The Returners (6 page)
‘Yeah, well, you got it wrong,’ I say hurriedly. ‘I’m not a . . . whatever it is you said. I’m me. Will. And I’m not getting involved.’
‘You’re a Returner, Will. It’s what you are,’ she calls after me, but I’m not listening as I stride quickly out of the shop.
g
I’ve googled Returners. There’s no such thing.
Of course there’s no such thing.
Actually, that’s not strictly true. There are Returners – women returning to work, student returners, returners to research fellowships, returners to teaching. I think we can safely assume I’m none of those things.
I tried Wikipedia too, just to be on the safe side. It says the Returners are part of a game called
Final Fantasy VI
. They’re a resistance movement dedicated to the defeat of the Empire. Final Fantasy. That’s about right.
Anyway, it’s been a while now – ten days, maybe eleven – and I haven’t seen a single freak, haven’t had anyone following me at all. I think maybe they’ve realised I’m not going to fall for their crap. I think maybe they’ve moved on to someone else.
Poor sucker.
Mind you, I can’t talk. I’m at school again, in a History lesson. I’m sitting at the back, though. Virtually hidden, counting the seconds until it’s over like I always do. There’s something about History that I really hate. I didn’t want to do it for GCSE but Dad said I had to, insisted I take ‘serious’ subjects. So I’m sitting here, counting, waiting for it to end, waiting for the door to open, for freedom to beckon for just a few minutes.
Sometimes it feels like all I’m doing is trying to get through the day. Like I’m wishing it all away. Is that what life is? Just getting from A to B, getting from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. and hoping that nothing’s going to go seriously wrong in that time? That’s how it is for me. I get a sense of relief every day when I get into bed, like I’ve done it, got through another one. For what? Where’s the eventual prize? What’s the eventual point?
And what if Dad’s right – what if this is the good bit and work is where it all starts to go seriously wrong? Surely there must be a bit in the middle. A bit that makes everything else worthwhile, a bit that makes you go, ‘Ahhhh, so that’s what I’ve been working towards. That’s what this is all about,’ just before it all goes pear-shaped again. Otherwise why would people bother? Why
do
they bother? Did Mum have the right idea? Did she get a flash of the truth, and realise that the middle bit doesn’t exist, that it’s all a con? Is that why she . . .
I pull my mind away from that line of thought. The teacher’s talking. We’re still on the Second World War. She showed us a film on the Holocaust last week, only I didn’t watch it – I had a migraine.
‘. . . which is why I want you to think about how it would feel – actually feel – to be on the train, knowing what awaits you. Will, you weren’t here last week. Why don’t you start us off? Tell us what you think it would be like to be a Jew in Nazi Germany. What it would be like to be persecuted like that.’
I look up in horror. I’m at the back. Which everyone
knows
is where you sit when you aren’t interested, when you haven’t done your homework, when you don’t know and don’t care what the teacher is going on about. Picking on me is out of order. Why me? Why now? It’s nearly the end of the lesson. I look at her sullenly. ‘Persecution? I imagine it would feel like this,’ I say, regretting the words as soon as I’ve said them.
The teacher doesn’t think it’s funny. She hates me, my History teacher. My first lesson with her, we got into an argument. I suppose I was a bit aggressive. I don’t know why; she just brings out the worst in me. She’s one of those superior types, patronising old women who think they’ve seen it all before. She told my dad at parents’ evening that I shouldn’t be doing History if I wasn’t interested in it, that I should find another subject. Which was music to my ears except Dad told me I’d better start being interested. Didn’t happen, of course.
‘If this is what you call persecution,’ she says, her voice low, ‘then you are very lucky. Many other people are not so lucky. My grandparents were not so lucky.’ She’s staring at me now, her eyes narrowing. ‘So think, Will. I want you to stand up and tell me how it would feel, to have your humanity taken away from you bit by bit, to know that all paths lead to the gas chamber.’
How dare she talk to me like that? Like I’m stupid. How dare she patronise me in front of everyone. My head starts to throb. It gets worse every second, like something piercing right into my brain. I clutch my forehead. Images are flashing through my head. Horrible images. Haunted eyes, gaunt frames, the stench of death, the dust . . .
‘Another migraine?’ The teacher looks at me with disdain. ‘How very fortunate. Are you method acting, Will?’
I remove my hands. Everyone’s looking at me. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes open. I want to scream, to cry out, but I manage to keep a lid on it. I won’t let her have the satisfaction of seeing me suffer.
She shakes her head wearily. ‘You know, you’re pathetic, Will. Really pathetic. I’m sick of your excuses. I’m sick of you thinking that the rules don’t apply to you. Someone else. Rory. You do what Will has failed to so miserably.’
Rory pushes back his chair. She is dismissing me. She will not dismiss me, I won’t allow it. I am angry. I am insulted. My eyes narrow as I stare at her. She is pathetic, I tell myself. A teacher. I feel nothing but contempt for her.
‘I guess if I were –’ Rory starts to say.
‘You want to know how it feels to be persecuted?’ I interrupt. A sarcastic smile is now playing on my lips.
‘I wanted to know how it
would
feel,’ she corrects me icily. She has not recognised my anger yet. She will. She will see. Everyone will see. ‘But now I’ve asked Rory. You have to put yourself in someone else’s shoes to do this. It’s called empathy. Come on, Rory.’
I look at her levelly. Rory opens his mouth to speak.
‘Empathy is weakness,’ I say. Rory’s mouth closes again.
‘Weakness? I’m sorry, did I just hear you correctly?’
She is staring at me in surprise. She didn’t expect that. She expected me to crumple. I will never crumple. She, on the other hand . . . I look her up and down. She is weak. I know it. I can see it. Under pressure I’d give her seconds, perhaps a minute. She would give in.
How do I know this? I don’t know. I don’t care.
I say nothing. She will fill the void. Let her. Let her talk herself into her fate. Strength in silence.
‘So you want to answer my questions now, Will?’ she asks. ‘Come on then. You’re on a train. You’re headed for Auschwitz. You have a child with you, a child you know won’t survive. How do you feel, Will? You think it’s weak to put yourself in someone else’s shoes? You think it’s weak to imagine their pain?’
The pain is getting worse. It feels as though my head’s going to split in two – red, white, flashing, dark. I clench my fists and push it away. Let the white rage take over. Pain is for the weak. I take a deep breath. My eyes narrow. My cold blue eyes.
‘It’s a simple question, Will. Imagine how the Jews on those trains must have felt. Imagine how the immigrants who burnt to death here in the UK last week felt. How would you feel if you were suddenly turned upon by people you thought were your friends, your neighbours? Because that’s what happened. And that’s what’s happening here in some parts of the country. Can anyone else give me an example? Hodge, since you’re standing up. Can you give me an example?’
She isn’t just my teacher any more. She is everything I hate. She is crass, meaningless authority.
I feel my eyes harden, locking on hers. I take a deep breath and formulate a sentence that will silence her.
‘Yan,’ Claire says suddenly, before I can speak. She is standing up, her eyes flashing. ‘He’s been arrested for something he didn’t do. Just because he’s not . . . Just because he’s . . .’
‘An immigrant?’ the teacher asks. Her tone is softer. I feel my nails digging into my palms. Words disappear from my head as the agony returns. Claire’s voice has brought back the pain. The ice is melting. I try to concentrate, to bring it back, but it’s too late. The teacher is no longer an ogre; she is my teacher again.
‘The National Party,’ Claire continues. ‘All those television ads about sending immigrants back home. That’s the same thing. Isn’t it?’
I feel my stomach clench. The National Party. Patrick’s party. My dad’s a member. England for the English. They don’t belong here. Send them home. British jobs for British workers. I have searing pain behind my eyes.
A voice in my head.
The Jews are taking over. They will run the world if we let them. They are dangerous. We must protect our people from them. We must stand up for ourselves.
I frown. I remember the words, but from where? Who spoke them? Where did they come from?
I have been running from them. Running for so long.
But running where? I don’t understand. Why was I so angry? Where did the hatred come from? I am still angry. I am losing control.
‘It is the same thing,’ the teacher is saying. ‘In times of crisis, we look for someone to blame. It is no coincidence that the rise of the Nazi Party in Germany followed a great depression, a time of utter poverty that resulted from the First World War. And it is no coincidence that the rise in Nationalist politics across Europe has come at a time of economic hardship. It just shows how quickly people can descend into unthinkable prejudice and hatred when their livelihoods are at stake, when they feel threatened. What about Rwanda? Can anyone tell me what happened there?’
Rwanda. My head pounds. A memory. A nightmare. The voice again. I can’t get rid of it.
I cannot watch. I am safe here; I don’t want to know, don’t want to see. That could have been me. Should have been me. If I’d gone back. But I didn’t. And I won’t. I will not go back. I will hide. I can’t go back. Not any more. Too much. The screaming. The ash, the smell, the eyes . . . Especially her eyes. The way she looked at me. She knew. She looked at me and her baby cried. She tried to hand it to me. The pain in her eyes, the desperation. I saw it. I felt it. The ice cracked. She got in. She is in me. The pain . . . she is the pain, she is the agony that consumed me, that consumes me still. I can’t any more. Let someone else do it. Let me stay here, away from it all. Let me not go back
. . .
Back where?
‘The genocide,’ someone says. ‘The Hutus turned on the Tutsis and massacred them.’
‘Their friends and neighbours,’ the teacher nods. ‘Hacked to death with machetes. Thousands and thousands. Because the Hutus had been led to believe that the Tutsis were to blame for everything that was wrong with their lives. But were they? Were the Jews a malevolent force in 1930s Germany? Are immigrants responsible for the economic collapse of our country?’
‘No,’ everyone says. All I can hear is Claire’s voice. ‘No.’ She is talking to me. Directly to me. I feel her eyes on me. I feel the freak girl’s eyes . . .
‘No,’ I shout. ‘No!’ I scream. ‘Noooooooooo!’
I run to the door, hurl it open. I feel as though I’m suffocating. I have to get some air.
I get outside. I breathe, in and out, in and out. The pain is receding. I feel embarrassed suddenly. I allowed myself to lose it.
But at least I didn’t cry.
I walk to the bike shed, find my usual resting place behind it. Someone has left a packet of cigarettes with a lighter inside. I pick it up. Mum always hated the idea of me smoking. Then again, she isn’t here, is she? I take out a cigarette and light it, breathing in deeply.
I exhale slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the air, wishing actions were the same, would just blend into thin air and disappear.
I finish my cigarette and stub it out, lean back, take a deep breath. I’d like to go to sleep, like to curl into a ball, bury myself under a duvet. I briefly consider going home, then rule it out. Dad might find out. Can’t risk it. I can’t go back into school either, not for another fifteen minutes, not if I don’t want to get stopped in the corridor and sent to the head’s office. I don’t want to go back full stop, but I guess I don’t really have a choice.
I don’t want to go back.
I remember saying these words before. In a memory. A dream?
I don’t want to go back. I won’t. I can’t.
Who was I speaking to? It doesn’t matter.
I close my eyes. Fifteen minutes. It isn’t long. The sun’s shining – its rays have found their way through the bike shed to land on my arms, my face, like little torches. Time goes past. I’m warm, I’m comfortable. I remember dappled sunlight, a mellow breeze. Someone stroking my head. Mum? She’s soothing me. Everything will be OK. What happened in class made no sense. My reaction followed no logic. It must have been a dream. If I decide it didn’t happen then it will be erased.
I stretch, open my eyes again. It takes me a while for my eyes to focus, to realise that Yan’s brother is lying next to me. I didn’t hear him arrive. I look at him suspiciously.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask gruffly.
He looks up – he has dirt on his face, a swollen eye. ‘Jeez,’ I breathe out. ‘You look terrible.’
He appears embarrassed, pulls his hands up to hide his face. I shake my head. He must go looking for trouble – it’s easy enough to avoid it if you try. Keep your head down, avoid certain people. The boy must have a death wish.
‘You don’t learn, do you?’ I ask. He looks down.
I don’t want to know what happened. Not really. But I ask anyway.
