‘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
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.
‘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.