by Gemma Malley
‘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.’
g
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I’m awake. At least, I think I’m awake. Something’s wrong. Maybe I’m dreaming. I open my eyes. No, not dreaming. I’m in my room, on my bed. I try to move my hand and I can’t. I contemplate this for a few minutes, then let it go. It seems unimportant. I’m comfortable; I just can’t move my hands. No big deal. There’s nothing I need to move them for right now anyway.
I try to focus, but it’s like trying to hold a cloud in my hand – my mind is floating about everywhere, unable to hold a single thought for more than a nanosecond. I see images – Claire, Yan, Claire and Yan . . . I see them holding hands. I see him kissing her. It hurts like a knife in my chest. My anger flares up, but even that won’t hold; it drifts away towards the horizon.
In my mind’s eye, Yan’s a cardboard cut-out. I flick him and he falls over and Claire looks at me and smiles and she is mine again. That’s better.
But he pops up again. Yan, I mean. He isn’t a cardboard cut-out; he’s a punch-ball. I can hit him as hard as I like and he just bounces back. I need a pin. I don’t have a pin.
I ask Claire for one, but she just looks at me blankly and shakes her head.
The door opens. I’m not sure if I’ve been dreaming or daydreaming. Not sure what the difference is right now. I turn to see Dad walking in. He sits down at the end of my bed.
‘You’re awake then, son?’
I feel angry with him. I don’t know why. But my anger soon evaporates; it’s too much effort. I shut my eyes and let the feeling of floating take over. Soft and fluffy. Enveloped. Safe.
‘I’m sorry about . . . earlier. But you’re OK now. Everything’s going to be OK, Will.’
The words go in; I contemplate them; they drift out again. He’s sorry? Why? I try to remember.
‘It’s for the best, you see,’ Dad continues. ‘You’ll see. You’re young. You don’t see what I see. You don’t understand people yet. Patrick’s just looking out for you, son. He’s looking out for both of us. You and me, we’re a team. The two of us.’
I open my eyes again to look at him; they close a few seconds later. Better that way. Drifting. My hands are uncomfortable; I think about asking Dad to untie them, but can’t muster the energy. There are more important things. But what? I don’t know what is important. I can’t remember.
‘Used to be three of us. All for one and one for all? Not as far as your mother was concerned. Patrick warned me about her, and I didn’t listen. But you’re not like that, are you, Will? You understand, don’t you? About loyalty. About teamwork. We’re on the same side, me and you. You remember that, don’t you? You remember?’
I nod. Same side. I remember the words. We used to be on the same side. Yes, I’m sure we were. Did we stop? I see his angry face bearing down on me, I feel a surge of resentment. Why? I try to remember. I see his eyes, tired, broken. Patrick pushing me to the floor. But that was before, not now. Now there is no resentment. It feels good to be on the same side as someone. Especially Dad. I want him to like me. I feel all warm suddenly, like I’m young again. I realise why – he’s stroking my head. Like Mum used to do.
He moves further on to the bed, leans against the wall with a sigh. It’s raining, heavy drops pelt against the window. Safe and warm inside. I was outside. When? I try to concentrate, try to remember. The river. I was by the river.
‘I was by the river,’ I say, for no real reason. ‘I was there. Mum. She was there . . .’
‘That was a long time ago,’ Dad says, quietly.
I open my mouth. I want to tell him that it wasn’t, that I was there just now, just an hour ago . . . But I’m confused. Mum wasn’t there. Was she?
‘You know,’ Dad continues, ‘she wasn’t herself, your mum. At the end. He’d turned her, that bastard.’
He looks at me for a few seconds, scrutinising my face. My mouth closes. So do my eyes.
‘That’s what they do, you see. They want to take over. That’s what you’ve got to understand. That Yan, he’s like his dad. He can’t help himself – it’s in their nature. They’re parasites. They steal from people. His father tried to steal your mother. You can’t trust foreigners, Will.’
Yan. The anger flares up again. I need a pin. I need a pin.
The cloud is slowly evaporating. I frown again. I like the cloud. I like the feeling of safety. I open my eyes again. They aren’t so heavy now. I can see Dad’s face properly. He looks like he’s been crying. I frown. Dad doesn’t cry. The cloud is slowly evaporating. I frown again. I like the cloud. I like the feeling of safety.
‘The thing is, son, we have to fight them. Otherwise we’re history. Otherwise we’re going to lose this country, lose everything we’ve worked for, that our fathers have worked for. It’s like Patrick says – you don’t have someone to stay, then sit by while they tell you that half your house is now legally theirs, do you? It isn’t right. But that’s what they’ve done. They came here and now they’re taking over.’
‘Taking over,’ I manage to say. ‘Yan can’t take Claire, Dad.’
Dad looks slightly startled at the fact that I’ve spoken. ‘Don’t you worry about that Claire. She’s not worth it, son. She’s as bad as them. You’ll fin
d someone better.’
‘There’s no one better,’ I mutter. ‘Claire, she . . .’
I trail off. I can’t explain, not now. I don’t have the words.
Dad nods. ‘All right, son. Don’t you worry. We’re going to deal with that Yan, aren’t we? We’re going to sort him out. Make sure he pays for what he’s done.’
‘Pay for what . . .’ I say, frowning. I can’t remember what he’s done. Yan. Yan and Claire. The names float around my head. The two of them together make me angry. I try to separate them, but they refuse to be parted. It hits me with a sinking feeling. She is not mine. She will not always be there. She lied. She loves Yan, not me. She loves him. ‘Claire loves Yan.’
‘She’s a stupid girl,’ Dad says soothingly. ‘You’re better off without her. Just like I’m better off without your mum. Women are weak, Will. But he’ll pay. He’ll pay for all of it.’
‘Yan will pay,’ I say. It feels good.
‘Yes, he will,’ Dad says. ‘And not just him. All of them. They’re laughing at us. They’re laughing, son. They take everything, and people like your mum don’t see it. They think they’re like injured animals. They want to look after them. But they’re pests, Will. Like the grey squirrel driving out the red squirrel. They don’t belong here and we have to fight for our land. Otherwise we’ll be extinct and they’ll have won.’
I bite my lip. I don’t want them to win.
‘We’re all suckers for women, aren’t we, son?’ There’s camaraderie in his voice. His eyes move down to my hands. ‘I’m sorry. About this,’ he says, gesturing to the tape. ‘Patrick doesn’t know you like I do. I knew you’d understand, if I could explain. You do understand, don’t you, son?’ He ruffles my hair.
My brain is working better, but I can’t remember where this all started. Can’t remember what I’m doing on my bed tied up. My chest hurts as though someone stamped on it.
Dad sighs heavily. ‘I don’t like arguing with you, son. I don’t,’ he says. ‘But what you said before, about us planting evidence, it’s not right. We can’t let you go around saying those things, ruining everything. Do you see?’
