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I get back home, eventually, my mind in a blur. I have to get upstairs. Have to get to my bedroom, to safety. I am scared. No, not scared. It’s something deeper. Everything is going to change. I am like a caterpillar – I need a cocoon, need to find somewhere safe to go for my metamorphosis. Into what? Back to who I am. What I am.
‘Will? That you?’ Dad is at home. I open the door to the sitting room – he is on his chair. He has been drinking; I smell it immediately. I glance at my watch – 8.45 p.m. He sees my eyebrows shoot up. ‘And where the hell have you been?’ he asks angrily.
I avoid his eyes. I need to curtail the conversation. ‘Just out with a couple of mates,’ I say evasively.
‘You? Mates?’ He is joking, laughing at me, and I am immediately flooded with resentment. It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. But I bite my tongue. ‘Which mates?’
‘Greg. Tim,’ I lie. There’s a Greg in the year above me; I’ve never spoken to him. But he will do.
‘Greg?’ Dad doesn’t believe me. I should have picked another name. ‘School friends, are they?’
I nod.
‘So you’ve been at school then?’
‘Yeah. Look, Dad, I need to –’
‘So why the bloody hell did I get a call from the head’s office?’ Dad interrupts. ‘Telling me this is the second time this week you haven’t been in at all?’
His eyes are flashing with anger, not black humour.
‘You’re a bloody waster.’ He is on a roll now. ‘You’ve got exams next year. Think your mother would be proud of you bunking off school like this?’
I close my eyes. Don’t listen. Cut this short and get away.
‘She thought so much of you. But she never saw the real you, did she? Will the loser. Who can’t even go to school, let alone pass an exam. What do you think she’d have made of you, Will? What do you think she’d say now?’
He’s been drinking. I try to breathe, try to contain the anger welling up inside me. I can rise above his words. One of us has to rise above it. Otherwise we both know how this is going to end. It’s not even the hitting I’m worried about – it’s the sobbing afterwards, the apologies, the telling me it’ll never happen again when I know it will. Because it always does.
‘This has got nothing to do with Mum,’ I say, controlling my voice as best I can. ‘I’ve had some . . . some stuff going on. I didn’t go to school today. I’m sorry, Dad. But I’ll go tomorrow. I’ll be OK.’
‘You’ll be OK?’ He rolls his eyes. ‘You think I’m worried about you being OK? All the years I’ve sacrificed, looking after you. And for this? This is how you pay me back?’
I edge backwards. I have to get out. The walls of the sitting room are pressing in on me.
‘Where d’you think you’re going? You’re not going anywhere, my boy. You’re going to tell me what you’ve been doing. Who you’ve been hanging around with. Have you been breaking the law? Drinking? Taking drugs? Have you?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s nothing like that, Dad.’
He moves closer to me. ‘Maybe she knew. Maybe she suspected you’d turn out like this. Maybe that’s what pushed her over the edge, Will. Ever thought about that?’
I stare at him angrily. I can feel the white heat descending. ‘Don’t,’ I say. It is a warning. I have never warned my father before.
‘Don’t?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘You’re a let-down, Will. You’re a waste of space. You’ve had everything. Every opportunity, and look at you.’
‘I’m going upstairs, Dad. You’re drunk.’ I feel older than him. I find myself thinking that he is the let-down, not me.
‘Drunk? Do you blame me?’ He stands up, stumbles towards me. ‘With you as a son? Do you really blame me?’
I close my eyes. I breathe, count to ten. Then I leave the room. I walk to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water. I drink it, then calmly make myself some toast. I smear peanut butter on it; it will do for supper. I wolf it down. I realise how hungry I am and make two more slices. I pour another glass of water; I am in control. Methodical. Nothing else matters. I head out of the kitchen towards the stairs.
Through the living room door I can see Dad lying on the ground. With a sigh, I walk in. He has fallen. I roll him over; he has a black eye coming – he must have hit something on the way down. I look at him for a few moments, puzzled. Then I go back to the kitchen for some frozen peas. I crouch over him and press the peas to his head, like I saw Mum do once when things with Yan’s dad had really deteriorated. Lawyers and black eyes do not go well together, she’d said.
He opens his eyes; he is looking at me warily. I recognise the look in his eye, or remember it – I have seen it before, but I can’t remember where. He pushes me away, but he has little strength.
Yan’s brother. He has the same expression as Yan’s brother. Confused. Uncertain. Fearful. It unsettles me; I am not used to my father looking any of these things.
‘You need to hold this,’ I say, putting his hand where mine has been on the peas.
He grunts something, pushes my hand away. I let go, watch him for a second to make sure he’s holding them right, then stand up and make my way up to my room.
Once there, I close the door, put a chair up against it, then turn off the light and get into bed, only taking off my clothes once I’m under the duvet.
It is time to know the truth. It is time to face the suffering, to look into the eyes of whatever it was that kept me away for so long, that made me forget everything.
I am scared.
But I am ready.
Slowly, warily, I close my eyes. And gradually, bit by bit, sleep embraces me.
I am not Will any more.
I am a Returner.
The air is crisp, fresh and new. It is early morning – I can feel the dew in the air, under my feet. I’m running, running. My chest is hurting, I gasp for air. I stumble, but manage to land on my feet; I cannot afford to slow down. I must be quicker, must catch up. They are here. They are here somewhere. I have the coordinates, near enough, secured for me by one of my men. They are my men. I find the thought reassuring; it spurs me on. I am not used to running; I am used to waiting for information. But this is too important. I need to be there. I need to be seen there.
My radio is in my pocket – I want to reach down, to check it is working, for reassurance, but there is no time. If they are there, we must know now, before it is too late. We must be ahead of the game. I run. Across a field, through woodland.
They are clever, our enemy; they have thought this through. But they are not clever enough.
And they will pay for this. They are trying to destroy everything; they believe they can. But they will not. Eventually they will see; they will learn. We will teach them. We will show them the way. If they want to see it.
I see a break in the trees. I slow slightly; I am jogging now. I arrive at the clearing quietly, secretively. I must see the truth for myself. There is a camp – tents of varying sizes, a low murmur of human existence. There are large containers of water, some makeshift cubicles. Toilets? Showers? A larger tent – perhaps a food tent. Around these areas hundreds of people sit, walk, talk in hushed voices. There is worry in their eyes, exhaustion, concern. Children sit listlessly at their parents’ sides. Those in charge are easy to identify – they walk, purposefully, armed with clipboards. They stop to check people, to peer into the mouths of the children, to point directions, to listen. They too appear exhausted, but they have a determination about them.
They are white. British. I know they are; I have done my research.
I also know that the others are not.
I try to work out the overall numbers – I cannot see into the tents, cannot see beyond this side of the camp. But from the resources, from the size of the water tanks, I can estimate. Between five hundred and a thousand. Perhaps even two thousand. There is enough to keep them here for a week perhaps. After that, what? Will more resources arrive? Is a departure date set?
I take out my radio, edge backwards so that I am not overheard. I relay the information. I give the coordinates. I feel reassured by the voice at the other end. They will be here. They will be here in minutes, not hours. I find a place to sit, hidden by some trees, a sprinkling of grass to soften the ground. I lower myself gently. And I wait until my men arrive.
My comrades. I know that I have their rapt attention – we are united in our cause. My cause. I have convinced them, over time, through skill and argument, and through offering a way out of their desperation. They are all desperate. Economic and social despair are fertile grounds for change. We sit, our voices hushed, discussing our strategy. I listen, I watch. Then I stand up and give the orders. I have decided. It is time.
We scatter; I am one of them. Their leader, but also their comrade. I am one of the people. Our people. We must fight the injustice, fight the unfairness. This is our land, the land of the free, of the righteous. We will reclaim it. We will make it our own again. I watch my men disappear and I feel proud, I feel excited. I have done this. I have made this happen. We will stop the dissenters in their tracks. They think they are cleverer than us; they think that they can control things. But they can control nothing. We are ahead of them; we cannot be beaten. They will see. Eventually they will see.
A gunshot, another gunshot, the sound of people screaming, scattering. I will wait a few more minutes. More gunshots, shouting, running, more screaming. ‘Help us, please help us.’ ‘You can’t do this.’ I listen and I wait. Slowly, order descends. Lines will have been formed, children brought into order, those hiding found. I wait . . . and then I stand up. I walk slowly towards the camp. I see the fear in the refugees’ faces; I see the anger and outrage in the faces of those in charge of the camp. Our enemies. Terrorists. They are dangerous; they must be dealt with swiftly, to send a message. I watch as they are tied up. They thought they could hide here, thought we would not find them. They are foolish; I have no respect for them. Traitors. They cannot see the truth; will not see it.
Slowly, I walk towards them.
Somewhere else. Somewhere hot. Stifling. I am watching but I am not there. A man, not me, sits in a van. He is outside a school. Inside, the people wait. They are fearful, hungry, exhausted, but they have made it there; it reassures them. Elders walk around, reassuring, talking in low voices. The UN are here. They will protect us, they say.
Tall people. Like poppies. Their eyes have seen death, destruction; their legs have walked huge distances, children tied to their hips, to their backs. Their homes destroyed, their neighbours killed, everything gone.
We are safe here, they say.
They wait. Their shoulders unfreeze, just slightly. They begin to breathe a little more easily. They consider their futures, ask the questions they have had no time to ask themselves or their loved ones. Where will they go? What will happen when it is over? Will the deaths be avenged? How will they cope? How will they ever look each other in the eye again?
More arrive; the doors close behind them. Wounds are tended to. Screams from those who cannot be saved, weeping from those who love them.
A kind of order settles. Family groupings, village groupings.
The man gets out of the van. He signals to his friend. They walk towards the school.
Inside, the lights go out.
Another scene. Another place. A line of people. Pitiful, pathetic. They are broken already; they are the walking dead. Do they know that there is no future? Do they understand? The ash circles above. Mothers feed crusts to their children, hold one another for support. Their eyes are hollow, too large for their shrunken faces. I can smell disease, fetid flesh. The ash chokes my lungs. I bring my handkerchief to my mouth, covering my nose.
I look down the line; I look at their faces, their listless bodies.
The line is moving slowly.
I wipe a few beads of sweat away from my forehead.
I wake up and open my eyes. I am afraid. I don’t want to go on. I sit up, swing my legs out of bed. I am panting. I am sweating. I go to the bathroom, splash water on my face. I catch my reflection in the mirror and shrink back. I don’t want to go back to bed. I don’t want to sleep. I walk around the house, but I know it’s no use. I have to sleep. I have to know. I have to see, have to remember. If I don’t, I will go mad, I will implode.
Heavily, I go back to my room. I shut the door. I get into bed.
I can’t run any more. I have to face the pain, the agony. I must brace myself. Clenching my fists, I slowly close my eyes.
I am back at the camp, the moist English air like nectar as I breathe it in. They have seen me now, they are staring at me. All of them. I do not mind. I am used to the attention; I encourage it. Leadership. Direction. It is what we all need. It is my gift to my country. I give it willingly, a sacrifice of time and energy.
I do not rush; I let them wait as my footsteps bring me nearer, one by one.
‘Who is in charge of this place?’ I ask, when I am standing in front of them. A woman is pushed forward by one of my men. She has defiant eyes. Eyes that say she is right. But they are wrong; they do not realise the damage she is doing. It is too late for her to learn, but others will. Others will not follow in her path.
I look at her for a few seconds.
‘How many people are there here?’ I bark.
She says nothing. One of my men pushes a gun into her back.
‘How many?’ I ask again.
She braces herself. ‘A thousand,’ she says. She sounds proud. I shake my head pitifully.
‘You bring a thousand people here? For what? Why?’
‘To escape,’ she says bitterly. ‘To leave this godforsaken place.’
‘Godforsaken? No,’ I say calmly, ‘God has not forsaken us. You have. You and your treacherous followers.’
‘Let them go. Let them go home.’
‘Home? They say this is their home.’
‘Let them leave. Let them leave if you despise them so much.’
‘Why should I? They had their chance to leave and didn’t take it.’ My eyes are on hers, resting steadily. She looks down.
‘They have done nothing wrong.’
I shake my head again. ‘No, that is not true. And if they leave, they will come back. Others will come. I have evidence on my side. What do you have?’
‘Humanity,’ she says.
I allow myself a laugh.
‘Humanity,’ I say. ‘No. You don’t see the truth. You won’t. We have to protect our land, protect our people. You set up a camp for these intruders when our own people are starving.’
‘They aren’t starving.’ She is angry now. ‘They may be jobless, but they’re not starving. We don’t know what it is to be starving.’
‘Enough!’ I glare at her; two of my men take her arms, hold them behind her.
The hot place again. I am there but not there. An onlooker? No, further away than that. And yet I see everything. The people look around in fear. Switches are flicked. The electricity has failed. A wail erupts but is immediately stopped. Reassuring voices are heard. It will come back. It is not a problem. Don’t panic. We are safe here, they say, we are protected. We were told to come, and we came, and now we are safe. Do not worry. Do not be alarmed by the lights going off. We will find candles. This is not a problem.
Hearts that were racing begin to slow slightly. There is nodding, agreement. It is important not to panic. The panic is over. The horror is behind them.
Men stand protectively in front of their wives, their children.
Water, a child says. I need some water.
Water. Yes. The father is relieved. Something to do. Something simple, something meaningful. I will go. I will find you some water.
He walks, out of the room, down a corridor. There is a line of people. I am looking for water, he says.
We are too, comes the reply.
Nodding, the father joins the line. He is holding an empty bottle. He is pleased with himself for bringing it, for having the presence of mind even as the mouth of hell opened up, as the men with their machetes and their hate and their rage descended. He holds it to him. And as he presses it to himself, he feels his chest constrict. He makes a sound, a sound he does not recognise. He feels tears on his cheeks The woman in front of him turns and looks at him. She nods, puts her hand on his shoulder. He has not cried since he was a little boy. He is ashamed. The woman shakes her head.
‘We have seen what we should never have seen. What no one should see,’ she says.
‘My daughter . . .’ He cannot finish the sentence, cannot voice the terror, the pain he feels, that he will always feel. His daughter. He no longer has a daughter. He has two sons; he saved them, they are here. But his daughter . . . He was not quick enough to get her out of their path. He holds the empty bottle of water to him as though it were her, as though he has been given a second chance.
But there are no second chances. He watched them drive towards her, their machetes outstretched, watched them cut her down, his own flesh and blood, his little girl, tumbling to the floor lifeless.
And even now he finds himself grateful that this was all they did, that they did not take her as they had taken other girls, other women.
‘I have no daughter. I have only sons now,’ the father says. He has to say it out loud. He cannot say it to his wife.
The woman nods. ‘I do not have a mother. I do not have a father. I do not have a husband.’
His hand moves to hers and presses on it; they stand like that for several minutes, more intimate than he has ever been with anyone outside of his family. Then he lets go; she turns around. The moment is over. Their grief cannot be lessened; but they have been understood. That is something.
The father hears a commotion at the front of the line; an argument has broken out. Even now, he thinks, even in this dark time, people argue. Has someone taken too much water? Spilled some? Inadvertently insulted another in the line? The shouting gets louder; he walks forward.
There are two men at the front of the line. One is banging the tap; the other is shouting at him. Then they switch positions, with the shouting man wrenching the tap and the other criticising him.
‘What is the matter here?’ the father asks. ‘I’m sure we can resolve this in a friendly way.’
The men look at him; their eyes narrow. ‘A friendly way?’ one of them says. ‘Tell me, friend, how do you resolve this? How do you resolve the fact that there is no water?’
‘No water? You mean the tap is broken?’
The man shakes his head. ‘It is not broken,’ he says bitterly. ‘I’m a plumber. There’s nothing broken here. It’s the mains. The water’s been shut off.’
Another commotion, a man running down the corridor, his eyes wide with fear.
‘What is it, brother?’ the father asks. ‘What has happened to you?’
‘To me?’ The man looks bewildered. ‘Not to me. To us. To all of us. It’s the doors. They are locked.’
‘Yes, of course,’ the father says patiently. ‘We have locked the doors for our protection. To keep us safe.’
‘No,’ the man says. ‘You do not understand. The doors are locked from the outside.’
Back to the lines of people. The ash is on my face, on my hands. The smell is overpowering. They feel it, they taste it. They are beginning to fret, to worry. They look at me anxiously. They hold out their hands, look at me with pleading eyes. I walk towards the door to confer with the guard. There has been a delay; there is more matter to dispose of than anticipated. It will take an hour, maybe more. I glance back at the line; they are getting restless. A woman is crying, crying loudly; her fear will infect the others, she will cause problems. Her child starts to howl. The sound grates on my mind, like nails across a blackboard. I bark at the guard. ‘More men. Take some from the other line. Get it done quickly.’
I turn back to the woman, to the child. The woman stops; she sees the anger in my eye and hushes the child. But the child continues to wail. The mother looks at me in desperation. ‘Please,’ she mouths. ‘Please, take him. Take my son.’
I look at her uncertainly.
‘Please,’ she says again, so quietly I can hardly hear. ‘Please take him.’
I reach into my pocket.
I draw out my gun.
I wake up again, gripped with panic. But the images do not recede. They are no longer dreams. They are memories. The dam is open; they flood in and I cannot stop them. This is who I am. I cannot escape. I see them. I see it all.
It is Africa. I know. I don’t know how I know, but I know. A huddle of men are talking, separate from the other groupings. All around, families are holding each other in grief, trying to keep each other alive without water, without food.
‘The UN will protect us. They will come,’ the father says quietly. ‘They told us to come here. They will come.’
Another shakes his head bitterly. ‘We have been in this building for two weeks. The UN are not coming. If the UN were coming, they would be here by now. If the UN were coming, there would not be disease in this building and starving children. If they were coming, my son would be alive.’
‘But,’ the father says. ‘But . . .’ He is trying to think of rational reasons for the situation he finds himself in. He cannot – will not – accept a version of events where they are helpless, where there is no hope. He is a businessman. A logical man. The UN told them to come here. They would not do that unless there was a plan.
‘But nothing,’ the other man says. ‘Why will you not see? They don’t care about us. Nobody cares about us.’
‘It isn’t about whether they care,’ the father says staunchly. ‘It is about right and wrong. It is about . . .’
He is interrupted by a sound. Doors opening. He has never known such relief. ‘You see?’ he says. ‘You see? They are here. They have come for us.’
But even as he speaks he can hear that things are not as they should be. A scream. Another scream. No reassuring voices telling everyone that the emergency is over. Instead, there is shouting. Angry shouting, the sound of . . . of . . . The father’s chest constricts. He knows the sound. He heard it before, in his village.
‘They are here. They are here with machetes. They are going to kill us all.’
The men look at each other. Then without a word they leave each other; they must return to their families. The father leaves the group and runs; he finds himself in the corridor with others, moving as fast as they can, falling against the wall, moaning as they slip to the floor. He finds his family where he left them; they are sleeping. So peaceful. He turns his wife over.
‘My dear wife, you must wake up. There is something going on. There is . . .’ He feels something wet against his leg. And when he sees what it is, he does not see. He will not. It is red paint. It is . . . It is . . .
‘There. There is one.’ He hears the shout too late, but he has nowhere to go to anyway. The man rushing towards him is a boy, younger than his own sons. He lunges at the father with his machete. ‘You must die. Like vermin, you must die.’
The father nods and closes his eyes as he falls back against his wife, against his family.
The boy with the machete. He was in the van. Waiting. He has been waiting all this time.
I know this. I have been watching, waiting with him. Far from him, but with him all the same.
I am that boy. No, not that boy. I should have been him. I wouldn’t go back. But I was meant to be there.
I am . . .
I get out of bed, somehow manage to pull on some clothes.
I can’t close my eyes. Can’t ever close my eyes again. Each blink is torture. Each blink takes me back, falling, into the abyss.
I was there. The place with the ash. The place with the piles of bones, piles of belongings. The places where humanity had ceased to exist long before. The places that suck the soul out of you.
I was there. In the other places, I was there . . .
But it’s worse. So much worse.
My destiny is to suffer. To be a Returner. To feel man’s pain, to absorb the desperation and the agony. That’s what they said. That’s what I was told.
No.
No, they didn’t tell me the truth.
I do not suffer. I did not suffer.
I am on the ship. I look down and see the whip in my hand.
I am at the settlement, surrounded by dead bodies. Dead at my hand.
I am at the camp. I am in Poland. I am not in the line. I am not to be tortured, to be gassed to death for nothing but my very existence. I am the torturer. I am the murderer. I am the one sending them to their deaths.
I scream. My scream is silent. My tears are dry and yet my body shakes and shudders. I wrap my arms around myself. The horror. The horror. It was me. I am the horror. I am the devil. It was me.
I close my eyes. Immediately more images flood my mind.
I am the leader. I am at a march. Britain for Britons. Foreigners Out. British Jobs for British Workers. I am leading the rally. The time has come for change, the time has come to reclaim our lands. I am the designer of a new system of taxes, a new social strata. Different rules for immigrants, make it harder for them, make them want to leave. No access to services, no benefits, no healthcare or education. Turn the indigenous people against them. Blame them. It is their fault we are in this mess. They should go back to where they came from. We will make them. And if they don’t go we will make them sorry. They will die here, in the land they have stolen from. They will be a lesson to the rest of the world. Great Britain will be great again. We will rise up triumphant.
I blink. I see it now. I am the leader of a holocaust. A future holocaust. I believe I am right. I convince others. I see the woman looking at me with hatred. I kill her. I burn the camp. I can hear the screams . . .
The woman tries to hand me her baby. I stare at her. Then I shoot.
I am at school. Yan’s brother is looking up at me fearfully as I smash his face with my fist. Desperately he presses money into my hand – a five-pound note.
I am downstairs. Dad is on the ground; I have knocked him down.
I fall to my knees. I thought I was ready for the truth, but I was wrong. The truth is worse than anything I could have imagined.
I am the horror.
This is my destiny.
This is what I am.