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I get back home to find Dad in the sitting room waiting for me. Patrick is with him, grim-faced.
Patrick rushes over to me, grabs me. ‘Where the hell have you been? Your dad has been up all night worrying about you. What d’you think you’re playing at? Who’ve you been with?’
I look at him curiously. ‘Why should you care?’
He looks like he wants to hit me. Dad is on his chair. He has a black eye. He looks at me warily. An image flashes into my mind: Dad on the floor, his nose bloody. I feel a shudder of guilt.
I did that.
I punched my own father.
‘I don’t care about you, you little shit,’ Patrick says. It is as though a veil has lifted. This is the real Patrick. The smiles, the jokes, they were all a charade. ‘But I do care about your dad. About justice.’
Justice. OK, now I get it. I say nothing; just look at him blankly, baiting him.
‘So come on. Where have you been?’
‘Out,’ I say.
His face is going red. If Dad weren’t here, he would not be restraining himself.
‘Out where?’ This time it’s Dad talking. I look at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to worry you.’
‘Didn’t mean to worry him? Out all night? Don’t make me laugh,’ Patrick says sarcastically.
‘I didn’t,’ I say levelly. ‘I just needed some fresh air.’
‘You’ve got a garden, haven’t you?’ Patrick interjects.
I choose to ignore him.
‘You were with that Hayes girl,’ Dad says. ‘You know I don’t want you hanging around that family? I thought we understood each other.’
‘Claire?’ My eyes narrow just slightly. ‘I wasn’t with her,’ I lie.
‘Funny that. I saw the two of you together just a few minutes ago.’ Patrick is smiling smugly. ‘Thought I’d take a drive, see if I could track you down.’
I regard him stonily. I cannot let him see that I am concerned for her. ‘I wasn’t with her. I just bumped into her. I couldn’t care less about Claire Hayes. I went for a walk, OK? On my own. To let off some steam.’
Patrick’s not sure what to say, not sure whether I’m having a laugh at him or being genuine. He looks at Dad, who shrugs.
‘You say anything to her?’ Patrick’s gaze returns to me.
‘About what?’
‘You know her parents are troublemakers? You know they’d rather see foreigners living off our taxes than English people born and bred doing the jobs that are theirs by rights?’
I don’t say anything. Patrick moves towards me threateningly. ‘Did you say anything to her,’ he asks again, enunciating each syllable. ‘About the boy. The foreign boy.’
‘About Yan?’ I ask. ‘He has a name.’
‘Don’t you . . .’ Patrick moves towards me but I don’t flinch. He catches Dad’s eye and checks himself. ‘You’re not worth it anyway,’ he says. ‘Soon you’ll be a long way away, out of trouble, Will,’ he says. ‘Your dad’s found you a new school.’
‘A new school?’ I look at him uncertainly.
‘It’s a boarding school. More like a camp. They teach kids like you some respect.’ He grins. ‘Ooh, Will, just you wait. Ooh, you’re in for a treat.’
‘I don’t want to go away to school,’ I say to Dad. ‘I like my school.’ I’d normally smile at the irony of that statement, but right now I’m not really in the mood to smile. Dad isn’t looking at me. It’s like he’s barely there, like he’s already bailed out.
‘Your dad doesn’t want a smart-arse son who thinks he knows better than everyone,’ Patrick says. ‘You’re going to learn some discipline. The people who run the school, they’re friends of mine. They know what they’re doing. They won’t take any shit from you. They’ll make you into a man, Will.’
‘A man?’ An image flashes into my mind. A speech I am giving. You are the sons of Great Britain. You will make our country great again. You will lead others, lead them to a bright and honourable future. You will reclaim our country . . . ‘Like you, you mean?’
I watch Patrick go red.
‘What are you saying, Will?’ he asks. ‘Just what are you saying, you freak? You friendless, guileless freak? You’re going to turn into your mother if you’re not careful. You hear me? You’re pathetic. You’re a loser, Will.’
He’s angry. But not as angry as me. It fills my veins, my arteries, hot and red; then I turn a switch and it is cool blue. Angry blue. Icy.
‘Well, you know about being a loser,’ I say. ‘You can’t catch a murderer so you fit someone else up. You’re the one who’s pathetic.’
He’s staring at me, his mouth open. ‘What did you just say?’
‘I said you’re pathetic. I said that I know what you did. What you’re doing with Yan. Fitting him up. Smart, Patrick. Really smart. What do you think people will say when they find out? When I tell them the truth? Because I’m going to. I’m going to tell them everything, and you’re going to be ruined. No career, no poxy job title to make you feel like a big man. You’ll be nothing. You’ll be worse than nothing.’
‘You little . . .’ Patrick lunges at me. ‘How dare you, you little shit? How dare you?’
I’m ready for him. My fist is clenched, my body taut. Dad looks at me, then at Patrick. He is shocked. He is not prepared for this. I wait for him to help me.
‘Get over here,’ Patrick barks.
He stands up just as Patrick pulls me to the floor. My dad is not going to help me. The two of them pin me down. Dad averts his eyes.
‘Is that what you’ve been talking about with that little slut Claire Hayes?’ Patrick asks through gritted teeth. His eyes are bloodshot, his face bulbous and covered in thin red veins. ‘She been asking you about the foreign boy, has she? You know why?’
He is pushing down on my chest; I can barely breathe. I refuse to look at him; I turn my head.
‘I’ll tell you why.’ He laughs. ‘You think she cares about you, don’t you? She doesn’t give a shit. She’s only looking out for her boyfriend.’
I try to pull away, but Dad and Patrick are holding me down too tight.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I say instead. I hear Claire’s voice telling me I am a good person, telling me she will always be with me.
‘She’s been down to the prison every day to see him,’ Patrick says, grinning. He’s clearly enjoying himself. ‘Kissing him, bringing him things. Shame – nice English girl like her.’
‘No.’
‘She’s just like her parents, Will. Selfish. Manipulative. She’s the enemy, Will, and you can’t even see it.’
I close my eyes to block him out. But a flash of images fills my mind. Checkpoints, walls being built. Claire on one side. Come over, Claire. Come with me. She’s shaking her head. She’s going with him. With Yan. She’s choosing him . . .
I open my eyes to see him holding some tape. He hands it to Dad and gets a better grip on my hands. My stomach drops down into the pit of my belly when I realise it’s for me. They’re tying me up. I wrestle, I writhe, but it’s no good. They tape my hands behind my back.
‘It’s for your own good, son,’ Dad says. ‘You’ll see that eventually. You’ll thank me one day.’
One day. I know the day he talks of. I can see it. The checkpoints are closing. The gates are coming down. England for the English. Safety within our borders. I am saluting. The crowds are cheering. Behind them the cast-offs, stuffed into ships, crammed into corners, are disappearing. Not our problem any more. Not our problem . . .
I want the images to go away. I open my eyes, see my father’s empty ones, close mine again. I struggle. My head is pounding. I start to scream. ‘Let me go. Let me go.’
‘Drink this, son.’
Liquid forced into my mouth; I gag, but swallow most of it.
I can hear their screams. I can see Claire’s face, looking at me with disgust. She is with them. ‘This isn’t my country any more,’ she is saying. ‘I want nothing more to do with it. Nothing more to do with you.’
‘Please, Claire,’ I shout.
‘Pathetic,’ Patrick says again. ‘Will, the girl’s been using you. She’s shagging the foreign boy.’ His face takes on a look of distaste when he says ‘foreign’ – to him it is an insult, not a description.
His voice sounds funny, like someone’s slowed it down. I can’t open my eyes; don’t want to. I’m tired. I’m heavy.
I hear Dad sigh. ‘Jeez, I thought he’d never stop.’
‘Yeah,’ Patrick says. ‘Like you said before, takes after his mother.’