‘OK then,’ the teacher is saying. I hear her, but it is like an out-of-body experience. My pain is all I can comprehend. ‘Well, that’s a start anyway. We’re going to be studying this period of history for the next few weeks, and by the end I’ll expect you to know every battle, every strategic alliance and the ramifications of these alliances. We’ll be looking at the rise of Nazi Germany, the Holocaust, the involvement of Russia, of Poland . . .’
I feel like someone’s got a red-hot poker and is sticking it right between my eyes. I put my head on my desk.
‘Hodge? Hodge, are you all right?’ I should look up, tell her I’m OK, but I don’t feel OK. I don’t feel at all OK. I want to thrash out.
I focus, force myself to box the emotion safely away. Then I slowly, painfully lift my head off my hands. Open my eyes. The lights are so bright. I can see Claire looking at me, worried, curious. I hold her eye for a few seconds. I look away first.
‘I need some water,’ I tell the teacher.
She looks at me suspiciously, then nods. I can feel my face is hot, red. A trickle of sweat is making its way down the back of my neck. When I stand up, I realise my shirt is sticking to my back. I pull on my blazer to hide it. I look down at the ground; I need to get out of the classroom as quickly as I can. I run to the boys’ toilets, splash my face. Then I walk back down the corridor, pausing at the vending machine to buy myself a can of Coke. I press it to my cheek first, cooling myself. I open it, drink it in one. The effervescence, the sugar-hit, the cold, all at once, make an intoxicating cocktail. I feel better immediately. Not completely normal, but the headache is receding. I can think again. The sweating has stopped.
I lean back against the vending machine, trying to make sense of everything, trying to work out what just happened.
I breathe in and out slowly. My mind feels like it has exploded and is now gradually coming back together, bit by bit like a jigsaw puzzle. Calmer. The pain has gone. I’m not angry now. I don’t know why I was angry. I can’t remember. Nothing seems to makes sense. The pieces swim together. I don’t know if they are in the right place – it doesn’t seem important.
Things don’t make sense, but that doesn’t really surprise me. Life doesn’t make any sense. If it did, Mum wouldn’t be dead, there wouldn’t be people starving in Africa.
None of it’s rational. None of it strikes you as something well thought out, organised, put together. It’s all just a mess. All just a mass of confusion.
The trick is to accept it, to watch and learn, like the man in the film. Don’t give anything away, just in case. Keep your cards close to your chest.
I decide I’ve had enough school for today. I slope off down the corridor and out into the fresh air.
g
CHAPTER SIX
I start towards the river then change my mind and head into town. It’s always a bit of a gamble choosing where to go when you bunk off. There are fewer people by the river but it’s easier to blend in on the high street; I’m less likely to get accosted by someone asking why I’m not at school. The uniform doesn’t help. If someone stops me, I usually say I’m researching an Ordnance Survey map for geography. I don’t think I’ve ever convinced anyone but they don’t know how to respond to that so I get left alone.
I feel like I’m being watched. Paranoia? I pause outside an estate agent’s and turn slowly, like I could just be looking around idly deciding which way to go. There’s a woman behind me, walking towards me. She looks like the woman who was in my garden. I feel myself stiffen. I stare at her; she’s looking at me. But is it because she is the woman, because she’s following me, or is it because I’m staring at her? It’s hard to know. She walks past me, then she’s gone. I turn back to the estate agent’s window. I’m sweating again. It’s happening – I’m actually going mad. I’m scared. I’m really, really scared.
I try to slow my breath. It’s in your head, Hodge. It’s all in your stupid head.
That’s the thing with emotions. They don’t exist. Like the freaks. If you can push them to one side, if you can ignore them, refuse to acknowledge them, then you can get on with stuff, then you can live. But if you don’t, if you let them in, they consume you, don’t they? You see it on television, people breaking down, people losing it. I don’t ever want to lose it. I’m afraid of what would happen if I did. Better to be in control.
So that’s what I do. What I’ve always done.
Well, not always.
Not before Mum . . .
I cried at her funeral. That was the last time. And once I started, I felt like I’d never stop, like my insides were overflowing and cascading down my face. I thought I’d get swept away. I wanted to get swept away, wanted to drown, like her, to be with her, to be safe again.
Mum always made me feel safe. Like a raft, like a pair of armbands. I didn’t know it when she was here, didn’t notice it. But as soon as she was gone, I felt it. Suddenly I was exposed, vulnerable. But not any more. Now I’ve got my own armour. Now it’s been so long since I cried, I’m not sure I even know how to.
Slowly, gingerly, I start to walk again. Ignore the freaks and they’ll go away. They don’t exist. I can do this. Just walk straight ahead.
I’m walking towards a man. He’s looking at me strangely. Because I look weird? Because I’m sweating, my hands in fists, looking around like a freak? Or because he’s one of them? I meet his eyes – they’re like hers. Pained. Mournful. I turn around and start to run. I’m losing my mind and I can’t stop it, I can’t do anything about it. I want them to go away. I want them to leave me alone.
I run into the shopping centre, find a bench, sit down. I breathe – in, out, in, out. Children are playing on a Bob the Builder car thing that jigs up and down. They laugh ecstatically, beg their mothers for another go when it’s finished. No one’s looking at me. There’s a woman selling flowers who barely gives me a second glance. I’m just sitting on a bench, like a normal person.
Not like a normal person. I am a normal person.
‘I’m normal,’ I mutter to myself. ‘Everything is normal.’
And then I see the girl. The girl with curly hair who was down at the river. She’s walking towards me. I’m certain it’s her. My heart stops. Who am I trying to kid? Things aren’t normal at all. My nails are digging into my palms. I can’t look away. I’m imagining it. Of course I am. She’s just a girl, that’s all, a girl who happens to be walking right towards me. She sits down on the bench next to me. I’m frozen; I can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything. She’s just sitting there, looking at me. She’s not making a phone call or reading a magazine; there’s no reason for her to be sitting on this bench, on my bench, when there are others free. She saw me and she came and sat down. And now she’s sitting there, inches away.
I can’t look at her.
I have to look at her.
I take a breath. I want it to be a deep breath but it isn’t, it’s shallow; my lungs won’t take in more air than they need for survival. I turn.
Her eyes look like their eyes. I’m not imagining it. I can’t pretend this isn’t happening. She’s looking right at me. I’m staring back. Like I know her . . .
She leans towards me. ‘So it is you.’
‘Look.’ My voice sounds too high, too strained. ‘Look, I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but you have to leave me alone. OK? Just leave me alone. Stop following me. Stop looking at me. Stop acting like you know me. OK? OK?’
I meant to tell her, not ask her. Why am I asking if it’s OK?
‘But I do know you.’
I stare at her angrily. ‘No, you don’t. You don’t know me. I don’t know you. Just . . . Just go away.’
I get up and start to walk away, angrily, desperately. When I’d daydreamed about confronting the freaks, I’d imagined them laughing at me for being an idiot, or loo
king at me strangely because actually they weren’t following me or looking at me at all, it was in my imagination. Sometimes I’d imagine them disappearing in a puff of smoke because I’d had the courage to look them in the eye and tell them to go. This, though . . . I wasn’t prepared for this; for her acknowledging me, saying she knows me, for her actually being real.
‘Will. It is Will, isn’t it?’
I look behind me and quicken my pace. She’s following me. She’s trying to keep up with me – I can hear her heels clattering. I’m going to call the police. I’m going to run into a shop and get help.
Help for what? Because an eighteen-year-old girl is following me? Even now my sarcastic mind is laughing at me. Yeah, the police will just love that. They’ll put it right to the top of their ‘to do’ list.
I jump on the escalator, take the steps two at a time. I look around wildly – there’s a bookshop. I dive inside, make for the Philosophy section. It’s empty – obviously no one reads philosophy books. I lean over and put my hands on my knees, let the blood return to my head.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’
I stand bolt upright. She’s there, right next to me. How did she find me? I feel like I’ve been transported to some alternative reality. Any minute now the secret cameras are going to appear and someone is going to explain what the hell is going on.
‘You didn’t scare me,’ I say, mustering all the courage I can. She’s a girl, not a big bloke. I know judo. I could totally take her down if I needed to. ‘You’re just really annoying me. Go and follow someone else, OK? Whatever it is you want, I’m not interested.’
‘You really don’t recognise me, do you?’
She looks perplexed, worried. She looks older up close. Or maybe it’s just her eyes – that soulful look they have. Maybe she’s part of a cult, I think suddenly. Maybe this is how they get new members – follow them until they’re so freaked out they think they need salvation.
I decide I need to take the upper hand. I put my hands on my hips.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t know who you are. I don’t care who you are. So you tell all your weird friends I’m not going to fall for it, OK? I’m not interested.’
‘Interested in what?’
They’re clever these cult people, but they won’t get the better of me.
I shoot her a knowing look. ‘In whatever,’ I say pointedly. ‘In whatever it is you want.’
That’ll do it. There’s no comeback from that. But she doesn’t give up.
‘I’ve been looking for you for years. So have the others. When I heard . . . heard you were here, I didn’t believe it. Then they said you weren’t . . .’ She sighs, looks at me worriedly. ‘You really don’t recognise me? You’re sure?’
She looks at me again, those eyes doing the weird thing they did on the bench, looking into mine, like really into them. I feel self-conscious. I feel strange. I feel like I’m remembering something.
I kick myself. That’s what she wants me to think. It’s like those healers who pretend to make people who are paralysed think they can walk. It’s a con. I’m not falling for her rubbish.
‘How,’ I say, ‘could I know you? I’ve never met you before. Apart from when I saw you the other day.’
She looks away, like she’s planning her next move. I start to walk away; she reaches out and grabs my arm. Fear pricks at me. She pulls me close.
‘You don’t know who you are.’ It’s not a question. She’s shaking her head. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t know how this could happen.’
‘No? Well, maybe you’ve got the wrong person,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go now. I’d like to say it was nice meeting you, but . . .’
I don’t finish the sentence. My narky little comment doesn’t feel appropriate now. She looks as though she’s going to cry. Is it another tactic? Doesn’t matter either way. I’m out of here. I’m about to run out of the shop, when I stop, hesitate. Who does she think I am? Shouldn’t I find out? She and her friends have been wrecking my life. I should find out who they are, find out as much as I can so that I can do something to get them off my back. Otherwise they might just keep following me. Otherwise it might never be over.
I look at her, catch her eye. Is this something I’m going to regret? Was this all part of her plan? In a week will I be holed up with all those freaks with the eyes in some weird cult place where I have to take ten wives and pray to an alien?
‘Look,’ I say. ‘Tell me what’s going on. Tell me why you’re following me. Tell me who you think I am. Maybe I can help you find the right person.’
I don’t know why I said that. The last thing I want to do is help her. It’s just that she looks so . . . broken. It makes me feel bad for her, even if she and her friends have been screwing with my head. Maybe she’s depressed like Mum was. Maybe it’s her head that’s fried, not mine.
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t . . .’ she mutters. ‘I can’t . . . If you don’t remember, I don’t know how . . .’
‘Remember what?’ I ask patiently. I’m in control now. This is better. This I can do. She’s the freak, not me. ‘What’s the problem?’
She looks up at me. ‘If you don’t know who you are, if you don’t know what you are . . . I don’t know what I can do.’
Her voice is breathy. I wonder briefly what someone listening in on this conversation would think. I wish someone was; I want corroboration that it’s actually happening.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Well, why don’t you try telling me who you think I am. Maybe I can clear up the confusion.’ I’ve adopted that patient, patronising tone I’ve heard Patrick use. The tone he uses with me most of the time. I shake myself.
‘Clear up the confusion?’ She looks irritated. ‘You really think I’ve got the wrong person?’ She shakes her head again. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’ She sighs. ‘You can’t.’
‘Know what?’ I’m getting irritated now. ‘And stop saying I don’t know, like I’ve forgotten or something. I haven’t forgotten anything. I’ve got a great memory. I never forget anything.’
‘You don’t?’ Her head shoots up. ‘What do you mean?’
I blanch slightly. I wasn’t exactly telling the truth just then. But she doesn’t need to know that – it’ll only encourage her. ‘Just don’t tell me I can’t remember you. If I knew you, I’d remember. OK?’
‘OK.’ She nods, bites her lip. Then she looks around. ‘I should go.’
‘You’re not going to tell me anything?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know where I’d even start.’
I glance over at her and catch her eye. There’s something about her expression, something incredibly sad but really warm too. Comforting almost. I feel myself softening. Feel myself drawn to her suddenly.
Then I kick myself. She’s manipulating me. Her eyes aren’t warm; they’re strange. She’s strange. I look down at my hands.
‘Are they all with you? All the people who’ve been following me? With the weird eyes?’
‘Weird eyes?’
I feel bad. Like I’ve insulted her. I don’t know why but I don’t want to insult her. She looks like she’s been through enough.
‘Not weird,’ I find myself saying. ‘Just . . . I dunno. Sad. They’ve all got sad eyes.’
She smiles. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I suppose we have.’
‘So there’s a we?’ I press her. ‘You’re all in this together?’
‘There are . . . a number of us,’ she says carefully.
‘And you all got it into your head that I was someone you knew?’ That film The Matrix pops into my mind. Maybe they think I’m Neo. Maybe I’ve misjudged this whole situation. Maybe they think I’m their saviour. I could be the head of their cult. I could be the godlike figure they worship.
‘We didn??
?t get anything into our heads,’ she says impatiently. ‘You are one of us. You are a Returner. You’ve been off the grid for years – we were getting worried. And now you’re here and you . . . you don’t remember.’ She looks up at me with those eyes again and I know suddenly that even if this is The Matrix, even if they want me to be their leader, I don’t want to be. I’ve heard enough.
‘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
CHAPTER SEVEN
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?