‘You don’t know who you are.’ He says it sadly, reproachfully.
‘Yes, I do,’ I say firmly. ‘I know exactly who I am. You don’t. You know nothing about me. Which is why you have to leave. Otherwise I’m going to call someone. The police. Social services.’ I’m puffing out my chest slightly but I know I’m not kidding anyone.
‘You know who you are now, perhaps, but that isn’t who you really are,’ the man says, moving his hand to my shoulder; I shake it off, but it doesn’t throw him off his stride. ‘I don’t understand what has happened, but you must remember,’ he implores me. ‘You must listen to us. You are one of us.’ He says it again. ‘You are one of us.’
One of us. Part of something. I am part of something. I feel myself drawn in. My brethren. My friends.
Then I shake myself. I am repulsed by my weakness. I’m not part of anything. They are
freaks
.
‘I am
not
one of you.’ I pull back. All pretence at bravery has gone; I want to run now, want to have someone there I can stand behind, someone who can defend me.
‘You are one of us,’ he repeats like a scratched CD. ‘You are a Returner.’
My fear subsides briefly, overtaken by irritation. Irritation and anger. ‘I am not a “Returner”,’ I say levelly. ‘There is no such thing. I’ve done research. You’re just some loons, that’s all.’
‘You are a Returner. You have lived with us through history. You remember. Like us, you remember.’ He’s getting quite agitated now, waving his hands like a total weirdo. I look around to check no one’s watching us.
‘I remember? Yeah, well, that’s the fundamental problem in your little theory, isn’t it?’ Sarcasm. Now I’m on safer ground. ‘Because I
don’t
remember. I don’t remember you, or anything about being a Returner. Which would suggest that you’ve got the wrong person, wouldn’t it? I mean, logically, you’re not exactly on firm ground, are you?’
I’m feeling good, feeling on top of things. It doesn’t last.
‘You will remember. And we will be there for you when you do,’ the man says. ‘You are one of us. We are worried for you. Don’t be afraid. This is your destiny.’
I’m looking at him, into his eyes, which is a mistake. I remember my dreams. I feel cold suddenly.
‘Yeah, well, that’s something else I don’t buy,’ I say uncomfortably. ‘Destiny. It’s a load of rubbish. There’s no such thing.’
‘Not yet, perhaps.’ He turns and gets on to a bus that has stopped. I didn’t notice it arrive. ‘Remember, we’re here. When you need us.’
‘I won’t need you,’ I say, but I don’t think he hears me.
g
I get home in a filthy mood. I’m angry at Yan. Every time I close my eyes I can see him, see those dark soulful eyes of his, looking at me reproachfully. Because I didn’t help. Because he’s in prison and I’m not. Because Dad’s right, he should never have come here in the first place. Because of the way Claire looks when she talks about him. Because Patrick didn’t listen properly. Because . . . Because . . . Because this is all his fault. And even if it isn’t, it doesn’t matter, I’m still angry with him. And at everyone else too. My brain feels like a fog has descended. I want the freaks to leave me alone. I want to feel normal, want to have conversations with Claire and go to school and be like everyone else.
Claire. Claire and Yan.
No. There’s no ‘Claire and Yan’. Claire’s just concerned for him. She’s like that. She worries about people.
I push the door open; I can tell Dad is home because it’s on the latch. You’d think he’d be more security conscious; he makes out like there are immigrants on every street corner ready to steal the shirt off your back. I think it’s because he can’t be bothered getting up if anyone calls round. This way they just come right in. This way he doesn’t have to move anywhere.
He’s in the kitchen. I hear the clink of his glass as he puts it down on the table. There are voices; he’s not alone.
‘That you, son?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Just finishing up some business here. You all right?’
‘Fine.’
He doesn’t want me in the kitchen. We understand each other, Dad and I; understand what meaning we imbue words with. ‘You all right?’ doesn’t mean, ‘Are you all right?’; it means, ‘Are you OK leaving us alone for a while? Can you not bother us, please?’
Actually, there’s rarely a ‘please’ attached.
It means I can’t get anything to eat so I head for the sitting room which adjoins the kitchen and decide to wait it out. I flick on the television. Nothing’s on. I’m about to turn it off when I hear the name ‘Yan’. It’s Patrick. I sit down silently on a chair. The TV is on loud enough for them to think I can’t hear, but I can.
‘They bloody rejected it. I thought you were in control. I thought you could handle it.’
‘And I thought you said it was done and dusted,’ Dad replies. ‘When it isn’t. There are holes everywhere.’ He sounds tense. A moment later the door to the sitting room opens and his head pops round it, I think to check that I’m not listening to them. I look straight ahead at the television.
‘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 kitchen, 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.