The Returners

  ‘Yan?’ I ask uncertainly.

  Dad looks as though he’s forgotten I was even there.

  ‘Not Yan,’ he says. ‘That man.’

  He means Yan’s dad. I’m pretty sure he does anyway. They don’t get on. Actually, that’s the understatement of the year.

  I sit down next to him and start to eat. The inside of the chicken kiev is too hot – it burns my mouth. I get up to pour myself a glass of water.

  ‘I think Yan was shouting for help,’ I say eventually. ‘He called for me to phone the police.’

  Dad turns sharply. ‘After he’d seen you,’ he says. It’s a statement not a question. I nod. I take a gulp of water and feel the relief on my scalded tongue. ‘Of course he did,’ Dad says. ‘Oldest trick in the book. First witness to murder is almost always the guilty party.’

  ‘Mrs Rajkuma was there first,’ I say.

  Dad’s eyes narrow. He’s not that big on the Rajkumas either but I don’t think even he thinks Mrs Rajkuma’s capable of murder.

  I should drop it. I know I should. Why won’t I? ‘It looked . . . It looked like Yan was trying to give Mr Best mouth-to-mouth.’

  Dad snorts. ‘I bet he was. Look, son, he had Mr Best’s money in his pockets. His fingerprints are all over the knife.’

  I digest this for a second or two. ‘I’m not sure, Dad. It didn’t look like he’d done it.’

  Dad’s fist comes down on the table hard. ‘You saw him there,’ he thunders. ‘Don’t you argue with me about things you know nothing about. They’ve got the evidence. It’s cut and dried. Patrick told me. That little punk is going to get what he deserves.’

  I walk back to my stool. I catch Dad’s eye, hold his gaze for a few seconds. Then I nod.

  Dad doesn’t move for a little while. Then his hand moves towards me, awkwardly, and attempts a sort of punch on my shoulder.

  ‘Me and you. We’re a team, aren’t we, son? We’re on the same side, right?’

  I look at him curiously. Then I smile. ‘Sure,’ I nod. ‘We’re a team.’ I finish my chicken kiev and push the plate away.

  It was two years before Mum died that Yan and his family moved next door. Patrick told Mum and Dad that it was a sign of the times that only people like them could afford to buy houses these days, but Mum told him to mind his own business and Dad didn’t say anything. But I could see Dad was wary of them. When Yan’s dad said hello to him on the street, he never looked him in the eye; he just kind of half waved and scooted indoors as quickly as he could.

  But that didn’t bother me. There were now two boys who lived next door and they wanted to hang out with me. Yan was two years older than me and he had a little brother who was two years younger.

  We played football in their garden a couple of times. Our gardens were side by side and only divided by an old wire fence with huge holes in it, so it was easy for me to go round there. Yan was much better than me, which wasn’t ideal, but he taught me some stuff – tricks, exercises. His little brother never said much. Shy, Yan said.

  Then his dad invited us all round for supper. Dad didn’t want to go but Mum persuaded him. She was good at persuading him to do things. He’d start off all gruff, and Mum would tease him, then she’d ask him questions that he couldn’t really answer, like ‘Give me one good reason for not going. And don’t tell me you’ve got a headache – you haven’t’, and then she’d kiss him and tell him that without her he’d be the grumpiest man in the whole wide world and that he should live a little, that maybe he was nervous of saying yes in case he actually enjoyed himself.

  It was a warm evening and we sat outside at a table covered in little candles, and ate spicy food in bowls and huge loaves of bread that didn’t taste anything like the bread we had at home. I remember it as if it was yesterday, even though I was only six. It felt like we were in another country; the house was the same as ours but it was completely different. I’d been round there once before when it was Mr and Mrs Daniels’ house, and then it had been like any other house only a bit more musty, as though no one had opened any windows or washed any clothes in a while. But now that Yan’s family lived there it smelt sweet and clean and warm all at once. His mother was really pretty too. Not as pretty as Mum, not the same kind of pretty. She was fatter, but in a nice way, and she had these dark eyes with really long eyelashes and lots of black make up all around them that made her look like a cat or something. She always leant down to my level when she spoke to me and it made me blush, made me want to grow up quickly so that she didn’t have to. We ate our meal, Yan’s mother showing us how to use our bread to dunk into the various bowls and then using our hands to put it straight in our mouths. And I barely dared to look at Dad, who always said that only savages ate with their hands and who made me use my knife and fork properly, not even just a fork because that was ‘American’. Mum winked at me and started to dunk, and then I did and it was delicious, not like anything we ever had at home, and it was spicy and made my cheeks glow. Eventually Dad had some too. And some beer. After a while he actually started to relax – he lost the frozen look off his face and started to talk a bit more normally, like he wasn’t counting the seconds until he could leave.

  And then Yan’s dad spread out his hands and told Dad about the company he’d bought. For a ‘knock-down price’. ‘So many bargains to be had here,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘It is the new land of opportunity.’

  Dad didn’t say anything. I think he wanted to, but Mum gave him one of her looks.

  ‘And great that you did,’ she said quickly. ‘Otherwise it could have collapsed. Hundreds of people would have lost their jobs.’

  ‘Would have,’ Yan’s dad agreed. ‘Without a doubt.’

  ‘You did all right, though, didn’t you?’ Dad said, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

  ‘I did very all right.’ He didn’t notice the bitterness in Dad’s voice; he grinned at his good fortune. ‘Very happy.’

  Then he told us that he was going to be sprucing up the house. Painting it. Redoing the fence, that sort of thing. Mum said that would be great. Said they’d been thinking about doing something to our house too. And then she was grinning too. She looked younger, suddenly, like a girl. I sort of liked it and sort of didn’t at the same time. She was giggly and flushed; she’d been drinking wine. I didn’t mind that – she always hugged me a lot when she’d been drinking wine. There was music playing softly in the background – a hypnotic rhythm, drums, and an instrument I’d never heard before. It made me feel light-headed. After we’d eaten, she stood up and started to move, just gently, her hips moving from side to side. And Yan’s dad got up and took her hand and then they were dancing in the garden, just like that. Dad was staring at Mum like he couldn’t believe his eyes. Then Yan’s mother asked him if he’d like to dance too. He just kind of shrank back and said no, he didn’t dance, thanks all the same. And she winked at me and asked if I wanted to dance instead. And I wanted to so much I was almost bursting, but I said no, because Dad had, because of what he might think, because of how stupid I might look.

  Mum looked so happy. Looked as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

  She sang that night when she put me to bed. Kissed me lots of times, all over my face until I pushed her away but only half-heartedly. I miss Mum. I wish I hadn’t pushed her away now.

  Patrick arrives at eight o’clock. Dad shows him into the living room and pours him some whisky.

  ‘Go on then. Shouldn’t really, Harry,’ Patrick says, his eyes looking at him beadily. He always calls dad Harry, even though everyone knows he prefers Henry. And Dad never says anything, even though he’d go mad if anyone else called him that.

  Patrick used to be a policeman. A senior one. But he isn’t one any more – he’s a politician now. He wears a little badge, with a white and red flag on it, and he always makes us go to rallies where he shouts thi
ngs like England for the English, and British Jobs for British Workers.

  He’s been a friend of Dad’s for years – they met through work. He used to wear a uniform, years ago. But that was when he was a policeman. He wears another uniform now, though – drab, grey suits and white shirts that stretch against his stomach. He opens his jacket when he sits down – he looks like he’s longing to open the top button of his trousers too. I don’t know why people don’t just buy bigger trousers. Or lose weight. Wearing clothes that are too small just makes you look like a bloater.

  Patrick comes round whenever he wants to. Mum never liked him. She used to say he treated our house as if it was his own, bossing her about and helping himself to whatever was in the fridge. Dad would just shrug and say the house might as well be his; without Patrick’s help they’d have lost it.

  Dad pours another whisky for himself. I eye him warily.

  Patrick sits down. ‘And how are you, Will? Behaving yourself at school? Haven’t been chucked out yet?’

  I raise an eyebrow. He always asks the same questions, with a look in his eye that suggests he already knows the answers. ‘Not yet,’ I say.

  ‘He’s doing very well,’ Dad says immediately, even though he’s got no idea. ‘Aren’t you, Will?’

  There’s a pause then, a silence. It’s awkward. Patrick looks at me with a half-smile on his face. ‘So got some homework to do then?’

  It takes me a few seconds to realise this is my cue to leave. Not a bad idea, if Dad’s on the whisky.

  ‘Sure,’ I lie. Actually, it isn’t a lie – I have got homework to do. I just have no intention of actually doing it. Not now anyway.

  But I loiter in the doorway. ‘You’re here about Mr Best? About Yan?’

  Patrick looks at me sharply.

  ‘He was there, apparently,’ Dad says quickly, in case Patrick thinks he might have discussed the case with me. ‘Saw the whole thing.’

  Patrick’s eyes widen and he looks at Dad, who shakes his head very slightly.

  ‘He saw Yan,’ he says. ‘Saw him crouching over the body, didn’t you, son?’

  I nod uncertainly.

  ‘You did, did you?’ Patrick says. ‘How come we didn’t know?’

  We. Like he’s in charge of the police force. He’s not even a policeman any more.

  ‘I didn’t hang about. I just saw Yan giving him mouth-to-mouth.’

  ‘Mouth-to-mouth?’ Patrick laughs darkly. ‘Yeah, that’d be right. He’d just killed the man. He was probably looking for his wallet.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I shrug.

  ‘Maybe?’ Patrick’s eyes narrow.

  ‘He was a long way away,’ Dad says. ‘He doesn’t know what he saw, not really.’

  ‘Still, you’ll need to go down to the station. Make a statement,’ Patrick says.

  I think about this. I don’t want to go down to the police station. Even more people asking me if I’m keeping out of trouble, if I’m working hard at school, if I’ve got a girlfriend. It’s like there are only three questions that certain adults can think of when faced with a teenager.

  ‘Do I have to?’

  Patrick winks at me. ‘How about you tell me what happened and I’ll see if it’s worth passing it on? How about that?’

  I think about it for a second or two, then nod. ‘Yeah, OK.’

  ‘So why don’t I talk to your Dad first, then come upstairs and find you? What do you say?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. I look at Dad. ‘I’ll be on the computer.’ He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. ‘Research,’ I say. His mouth closes.

  I make my way upstairs to my room, turn my computer on, then, suddenly overcome with fatigue, I throw myself on the bed, allowing my eyes to close. My computer can wait. Right now, sleep can’t.

  g

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I am hot. Too hot. The sun burns my skin. I’m running. The altitude is high; I catch my breath. I’m chewing something. Chocolate. No, not chocolate. Not sweet. It gives me energy. I’m thirsty, but I have nothing to drink. Up and up, like a mountain, but there are steps beneath my feet. I stumble but fear drives me forward, upward. Life or death. Survival or . . . My clothes stick to me, my shoes rub unbearably. I turn a corner, I am near the top. I must reach the top, must get far enough away. I scramble, using my hands now, flailing against the unforgiving clay. I pull, I heave, I push myself up. I am at the top. I am being pursued. I must get away from the mob. I must get away . . .

  Another place – here there is a line of people ahead of me. Broken people – thin, frail, slumped, their eyes vacant, a flicker of something here and there but mostly they are looking down. For safety. They shuffle forward; no one speaks. The train behind them leaves. One or two turn to watch it go. Their faces are hollow. I reach up to feel my own face; I can feel nothing. Do I exist? Forward again, bags and children’s hands clutched tightly. There are two piles. One for clothes, one for bags. Two doors – one for women and children, one for men. The line inches forward. One or two people speak, make light of the situation. It is better, no? Things will improve. Don’t look like that – always so negative. A child cries; his mother pulls him to her.

  It is days later. I can smell it. Death. Burning flesh. It fills my nose, fills my chest, I am choking, spluttering, it is consuming me. I am screaming, screaming, screaming . . .

  I sit bolt upright, drenched in sweat; it takes me a few minutes to catch my breath, to slow my heart. I look around the room, disoriented. I was asleep. I look at my watch. It’s only 9 p.m. I breathe in and out, slowly. I remember – I came up to play on the computer. Patrick’s downstairs with Dad. Did I really scream? Did they hear me? Maybe they called up to me? Is that what woke me up?

  I lean over the side of the bed, my head between my knees. Recovery position. Can you recover from nightmares? What is there to recover from? They’re my own imagination. I do it to myself. The human brain is a scary thing when you’re not in control of it.

  The door opens slightly and my father’s face appears around it. ‘Everything all right, son?’ He’s drunk. I can tell from the slur in his voice. But he’s happy drunk. Otherwise he wouldn’t be asking if I was OK; he’d be telling me to shut up, to stop being a freak, so stop being such a bloody disappointment to him.

  I nod. ‘Yeah. Just . . . got carried away. With a game,’ I say lamely, but he swallows it.

  ‘We’re just finishing up. Give us a few more minutes.’

  ‘Whatever. Take as long as you want.’

  I can’t look at him, can’t let him see my flushed face, my shaking hands. Always the same nightmares. Sometimes I get the director’s cut, sometimes the edited version. Nothing different about them, though – fear, death, torture. I wonder what my old shrink would make of them.

  I pull myself up heavily from the bed. Got to calm down before I go downstairs. I look out of the window. A hundred yards away or so I can see Claire’s room. There’s a light on. That light used to be our signal – Claire used to flash it on and off when her parents had gone to bed and I’d climb out of the window and shin up the drainpipe. We used to talk mainly. She was always very good at listening. We’d listen to CDs too – mostly hers, which were pretty rank in a cheesy kind of way. I’d bring my own round sometimes – try to educate her, try to improve her mind.

  Claire was the first person I met when we moved here. I saw her immediately, as soon as I’d got out of the car. Dad told me to wait while the removal van parked, but I saw her out of the window. She was walking right towards us, dawdling like girls do.

  I timed it to perfection, waiting for her to be almost next to me before I opened the car door. It nearly knocked her off her feet.

  I looked down at the ground; she just looked right at me. That was the thing with Claire – she doesn’t act like normal people. She never seems to have
any of the hang-ups.

  ‘You the ones moving in here?’ she asked, pointing at our house.

  I nodded. I was already embarrassed. I was always embarrassed.

  ‘Are you our new neighbour?’ That was my mum. ‘I’m Chloe and this is William. Will.’

  ‘I’m Claire,’ Claire said, looking at my mother curiously.

  A woman appeared around the corner. ‘Claire!’ she said, her tone exasperated. ‘Here you are. I’ve told you before, do not walk away from me like that.’

  ‘I didn’t walk away,’ Claire said seriously. ‘You were just walking too slowly.’ Even then she wasn’t someone you wanted to get in an argument with.

  Funny, I remember that like it happened yesterday too. I have a very good memory. Unnerving, Dad calls it. I remember whole conversations word for word, remember what someone was wearing down to the colour of their tie, remember something that happened years before. Other things I don’t remember at all. There are entire weeks I can’t remember. Sometimes I find myself in places and I can’t remember how I got there, or even how long I’ve been there. Guess that’s just one more thing that makes me a freak.

  Later, when Mum and Dad were unpacking, Claire appeared over the fence at the bottom of our garden and encouraged me to climb over. And that, as they say, was that.

  The light thing started later on, after my Mum died. Claire knew how cut up I was, and she knew that I couldn’t – wouldn’t – show it. So she used to squeeze my hand secretly sometimes in school. And she said that if I was sad at night, then I could always come over. She’d flash her light every night when her parents had put her to bed and I could come over. If I wanted to. And if her light wasn’t flashing and I wanted to come over anyway, I should coo like a pigeon under her window and if she was awake she’d let me in.

  I didn’t think I’d go – I told myself I didn’t need to, didn’t need anything any more. But that very night I saw her light flashing and my heart leapt and I knew I had to go. It was like I was a ship that was about to crash against something, crash really hard, and her bedroom was a lighthouse and if I could just find myself there things might be OK after all.