I tell myself that over and over. I make every excuse for him that I can. And I try to believe. I try so bloody hard to justify his actions, because he’s my dad and I love him. But deep down I know it’s a load of bull.
When I’m crying so hard that I’m making moaning sounds, I channel the music through my speakers so that Dad won’t hear. Then I weep harder, fingers balled into fists, face scrunched up with hate and confusion.
He’s a bully. A wife beater. A racist. A hateful, nasty sod. I want to hang him up by his thumbs. Sneer at him as he writhes in agony. Ask him if he’s proud of himself now, if he still thinks it’s all right to beat up a woman and child.
Then I despise myself for thinking such a terrible thing. He wants what’s best for us. He’s trying to help, doing all that he can to steer us the right way. He only hits us when we let him down. We have to try harder. We…
“I hate him,” I moan, burying my face in my hands.
But he’s my dad.
“I hate him.”
But he’s my dad.
“I hate him.”
But…
FIFTEEN
Saturday drags. I stay in all day. A few of my mates call and ask me to come meet up, but I tell them I don’t feel well. They say everyone’s talking about me and how I rescued the baby. I laugh it off like it’s no big deal.
Dad takes us out to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. Mum dresses up and slaps makeup over her bruise. She and Dad share a couple of bottles of wine. He lets me have a sip when nobody’s watching. Laughs when I grimace.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll get used to it.”
Dad’s polite as he can be to the staff. Funny how he doesn’t have a problem with foreigners when they’re serving him food. Most of his favorite grub comes from overseas, Chinese, Italian, Indian. I consider pointing that out to him, but I don’t want to set him off again.
Mum and Dad head to the pub after the meal, leaving me to guard the fort at home. Dad gives me a fiver and tells me to treat myself to some chips and sweets. He scratches my head and grins. I grin back. The aggro of yesterday isn’t forgotten by any of us, but we move on, the way we always do. No point living in the past. We’d have burned out long ago if we held grudges.
I watch a film, surf the Web, download some new tracks, play a few games, go to bed late. I don’t hear the old pair come home.
I get up about midday. Dad’s still asleep. Mum’s working on a Sunday roast. We’re a bit stiff with each other. It always takes us a while to return to normal after Dad loses his temper. We’re both embarrassed.
We eat at two. Dad’s hungover but he still manages to polish off his plate. He loves roasts, never leaves more than scraps. He drinks beer with the meal, saying that’s the only way to combat a hangover. Normally he praises Mum’s cooking but he doesn’t say much today, nursing a headache.
“That was nice,” I mutter as Mum clears up.
“I’ve got dessert for later,” Mum smiles. “Pavlova. Your favorite.”
It’s actually Dad’s favorite, but I don’t mind. We share a smile. Things are getting better. The air doesn’t feel so tight around me now.
Dad watches soccer in the afternoon. I watch some of the match with him. I make a few scathing comments about Premiership players and how they’re overpaid prima donnas. That’s usually guaranteed to set him off on an enthusiastic rant, but today he just grunts, wincing every now and then, rubbing his head as if that will make the pain go away.
Some of Mum’s friends come to visit. They don’t say anything about her face, don’t even ask if she had an accident. They start chirping about what happened at the War Museum but Mum shushes them before Dad kicks off again. They retreat to the kitchen and carry on in whispers.
I go to my room when the soccer’s over and phone Vinyl, hoping he won’t have heard about the museum. No such luck.
“I hear you’re London’s newest superhero,” he chuckles.
“Get stuffed.”
“They should send you over to Ireland to stamp out the zombies.”
“Don’t make me come and give you a kicking,” I warn him.
He asks if I’ve heard the latest rumors. Apparently Pallaskenry wasn’t the first place the zombies struck. According to supposedly classified documents that have somehow surfaced on the Internet, there were at least three other attacks in small, out-of-the-way villages, one in Africa, two in South America.
“If that’s true,” Vinyl says, “you can bet there’s been even more of them in places we haven’t heard of yet.”
“It’s all crap,” I tell him. “They’re trying to scare us.”
“Maybe,” he hums. “But it looks like the curfew’s going ahead. They’ve already introduced it in a lot of towns in Wales, since that’s so close to Ireland. London nightlife’s gonna be a thing of the past soon.”
“That won’t last,” I snort. “You think people here will stand for a lockdown? I give it a week or less. The rumors will die away, the curfew will be lifted, everything will go back to normal.”
“I hope so,” he sighs.
We chat about TV and music. I tell Vinyl how Nancy confronted me at school, treating me like a racist. I get huffy about it, conveniently not mentioning the fact that I made gorilla noises. Vinyl isn’t in the least sympathetic.
“Well, you are a racist,” he notes.
“No I’m not,” I snap. “I’m talking to you, and you’re hardly Snow White.”
“I’m your token black friend,” he chuckles.
“No,” I sniff. “You’re my token retarded friend.”
I hang up before he can yell at me. Giggling wickedly, delighted to have trumped him, I punch the air, then go take a long, hot bath. There’s nothing like a good soak when it comes to relaxing. I lie in the tub for an hour, staring at the drops of condensation on the ceiling and window, feeling peaceful. The old scar on my thigh is itchy, so I scratch it, then turn on my side and let the air at it. When it stops annoying me, I lie flat again.
Mum and I watch TV together later. Dad’s gone out to the pub. Mum opens a box of chocolates and we share them. Belgian chocs. They’re nice, but I prefer Roses or Quality Street. You can’t beat a good Strawberry Cream.
Dad gets back with a few of his mates not long after ten. My stomach tenses when they enter–I think Owl Man is going to be with them–but these are just some of his campaign buddies. They have posters and leaflets. Local elections aren’t for another three or four months, but they’ve been asked to start canvassing early. One of the posters has a picture of a zombie, set next to a photo of a Muslim bomber. WHICH DO YOU FEAR MOST? it asks.
Dad and his mates love the poster. Mum and I pretend to admire it too. Then we go to bed early. Dad doesn’t like us hanging around when he’s talking shop. I’m sure that I’ll struggle to drop off, or have the nightmare again, but I don’t. I’m out in a minute and sleep the sleep of the dead after that.
SIXTEEN
I could do without school on Monday. I think about giving it a miss–wouldn’t be the first time–but I don’t fancy the idea of trudging around the streets by myself. If I’d met up with my mates over the weekend, I could have arranged for a few of them to skip school with me. But it’s too late to organize that now, so I decide to struggle through and maybe take tomorrow off instead.
Everyone’s still talking about the museum, the way I rescued the baby. Suze and La Lips shiver when they ask me to re-create it for them, eyes wide, wanting a tale of blood, treachery and heroism.
“It wasn’t much,” I mutter. “The guys weren’t that big.”
“Rubbish,” Kray says. “I saw the one you tackled outside the shop. He was well over six foot. That knee put him down sweet though.”
Kray’s not the only one living in awe of my trusty right knee. I reckon some of the fools would kneel down and kiss it if I gave them the chance.
The praise goes to my head a bit but my mood doesn’t lift. No matter how many times I’m told that
I’m a hero, I can’t forget about Dad, the contempt in his expression, the way he hit Mum and me. If ever there was a time to stand up to him and tell him I’m not a racist, it was then. I could have said that I thought all babies were equal. Attacked him for being so heartless, so inhuman.
Instead I just stood there, head low, saying nothing. As always.
It’s almost a relief to get to class. I can escape from the adulation there. We have biology first. I’m worried that Mr. Burke might make a song and dance about what I did at the museum, but he’s not in today, must be sick. Mrs. Reed takes our class instead.
The morning rolls along drearily. I trudge from one class to the next, ignoring anyone who tries to talk with me about Friday, scribbling during lessons, paying little or no attention to the teachers.
I meet up with some of the gang during the break and I’m delighted when Elephant draws their attention away from me.
“I’m playing soccer at lunch,” he beams. “Saw the doctor on Friday and she gave me the all-clear. Said it’ll probably hurt for a few days, and not to tackle too hard, but I’ve got the green light.”
Elephant’s so excited, you’d swear he was about to play in a cup final, not in a poxy five-a-side tournament. We slag him a bit but he laughs off our jeers, vowing to score a hat trick and come back bigger and better than ever.
“Bigger?” La Lips says, batting her eyelids innocently.
We all laugh, even the normally jealous Copper.
Elephant makes us promise to come and cheer him on. I normally wouldn’t bother with footie at lunch, but to keep Elephant happy, I agree to watch him make a fool of himself.
“Just don’t elbow anybody,” Suze warns him, “or B will go for you.”
Elephant looks blank. He must be the only person not to have heard about the incident on Friday. Luckily, before I’m forced to go through it again for his benefit, the bell rings and it’s back to class.
More pointless lessons, teachers droning on, trying to amuse myself by drawing crude cartoons and coming up with nicknames for the few of my friends who don’t have any. Then lunch.
I head to the gym with Copper, Kray, Suze, La Lips, Ballydefeck and Stagger Lee. We meet Pox, Trev and Linzer there. Elephant’s warming up. Meths is on his team and the two of them hold a hushed conversation, discussing tactics. What a pair of clowns!
Stuttering Stan is the ref. He blows his whistle and the teams take to the pitch. Other kids move out of their way and either line up along the sides to watch or go find somewhere else to hang out.
The game kicks off and Elephant gets stuck straight in. If anyone expected him to take things easy in his first game back, they’re instantly corrected as he goes into a tackle feetfirst and barges one of the other players over.
Stuttering Stan blows for a free kick and gives Elephant a warning. Elephant rubs his leg and looks worried. As soon as Stuttering Stan’s back is turned, he winks at Meths. I see now what they were cooking up—play the wounded soldier angle, use Stuttering Stan’s sympathy to get away with as many dirty tackles as they can.
“Go on, Elephant!” I roar as he chases the action. “Do him!”
The others cheer along with me. The goalie pulls off a save and launches the ball up the field to Elephant. He turns, shoots and almost scores the goal of his life, but it flies just a few inches over.
We’re having a great time. For once I’m immersed, keen to see who Elephant targets next, if he can cap his comeback with a goal, how much grimacing and sighing Stuttering Stan will stand for before he brandishes a yellow card.
Then Tyler Bayor spoils it all. He comes up to me and gives my sleeve a tug. I glance at him suspiciously. He’s never approached me like this before. I figure I must be in trouble, that he’s delivering a message for someone.
“What do you want?” I snap.
Tyler grins shakily. “I just wanted to say well done for the other day.”
I stare at him incredulously. The others are amazed too. He must have fallen out of bed and hit his head this morning. It’s madness, tagging me like this, acting like we can be friends, like a compliment from him can make everything right between us. Who the hell does he reckon he is, Nelson bloody Mandela?
“Do you think I give a damn what you think of me?” I snarl.
Tyler’s face creases and he gulps. “No, B, of course not. I just wanted to–”
I poke him in the chest and he takes a quick step back. I follow and the gang closes around me, their focus switching from the game to the new, more highly charged action.
“Who gave you permission to breathe the same air as me?” I sneer, poking Tyler again.
“Why are you doing this?” he whines. “I only wanted to tell you that I thought it was great, the way you saved that kid.”
“I didn’t do it to please the likes of you,” I tell him. “In fact, if I’d known the baby was Indian, I’d have let them take him.”
Snickers and theatrical gasps from the gang. They think I’m joking, saying it to wind Tyler up. They don’t know about what happened at home, how serious this is. If I let Tyler praise me, it’ll be like I’m taking his side against Dad.
“All right,” Tyler sighs. “I’m sorry. I won’t congratulate you again.”
He turns to leave. I grab his arm and swing him back to face me.
“You’re not going anywhere.” I poke his chest a third time. “You started this. Let’s take it all the way.”
Tyler’s eyes fill with panic. I’ve given him a rough ride over the years, but I’ve never gone all out for him. He’s small. I don’t usually pick fights with no-hopers. I go for opponents who stand a chance, who are worth beating. Tyler isn’t a fighter. He probably thought he’d never get called out by me.
But he rubbed me the wrong way at the wrong time. I know it’s unfair. It’s my dad I should be squaring up to, not a wimp like Tyler. Or, if not Dad, then one of Tyler’s bigger buddies, someone who could give as good as he gets. But I can’t help myself. I’ve been bottling in my anger all weekend. I have to lash out at someone, and Tyler’s placed himself in my line of fire.
“Easy, B,” Trev mutters, seeing something dark flash across my face.
“You want some of this too?” I bark.
He shakes his head and goes quiet.
I focus on Tyler again. I’m snarling like a dog. Tyler looks like he’s about to faint. Before he passes out, I slap him, the way his mate Nancy slapped me when I made the gorilla noises.
“Come on,” I hiss. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“I don’t want to fight,” Tyler says, backing up.
“Too bad.” I slap him again. “Give me your best shot.”
“No,” he squeals. “I don’t want to.”
I make a fist and jab him in the stomach. It’s not a hard punch, just a taste of things to come. But he doubles over, then drops to his knees and starts crying, hugging himself as if I’d swung a cricket bat into his ribs.
I stare at Tyler uncertainly. I’m not used to this sort of a reaction. It throws me. The others are looking away, clearing their throats, disgusted and embarrassed at the same time. This is doing more harm to my image than to Tyler’s. Everyone knows he’s soft. But for me to pick a fight with a harmless crybaby…
“Forget about him,” I snap, turning my back on Tyler and looking for another target. I spot a group of Muslim kids standing in a huddle, unaware of any of this, sharing a joke. They’re from the year above ours, big buggers, well able to fight their own corner.
“Let’s do those bastards,” I snarl, looking to my gang for support.
Nobody responds. They’re startled by my sudden mood swing, my thirst for a fight. They’ve seen me fired up before, but not like this.
“What’s wrong?” I sneer. “Frightened?”
“Of course not,” Kray says. “But why don’t we leave it and have a go at them after school instead? We’ll get in trouble if we attack them here.”
He’s right but I can’t pull
back now. “Okay, cowards,” I spit. “I’ll do the sods myself.”
I start towards the group. I don’t know if the others will follow once they see that I’m serious. I’ll get hammered to a pulp if they don’t—without backup I won’t stand a chance. But I don’t care. Let them kick the crap out of me. At least I’ll be able to go home to Dad and be sure of a warm welcome. He’ll make me a cup of tea, rub my head, tell me I’m one of his own. He might criticize me for picking a fight I couldn’t win, and tell me I have to be savvier. But he’ll be proud of me. He’ll love my fighting spirit. He’ll love me. And right now that’s all in the world that matters.
But I haven’t taken more than three steps when everything goes to hell and all natural fights are forgotten.
Screams ring out loud over the other noises. Everyone stops and stares at the main doors into the gym. They’re hanging open and we can see the corridor beyond. The screams get louder. My eyes widen and my heart beats fast. I instinctively know what this means but I can’t admit it. Nobody can. That’s why we stand like a bunch of dummies, doing nothing.
A boy staggers into the gym. He’s bleeding. Terrified. Moaning. He falls and I see that a chunk has been cut–bitten–out of the back of his neck. Blood spurts from the wound. As we gape, more kids spill into the gym. All screaming. Some bleeding. Everyone in shock.
One of the girls looks wild-eyed at the rest of us, as if just noticing we’re there. Gazes at us in horrified silence. Then shrieks hysterically—“Zombies!”
SEVENTEEN
I want it to be a joke, some smartarses screwing with the rest of us. I’d be so happy if they were winding us up, I wouldn’t care that I’d been made a fool of. I’d laugh, admit I fell for it, hail them as champion pranksters.