The Returners

by Gemma Malley

  But Claire isn’t nodding and saying things because she learnt how to do it. She’s doing it genuinely. I feel a sudden burst of love for her, a huge surge of emotion that threatens to take hold of me, make me grab her or do something else crazy. I swallow. I box it as quickly as I can, push the emotion away.

  I tell her about the least scary dreams first; I want to ease her in gradually. I describe a dream where I was in a ship. I felt seasick. There were too many men down there with me.

  ‘A ship?’ she asks seriously. ‘You were at the bottom of it?’ she asks. I nod. ‘Describe it,’ she says. ‘As best you can.’

  I describe what it was like. I describe the smell, the atmosphere of fear and desperation. I describe the walls of wood, the deafening sound of the waves crashing against them, the feeling of claustrophobia, the knowledge that for good or ill we were all in this together, that we would all sink or swim together.

  ‘Right . . . OK. Wait there.’ She gets off the bed and moves over to her computer, turning it on and staring at it seriously. She starts to type something, then she turns back to me.

  ‘Tell me about the next dream.’

  I take a deep breath. Then I start talking. About the comrades, the strange bitter chocolate, about the lines of people. And somehow I don’t stop. It’s 5 a.m. by the time I’ve finished. I feel exhausted, as though I’ve run a marathon or something. But the release . . . it’s incredible, like gasping for air when you’ve been drowning. I don’t show it, of course. I do nothing. I box the feelings, hide them.

  Claire’s still clacking away at her computer. I lean back on her bed and close my eyes. It’s warm here. Cosy. Safe. There’s something about girls’ rooms – the smell of creams and sweet things, the layers of things. Like not just a duvet, but a duvet and a sheet and a blanket and a throw and cushions and a teddy bear. Girls get away with having teddy bears when they’re way too old for them. No one thinks they’re pathetic. Even the lighting’s good – she’s got a little lamp and she’s draped a scarf over it so it emits this low-level pinky sort of light that makes you feel as if you’re in a womb or something. How do girls think of things like putting scarves over lamps?

  ‘OK.’

  I open my eyes slowly. I must have drifted off. ‘OK what?’ I pull myself up; I’m sheepish suddenly – I’ve been sleeping on Claire’s bed. I’ve still got my shoes on and I can see I’ve left traces of grass and mud on her yellow checked blanket.

  ‘OK, I know what these dreams are,’ she says. She looks excited, like she’s solved a puzzle. Triumphant, in fact.

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes!’ she says, grinning now. ‘So the first one: you were dreaming you were on a slave ship. Look!’ She pulls an image of a ship and my eyes widen in recognition. ‘This was the sort of ship they transported slaves in. From Africa to the Caribbean. It’s exactly as you described it.’

  I stare at the screen uncertainly as she scrolls down. ‘I dreamt about slaves?’

  ‘We studied them, remember? About three years ago? You never seemed to be paying attention but you must have been.’

  I don’t remember studying slaves. Mind you, I don’t remember a lot of things. Dad calls it selective memory; he says I only remember what I want to.

  ‘And the others?’ I ask. I feel as though someone’s opened a door, like I’ve been in prison and suddenly realised there’s a way out. It’s just History lessons giving me nightmares. I’ve always hated History lessons and now I know why. It’s not because I’m stupid or lazy; it’s because they mess with my head. They’re to blame for everything.

  Claire claps her hands. ‘It’s all history. You described the decimation of a Native American settlement. Look, there’s a first-person account here, a letter written by a white man who befriended the Indians, and it virtually describes everything you said.’

  ‘We studied Native Americans?’ I ask. I want to believe her, want to buy into this theory.

  ‘Well, no, but we studied the other things . . .’ Claire’s forehead wrinkles. ‘You must have seen the Native Americans somewhere. Television maybe.’

  I nod uncertainly.

  ‘Next?’

  She looks down. ‘I think . . .’ She bites her lip. ‘I think the one with the line of people, the smoke . . .’

  I look down. I don’t want to remember it. I’m feeling very strange. I’m not feeling warm and cosy any more; I’m feeling as if the walls are pressing in on me.

  ‘I think it might have been . . . I mean, I’m not sure, but I think you were dreaming about the concentration camps. The Nazi ones. The ones we’re doing now.’

  ‘So basically I’m a historical genius?’ I force a little laugh, but already I’m getting a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Sick again. I know now that the headache will follow. I want to clutch my stomach as it spasms but I don’t want to look like a weirdo.

  ‘I don’t know about genius, but it makes sense, you have to admit,’ Claire says.

  ‘I’d better go. It’s late.’ I’m trying to sound normal, trying not to let my discomfort show. If I’m going to freak out, I don’t want to do it here.

  ‘It’s early, you mean. Don’t go. We’re getting somewhere.’ There’s the faint trace of a smile on Claire’s lips. It makes me feel a bit better. Maybe I can stay. Maybe I’m not going to freak out after all. I take a deep breath. The spasms are slowing. I can control this. I have to. I don’t want to go, not yet.

  ‘So what about the last dream?’ I say. ‘Come on then, which lesson is that based on?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She frowns. ‘But we’ll find out.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, sounding more sarcastic than I’d intended. It’s disappointment really. I want everything sewn up neatly; don’t want any unanswered questions hanging around.

  ‘Definitely,’ Claire says. ‘Anyway, the point is, your dreams aren’t anything to worry about. You’re just reliving History lessons.’

  ‘History lessons I don’t remember,’ I say.

  I don’t know why I’m being obnoxious. Actually, I do. It’s what I do. A defence mechanism, my shrink would have called it. Probably. I realise I’m staring at Claire. I realise she’s staring back at me. I go red. I’m hot. I don’t want to look away. I don’t ever want to look away.

  She smiles uncertainly. ‘So they went into your subconscious mind instead of your conscious one,’ she says. ‘Just go to sleep when you do your GCSE and you’ll get an A.’

  I find myself laughing. Then she’s laughing too.

  ‘There I was, thinking I was deep,’ I say with a little grin. ‘Guess I’m not after all.’

  ‘Guess not,’ Claire deadpans. She’s still looking at me. Is there tension in the air or is it just me? If I was someone else, if we were somewhere else, I’d kiss her. I’d grab her, like they do in films, and I’d kiss her. Or maybe I’d just bury my head in her shoulder and pull her really tight, feel her heart beating through my skin.

  No, I’d definitely kiss her.

  Does she want me to? Should I?

  She’s going to say something. What? I move closer. My skin feels all prickly.

  Her expression is intense. ‘Will?’

  I nod in response. I don’t trust myself to speak.

  ‘Is your dad any further on Yan’s case?’

  A hit to the stomach. A moment of readjustment. I recoil inside. I can’t let her see my disappointment. Yan. Of course. ‘I dunno.’ It’s a meaningless answer, but it’s all I can come up with.

  ‘My parents think they’re going to try and pin it on him. Because Patrick . . .’ She looks at me warily. ‘Because your dad’s friend wants to make a political point.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I try to sound uninterested, hoping she’ll change the subject.

  ‘The Nationalist Party. It’s tryi
ng to get support for the deportation of immigrants by making out they’re all criminals and on benefits, which is patently ridiculous. I mean Yan’s father owns a big company.’

  ‘Which laid off five hundred people last month,’ I say. She was the one who brought it up. If she wants to talk about Yan and his father, that’s fine by me. Absolutely fine.

  ‘Like every other company, Will. We’re in a recession, remember?’

  She’s got fire in her eyes; I shrug. Always so political, Claire.

  ‘Look, the police know what they’re doing,’ I say. I want her to look at me again with that intensity. Or was I imagining it?

  ‘Maybe they do. But that doesn’t mean they’re doing the right thing. Did you know that in prisons the ratio of British nationals of foreign descent to white British has increased twenty-fold in the last few years? And that attack on the steelworkers – it was driven by the sort of propaganda that the Nationalist Party have been churning out. Like it’s them against us. But it isn’t. We’re all in this together. We’re all just people, Will. And now Yan’s in prison for something he didn’t do. It’s terrifying, don’t you think?’

  I look at her irritably. The intensity isn’t going to come back. She never wanted me to kiss her. And now we’re talking about Yan. How does he manage to work his way into everything even when he’s banged up?

  ‘I don’t really know,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t know?’ She’s agitated now; I regret even responding. ‘You know that any first-generation immigrant is now deported as a matter of course as soon as they leave prison? That they can’t come back, ever? That’s why the prisons are filling up with immigrants. It’s deportation by the back door. Mum says it’s a huge conspiracy. She says the Nationalist Party is behind it. They want to get rid of anyone who isn’t white. The chief of police is a member.’

  Her eyes are boring into me; I can’t look at them.

  Her eyes, imploring. She won’t look away. She holds up her baby. The ice is melting and I can’t stop it. Cracks are appearing. No. I mustn’t look at her. But she is too compelling. I can’t look away . . .

  I shake myself. I don’t care about whatever it is Claire’s blathering on about. It’s nothing to do with me. What happens to Yan, to all these people, is nothing to do with her either.

  ‘Look, I should get going,’ I say, more determinedly this time.

  ‘That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?’

  God, she’s hard work. I’d forgotten about that. I get up and walk towards the door, then I realise if I’m going to get out of her room unnoticed by her parents I’ve got to go the way I came in. I walk back towards the bed. Claire’s staring at me. Her clear, honest eyes, looking right into mine. Eyes that make me want to be better than I am. Eyes that make me feel like I can be better.

  ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think he did it,’ I mutter. ‘Yan, I mean.’ It’s a moment of weakness. I regret it almost as soon as the words have left my mouth.

  ‘Of course he didn’t,’ Claire says vehemently. Then her eyes narrow. ‘Why? Why don’t you think he did it?’

  I ignore my inner voice, which is shouting at me to keep my mouth shut, not to get involved. ‘It looked to me like he was trying to help Mr Best. Like he was trying to give him mouth-to-mouth.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Her eyes light up and just seeing them makes me feel like she’s flicked a switch inside me too. I realise I told her what I saw specifically to get this reaction, her approval. I feel like I’m walking on air all of a sudden, even though I know I’m going to fall soon enough.

  ‘You’ve told your Dad?’ she asks.

  I nod. No need to tell her he didn’t listen to me. She’s smiling and that’s all that matters. I can see the sun beginning to rise through her curtains.

  I jump up on the bed. I have to get away. From her eyes. From her.

  ‘It was good to see you, Will,’ Claire says quietly. ‘I’m always here. You know, if you want to talk . . .’

  I nod matter-of-factly. Elation boxed. Lid down firmly.

  I open the window. The fresh air feels invigorating. I climb out, turning so I can shimmy down to the garden. I hesitate.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  g

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By the time I get back to my own bed it’s time to get up again. It actually feels as though I’ve been asleep anyway; I was at Claire’s for nearly three hours but now it all feels like a dream. A nice dream. I haven’t had a dream like that in a very long time. Haven’t felt that warm, that . . . happy.

  History lessons. The History Channel. Didn’t Mum always say too much television would give me nightmares? I don’t know why it’s such a relief. But it is. One thing explained, one thing less freaky. There’ll be some explanation for the weirdos who follow me too, I know there will. Maybe they’re a well-known cult I just haven’t heard of. Maybe I’ll mention them to Claire again, see if she can find the answer on her computer.

  I feel cheered at the idea of having something to talk to her about, of having an excuse to draw her out from the crowd, of maybe taking a little walk with her. The two of us. Like it used to be.

  I change into my school clothes and grab my bag.

  Dad’s in the kitchen; he looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Thought I heard something last night,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah?’

  He shrugs. ‘Guess I must have been mistaken.’

  ‘Guess so.’

  I leave the house. The sun’s out; it’s already warm outside. For the first time in a long time I’m looking forward to going to school.

  Conifers. You’d never think a few trees could cause so much trouble. When Yan’s dad mentioned them, I didn’t think anything of it. Trees. I mean, come on. Trees.

  But as it turned out, the conifers were just the start of it. They were just the catalyst. Claire taught me that word. I like it. The catalyst is what ignites a situation. And the situation was definitely ignited. The fire raged for a long, long time.

  None of it matters, not really, not in itself. But the conifers, like everything else, were one of the jigsaw pieces that made up the whole story. They got planted, then they grew. And then they grew some more and soon half our garden was in the shade. Mum’s plants were dying one by one. She said it didn’t matter, said that she’d plant new ones, said that the trees had a certain charm.

  Dad disagreed.

  It was around the same time that Yan’s dad bought a new car. A Mercedes. Dad said it was a car for show-offs, for people who wanted to rub other people’s noses in it.

  I remember the first time he went round to Yan’s house about the trees. Dad built himself up for days beforehand, paced around for ages arguing with Mum before he actually left the house. We waited in silence. I think Mum put the television on. We both knew what Dad would be like – he isn’t much of a diplomat, really. He gets stressed-out in confrontations, and to hide it he goes in all guns blazing. I imagined Yan’s mum offering him some lovely food or something and him just shouting at her. It made me cringe. I think it was the first time I ever cringed at my dad, ever wished he wasn’t exactly who hewas, realised that he had flaws. Quite major ones, actually.

  I sometimes wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t shouted, if he’d talked in a reasonable way, found a compromise, explained the problem rationally like they teach you to do in PSHE classes at school. Would everything be different? Then again, there’s no point thinking like that, is there? Things aren’t ever different; they are what they are.

  So anyway, when he came home we knew immediately it hadn’t gone well; there was no triumphant smile, no raised arms waiting for us to hug and congratulate him. The door just opened; he came in, walked into the sitting room, sat down and picked up the paper, which was where he’d
left it on the coffee table. Not a word was spoken. Mum looked over at him anxiously, but didn’t say anything either.I don’t know how long we all sat there like that – I think eventually Dad got up and huffed his way into the kitchen. Mum followed him and they had a conversation in stressed voices. I just carried on watching television. I figured it was nothing to do with me.

  So that was the conifers. One nil to Yan’s dad.

  Only it didn’t stop there.

  It never does, does it?

  Two weeks later, Yan’s dad came round. Mum opened the door – I was watching telly again, sitting on the sofa, so I could see them talking out on the porch. Initially he sounded tense, angry, but Mum just kept talking in a low voice and soon she was smiling, he was smiling. I figured everything was OK again. That was Mum’s role in arguments; Dad had the argument and Mum made things nice again. She did it with me, when Dad had been having a go, when he’d lost his temper and said things he hadn’t meant. Hadn’t meant according to Mum, that is. She always made out things were OK.

  So there they were talking, when Dad’s car pulled up in the drive. He got out and immediately his shoulders tensed; I could see his face, could see the way his jaw was set. I got up off the sofa and edged towards the door.

  Mum smiled at Dad, her ‘silent communication’ smile, like the one she’d shoot at me if Grandma said something stupid and Mum didn’t want me to point it out.

  ‘We’ve had a little summit,’ she said, her eyes twinkling. ‘The conifers are going to be trimmed back and I said that I’d help them with a bit of gardening some time if –’

  She didn’t get to finish the sentence. Dad marched towards her and pushed her into the house. Then he grabbed Yan’s dad by the arm and pulled him away.

  ‘You stay away from my family, you bastard,’ he shouted. ‘You stay away.’

  ‘But your wife, she asked me to –’

  And that’s when Dad punched him. I watched it, open-mouthed. Yan’s dad was thrown to the floor and Dad didn’t even look at him; he came into the house and slammed the door.