Does Claire?
The thought hits my stomach with a thud.
I have to see her. I have to explain.
The world works in strange ways. It was a deceit that led to one of my happiest memories of me and Mum. Funny, Mum hadn’t ever seemed like someone who would lie; she was too pure for that, too pretty and fragrant and nice. I probably didn’t even know the word deceit back then but I knew immediately that’s what it was when I came home early from a friend’s house one day. When I opened the door, Yan’s dad was in our kitchen. With my mum. They didn’t hear me come in. They were talking and drinking tea. At least, there was tea on the table. They weren’t holding their mugs. They were talking intently, their heads close together.
‘He doesn’t know,’ I heard her say. ‘He can’t know.’
‘You have to tell him,’ Yan’s dad said. ‘How can you love a man like that? How can you?’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t say that. Don’t ask me that. If he thinks . . . If he finds out . . . I can’t. Let me do this my way.’
Yan’s dad shrugged. I stared at him, my heart thudding in my chest. We weren’t meant to talk to Yan’s dad, or to Yan, or his brother or any of his family by that point. Dad had told us not to. We weren’t supposed to even look at them in the street. They were the lowest of the low. They’d get their comeuppance one day and in the meantime we weren’t to have anything to do with any of them.
Yan’s dad saw me first; he motioned to Mum, who looked up startled.
‘Will! Hello, darling!’ She sounded flustered. ‘Gosh, you’re home early. I was just . . . We were . . .’
I don’t remember what else she actually said. But I do remember that she was more attentive than usual. She helped me off with my blazer, took my school bag and took out my packed lunch things. Then she started to clean them, running the hot water tap and squirting washing liquid on to the brush before scrubbing the box inside and out. Usually she wiped it with a piece of kitchen roll just before she filled it in the morning. I watched her silently. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Yan’s dad watching her too.
‘You all right, Will?’ he said in his thick accent. He was trying to look relaxed, but I knew he wasn’t.
I nodded awkwardly. I looked at my feet.
Yan’s dad stood up.
‘Well, thank you for the tea, Chloe. Your mother makes very good tea,’ he said, smiling at me as though everything was OK.
I nodded.
Yan’s dad made his excuses and left. ‘We were just having a chat,’ Mum said cheerfully. Too cheerfully. She looked at me for a moment, her cheeks slightly flushed. ‘No need to tell Dad, is there?’
I shook my head. I made my decision easily, but it still sat heavily on me. Best friends didn’t lie to each other. Best friends who lied to each other didn’t stay best friends. Everyone knew that. If Dad found out . . . I pushed the thought away. I’d heard Mum and Dad arguing late at night. I’d heard noises, crashing noises, the noises people make on television when they’re fighting. Whenever I heard fighting noises, Mum would be extra cheerful the following morning. She’d wear more make-up, wear brighter clothes, as though hot pink would make everything OK again.
Mum followed me around for the next hour, helping me with my homework, feeding me biscuits, asking me about the television programme I was watching. Eventually she sighed and slumped down next to me on the sofa. She put her arms around me. ‘Some people burn bridges; some people build them,’ she said. ‘Do you understand, Will?’
I shrugged.
‘The bridges I’m talking about – they’re not real bridges. They’re talking bridges. Friendly bridges. So if someone upsets you, or you upset them, you build a bridge by saying sorry. Or by listening to them. Do you see?’
I thought about it. ‘I told Claire she was rubbish at football on Sunday,’ I said eventually. ‘But afterwards I said she was better at other things. I wanted her to still be my friend.’
Mum looked at me for a moment – she looked like she was going to cry, but instead she leant over and kissed me on the forehead. ‘You’re a good boy, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Am I?’
‘Oh yes, my darling. You’re my good boy. You’re the very best boy I could have.’
I still remember the glow, remember the warmth in my stomach after she said that. Her very best boy. That’s who I was – not Will, not the boy who came second from bottom in spelling tests, but my mum’s very best boy.
I’m not anyone’s best boy any more. I’m not good at all. I’m the opposite of good.
g
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I don’t coo like a pigeon this time. Torturers don’t do that sort of thing, do they? I just climb right up and knock on her window. It’s the dead of night – it takes her a while to wake up. Then she reaches up and pulls the curtain open. She has that sweet look of dreams – soft, warm skin that’s been crumpled against a pillow, a slightly confused look in her eye. I get a sudden desperate urge to be her, to have the innocence of not knowing what’s gone before and what’s coming in the future. To just live life as it happens.
She frowns at me, then opens the window. ‘I’m tired, Will. Is this important?’
I nod and clamber in. She yawns and falls back against the pillow. I sit at the end of her bed; I pull one of her soft, warm blankets around myself.
Claire sits up again. ‘You look awful. You’re shivering. You’re . . . Will, what are you wearing?’
I look down – I am wearing socks that have been dirtied by the road, pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt. My socks have holes in them.
I shrug eventually. ‘I was in a hurry,’
‘A hurry.’ She is looking at me suspiciously. ‘Why? Not the dreams again?’
I nod. Then I shake my head. How can I explain? I suddenly feel very old. Very alone. Maybe it was a bad idea to come here. I don’t want to infect Claire with my misery, with what I know. I don’t want her to turn on me, and yet I’d be disappointed if she didn’t.
‘Will? Tell me. Tell me what’s up.’
‘It’s kind of the dreams, but worse than that,’ I say carefully. ‘I had them again, but they’re not dreams. They’re who I am. I’m one of them. One of the Returners. Not even one of them. I’m evil, Claire. I’m the devil. I saw myself. I saw who I am. They were real, Claire. They happened. I was there. I was there . . .’
The tears that would not come before are streaming now. Self-pity? I despise myself even as I cry. Claire puts her arms around me; I pull away.
‘I don’t deserve your sympathy,’ I manage to say. ‘I want you to hate me. I want you to despise everything about me.’
I realise I mean it – it would make me feel better. My revulsion with myself is not enough.
‘OK.’ She’s teasing me – I can tell from her eyes.
‘I’m not joking. This is serious, Claire. You have no idea how serious.’
And suddenly I am afraid. Afraid I might hurt her, like I’ve hurt others. I edge backwards. ‘I should go.’
‘Will.’ She folds her arms irritably. ‘You’ve woken me up. At least have the decency to tell me why.’
I swallow. My throat is parched. My eyes fall on a glass of water on Claire’s bedside table. She follows my gaze and hands it to me. I drink it immediately; the water is cool and soothing. I don’t deserve it.
I take a deep breath. ‘The people,’ I say. ‘The people who’ve been following me. The Returners. They lied to me.’
‘Of course they were lying,’ Claire says, rolling her eyes. ‘OK, Will. Look, I know things aren’t easy for you at the moment, but come on. There’s no such thing as a Returner. I don’t know who these people are, but they are just one big lie; they really are. You have to tell someone about them. Maybe . . .’ She frowns, her brow creasin
g gently. ‘Have you thought about going back to that doctor?’
My eyes narrow. ‘You mean the shrink?’
‘Doctor,’ she corrects me. ‘He was nice, wasn’t he?’
I don’t say anything for a moment or two. The disappointment is too great, like the plug has been pulled out and I’m running down the plughole. She thinks I’m mad. I thought she understood. I thought we were friends again.
I have no friends.
I have no one.
I steady myself. I concentrate. I breathe slowly. I allow my blood to freeze; that way I am safe.
‘Interesting theory,’ I say, a new edge to my voice, ignoring her comment about the shrink, ‘but you’re wrong. They do exist. They are Returners and I’m one of them. Only I’m not. I’m different.’
‘What do you mean different?’
‘I’m the bad guy.’ I say it flatly, no emotion. It sounds like I’m talking about a film.
Claire raises an eyebrow. ‘The bad guy?’
‘I’m the devil.’ It’s strange – it feels almost as if I am showing off. As though I am proud of this fact.
Claire looks at me curiously, then sees that I’m serious, that I’m not smiling. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. A few seconds go by; they seem to last for ever.
‘The devil?’ she asks eventually. ‘What do you mean exactly?’
‘I mean,’ I say, ‘that I’m the one who causes suffering, not the one who suffers. My dreams . . . they aren’t dreams. They’re memories. I remember now. I have killed people. I have tortured people. I am the devil.’
I feel strangely calm.
‘You kill?’ Claire looks at me sceptically.
‘The lines of people,’ I say quietly, as though I’m talking about something utterly mundane. Detachment. Complete detachment. It is not me, it does not matter, it is nothing. They are nothing. Everything is nothing.
‘I could smell the ash. And I thought I was with them, one of them. I thought that’s what it was. But I wasn’t. I was the . . .’
Her eyes are on me, staring. They make me feel uncomfortable. ‘The ash? What ash? What lines?’
‘At the camp. I was at Auschwitz. I wasn’t a prisoner, Claire.’
‘You weren’t?’ She looks scared now. It’s sinking in. She will understand soon. She won’t be able to look me in the eye. It will make what I have to do easier.
‘Yan’s brother,’ I say. ‘I’ve been stealing his money. I didn’t know I was doing it, but every day I’ve been beating him up and taking a fiver from him. Every day.’
‘You’re the one who’s been beating up Yan’s brother?’
I nod.
Her eyes are wide, clouded. She is trying to make sense of the nonsensical.
‘That’s you? You’ve been doing that to him?’ She is incredulous. She is outraged. ‘It’s not enough that bigots have been scrawling graffiti on their house, putting bricks through their windows? You’ve been beating up that poor boy? You?’
I nod. It feels strangely cathartic to confess. I need her judgement, need her to hate me.
‘And you really don’t remember?’
‘I do now.’
‘The whole family have been so worried,’ Claire says. ‘They tried telling the school but no one listens to them.’ She shakes her head bitterly. ‘Because they’re immigrants.’
She lets the word hang in the air for a few seconds. Then she rounds on me again. ‘He . . . won’t talk about it. They tried not giving him money but the . . . you, I mean . . . It made it worse. He came home with a broken nose.’
She isn’t talking to me; she is talking to herself. She edges backwards, catches me looking at her and flushes. Then she stands up, goes on the offensive, to hide her embarrassment. I can see it all now, can see every reason for every action. How? Because I have seen it all before? Because I have lived so many lives?
‘And it was you all along? Jesus, Will. Do you know what it’s done to him? To the family?’
‘No. Anyway, I came to say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye?’
‘I’m going away. I wanted you to say sorry. To Yan’s brother.’
Claire looks angry. ‘Tell him yourself tomorrow. Don’t run away, Will. Face up to it.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No.’
‘You can’t just run away from what you’ve done. You think that’ll make it OK? It won’t. You have to make amends. You have to face up to what you’ve done, pay the price.’
‘No, Claire,’ I say, a shade of anger slipping into my voice. ‘There’s another thing. Before I go.’
‘Yes?’ Her voice has lost any trace of warmth, of friendship. It is as though the sun has gone in. I shiver.
‘Yan,’ I say. ‘He didn’t do it.’
‘I know. Everyone knows. Everyone except . . .’ She stops herself just in time from mentioning my father and Patrick.
‘They planted evidence,’ I say. ‘A knife. To make it look as though it was him. I heard them talking about it.’
‘Heard who?’ Claire gasps.
‘Dad and Patrick.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Yeah. Well, anyway, now you know.’
‘But that’s not enough. You have to tell someone official. You have to say that in court. You have to.’
‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I have to go. I’ve done all I can, OK?’
I clamber on the bed and open the window.
‘You haven’t done all you can. Yan’s still in prison.’ Her bottom lip is sticking out, like it used to when she was younger and having a hissy fit because she wasn’t getting her way. On impulse I lean forward and kiss her, right on the mouth. She is soft. She is warm. For a second I feel complete, I feel like a person, like there are other possibilities, another way . . .
But there is no other way. I know that.
‘Bye, Claire,’ I say. She says nothing – she is too surprised to speak. I haul myself out of her window and clamber down the wall.
g
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It’s not late any more – it’s early. Very early. The sky and the water are beautiful; it’s like they’re both reflected in each other. Both bright, light, shimmering. Both full of the hope and optimism of newness, of fresh starts.
I wrap my arms around myself – it’s chilly, the kind of chilly that suggests that it’s going to be a hot day, that there are no clouds hanging around to spoil things.
A day I won’t see.
A day I won’t enjoy.
I wouldn’t enjoy it anyway, I remind myself. Does evil enjoy itself? Can it?
I stare at the river, deep into it. I’m at the same spot, the exact same position I was in when my mother . . . drowned herself . . .
I wish she was here – wish she was sitting right next to me, to guide me, to help me.
I don’t know what to do, Mum.
Yes, I do. I know exactly what to do. It’s just . . . I’m scared.
I see two figures walking towards me – they’re still a way away, but I recognise them. I look away – I’m ashamed at the relief coursing through me. Because as long as they’re here, I won’t be able to do it. And yet I also feel afraid, in case they try to stop me. Will I be strong enough to resist? Will I be brave enough?
I hear them getting closer. I still don’t turn around, even when Douglas sits down next to me on the bench. The girl sits on my other side.
‘Will,’ Douglas says by way of a greeting. ‘We thought we might find you here.’
‘Yeah?’ I stretch my legs out. I don’t want to touch either of them.
‘It’s not the answer, Will. You can’t run away.’
‘I’m not running away,’ I say angrily. ‘I’m taking control.’
‘No, Will. Returners can’t take control. What you’re doing is fighting, resisting. You shouldn’t. You’ll only get hurt.’ It’s the girl talking. I turn to look at her, at her haunting eyes, her pale skin and slight frame. She looks so fragile. I wonder what she remembers, what she has seen.
But she’s wrong. She has to be.
‘No,’ I say simply. ‘You’re wrong.’
‘She’s right,’ Douglas says soberly. ‘You don’t have control. No one does. Humans don’t control where they are born, to whom, into which century. Returners don’t have control either. You can’t change what you are, Will. You can try to run but you’ll still be you. You’ll come back somewhere else. Accept your destiny, don’t fight it.’
‘Don’t fight it? Easy for you to say.’
I turn, momentarily, and see his eyes. His sad eyes. I hang my head.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ I say. ‘I know it’s not easy for you.’ I look at him searchingly, then at the girl. ‘You haven’t told me where you’ve been, what you’ve been through.’
Douglas smiles. ‘We would be here for days if we told you everything.’
‘Edited highlights then,’ I say. ‘Lowlights, I mean,’ then feel guilty for making a joke of it.
‘Only when you’ve stared suffering in the face can you laugh at it,’ he says, reading my mind, or guessing really well. He winks at me. ‘Never be afraid to laugh at anything – black humour is one of humankind’s survival mechanisms. Without it we really are in trouble. Doctors are renowned for their grim humour – surgeons are the worst.’
I feel myself smiling back. A half-smile anyway. It’s strange – how can someone who’s only ever suffered be so comfortable to be with?
I sit back, pull my knees into my chest. ‘So tell me.’
Douglas leans into the bench. ‘We’ll tell you,’ he says. ‘So long as you promise not to do anything stupid.’
‘I promise,’ I say.
‘OK then. Let’s see. What do you know about India?’
I shrug. ‘Not much.’
‘Well, you should,’ he says. ‘India is a beautiful, rich continent, full of some of the most vibrant people in the world.’