by Luke Palmer
THIRTY ONE
It’s the thud of the front door closing that wakes me up the next morning. I’m vaguely aware of Mum’s car engine dwindling into the distance, then I realise it must be late and I sit bolt upright.
It is late. Very.
I quickly pull on my uniform and run downstairs – almost at the same time – ready to throw a glass of water down my throat and grab a slice of bread, when I stop myself. Why rush? If Mum wanted me to go to school, she would have woken me up.
On the table, there’s a note. Get some more rest. See you when I get home. Mum x.
Vindicated, I wander into the lounge and slump down in front of the tail end of breakfast television, scrolling through the channels of news and lifestyle shows. There are hospital closures, accidents, a couple of celebrity babies, and a hyper-intelligent cat who can talk to her owner through text messages she types with a massive, homemade keypad. There are six buttons on it – one for food, one for treats, three for different toys or games, and one that just has a big heart on it. The man who owns the cat is sitting on the uncomfortable-looking sofa in the studio and saying that the cat tells him she loves him at least six times every day, and both presenters are smiling at the fat tabby asleep on his lap.
I get up only to make tea, collect biscuits, and – once – to change out of my uniform and put my dressing gown on.
Just after eleven o’clock, there’s a knock on the door. I freeze. Thankfully I didn’t open the curtains so they can’t see I’m in here. They might be able to hear the TV though. It’s probably just the postman; he knows to put parcels in the shed if there’s no one home.
A few seconds later, I hear the side gate open on its squeaking hinges. Just the postman after all. I relax again and go back to focussing on whether the couple on TV will buy the house with a garden big enough for their dogs but not enough bedrooms, or the one with a granny-annexe and near to woodland walks. Watching TV with Mum has started to wear off on me, I think.
A huge thud at the back window makes me jump almost a foot in the air. Behind the flat palm that made the thud is a grinning, demonic-looking skull – teeth bared and nostrils wide open. I’m rooted to the spot in sheer panic.
As I watch, unable to look away, another skull hovers up to the glass, grinning.
‘Josh! Let us in!’ It’s Alan. It takes another second to realise the hideous face is Vince. Both their heads are freshly shaved.
Alan taps something else against the glass, making a cutting, metallic sound. It’s a beer bottle. He holds up three more in his other hand. ‘Hey! Skiver!’ his smile broadens. ‘Look what we found in your shed!’
*
After I’ve let them in and Alan and Vince have drunk a beer each at the kitchen table in a single, long swallow, they start talking.
‘Noticed you weren’t in today. Thought we come and pay you a breaktime visit, after we’d sorted our hair out.’ Vince swallows a belch, runs a hand across his stubbled head.
‘Just a flying one though. Vince has got a meeting this afternoon he can’t miss.’
‘Head’s detention. Dump-tackled some immigrant kid from St Martin’s in the rugby game last week and got sent off. Head was watching. Thinks I did it on purpose.’ Vince spits into the top of his empty beer bottle.
‘You did do it on purpose, Vince,’ Alan clarifies. ‘You told me right from the start of the game you were going to do it, as soon as you saw him. Why they still let you play is a fucking mystery.’
‘Well, whatever. They’d get murdered without me.’ Vince is worrying at the top of another beer with the edge of his key-ring, then jerks his head at me when he realises what he’s said. ‘Oh.’
There’s no apology, but is this Vince’s way of at least softening a bit? I pass it off with a shrug.
Alan thumps my arm. ‘What’s your story, Skiver? You look at those other websites yet?’
‘Yeah, some.’ I take a sip of my beer. On an empty stomach, it almost comes up again. I swallow it for the second time.
‘That Jeff’s Place one is hilarious, yeah?’ Alan is leaning forward, hitting the table with his first as he speaks. ‘It’s brilliant there are places in the world where people still find these things funny, right? That this political correct, woke bullshit hasn’t got to everyone. It’s just refreshing that there’s a place where no one’s getting offended and kicking off because they take something the wrong way.’
I nod. I don’t want to, but I do.
‘You should check out that Reich series,’ Alan continues. ‘This guy was putting them up on YouTube, but then YouTube banned him so the guys who run Jeff’s gave him a home, but basically he’s playing all the historical FPS games on the market, but he’s reskinned them to play as the bad guys. So he’s the Nazis, or the Germans, or the Communists or whatever, and on the voice-over, he’s just ripping in to all the so-called good guys he’s killing because they probably would’ve gone home and married a black girl or something, or would’ve started a business and employed only migrant workers. It’s hilarious. And he’s, like, head-shot kills, every time. I’m going to grab some more of these, OK?’ He waves his empty bottle.
I look anywhere in the room but at Vince, making up for his momentary thaw, who stares at me with unwavering eyes until Alan returns with another four beers. He opens two and puts one in front of me.
‘Come on Zulu warrior. Drink up! You don’t have to go to work today!’
The next mouthful I take feels like it’s stripping the lining of my oesophagus as it goes down. I take another, and wince slightly less.
When my eyes stop streaming, I see that Alan is still standing up, looking at a picture on the wall. Taken a few years ago, it shows me, Mum and Dad standing in some autumn woods near Nanna and Grandad’s house. We’re all smiling in the way you do for family photos.
‘Is that him then, your dad?’ Alan points with the top of his bottle.
‘Yeah.’ I feel blood pounding in my ears.
‘He looks like a real good bloke.’
‘He… He was, yeah.’
‘I was thinking about him the other night. About what a hero he is.’
Vince raises his bottle towards the picture too. ‘To the fallen,’ he says.
‘Vince thinks so too, don’t you, Vince? Your dad was a soldier in a war he didn’t even know was going on. He gave his life to show we won’t be forced into being cowardly, ugly, anti-white puppies for a bunch of bearded bullies that hide in their gated mosques and synagogues and whatever.’
Just like the last time that Alan spoke about Dad, I feel myself growing hotter and hotter, unwilling to listen. But some of the words are starting to get through.
‘His sacrifice was the greatest that anyone can make, Josh. Do you know that?’
I feel myself nodding, the knot too tight in my throat to be able to speak.
‘To sacrifice yourself for a country that you love, a way of life you believe in. His name should be on the memorials, you know?’
Again, I nod.
‘And the worst thing we can do, Josh – the worst thing – is to forget that sacrifice. To let the vile, invidious bastards who want to change this country and our culture do so.’ There’s something about Alan’s words that sound rehearsed. Scripted almost. ‘They’re doing it from the inside out. You know that, you’ve read about it. It’s happening, right? Even here! In our little town! They’re here, Josh, and they’re trying to push us out. It makes me sick. Physically sick.’ Alan sits down again, he clinks his bottle against mine. ‘To your dad, Josh.’
Vince does the same.
I swallow the rest of the bottle in one gulp.
THIRTY TWO
I don’t know whose idea it is to go back to school, but while I’m upstairs changing again, Alan and Vince find a small bottle of vodka in the back of a cabinet in the lounge, and they pass it between themselves as we walk along the main road, giving me the occasional sip and pats on the back to aid my choking.
‘Right. Hardest
punch you ever took,’ Alan says.
‘Easy,’ replies Vince. ‘Stepdad. Prick.’ He spits into the gutter.
‘Don’t think we need to ask Josh, do we?’ Alan laughs as he pats the side of my face, which is starting to go slightly numb. ‘Unless your dad ever hit you?’
I reel at this, stopping in my tracks and fixing Alan with a stare I didn’t know I had. ‘No.’
‘’Course not. He doesn’t look the type anyway.’
I haven’t stopped staring at him.
‘Hey, easy, Josh. Just asking. Friends? You’re lucky, you know. That he didn’t used to. Makes him a bit of a rarity, far as I’m concerned.’
We walk in silence for a minute or so before Alan continues.
‘For me it was Carl, too. Hey, you know what Josh? Carl said he didn’t expect you to get up after the first punch. When you did, he was a bit impressed, he said.’
I smile, despite myself.
‘Tough fucker aren’t you?’
‘Maybe. So why’d he hit you?’
‘He gets these … I don’t know. They’re dreams I guess. But he’s not asleep. Sometimes I find him when I get back from school sitting on the edge of his bed, or my bed – we share a room you know – and he’s just… staring. Staring at the wall. This one time I came home and found him like that and went to make him a cup of tea for when he came round, and when I got downstairs I heard this wailing from our room. Sounded like some bitch or something. So I run back upstairs and he’s still sitting there, but yelling. He’s clawing at his scars and there’s water running down his face – sweat, tears, whatever. And so I go to grab his arm and stop him. But he picks me up like I’m nothing, throws me against the wall. I don’t think he even saw me, so I get up and try again. This time he’s a bit more… there, a bit more present in his eyes, and he does see me. But I don’t think he knew it was me because he lets me have it with this massive right hook that sends me flying into the wall again. I went so fast I left a dent in the plasterboard. It’s still there. Vince has seen it – it’s the exact size of my head, right, Vince?’
Vince laughs his growling laugh, tips more vodka down his throat. ‘Yeah. Fuckin’ legend.’
‘But he’s alright, my brother.’ Alan puts a hand on the back of my neck as he says this. ‘He’s alright now. He’s found a way to get better. To make everything better. He’ll be fine.’
Again, I feel like Alan’s words are rehearsed, and that they’re not meant solely for me.
THIRTY THREE
We arrive at school a few minutes before the start of lunchtime and wait in the bushes opposite the front gates, wrapped in conspiracy and laughing occasionally, until we hear the bell. Once the front playground has started to fill up, we slip quickly into the crowd and stand over a group of Year Eights until they get up and give us their picnic bench.
For the first time, it feels good to not be wearing the cloud. I feel powerful, in control, and most of all, I feel visible. And the people who can all see me now know that I’m powerful.
I’ve still not eaten anything and my stomach is churning, so I mutter something about this and go inside to the canteen, emerging a few minutes later with two slices of pizza which I devour rapidly. Feeling slightly better, I look up to see what Alan and Vince are talking about, and am surprised to see that Dana has joined us.
‘Hi,’ I splutter, bits of pizza spraying everywhere.
She looks at me in shock, then something that might be pity, then finally anger. Then she leaves.
‘Alright, Josh, maybe don’t be quite so charming next time, eh?’ Alan laughs.
*
Last lesson that afternoon is English. My head is aching and I’m ridiculously thirsty, excusing myself twice in Ms Yawl’s Geography lesson so I could suck at the water in the bathroom tap like my life depended on it. I’m hoping Mrs Burgoyne will let me sit quietly like she normally does, but maybe because I have to ask to borrow a pen and some paper (I forgot to bring my schoolbag), she has other ideas.
‘Josh, your point of view on the narrator in Thomas Hardy’s poem last week was very interesting. Could you explain it to us, please?’
‘Pardon?’ My voice catches in my throat, so the word comes out half gurgled and half squeaked.There’s a short roar of laughter from the class.
‘Thank you, everyone.’ The class settles again quickly. Mrs Burgoyne has a habit of never raising her voice, so every time she almost threatens to shout, everyone goes very quiet. ‘You said that you questioned the narrator’s professionalism, Josh. How so?’
‘I can’t remember, Miss.’
‘What a pity. I’ve got your homework here. You say that he lacks professionalism. Your words, ‘the job of any soldier is to do their duty and protect their country. If insidious sentiments like friendship start to cloud the soldier’s judgement, he is unable to perform his duties effectively.’ What does insidious mean, Josh?’
‘It means bad and getting worse, Miss.’
‘Quite so. You don’t think that recognition of one’s enemy as human is a fundamentally human response in the soldier’s situation?’
‘I don’t know, Miss. I’ve never been to war.’ I want to ask her whether the man who murdered my dad looked at him in the second before detonating his backpack. Did he recognise him as human?
Mrs Burgoyne continues, her voice cutting through the small ripple of laughter from around the room. ‘You don’t think that the soldier could have been coerced or manipulated into signing up? We looked at the propaganda from the first world war last week – dehumanising the enemy, turning the whole thing into sport – couldn’t the soldier’s attitude be a realisation of “the old lie”?’
Mrs Burgoyne raises her arms and conducts the class through a slow intonation of dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But…’
‘But what, Josh?’
I want to say something about how the soldier was clearly a willing participant, and that Mrs Burgoyne didn’t know the first thing about being a soldier in a war you didn’t know you were fighting. But I don’t. Instead I say, ‘It’s just … I think that the enemy should be dehumanised, really.’
Mrs Burgoyne’s brow furrows. The room stills to an expectant quiet. The teacher folds her arms across her chest, says, ‘Go on.’
‘Isn’t it the same with any war, Miss? Any war, once it’s started, has to be won. Otherwise you lose. And if you start seeing the enemy as being people like you, then you must be starting to become like the enemy.’
There are a few giggles here. Mrs Burgoyne quells them with a hand. ‘I’m not sure I understand, Josh.’
‘So, if you’re looking at the enemy and you think they are like you, if you don’t know the difference, then maybe you are the enemy already.’
‘I think that’s the point, Josh. That there are no natural enemies. There are no inherently good people and bad people, right people and wrong people; that we’re all the same. War insists on a false categorisation from which nobody emerges well.’
‘But that’s not true Miss, is it? There are people who want to kill us because of the way we live, or what we believe, because they think their way is better. They are our enemies. Religious organisations. Terrorists. How can they not be our enemies?’
I see Mrs Burgoyne flinch when I use the T-word. ‘But Thomas Hardy wouldn’t have known anything about that, would he now?’ She’s smiling. She thinks I’m going to stop now and opens her mouth to speak.
In my head, I cut her off and tell her about the research I did for this homework. I tell her that Hardy knew all about this kind of thing. In my head I say that, when Hardy was a kid, the whole Crimean war was fought over the rights of Christian minorities to access the holy lands in the Ottoman Empire. We didn’t want to see them fall into Russian hands which would have excluded our people from practising their faith. And the Boer War, which Hardy was writing about in 1902, was about being British. The Boer didn’t like the British, and wanted to take what
the British had. So if the British soldier is looking at a Boer soldier and thinking they might be the same, then that soldier is a traitor to his country because that Boer soldier doesn’t like the way that British people live and would do anything to destroy it. In my head I tell Mrs Burgoyne that, if the soldier comes home from war thinking he shares something with his enemies, then the war has been lost, because his culture and his children’s future is all at risk because he’ll let it wash away like, like … like sand from a beach. He’d have been better dying for his country and making a sacrifice that would make his children proud to be British, rather than coming home and letting his country and his culture erode beneath his feet. In my head I’m on my feet now, almost yelling that Hardy’s ‘hero’ is anything but. He’s a bad soldier – the worst soldier you can be, because he’s not only failed to keep the enemy out, he’s actually let the enemy’s way of thinking in. And once you let the enemy in, it’s almost impossible to get rid of them.
But I say none of this. All of my well-thought-through logic and truth are useless here. I remember what Alan said about the people watching us. My actual response to Mrs Burgoyne is too loud, overly sarcastic. ‘You’re right, Miss. We all need to stop killing each other and be nice to people.’
At the back of the class, one kid starts a slow, ironic hand-clap, but he stops almost immediately under the cold look of Mrs Burgoyne. Jamie, a few rows in front of me, has turned around in his seat and is staring at me with a complete lack of recognition.