me. It is because I am strong and they can see that.
‘You’ll set things straight, won’t you, son?’
I nod. Will the benefactor, Will the protector. ‘Sure,’ I say, watching his face relax with relief. ‘Don’t worry about it, Dad. Let’s go.’
g
Dad drives me to the police station. He’s wearing a suit. He’s shaved. His hair has been combed awkwardly.
Claire and her parents are there too, waiting outside, for me. Claire’s nose is grazed and one of her hands is bandaged. Her mother looks at me reproachfully. Claire’s gaze is cold and unforgiving. It isn’t her hand she’s angry at me about, I know that, but I still can’t take my eyes off it. I did that. Me.
That is who I am.
She walks towards me; Dad steps between us. ‘You leave him alone, you hear?’
‘It’s OK, Dad,’ I say. I look at her steadily.
She moves closer. ‘Will, there’s just one thing I don’t understand.’
‘You can’t understand,’ I say. ‘You can’t see the world as I see it. You never will.’
She shakes her head irritably. ‘No, you don’t understand,’ she says. ‘It’s what you said about your dreams. Memories.’
I say nothing; I just raise an eyebrow.
‘Rwanda,’ she continues. ‘You said you were there. But how could you have been? You said you’d been missing for fifty years. Since Auschwitz. You said that. So how could you have been in Rwanda? You couldn’t have been. So it can’t be a memory. It must be something else.’
I stay silent. ‘The Rwandan genocide happened in 1994, Will. How could you have been there?’ Her eyes are alight, with vindication, with determination. ‘How?’
I open my mouth to tell her, to explain that I was watching from far away, that I was supposed to be there, but wouldn’t go back. Couldn’t go back. But I close it again. It was weakness that kept me away. I am not weak any more.
I look at her instead, my eyes hostile.
Eventually, to my relief, she turns back to her parents.
As she moves, I see that her eyes aren’t as clear as I’d thought they were. She looks almost forlorn. She looks vulnerable.
Weak, I remind myself. There is only strong and weak, nothing in between.
Yan’s dad bounds up the stairs suddenly. Dad freezes; his expression changes completely from apprehension to loathing. I narrow my eyes. Yan’s dad doesn’t notice, though. He runs up to me.
‘You going to tell the truth? You going to help my son?’ His face is gaunt, his eyes haunted. In them I see my mother, floating, her hair splayed out.
Silently I seethe at him.
Killer. You thought you were strong. But I am stronger. You will learn. You will regret crossing me.
‘You’re going to tell them? That Yan didn’t do it? Claire said you were there. You were always good friends, Will. You used to play football together, the two of you. Remember?’
He has taken hold of my shoulders. I look at his hands with distaste and move backwards so that they fall limply at his sides.
‘Take your hands off him,’ Dad says, the tone of his voice a warning in itself. ‘You’ve done enough damage to this family.’
We walk towards the door, but something pulls me back. I am thrown to the ground and suddenly I am being hit, bitten, kicked. My hands move instinctively to protect my face. There is pain shooting through me. I can feel blood dripping from my nose. Confused, I throw my attacker off me. He returns, like an animal, he will not stop. I see his face; it is Yan’s brother. He is kicking me, punching me. My eyes widen. He is no longer afraid of me.
‘You think I am weak? You think my family is weak?’ he shouts, his attack growing in strength. ‘I am not weak. My brother is not weak. You’re the bully, you’re the weak one,’ he shouts. His father pulls him off; as he is dragged away, still kicking, I see tears in his eyes.
Dad helps me to my feet. ‘You all right, son? Little thug. Just like his brother.’
I look back and a policeman is restraining Yan’s brother. I frown. I am shaking. It isn’t fear.
We are who we are.
People don’t change.
And yet . . .
Dad is holding the door open. ‘So you coming in?’
I look at him vaguely. ‘I . . . I need the bathroom,’ I say.
‘Through there,’ a policeman says, pointing to a door.
I walk in, stand over the basin, look at my reflection.
I am who I am. Accept it.
The door opens and my father appears. ‘You OK?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
He walks towards me, puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t you let that little bastard get to you,’ he says. ‘You’re a good boy, Will.’
I turn to look at him. It is as though he is suddenly several metres away. I cannot see him properly.
You’re a good boy, Will
.
I pull away from him; I am sliding to the ground. My head is throbbing.
It’s like a red-hot poker in the side of my head. I gasp in agony.
You’re a good boy, Will. We’re on the same side, me and you. The two of us, Will. We know what happened.
The words echo around my head. Dad’s voice. A long time ago.
‘Son? Son, what’s wrong? If that boy has done anything to you . . . Wait there, I’m going to get someone. I’ll be back in just a second . . .’
You tell me what you saw, Will.
People rush in. I am carried out of the bathroom.
No, son, no, you’re getting confused. Now listen to me. He is insistent. He grabs me, too hard. I cry out. He lets go. ‘Now don’t make me hurt you,’ he is saying, his voice full of emotion. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Will. Just listen to me, will you? Let me tell you what happened . . .’
‘A cell?’ I hear Dad say.
‘Only place with a bed. We’ll call a doctor.’
I am placed on a blue plastic mattress. There is a hand on my hand. Dad’s hand. He squeezes. ‘You’ll be OK, son. There’s a doctor coming. Just close your eyes and rest.’
We are at the river. I see it in front of me. We are there, the three of us. Mum, Dad and me. It’s early morning. Very early – so early the sun hasn’t come up. I have not slept. I have been listening to them arguing, to thuds and crashes in the sitting room beneath me. I heard them leave the house and followed them. They are walking, and they are shouting. Mum starts crying. I move closer, take her hand. I can’t bear to hear her cry.
She turns, shocked to see me. ‘Will, go home, darling. You shouldn’t be out here,’ she says through her tears.
‘I want to be with you,’ I say.
‘You sit here,’ she says, pointing at a bench. ‘Mum and Dad are having a grown-up talk. You sit here and you don’t move. Promise?’
I nod and go to the bench. They aren’t walking any more; they are standing still. I stare resolutely at the river.
Dad is shouting. He is using words I don’t know, but I hear the anger in them, the accusations. ‘You slut. You slept with him, I know you did.’
‘No.’ She grabs him, tries to keep him still, to make him look at her. ‘No, Henry, I didn’t. It’s not like that.’
‘Not like that? Then what’s it like? He’s been coming to the house. You’ve been seen together. Admit it. Tell the truth for once in your life, will you?’
‘You don’t understand. It’s not like that. I –’
‘You what? You WHAT?’
She’s crying. ‘You think I’m having an affair with him? You really think that? Jesus, can’t you see? This isn’t about you. This is about me. About the world around us. He’s my friend. We’re . . . We’re . . .’
‘You’re what?’ Dad thunders.
‘You hate people. Hate everyone. You think people are the enemy, but they’re not. That man, as you describe him, is a good man. He’s created jobs. He’s tried to be part of the community. But you and your friends, the way you talk about him . . . He’s been getting hate mail. Threats. You won’t give him a chance, won’t give anyone a chance. I can’t be a part of that. I loved you. But I despise what you’ve become. I joined up. I joined the New Liberal party. I hate everything you believe in. I hate you.’
‘You hate me?’ He towers over her. I am scared. I edge backwards, behind the bench. I crouch down. I am watching them as though they are a scary television programme. ‘You’re leaving me for him? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No. I don’t want to leave. You’re not listening. It’s not like that. Nothing like that. I never . . . He came round to talk. About the movement. The New Liberal movement. Educating people, stopping the hatred, stopping the attacks . . .’
‘You’re lying!’ He pushes her; she stumbles to the ground. She falls awkwardly on her ankle, topples, uses her hands to break her fall, but she rolls over, and then she is in the river.
Mum can’t swim.
She is struggling, she is kicking.
I look at Dad. He doesn’t move. She surfaces; she looks at him. I see her expression: bewilderment, betrayal, devastation, acceptance.
I run, suddenly, run out from behind the bench. I can’t swim but I will save her.
But Dad sees me; he grabs me, holds me back. He is sobbing. His whole body is juddering.
‘She can’t swim,’ I say. ‘We have to get her out.’
‘It’s too late, she’s already gone,’ Dad says. ‘She wanted it this way.’
I don’t understand. ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Why?’
‘Because she wasn’t right,’ Dad says. ‘That’s why she killed herself. You saw her jump into the river. She wanted to go. She didn’t love us any more, you heard her say so. Not like me. I love you; I’m not going anywhere. We’re on the same side, me and you. We’re on the same side. The two of us, Will.’ He leads me to the water’s edge; she is floating, her hair splayed out. Her long, beautiful hair.
I open my eyes. I cannot move. I cannot speak.
I close them again. I am falling. I want to fall. I want to land, crashing on the floor, broken.
I never get what I want. I’m learning that, slowly, reluctantly.
I am watching over Rwanda. I hear a voice, shouting. It is my voice. I am shouting, ‘No. No, don’t do it.’ I have seen too much pain. I cannot watch any more. It makes no difference that the boy is not me; he is there and that is enough. I watch the people in the school. I watch them suffer, watch mothers tending their sick children, hope evaporating as the hours tick by, as the truth becomes unavoidable, as they realise that there is no escape, no protection. ‘No, no, you must not. You cannot.’
I am crying. I am helpless. I can do nothing.
Because I am not there.
Because I did not go back.
It hits me like a train.
Because I did not go back.
And I see that I must. I must go back. I must Return.
But I will be different. Everything will be different.
I will Return, and I will change. I will fight my destiny. I will not accept. I will never accept. I will fight . . . I will fight . . .
‘Son?’ Dad’s looking at me worriedly. ‘Where’s the doctor?’
Another man is beside me. A light shines into my eyes; I close them on reflex, pull away.
‘I’m fine.’ I sit up.
The man peers at me. ‘Does this sort of thing happen regularly?’ he asks Dad.
‘No, no. He’s a healthy boy. That thug attacked him. If there’s anything wrong with him, any lasting damage, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’
‘I’m fine.’ I push him away, swing my legs over the side of the bed and climb down.
My head still feels as though it is being clamped in a vice, but I don’t care. I know. I remember. I remember everything.
‘I want to get out of here.’
Dad nods. ‘Are you sure you’re OK, son? Where’s the Police Commissioner? You don’t have to do this now. You can do it whenever you want.’
‘Now,’ I say stonily. A policeman leads the way; I turn to look back at Dad. I find I can’t. I follow the policeman to the Police Commissioner’s office and he leaves the two of us alone. The door closes and I sit down. I make my statement slowly, precisely.
When I’ve finished, I go back to the foyer and Dad rushes over. ‘All right, son? It went all right, did it?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I say. ‘I’ve got some things to do now. I’ll see you later, OK?’
He nods; he can’t do anything else.
I leave the police station and walk back towards the river.
