Grow

by Luke Palmer

  On the walk home, which takes a long time, I stop twice to be sick into a bush, and once over someone’s garden wall.

  THIRTY FOUR

  News of my outburst in English, which is already a thin and hazy memory to me, must have gotten around pretty quickly; next day, a few people call me ‘Soldier’ in the corridors.

  Alan and Vince have gone back to keeping their distance, but that’s fine. I am starting to realise that I can call on them if I need them and that they’d have my back. I’m confident of that. In a way, I’m oddly proud of my new, strangely earned nickname. We’re all soldiers, the three of us.

  I spend breaktime on my phone, looking at more gifs and cartoons of the fat, green frog. There’s a few that I’d probably get in trouble for looking at in school, but maybe that’s part of what makes them funny, too. I thumb through them, smiling. There’s always loads of memes going around at school, so I don’t see why this is different. Maybe some people would find this really offensive. But I don’t mind who sees them over my shoulder. There’s nothing that can stop me looking at them. It’s my right. And it’s my right to find them funny. Alan says it’s good to look at them because it shows we can do what we want even if some people would be offended. And it’s their problem if they get offended. They don’t have any right to tell us we can’t find these things funny. It’s powerful, laughter. It’s the one thing they can’t take away. The frog is dressed up in a Nazi uniform and going out shopping, or has a white hood on and is sticking a thumb up in front of a burning cross. The funniest ones are the ones of the man with the bomb in his turban being chased by GIs in mirror sunglasses who are about three times the size of him. The GIs can’t fit into the caves that the bomber keeps hiding in. In one, the bomber runs into a mousehole in an old Tom & Jerry cartoon, chased by Jerry the cat.

  At lunchtime, I find Dana in the canteen, eating on her own. I sit down next to her. She rolls her eyes but doesn’t get up.

  ‘Hi,’ I start.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry about the other day, at my house—’

  ‘Keep your voice down! I shouldn’t have been there, you know?’ Dana’s eyes dart around the room, as if there are spies listening to her every word. She’s right too.

  ‘It’s not a problem. You were really … honest with me. And I got a bit upset. But I think I’m getting better now. I think I’m finding a way through it. A way to deal with it.’ There’s a part of me that is amazed at how I’m finding words for things at the moment – things I found difficult to talk about up until a few weeks ago are suddenly flowing out of my mouth. Well, maybe not flowing, but they’re definitely coming out. It’s refreshing, liberating even, to be so visible. To be out of the cloud.

  ‘You have no idea what you’re finding, Josh.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you know what kind of stuff you’re getting into?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m finding the truth. And I’m getting less afraid of talking about it.’

  ‘I heard about English yesterday. Everyone’s talking about it. Maybe it’s best you keep—’

  ‘Alright, Soldier!’ Vince sits down heavily on my right. Alan slaps me on the back – a little too hard maybe – and slides in on my left. ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Dana hastily starts to stack things on her tray, making moves to leave.

  ‘Hey, D, stay a while.’

  ‘No, I’ve got a detention with Amber again.’

  ‘You should try being good for a change. Like Josh here.’

  ‘Yeah, well…’ Dana flashes her eyes at me once more as she turns to leave, barging past a group of younger kids as she does so.

  ‘Josh, I hear you told Burgoyne some truth yesterday?’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose so. She wanted me to believe some kind of nonsense about—’

  ‘I’ll stop you there.’ Alan’s voice is harsh, firm. For a second I see how much like his brother he is. ‘Look, Josh, I like you. You know that, right? But the thing is with these liberal cucks is that they’re in control at the moment. And any time someone says something they don’t like, they feel a need to react.’

  On my other flank, Vince is moving closer, his left arm pinning my right elbow against my side.

  ‘Which makes trouble we don’t need. You’re new to this, and it’s not your fault, but you’ve got to learn that you can’t just spout off about things in public. There will be consequences. We can’t be close to you, can’t help you, if you bring attention we don’t want. Our whole operation might be blown. Do you understand?’

  Alan is smiling. I smile back, ‘Yeah, sure. I get it. No more truth in class. OK.’ I reach for my phone in my pocket, ‘Hey, check these out, they’re really—’

  Alan interrupts me, his firm hand holds mine down. ‘Good. And you’ll also understand why this next bit has to happen too.’

  The ‘next bit’ all happens too fast for me to keep up with, but Vince shouts something very loud and the next thing I know I’m underneath the table in the dining hall, my hand still on the phone in my pocket. Some of my food is on top of me and the rest, when I struggle out and up onto the right side of the bench, is spread across half of the room. You can hear a pin drop, and everyone is looking in my direction. I am surprised at the slow drip of blood spotting onto my shirt and the scattered chips and peas in front of me, and more surprised when I realise that the blood is coming from my nose, which suddenly starts to hurt. A lot. The ringing in my ears grows steadily louder as I turn around to collect my bag and coat. Vince is still holding the tray he hit me with, and as I bend down, he hits me again, sending me back underneath the table. From here, I watch Vince and Alan’s feet slowly make their way towards the door as no one makes any attempt to stop them.

  They are far too visible for that.

  THIRTY FIVE

  In Miss Amber’s room, they want me to write a report of the incident. The blood has stopped now, and I’ve told them that I don’t need to go to hospital. Despite this, they’ve phoned Mum to tell her what happened, and that she should keep an eye on me at home.

  ‘So you were sitting there, eating lunch, when Vince and Alan came up and attacked you? Out of nowhere?’

  ‘Yes. No, not Alan. It was Vince who hit me. With the tray I think.’

  ‘And Alan didn’t touch you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And did either of them say anything to you at all?’

  ‘I … I don’t remember. It all happened so quickly.’

  ‘It’s OK, Josh. Just keep calm and try to write down exactly what happened.’

  After a few false starts – a combination of my shaking hand and me not knowing what I should say – Miss Amber takes the pen herself and goes back to asking me questions.

  ‘So, you came into the canteen and sat down by yourself at a table, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’ I thought it was definitely a good idea not to mention Dana, whose look at me as I passed her in Miss Amber’s doorway at the end of lunchtime was a mixture of shock and disgust.

  ‘Then what, Josh?’

  ‘Alan and Vince came past me, and … and I think my bag must have been sticking out.’

  ‘Your bag?’

  ‘Yes, my bag was sticking out, and my coat, and I think Alan or Vince must have tripped on it and spilled their food, then Vince took my tray and when I tried to stop him it hit me in the nose.’

  ‘People say they saw Alan Almes talking to you for a minute before the incident, Josh. That he was muttering something to you. Is that not right?’

  ‘No Miss, it must be when he fell over and sat down next to me as he fell.’

  ‘As he tripped over your bag?’

  ‘Yeah, and spilled his food. He said something about how he should take my food because I tripped him up. Then I said no, so Vince tried to take my tray.’

  ‘Vince didn’t trip up, though.’

  ‘No, just Alan.’

  After a bit more questioning, I manage to c
ome up with a passable story which explains the food everywhere, the bloody nose, and me ending up under the table. Miss Amber seems satisfied, typing up the notes into an email which she explains she is sending to the behavioural unit. She clicks ‘send’ with a very precise ‘and there.’

  ‘I know you will anyway Josh, but stay away from those two, OK?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘I don’t just mean for a few days, but in general. They’re not good news for anyone. I know Mr Walters has put you in his Thursday sessions for extra work, which we’re all very happy with; it’s just unfortunate that he can’t find a separate evening for you.’

  ‘It’s fine, Miss. The Thursdays I mean.’

  ‘That’s good of you, Josh, and you’ve got your head screwed on right, we know that. It’s just…’

  Somehow, I know she’s thinking about the English class yesterday. Whether she’s heard the story from students or from Mrs Burgoyne I don’t know, but I know she knows what was said. What I said.

  ‘Yesterday. You were behaving a little strangely in class. Mrs Burgoyne has emailed me…’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I was playing devil’s advocate.’

  ‘What do you mean, Josh?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to upset Mrs Burgoyne, but I sometimes feel that we have to just agree with what we’re being told. And I wanted to see if I could argue against that for a change.’

  ‘You picked a strange subject for your experiment, Josh. Mrs Burgoyne’s a little worried about some of the … sentiments you were showing in your homework.’

  ‘It was ironic, Miss. It was supposed to be funny.’ I offer my best, bloody-nosed smile.

  ‘OK. If you say so, but be careful where you’re getting your ideas from, Josh. And any more trouble from those two, you let me know, please.’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘Right, back to your lessons then. And remember, keep away from those two boys.’

  THIRTY SIX

  I’m powering homeward, hands pushing against the stitches in my coat pocket. I understand why what happened had to happen, and I’m amused on one level at how easily I managed to slip through Miss Amber’s net. But there’s still a sense of being wronged – by Alan and Vince, by the school, by everything else – that’s smoking like a small bonfire in my chest. Not quite the anger of a few days ago, but it’s not like it’s nothing either.

  Jamie has to put a hand on my shoulder to slow me down, and I wheel around. A couple of younger students almost walk into us as we stop, abruptly, in the middle of the pavement. I glare at them, my eyes spitting sparks as they speed off up the street.

  ‘What?’ I demand.

  ‘Jeez, Josh. What’s the problem with you at the moment? First Monday, then English yesterday after turning up in some weird mood, and now this lunchtime thing? How’s your nose? It looks…’

  Over Jamie’s shoulder, I see Ahmed getting into the back of what must be his mum’s car, pulled into the side of the road. A white BMW 4x4, quite new. It looks familiar. Then it clicks. It’s the car from the video. The red paint has been completely removed.

  ‘Josh? Are you listening? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. Leave it.’

  ‘No. I’m worried about you, and I get the feeling you’re about to blow up or something.’

  ‘What, like “explode”? Great joke.’ It doesn’t feel like me speaking anymore.

  ‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

  What I don’t need right now, what I really don’t need, is someone calm, concerned and loyal. Someone like Jamie. I want to be angry. I want the feeling I’ve enjoyed for the last few days to come back. The smouldering bonfire is growing by the second. I fan the flames. Every time I open my mouth, I belch out great clouds of black smoke. I want people to choke on them, to struggle to breathe.

  But Jamie just stands there, unaffected. Which is worse.

  ‘Leave me alone, Jamie.’ I jut my chin over his shoulder, towards the BMW that has now rejoined the crawl of parent traffic along the main road. ‘Go back to your—’

  ‘What?’ Jamie interrupts me. Deep down, the part of me that isn’t fire is glad he does. So glad. ‘Go back to my what?’

  I stare at him. I want the fire to pass on to him, to set his hair alight. ‘You know.’

  ‘No, I don’t. And I don’t think you know either.’ He pauses for a second. His eyes soften. ‘What happened this weekend? We missed you at the rec. It was great when you came last week. Everyone said so. What did you do?’

  I want to tell him that it was the best weekend for ages, that I spent the weekend feeling like myself again, and that I came home with things to plant in a garden; things that would grow into something that someone might like. I want to tell him that I felt, for a while, a feeling like I fitted in somewhere, fitted in with all the the pictures and salt and pepper shakers, all the other stuff that is what family is. But when I came home, all I felt was that that wasn’t possible. Because everything that is my family has been taken away from me, and that I can’t have any of it anymore, and that I don’t fit in with what’s left over.

  I want to make him understand that all of this is feeding a bonfire so big in my stomach, my chest, my limbs; a bonfire that burns so hot that I can’t touch anyone, and when it’s burning I don’t feel like me. When the fire is burning I feel like something bigger, something more powerful.

  And I want to tell him that the thing that is burning feels good.

  And I want to tell him that this scares me.

  THIRTY SEVEN

  ‘Hi, love. Look who I ran into on the driveway.’ Mum is coming in with the shopping. I walk through from the kitchen to help her.

  ‘Took one for the team yesterday, Josh? If you’ll pardon the expression. How’s the nose?’ Mr Walters face appears behind Mum in the doorway. He smiles, two shopping bags in each hand.

  ‘It’s OK, thanks.’ The shock at seeing him here is overtaken by my manners. He looks somehow different outside of school. Somehow smaller without his room around him, but taking up more space.

  ‘Mr Walters says you missed the session this afternoon. Is that right?’

  ‘Not to worry, Josh, I’m sure you had other homework to be getting on with. English or something.’ I’m not sure, but I think Mr Walters winks at me.

  ‘Yeah. Right.’ My weak reply.

  ‘Not to worry at all. I was looking for that textbook so I could bring it by. I pass your house on the way home. But I couldn’t find the one you were using.’

  ‘It’s here, Sir. Upstairs. I must have put it in my bag after last week. Sorry.’

  ‘Never apologise for keenness, Josh. I was grabbing a spare from my boot when your mum pulled into the driveway.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ I’m unsure why I’m owed such a technical explanation.

  Mr Walters has dumped the shopping bags on the kitchen table. Mum’s gone out for the others. We’re alone. He stands with his hands on his hips, looking awkward.

  ‘So, here we are. A bit weird, having your teacher in your house, isn’t it?’

  I smile, shrug.

  Mum’s voice from the hallway breaks the silence. ‘All done. Thank you, Mr Walters, for your help. And can I just say thanks again for looking out for Josh. He’s really responding to the Biology work. It’s brilliant you’ve taken an interest.’

  ‘Just doin’ ma job.’ His cowboy accent is truly awful, but Mum laughs delightedly. ‘I’ll be on my way now though. See you tomorrow then, Josh. Mrs Milton.’

  As he leaves, Mum puts out a hand to pat the air a few inches from where his arm had just been. Turning, she walks back to the kitchen. ‘Thursday already, eh? You been home long, Love?’

  ‘Yes Mum, since school finished.’

  I haven’t. In a bid to avoid Alan and Vince as instructed, I’d gone back to the burial ground again and sat for a while by Dad’s tree as it got dark. I’d apologised, in a kind of half-whispered, half-thought way, for how much I’d let him down in the last few y
ears by not doing anything about his murder. I told him how he must have been ashamed of me for not recognising what he’d done, and for how I’d just carried on as usual without realising that he’d died in an ongoing war which I hadn’t even known about. I’d explained that I knew now, and that I was going to change. The rising wind had howled its approval, and I’d pushed against my nose again, wincing through the pain and making it bleed fresh onto the tree’s deepening roots. Just a few drops. Perhaps now he’d come to me in my dreams.

  I’d told Dad what I was learning, and read to him some stuff from the websites about the movement of the mob and the anger. About how we are being weakened from within, and about how we need to expose the lies of society through humour – I know now why the frog, Pepe (I know his name now), is such a powerful symbol.

  I’d told him about the things I’d been learning from the White Lions site and others, explained how the mainstream media aren’t reporting on all the actions that are happening up and down the country in an accurate way; about how their words like ‘hate crime’ and ‘racially motivated attacks’ are being spun by their mainstream bias because they are owned by the same people who want to eradicate us. I’d told my dad exactly what Carl tells people on the site. ‘This is why we use their tactics, Dad. Fakery and irony and treating nothing we do as serious. If we do that, they can’t pin us down and we stay one step ahead.’