by Gemma Malley
‘Chloe? Where the hell are you?’ he yelled, then marched to the kitchen when she replied. The door closed. I heard Mum shout, then gasp, then cry. Then Dad came out again, pushed past me into the sitting room and sat down.
‘And you can bugger off too,’ he said, sitting down heavily on the sofa and picking up the remote control, changing the channel, switching to a football game instead of The Simpsons.
‘Don’t tell your son to bugger off,’ Mum said, appearing at the door. Her face was red and blotchy. I thought it was tears. It wasn’t till the next day I saw the bruises.
‘I’ll say what I like to who I like.’
‘You’re speaking, are you? I thought you’d dispensed with speaking. I thought it was all action now.’
I’d never heard my mum sounding so sarcastic, so angry. Her eyes were almost black.
‘I’m warning you, Chloe.’
‘Warning me? Oh, I’ve been warned, don’t worry. It’s not the bloody trees, is it? This has got nothing to do with the trees. You’re a bigot.’
‘A bigot?’ Dad’s face started to go red. ‘People are losing their jobs, their homes. Our economy is in the shit.’ He looked at the wall that sat between our house and Yan’s. ‘And people like him, they come and they buy us up cheap, then lord it over us. They’re laughing at us, Chloe. Laughing at you.’
‘You sound exactly like Patrick.’ Her eyes were stony now.
‘That’s because Patrick talks sense. People have had enough of being second-class citizens in their own country.’
‘Is that what Patrick says?’
‘It’s what I say. And if you have that man round here again, you’re going to regret it, do you understand?’
‘Perfectly,’ Mum said. Her eyes fell on me and I saw a desperate sadness in them. Thinking about it, that was the beginning of it. Her depression. Her disengagement. After that her eyes never really lost the sadness underneath.
I get to school early. I’ll get breakfast at the canteen, I decide, then hang around in the classroom. We’ve got double English this morning – Claire will be there. I’ll just be there when she walks in. Maybe she’ll come and sit next to me.
I’m walking towards the gate with a spring in my step. I cross the road, vaguely keeping an eye out for traffic. My arms are swinging at my side, I feel light, unencumbered. I feel like a normal person. For the first time in a very long time.
And then I see someone on the other side, next to the school gates, and my stomach clenches slightly. It’s one of them. I know it immediately.
I look away. I tell myself he doesn’t exist. If I can just get inside the school gates I’ll be safe. I’ll find Claire, we’ll laugh about things, things will be normal.
But I know I’m kidding myself. He’s looking right at me, and I know I won’t make it. Know in the pit of my stomach. I feel sick. I want to scream, ‘I’m not a freak. My dreams are from History lessons, from the History Channel. You have nothing on me.’
The lightness, the happiness, the double English, the smiles are all receding. He’s been waiting for me. I can’t get into school without passing him, without being hooked. His face is grim, his eyes hollow like the rest of theirs’. Like he hasn’t slept in a year, like he’s come out of a Russian novel, one about people being sent to Siberia. He’s walking towards me now; I can’t stop because I’m in the middle of the road. I’m trapped. He’s between me and the place I want to be. I consider running, like a rugby forward. Would he tackle me to the ground if I did? I’m sure he wouldn’t. I don’t even have to run. I’m just going to walk right past. Pretend he doesn’t exist.
I see Claire inside the gates and my heart lurches; she’s talking to a friend, her face bright. She’s laughing. She looks up and sees me; she waves. I wave back, but I feel as if she’s on the shore and I’m at sea. She thinks I’m waving to say hello, but really I’m drowning, like in that poem we read once in English. She grins then turns and walks through the door with her friend, into the school. She’s gone. I’m on my own.
I put my head down, walk purposefully. I’m nearly there. Nearly at the gate. I’ll be safe once I’m inside. The freaks haven’t got into the school yet.
‘Will? Will, I have to talk to you.’
He knows my name. No big deal. Keep walking. Just keep walking.
He’s moving; he’s in front of me, blocking my way. Not a rugby tackle, but still effective. I try to push him away but I know it’s hopeless, know deep down that I can’t run, can’t hide. Why? Why can’t I?
‘Leave me alone,’ I seethe.
‘Will, we have to talk. It’s important.’
I don’t say anything and walk the other way, but he sticks to me like an annoying younger sibling.
‘Will, it’s for your own good. You must be suffering. We can help. You must understand who you are.’
I swing round. ‘I know who I am,’ I bark. ‘I’m Will Hodges. If you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to call the police.’
The man smiles sadly. ‘The police can’t help you, Will. Only we can. Do you dream, Will? Do you dream of terrible things?’
I stop. My heart’s racing.
Then I shake myself. It was just a lucky guess. Everyone has dreams. And anyway, I know what mine mean now.
‘Dreams about the past? About death and destruction?’ he persists. ‘Do you wake, desperate and broken and unable to sleep? Do you, Will?’
I’m sweating. I’m looking at him. I hate him. I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone. How does he know about my dreams? Why is he trying to turn me back into a freak? I’m normal. I’m normal. People are walking past us into the school – classmates, other pupils. No one’s even looking at us.
‘You can’t just do this to people.’ I’m trying a different tactic now. I’m begging. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Please leave me alone. You don’t know what it’s like having you following me all the time. Do it to someone else, OK? Do it to her.’
I point randomly at a girl walking into the school, chatting on her mobile phone; she looks as though she doesn’t have a care in the world.
‘She’s not a Returner, Will. You are,’ the man says. He takes my arm. At his touch, I’m drowning again. I’m going under. I know. I know.
I won’t go back. I want to stay here. I won’t do it. You can’t make me.
I struggle free, pull my arm away. ‘I’m not a Returner. I’m Will Hodges.’ I sound less convincing than before.
‘Now you are. But that’s not the end of the story, Will, and you know it.’
Yes, I do. I know. I know deep down. I’ve always known.
I shake myself. He’s doing this to me. That’s how they suck people in. I’ve watched programmes on cults. They brainwash you.
‘Come with me, Will. Please. Just hear me out. I can see you’re confused and drained. You must be feeling so alone. We’re here for you, Will. We are the same as you. We know. Let us help you. Let us help you remember.’
‘I don’t want to remember.’ I hear my voice as though it is someone else’s.
Her eyes. Make her stop. Send her away. I can’t . . . The ice is cracking. My body; it’s cracking into two. The pain . . . the searing pain . . .
‘You have to remember. It is the only way.’
‘No.’ I bend over in pain. Pain from what? I want to curl into a little ball. Now people are looking, but I don’t care any more.
‘Yes.’ He holds out his hand. A lifeline. A noose. I am shaking. I am not the person I was ten minutes ago. I don’t know where that Will, that happy confident excited Will, has gone.
I look at the man. I take his hand and allow him to help me up.
He has won.
g
CHAPTER TWELVE
We walk into town in silence. I follow him into a coffe
e shop. It’s a normal coffee shop, one of those ones that sells fifteen types of coffee, where you have to speak Italian just to order something. It’s not busy – a couple of harassed-looking people in suits queuing up, a man with a laptop at a table, two women with babies. It feels so normal. I wonder what would happen if I shouted, if I pointed at the man and told everyone he’d brought me here against my will.
He didn’t bring me here against my will, though. I followed him.
I still don’t know why.
Do I?
I’m too hot. I shrug off my jacket. Still hot. Prickly under my shirt. The man is talking to me. I’m not listening. He tries again; I do my best to concentrate.
‘Drink, Will? Do you want something to drink?’
I shake my head. Then I nod. ‘Water,’ I say. ‘A bottle of water.’
He orders and we make our way to a table. I open the water, guzzle it down like I haven’t drunk anything for days, like I’ve been trekking across the desert or something.
‘Now what?’ I ask sullenly when the man doesn’t say anything. I feel stupid, as though I’ve walked into a trap; I should have known better.
‘Just wait, Will. The others are coming.’
‘The others?’ I wipe my forehead, drink some more water. I’m burning up. What have I done? There’s still time to leave, to walk away. But I’m not going anywhere. I know that.
We wait.
I drum my fingers on the table.
The girl is the first to arrive – the girl from the shopping centre and the river. She smiles at me, a hopeful smile, the sort of smile you give someone after an argument when you’ve tentatively made up, when you want them to be your friend again. I don’t smile back. She’s not my friend.
And yet . . . perhaps she was once; some residual memory, an image . . .
No. I give myself a mental kick. No, I don’t remember her, I don’t know her at all. It’s my mind playing tricks. Any feeling of familiarity is a mirage, is false memory.
She sits down on the other side of me. I’m cornered. I look at the door. I look at the other people. The man with the laptop takes out his phone. All so normal.
Two more people arrive – a man and a woman. The young woman from my garden. I shrink back; she smiles, her eyes still ghostly sad. I clutch my water bottle – it’s empty, but it’s something to hold on to.
‘More water, Will?’ the man asks.
I don’t want anything from them. I put my hand in my pocket – as usual I find money in there. It suddenly disturbs me that I don’t know where the money is coming from. Then an idea comes to me. Dad – maybe he puts the money in my pocket. Maybe it’s his way of looking after me. This thought makes me feel good, makes me feel stronger. He cares. Dad cares about me.
I hand the man a couple of pound coins. ‘Thanks.’
He looks slightly hurt at the gesture, but takes the money and goes back to the counter. Three more people arrive – two men, one woman. The men are old, much older. The woman is maybe thirty, I’d guess. They cram round the table; it occurs to me that we should have sat somewhere with more room.
The man comes back, gives me my water. I open it hurriedly and drink half of it in one go. Then I look up.
‘So?’ I say. My voice is shaking. My whole body is shaking.
‘So,’ the man from outside the school gates says. ‘I suppose you want to know what this is all about.’
I shrug. ‘I want to know why you all follow me,’ I say, reddening as I speak. ‘I want to know . . .’
‘How we know you, Will?’ His voice is kind. Warm. I hadn’t noticed that before.
‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘How you think you know me.’ I put my bottle of water on the table and look round at them defiantly.
The man looks at the others; their glances give him the go-ahead to speak for them.
‘This is difficult,’ he says, ‘because the situation is unprecedented. You are a Returner, Will. You are . . .’ He sighs. ‘Everyone here is a Returner. We . . . We return. Again and again. But never before has someone . . . We’ve been looking for you, Will. You’ve been absent for a very long time. When news of your return came, we – some of us – came to see you, to welcome you back. But you didn’t remember, Will.’
‘You didn’t think maybe you’d got it wrong?’ I ask. I’m getting that drowning feeling again. Sinking. Falling. I resist it. I’m not going under. I look at the man stonily. ‘What do you mean by “return” anyway? Where from? How?’
The man’s face crumples slightly. He looks at the girl from the mall and she leans forward.
‘We return, Will. We live, we die, we return.’
I won’t go back. Back where?
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You mean you believe in reincarnation?’ I say dismissively. ‘Right, well, not my bag.’ I pull myself up but I feel a hand on my arm; it’s hers. I feel an electrical current shoot through me; I sit down again and she lets go.
‘Not reincarnation. Not like other people think of it,’ she says. Her voice is soft but insistent. ‘We actually come back, Will. We’ve existed throughout time. We experience the worst that humankind is capable of; we absorb the pain, contain the horrors. We remember, Will. We are humanity’s conscience.’
‘Horrors? What horrors?’ Still the sullen tone; they’re not getting me without a fight.
‘Horrors, Will. You know what I’m talking about.’ She looks at me, into my eyes. I can see it. I know. I look away.
‘No, I don’t know,’ I say.
‘What about your dreams, Will?’ Her hand returns to my wrist. I flinch.
‘Everyone dreams.’
‘Returners’ dreams are different.’ She smiles sadly. ‘We dream humankind’s history,’ she says, her voice almost a whisper. ‘All the pain, all the suffering, all the brutality. You have those dreams too, don’t you, Will?’
I’m going under. I can feel the water in my lungs.
‘I dream about History lessons. Dad watches the History Channel.’ I cringe at myself as I speak. I have to keep fighting.
‘It’s not easy remembering,’ the girl continues. Her voice is soporific; it could send me to sleep. No, that’s what they want. They want me to sleep, to slip under the water without knowing it, to let them pull me under.
‘I don’t remember. OK?’ My dreams. Chunks of time I can’t account for. Details I remember but shouldn’t. I force these thoughts from my head and notice that my left hand is screwed into a tight fist.
‘It’s a burden that we carry,’ she soothes me. ‘We need each other, Will. We help each other. You must let us help you.’
‘I don’t need your help. I don’t remember anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
I’m seeing death, I am amongst it, I hear tormented cries. Are they mine?
No! No, they were dreams. Only dreams.
‘You’ve been alone for a long time, Will. You’ve been off the earth with no one around you. You were missing for nearly fifty years.’
‘Missing? What are you talking about?’
I know what they’re talking about. I don’t want to remember. I am afraid of remembering. I won’t go back. Let me stay. I won’t be a part of it any more. I can’t be.
‘We die, Will, and we come back. Often straight away. Sometimes we come back after a short period. Perhaps our souls need to rest, to recuperate. Six months, a year. You were gone for a very long time, Will.’
I turn to look at her. I need to focus. Need to ground myself in reality. ‘You’re saying that you think I’m a Returner, that I live and come back, right?’
She nods.
‘And the last time I – the person you think I am – was alive was fifty years ago?’
‘Longer than that. It took nearly fifty years for you to come back, Will. Y
ou’ve been back a while now.’
I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘No. This is stupid. Ridiculous. Whatever you’re trying to do to me, I’m not having it. OK? I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t want –’
‘Do you remember, Will? Do you remember where you were?’
I bury my face in my hands.
‘Do you dream about it, Will? Do you smell the ash? Do you see the horror?’
The smoke. Spiralling up into the sky. The queues of desperate people. The stench of death.
‘No.’ I clamp my hands over my ears.
‘The bodies piled up. You remember them, Will. You remember.’
Bones on one pile, possessions on another – gold teeth, jewellery, a walking stick.
I won’t go back. Can’t go back. I am not ready. Still not ready.
‘I don’t remember!’ I push the table back, my voice a roar. ‘I don’t remember.’
I stand up, looking at the faces around the table, seeing the pain in their eyes. The girl behind the counter glances at me then looks away. I am crying. I sink back into my chair. My head falls on to the table; my arms cover it. ‘I don’t remember,’ I sob. ‘I don’t remember.’
A hand on my shoulder, another on my head – friendship, understanding, I feel it all, like osmosis through my skin.
‘You will,’ the girl says. ‘And when you do, we’ll be here, Will. We’ll always be here.’
I sit like that for a long time. I don’t know how long – it feels like hours but it could be just minutes.
‘I have the same eyes as you.’
These are the first words I say when I finally sit up again. It’s the first time I have admitted it. I have seen them in the mirror, a warning I have chosen to ignore until now.
‘Eyes that have seen things,’ the man says.
‘I still don’t remember,’ I say flatly. I am defeated. ‘I have the dreams. But I don’t . . .’
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘No, you don’t remember. I can see that.’
