The Returners (15 page)

Suddenly I stop. My anger has evaporated; I can’t remember its source any more. I get to my knees and I stare at my hands in horror. What have I done? What just happened? I feel hands on my shoulders – Emily’s hands. I shake her off. ‘Don’t touch me.’

‘It’s OK, Will,’ Douglas says, pulling himself up painfully. His cheek is bleeding, his voice is strangled. ‘It’s OK.’

‘It’s OK,’ Emily echoes. She is standing next to Douglas now. Their haunted eyes are fixed on me.

‘You are who you are,’ they say in unison.

‘What am I?’ I whisper. My hands are bruised. A lump is appearing above Douglas’s eye. I look away. ‘I don’t know why I did that.’

‘Yes, you do. You were angry. You blame me for that anger.’

He’s right, but I won’t admit it. Can’t admit it. ‘You didn’t even try and stop me. You didn’t fight back.’

‘Returners don’t fight back. It is not for us to stop what happens. We are what we are, Will. We all play our role.’

He is smiling; I look at him incredulously. I hate him for smiling. Hate him for telling me I cannot change. ‘If you won’t help yourself, then
I’ll
help you,’ I say, ‘and you can’t stop me.’

I stand up and walk towards the water’s edge. I am full of self-loathing. I am evil. There is nothing else I can do to stop it.

‘That isn’t the answer and you know it,’ Emily says.

‘Think, Will. Think of the people you love. Think of your hopes, their hopes. You are part of those hopes. The fabrics of your lives intertwine. You belong here, you must live your life as it is intended to be lived. Running away will not help you or anyone else.’

‘Living won’t help anyone if I’m evil,’ I say, my voice choked.

‘Evil is an emotive word,’ Douglas says. ‘Unhelpful too. You are yin to our yang. You have a different energy force, that’s all.’

‘Like Hitler did?’ I swing round and stare at them defiantly.

‘History moves along a certain course,’ Douglas says gently. ‘One cannot fight it. Be with the people you love. Be who you are. Make peace with your destiny.’

I move away from the water, sit back down on the bench, let my head drop into my hands.

And suddenly I am crying. Weeping. I don’t even know why. Is it shame? Or is it fear?

Emily sits beside me; Douglas stands over me. We stay like that for a few minutes. Then I wipe my eyes. As I do so, something hits me. Something important. Something I’ve been pushing from my head. ‘Dad,’ I say. The conversation with Patrick. He’s doing something wrong. Something terrible. He doesn’t realise, doesn’t see. And Yan. He didn’t do it. He shouldn’t be in prison.

‘You love your father,’ Douglas says. ‘And he needs you.’

I shake my head. Then I nod. I think of Dad’s face, of his sitting in the chair alone, always alone since Mum died. ‘He doesn’t need me.’ My voice has gone all raspy. I wasn’t even going to say goodbye to him. I was just going to leave him. Like Mum did. Only this time he’d have had no one. No one at all.

‘What is it, Will? Tell me.’

‘I won’t be . . . I can’t be who you say I am,’ I manage to say.

‘Perhaps not now. But it’s who you are, Will. It’s who you will become.’

‘No.’

Douglas stands up. ‘You promised you wouldn’t do anything stupid, remember.’

‘Killing a future murderer isn’t stupid in my book,’ I say, even though I already know I can’t do it, can’t do what Mum did.

‘You know we’re here for you,’ Douglas says, turning and starting to walk. Emily gives me one last look, a smile framed by mournful eyes, then walks after him.

It’s properly light now; I realise they have cleverly kept me talking until daylight. There’s a woman on the other side of the river walking her dog; there will be other people soon. It is too late.

I stand up and let the early rays of the new day’s sun warm my face, warm my bones. I have goosebumps; I need to eat, to have a hot shower.

I hear something, footsteps, quiet ones, creeping ones, from behind me, from behind the bushes, and I swing round, then stop, my mouth falling open.

‘Will?’

It’s Claire.

‘Will, I’m sorry, I . . . When you said goodbye like that I was worried. Worried what you might do. I followed you. I’m sorry. I was going to just go, but . . .’

I stare at her. ‘You followed me? You’ve been here all the time?’

‘For ages.’ She’s shivering, her wide eyes surrounded by shadows.

‘You mean you heard.’

She nods. ‘They were . . . That was them?’ she asks. ‘Returners?’

‘Yeah.’

She looks at me, right into my eyes. ‘You were going to do it, weren’t you? You were going to . . . in the river, I mean. Like your mum.’

‘I guess.’ I put my hands in my pockets awkwardly.

‘That man is right. You can’t run away.’

I roll my eyes. ‘So what then? I just stay put and wait for whatever it is that’s going to happen? Wait until it’s time to kill some more people?’

‘No.’ She bites her lip, maintains her gaze. Her eyes are so clear, so true, so defiant. They never show any hint of doubt, of uncertainty. ‘You have to fight, Will.’

‘Fight, yeah. Fight and torture and –’

‘Not that sort of fighting.’ Her voice is growing in confidence. ‘I’ve been thinking about it and I think that man is wrong. Nothing is set in stone, Will. Nothing is determined, not until it’s happened. You don’t have to be who they say you’re going to be, who you think you’re going to be. You can be someone else. You can change. Everyone can. We all make our own decisions, every single day.’

I shake my head. ‘Making a decision about whether to have Cheerios or Shreddies isn’t the same as deciding whether to be an agent of evil or not,’ I say. ‘Look, thanks for the vote of confidence, but you don’t get it. Look at what I’ve already done – to Yan’s brother, to Dad. I’m bad. Deep down. I’m not a nice person, Claire. I’m not nice at all. I saw it all tonight. I remember it. Auschwitz – I was there. Rwanda – I was supposed to lock those people in the school . . .’

I wipe my eyes angrily.

‘But that’s just it, Will. You’re not that person. Not really,’ Claire says, looking at me intently. ‘You told me about Yan, about your dad. You care. You hate the characters you inhabit in those dreams. Nightmares, I mean. Maybe there’s some Returner soul inside you that’s evil, but that’s not you. You can fight it. You can, I know you can.’

I want to believe her. But I know I can’t. ‘No.’

‘You can. I’ll help you.’

‘Help me? How?’

‘You do these things without knowing. Well, if I’m always with you, you’ll know. I mean, I’ll stop you.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘You’ll stop me?’

‘Yes.’ She folds her arms.

‘What if I hurt you? What if I turn on you, like I turned on Yan’s brother? What then?’

Claire shrugs. We’re walking back towards town. ‘You won’t.’

‘I might.’

‘No.’ She looks up at me, bites her lip. ‘You remember why we stopped being friends?’

I look at her awkwardly. ‘I guess you found better people to hang out with.’

‘No, Will. That’s not what happened.’

‘It isn’t? So what? We just drifted apart then?’

‘No,’ she says again. I feel my stomach clench. Another chunk missing from my life. What did I do? What did I do to her?

‘It was your dad.’

‘Dad?’ I frown. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘My parents took Yan’s family’s side. In their argument with your dad. He told you not to be friends with me any more.’

‘He did?’ I don’t remember any of this. ‘And I just stopped being friends with you? Just like that?’

She shakes her head. ‘No, you didn’t. That’s the point. You were really brave. You told him that we were friends and he couldn’t do anything about it. You said that his fight with Yan’s dad had nothing to do with me. Or you.’

‘Right.’ I’m confused. ‘So . . . why did we . . . ?’

‘He threatened me,’ she says quietly. ‘He shouted at me, told me I was an immigrant-lover. Said I should be careful.’

‘Dad said that?’ I feel myself stiffen with anger.

‘He’d been drinking. You said he didn’t know what he was saying.’ She takes my hand. ‘You said we should stop being friends. Stop seeing each other.’

‘I said that?’ I ask incredulously.

‘You wanted to protect me. You were worried for me. You said you’d be fine, that it would be better this way.’

‘I said that.’ This time it isn’t a question. I can sort of remember, maybe, in a hazy kind of way, like it happened a lifetime ago.

‘You definitely did. I remember,’ Claire says. ‘You’re a good person, Will. I know you are. And you’d never hurt me. So now it’s my turn to look after you. OK?’

She squeezes my hand and I want to believe her. I do believe her. I’m Will Hodges. I’m a good person. And Claire is going to be with me all the time. I will never be alone again. ‘OK,’ I whisper, as we walk back home. ‘If you say so.’

g

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I get back home to find Dad in the sitting room waiting for me. Patrick is with him, grim-faced.

Patrick rushes over to me, grabs me. ‘Where the hell have you been? Your dad has been up all night worrying about you. What d’you think you’re playing at? Who’ve you been with?’

I look at him curiously. ‘Why should you care?’

He looks like he wants to hit me. Dad is on his chair. He has a black eye. He looks at me warily. An image flashes into my mind: Dad on the floor, his nose bloody. I feel a shudder of guilt.

I did that.

I punched my own father.

‘I don’t care about you, you little shit,’ Patrick says. It is as though a veil has lifted. This is the real Patrick. The smiles, the jokes, they were all a charade. ‘But I do care about your dad. About justice.’

Justice. OK, now I get it. I say nothing; just look at him blankly, baiting him.

‘So come on. Where have you been?’

‘Out,’ I say.

His face is going red. If Dad weren’t here, he would not be restraining himself.

‘Out where?’ This time it’s Dad talking. I look at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to worry you.’

‘Didn’t mean to worry him? Out all night? Don’t make me laugh,’ Patrick says sarcastically.

‘I didn’t,’ I say levelly. ‘I just needed some fresh air.’

‘You’ve got a garden, haven’t you?’ Patrick interjects.

I choose to ignore him.

‘You were with that Hayes girl,’ Dad says. ‘You know I don’t want you hanging around that family? I thought we understood each other.’

‘Claire?’ My eyes narrow just slightly. ‘I wasn’t with her,’ I lie.

‘Funny that. I saw the two of you together just a few minutes ago.’ Patrick is smiling smugly. ‘Thought I’d take a drive, see if I could track you down.’

I regard him stonily. I cannot let him see that I am concerned for her. ‘I wasn’t with her. I just bumped into her. I couldn’t care less about Claire Hayes. I went for a walk, OK? On my own. To let off some steam.’

Patrick’s not sure what to say, not sure whether I’m having a laugh at him or being genuine. He looks at Dad, who shrugs.

‘You say anything to her?’ Patrick’s gaze returns to me.

‘About what?’

‘You know her parents are troublemakers? You know they’d rather see foreigners living off our taxes than English people born and bred doing the jobs that are theirs by rights?’

I don’t say anything. Patrick moves towards me threateningly. ‘Did you say anything to her,’ he asks again, enunciating each syllable. ‘About the boy. The foreign boy.’

‘About Yan?’ I ask. ‘He has a name.’

‘Don’t you . . .’ Patrick moves towards me but I don’t flinch. He catches Dad’s eye and checks himself. ‘You’re not worth it anyway,’ he says. ‘Soon you’ll be a long way away, out of trouble, Will,’ he says. ‘Your dad’s found you a new school.’

‘A new school?’ I look at him uncertainly.

‘It’s a boarding school. More like a camp. They teach kids like you some respect.’ He grins. ‘Ooh, Will, just you wait. Ooh, you’re in for a treat.’

‘I don’t want to go away to school,’ I say to Dad. ‘I like my school.’ I’d normally smile at the irony of that statement, but right now I’m not really in the mood to smile. Dad isn’t looking at me. It’s like he’s barely there, like he’s already bailed out.

‘Your dad doesn’t want a smart-arse son who thinks he knows better than everyone,’ Patrick says. ‘You’re going to learn some discipline. The people who run the school, they’re friends of mine. They know what they’re doing. They won’t take any shit from you. They’ll make you into a man, Will.’

‘A man?’ An image flashes into my mind. A speech I am giving.
You are the sons of Great Britain. You will make our country great again. You will lead others, lead them to a bright and honourable future. You will reclaim our country
. . . ‘Like you, you mean?’

I watch Patrick go red.

‘What are you saying, Will?’ he asks. ‘Just what are you saying, you freak? You friendless, guileless freak? You’re going to turn into your mother if you’re not careful. You hear me? You’re pathetic. You’re a loser, Will.’

He’s angry. But not as angry as me. It fills my veins, my arteries, hot and red; then I turn a switch and it is cool blue. Angry blue. Icy.

‘Well, you know about being a loser,’ I say. ‘You can’t catch a murderer so you fit someone else up. You’re the one who’s pathetic.’

He’s staring at me, his mouth open. ‘What did you just say?’

‘I said you’re pathetic. I said that I know what you did. What you’re doing with Yan. Fitting him up. Smart, Patrick. Really smart. What do you think people will say when they find out? When I tell them the truth? Because I’m going to. I’m going to tell them everything, and you’re going to be ruined. No career, no poxy job title to make you feel like a big man. You’ll be nothing. You’ll be worse than nothing.’

‘You little . . .’ Patrick lunges at me. ‘How dare you, you little shit? How dare you?’

I’m ready for him. My fist is clenched, my body taut. Dad looks at me, then at Patrick. He is shocked. He is not prepared for this. I wait for him to help me.

‘Get over here,’ Patrick barks.

He stands up just as Patrick pulls me to the floor. My dad is not going to help me. The two of them pin me down. Dad averts his eyes.

‘Is that what you’ve been talking about with that little slut Claire Hayes?’ Patrick asks through gritted teeth. His eyes are bloodshot, his face bulbous and covered in thin red veins. ‘She been asking you about the foreign boy, has she? You know why?’

He is pushing down on my chest; I can barely breathe. I refuse to look at him; I turn my head.

‘I’ll tell you why.’ He laughs. ‘You think she cares about you, don’t you? She doesn’t give a shit. She’s only looking out for her
boyfriend
.’

I try to pull away, but Dad and Patrick are holding me down too tight.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I say instead. I hear Claire’s voice telling me I am a good person, telling me she will always be with me.

‘She’s been down to the prison every day to see him,’ Patrick says, grinning. He’s clearly enjoying himself. ‘Kissing him, bringing him things. Shame – nice English girl like her.’

‘No.’

‘She’s just like her parents, Will. Selfish. Manipulative. She’s the enemy, Will, and you can’t even see it.’

I close my eyes to block him out. But a flash of images fills my mind.
Checkpoints, walls being built. Claire on one side. Come over, Claire. Come with me. She’s shaking her head. She’s going with him. With Yan. She’s choosing him . . .

I open my eyes to see him holding some tape. He hands it to Dad and gets a better grip on my hands. My stomach drops down into the pit of my belly when I realise it’s for me. They’re tying me up. I wrestle, I writhe, but it’s no good. They tape my hands behind my back.

‘It’s for your own good, son,’ Dad says. ‘You’ll see that eventually. You’ll thank me one day.’

One day
. I know the day he talks of. I can see it.
The checkpoints are closing. The gates are coming down. England for the English. Safety within our borders. I am saluting. The crowds are cheering. Behind them the cast-offs, stuffed into ships, crammed into corners, are disappearing. Not our problem any more. Not our problem
. . .

I want the images to go away. I open my eyes, see my father’s empty ones, close mine again. I struggle. My head is pounding. I start to scream. ‘Let me go. Let me go.’

‘Drink this, son.’

Liquid forced into my mouth; I gag, but swallow most of it.

I can hear their screams. I can see Claire’s face, looking at me with disgust. She is with them. ‘This isn’t my country any more,’ she is saying. ‘I want nothing more to do with it. Nothing more to do with you.’

‘Please, Claire,’ I shout.

‘Pathetic,’ Patrick says again. ‘Will, the girl’s been using you. She’s shagging the foreign boy.’ His face takes on a look of distaste when he says ‘foreign’ – to him it is an insult, not a description.

His voice sounds funny, like someone’s slowed it down. I can’t open my eyes; don’t want to. I’m tired. I’m heavy.

I hear Dad sigh. ‘Jeez, I thought he’d never stop.’

‘Yeah,’ Patrick says. ‘Like you said before, takes after his mother.’