The Returners

by Gemma Malley

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, as if surprised to see him.

  ‘Nothing, son. You all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘All right then.’

  He shuts the door behind him, more tightly this time. I turn the TV down.

  ‘It’s the forensics team that’s the problem,’ Dad says. ‘They say the knife went in at a strange angle.’

  ‘A strange angle? Who cares about the angle? The boy was found with the knife. He was found standing over the body with the knife.’

  ‘The forensics report corroborates his story. I thought you said you had the police. I thought you said it was sorted.’

  Patrick clears his throat. ‘Must be a bloody cock-up somewhere. In the meantime, we need to do something about it.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’ Dad’s voice sounds strangled. ‘Because from where I’m sitting this looks like a bloody disaster. Are we doing the right thing here? Are you sure this is going to work?’

  ‘Work? Of course it will.’ Patrick sounds angry suddenly. ‘It has to work. Have you forgotten what happened to you? Have you forgotten what people like him have done to you? Have you forgotten Chloe?’

  There’s a long silence. My hair is on end. Chloe. Mum. Why would anyone have forgotten her? What’s she got to do with anything anyway?

  ‘I’ll never forget Chloe,’ Dad says then. He sounds choked up.

  ‘Of course you won’t. But things need doing. Don’t they? Don’t they?’

  There’s another silence, shorter this time.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Patrick says then, his voice soothing. ‘Boy’s going to get his comeuppance. You’ve been waiting for this a long time.’

  ‘A very long time,’ Dad says.

  ‘And after this other people will realise what’s going on too. This is the beginning. People have to feel the fear to make them remember their desire for a safer country, a country that belongs to us again.’

  ‘To us,’ Dad says, his voice a bit more level.

  ‘Just think,’ Patrick continues, ‘next year there’s an election. Next year things could finally change. You want that, don’t you? Don’t you? You can get people onside. People like you. You’re important to us. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose.’

  ‘And we’re here for you. The National Party is on your side. We want what’s ours to stay ours. Stop these filthy thieves in their tracks. That’s what that man is. A filthy thief. He stole from you. He stole plain and simple. And now you’re going to get your revenge. You want that. I know you do.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  ‘So then, you know what we have to do.’

  ‘Yes. And I’ll do it. I’ll do what I can.’

  A chair moves slightly. ‘You’ll do more than that.’ Patrick’s voice drops; I lower the volume of the television. ‘You just remember that without me you’re nothing, OK? No job, no money, nothing. You owe me. I ask you to jump, you say, ‘How high?’ Right? Right?’

  ‘I’ll do whatever needs to be done,’ Dad corrects himself. ‘I didn’t mean anything by that. I meant . . . I’ll do it, Patrick. You can count on me. Only . . .’

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘Will. You can’t use him? Instead, I mean?’

  ‘Unreliable witness,’ Patrick says. ‘The boy’s confused about what he saw. Defence would wipe the floor with him. You know that.’

  ‘So tell me again what’s going to happen.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Patrick says. ‘I’ll just see to it that the house is searched again. On a technicality. And this time we’re going to find something. Another knife. Shows intent.’

  ‘And where are you going to find it?’

  There’s a pause. ‘We haven’t decided yet. Needs to be somewhere we wouldn’t have found it before, obviously. But until we’re there . . . Floorboards, possibly. That’s always a good one. Up the chimney.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have looked up the chimney the first time you searched?’

  ‘Floorboards then.’ Patrick sounds irritable. ‘Leave that to me. You just expect new evidence tomorrow, and make sure it tips the scales. OK? I’m depending on you. We all are.’

  ‘I’ll be on it,’ Dad says.

  ‘Good. We can’t afford any more mistakes.’

  ‘No.’

  The glass comes down on the table. A chair scrapes back. ‘You’re doing the right thing, trust me,’ Patrick says.

  They’re walking out of the kitchen. I quickly turn the television up, move closer to it, try to look like I’ve been watching. I feel fake. How does someone look like they’ve been watching television and not eavesdropping? As they walk past the door, Patrick looks in.

  ‘Watching telly? What about homework?’ He’s smiling; his expression looks forced.

  I shrug. ‘I’ll do it later.’

  ‘Later? That’s the trouble with this generation.’ He turns to Dad, who’s coming up behind him. ‘Do it later, pay for it later, worry about it later. What about the here and now, eh? Eh?’

  ‘Why do now what you can put off until tomorrow,’ Dad says darkly.

  He’s kind of smiling, but I know he isn’t joking. He’s got this look in his eye that I recognise, that makes me shrink back. Best to lie low. That way he’s less likely to lose it. That’s what happens sometimes. He says he doesn’t mean to. He’s always really sorry afterwards. But his anger just gets the better of him, he says. And then the next day I have to wear long sleeves, keep my face covered, tell people I fell off my bike, even though I never ride it any more.

  They say goodbye; Dad closes the door. He takes it off the latch – no more visitors tonight.

  He walks in and sits on the sofa. I look at him; I want to ask him about Mum, about what she’s got to do with Yan, with his dad. I want to ask him about the knife too. I want him to say something that reassures me I got the completely wrong idea from their conversation. But I don’t. I don’t want to risk it.

  He leans back and puts his feet up. His face looks strained. ‘What are we watching?’

  I look at the television, startled. I have no idea what is on; I haven’t actually been focusing on the screen.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  He seems satisfied. ‘You won’t mind if I put the History Channel on then?’

  ‘Sure.’ I throw him the remote control. He catches it. He might be getting on, but his reflexes are still good. He used to be a sportsman; he taught me how to play football, how to play cricket. We’d stay out in the garden for hours on summer evenings, kicking or batting balls to each other.

  It stopped after Mum died. A lot of things stopped then.

  There’s a black and white film on with soldiers marching. ‘Was that about Yan?’ I can’t help it; I have to ask.

  He doesn’t look at me.

  ‘Can’t talk about work, you know that,’ he says.

  ‘Did he do it, though? Do they know for sure yet?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  He’s staring at the television. He’s uncomfortable. I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse. I know what I heard and I know that Dad is refusing to catch my eye.

  ‘They’re scum. All of them,’ he says. He sounds angry, but when I look at his face I think I can see tears in his eyes.

  I look away, embarrassed. And then I get a flash. Yan in prison. No more Claire walking along the river with him. He’d be out of the way.

  I can’t believe I thought that.

  There’s no Claire and Yan anyway.

  I shake myself. I’m feeling hot. I need a drink.

  ‘I’m getting a drink. Want anything?’

  Dad holds up his glass. It’s still half full. ‘No, I’m all right.’

  I go into the kit
chen, turn on the tap and pour myself a glass of water, downing it in one, feeling its coolness spreading out through my stomach.

  Maybe Yan did do it. If someone else had done it, the police would have caught them. Don’t ask questions. Don’t analyse. Just follow the path ahead. Yes. Yes, exactly. The voice in my head makes sense. Don’t analyse. That’s Claire’s problem – she worries too much. Yan’s just another one of her causes – like the donkeys. I’d forgotten about the donkeys. She found out that they got beaten sometimes – the ones on the beaches where they walk them up and down all day – and decided she was going to start her own donkey sanctuary. She hates cruelty, Claire. She’d adopt half the world if she could.

  But you can’t, can you? You just have to get on with it. Keep your head down and only look up if you have to.

  ‘There’s some pie in the oven,’ Dad calls out. ‘Help yourself. You could put some chips on too.’

  I don’t feel hungry. ‘Maybe later.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  I hesitate by the door.

  ‘If he did it, will he go to prison for a long time?’ I’m leaning against the door frame tentatively.

  Dad’s face turns towards me. I think he’s smiling. ‘We can only hope.’

  I’m not moving. I bite my lip awkwardly.

  ‘Son,’ Dad says, looking at me carefully, ‘is there something on your mind?’

  I take a breath. ‘No . . . I just, you know, want to know.’

  ‘I know.’ He puts his drink down. ‘I know you used to like him. But people turn bad, Will. People are bad. His family . . . They’re bad news. We’ve known that for years. You move to a country, you have to respect it, respect its people, its traditions. You have to see where you fit in. His family are like the rest of them. Foreigners are never interested in fitting in, just in taking over. And now look what’s happened. He has to pay for what he’s done, Will. People always have to pay.’

  I don’t go to bed until late, too late, and even then I can’t sleep. I lie there thinking, not about anything properly – my brain is like a scattergun, full of thoughts and images but none of them are related, none of them go anywhere. It’s all just random, all just flashing up.

  Maybe that’s the point. Maybe everything is random.

  I want my mind to slow down. I count to a hundred and then count back down to one. By the time I’m in the seventies my mind is wandering again, but less like a slide show, more like the wandering it does before you fall asleep. Semi-conscious. Calm.

  Sixty-three’s the last number I remember counting.

  Then I’m not counting any more.

  The cold is not just around me; it is part of me. My clothes are no protection; my hands and feet are blocks of ice, crying out for mercy. On we trudge. The man in front of me is stumbling; his coat is torn, his boots too big. Not his. He hobbles. He has grey hair; he is too old for this place. A mistake, perhaps. He turns, catches my eye briefly, then immediately turns back again. He seems disoriented. The cold can do that to you. I think I recognise him. He used to own a shop in the village where I grew up. He was always kind, always had a joke with us. Suddenly he falls sideways, into the snow, the ice. He rolls over; his eyes are wide with terror. He pulls himself up. ‘Comrade,’ he says, although it is barely a word. ‘Comrade, if you would just . . . I can still . . . A stone – I tripped over a stone.’ His voice is rasping; he scrabbles desperately. I watch as a bayonet lands on his head; it kills him immediately, his blood unspeakably bright against the white beneath him. A voice: ‘Comrade? He is no comrade. He is useless. You see what happens, if you don’t pull your weight? Learn from this. And keep walking.’ I start to walk again. I do not look back.

  A new place. It is dusty. No, not dust. Ash. It sticks in my throat and my nose. It permeates everything. I want to leave here. It is a bad place. I watch the line, the pathetic line, weaving its way towards the doors, human but only just – not enough flesh to be fully human. Children clutching hands, men with hollow eyes, others with grit – they will not give up, not until they have to. The line moves and I move too. An ending, a beginning, I don’t know any more. This place is not what I expected. I breathe; the ash is choking me. I know where it comes from. I know. I walk forward. I look at no one . . .

  And now another place, more familiar but I can’t place it. There are lorries, people being herded on to them. Like sheep. We are all sheep. It is for improvement. Flaws eradicated, evolution once more on track. The inside of the lorry is dark. People are screaming, they fear the lorries, they run, they are chased. Gunfire, then more screaming. Resistance is futile. Some give up. Others urge people not to make a fuss, not to cause more problems. I feel bodies pushing against me as more people are forced into the lorries. There are no lines, there is little organisation. A voice is shouting, ‘Britain for Britons. Britain for Britons.’ Someone shouts, ‘Bigots! You can’t do this!’ There is a loud bang. I feel something fall against me; it is a woman. She has long hair. She looks at me as she falls, her eyes wide in shock. She is bleeding. She clutches at my shoulders. ‘This must end.’ She is sinking down to the floor. I can’t help her. I am hot. I am sweating. I am screaming. No. No! NO!

  I open my eyes. My bed is drenched in sweat. Did I shout out? I listen tentatively for Dad to come in, to see what’s going on; he doesn’t. I am panting, out of breath. It was a dream. Just a dream.

  I get out of bed. It was just a dream, I tell myself again, more firmly this time.

  I’m trembling. I realise I’m cold. I pull on some clothes. I don’t want to get back into bed. I need to get out of this room; I feel like I’m suffocating.

  My eyes are drawn to the window. I pull back the curtains. I can see Claire’s room. The lights are off; she’s asleep. I look at my watch: 2.46 a.m. I look back at Claire’s room. Ten minutes pass. Without thinking too much about what I’m doing, I carefully open the window, doing my best to stop it squeaking too much. Then I hang my legs out of it, turn around so I’m holding on to the windowsill by my hands and drop down. The grass is wet beneath my feet. I look back up to make sure no one’s heard me then laugh at myself. Dad will have drunk too much whisky to hear anything.

  I run down to the end of the garden and pull myself over the fence. Now I’m padding up Claire’s garden. I reach her house; I’m underneath her window. I stop. What am I doing? This is crazy. I’m going to go home. I don’t know what I was thinking.

  I start to move, then stop. I bring my hands to my mouth and coo like a pigeon. It’s what we used to do. It was our call.

  I wait a few seconds; she hasn’t heard me. Or she’s ignoring me. If I go now, I can pretend it never happened. I start to jog back towards the fence. Then I hear something. I stop. I turn around. Claire’s window is open. She is looking at me strangely, her face pale in the moonlight. She looks like Rapunzel, like I could climb up her hair.

  ‘Will? Is that you?’ She sounds incredulous but not surprised. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  g

  CHAPTER TEN

  I don’t know why I’m here, can’t remember what propelled me out of the window. I’m embarrassed; I’m nervous. I have climbed up into Claire’s bedroom and she has given me a glass of water; I’m sitting at the end of her bed. She is looking at me expectantly. It’s nearly 3 a.m. and I have pitched up, cooing like a pigeon for the first time in years. I can’t believe she let me in, if I’m honest.

  ‘I should go,’ is all I can think of to say. What does she think of me? I don’t want to care, but I do. Desperately. Which is why I want to leave. I need her approval too much. It makes me feel vulnerable.

  Claire rolls her eyes. ‘You came all this way to say that?’

  I scowl. Her voice isn’t as soft as I’d like. Her eyes aren’t as forgiving.

  ‘I thought . . .’ I look down. I don’t want to leave, not really. ‘I d
on’t know what I thought. I just . . .’

  ‘Will, you’re as white as a sheet and you’re shaking. Just sit there for a little while if you want. Then you can tell me what the matter is. OK?’

  It sounds reasonable enough. I nod. I like hearing her say my name.

  ‘So?’ Claire asks.

  I get the feeling my little while is up. I shrug. ‘I guess I had a nightmare, that’s all.’

  ‘You still get those?’

  I look at her sharply. ‘I got them before?’

  ‘You’ve always had them. Ever since I’ve known you.’

  ‘Right.’ I feel unsettled. I’d forgotten I’d had them so long. I’d sort of thought it had been a year, two years tops.

  ‘So what was your nightmare about?’

  I feel stupid suddenly. It was just a dream. It’s not important or anything.

  ‘I dunno. People dying.’

  ‘Which people?’ She isn’t looking at me like I’m crazy. She seems interested.

  ‘People. First on a ship. I think it was a ship. Then . . .’ I trail off. If it was someone else I’d think they were only getting me to talk so they could laugh at me later. Claire, though, she’s not like that. I wish I could be more like her sometimes.

  She’s looking at me intently, encouraging me to go on. ‘You’re here. You got out of bed and came here. So you might as well tell me,’ she says, as though she can hear my thoughts.

  I tell her. I describe the dreams in all their detail – and I find I can remember way more than I thought I could. As I talk I feel the hairs on my arms standing upright and the fear returning. No, not fear. It’s like fear but different. It’s more like dread. I shiver.

  She’s frowning, nodding her head every so often. Active listening, they call it. I learnt that phrase from my therapist. He said Dad and I should listen to each other more. He told Dad that listening didn’t mean just sitting there; it meant taking an active interest, nodding, saying things like, ‘That must be hard for you,’ or, ‘And how does that make you feel?’ That was when I realised that the shrink was doing it too; that he wasn’t really interested, he was just pretending to be interested by saying the right things. Active listening. Phoney listening. I stopped going to him after that.