Grow

by Luke Palmer

  ‘I want to walk you through the things I’m thinking, Josh. Stop me at any point. You get dragged off with a group of guys who are known thugs – violent, racist ones – and then you don’t come back to school. No one’s heard anything from you, even Dana.’

  ‘You spoke to her?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m worried. And what’s that bandage on your hand? What happened? Did you fight back?’

  ‘No. They didn’t do that. Christmas pudding accident.’

  ‘And then, on the same Monday you don’t come to school, there’s a story in the Gazette about a Refugee Support shop getting vandalised. And a picture of a hammer in the window covered in a lot of blood. And I can’t help thinking that…’

  Perhaps Jamie stops as he sees the tears in my eyes.

  ‘You’re joking, right? So, your hand… That was—’

  ‘They made me. I didn’t want to.’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  I think for a while, before replying, ‘It has to.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what that means. So are you a racist or not?’

  ‘No.’ I say, emphatically.

  ‘Oh. So you’re just doing racist things. With racists.’

  ‘No. I… There’s something that’s going to happen. Something—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something bad. Really bad if it all happens how they want it to and—’

  ‘And what? You’re going to bring it down from the inside?’

  ‘I … well…’

  ‘Come on Josh, who do you think you are? Some kind of MI5 trained super-kid with gadgets and a fucking walkie-talkie? If you know something you need to tell someone, people, police people, quickly. We don’t live in some film world where kids get to save the day all the time and walk away wiping the dust off their hands while the baddies get put in jail.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘No, Josh. It’s dangerous. Really fucking dangerous.’ He leans over the table. ‘These people you’re hanging around with are really. Fucking. Dangerous.’

  ‘How would you know?’ I sound angrier than I meant to, again.

  ‘Ahmed’s been—’

  ‘Ahmed! Having one friend who happens to be Muslim doesn’t make you some kind of ambassador, Jamie. You don’t have to wear him like a badge!’

  Jamie ignores me, shuts his eyes and carries on. ‘Ahmed’s been showing me some stuff online about these patriotic groups. It’s the White Lions around here, right? That’s Carl’s outfit?’

  I’m startled for a second. ‘Yeah. How did you…’

  ‘It’s the internet, Josh, not a closed circle. The Lions aren’t too bad, compared to some of them. A few marches, some fights. But the bigger groups keep upping the ante. Ahmed’s part of some kind of group that monitors far-right behaviour. He told me about it, and I can’t remember how it works exactly, but some of the reports coming in sound really scary. Coordinated attacks, firebombs, stuff that makes you feel sick. Or should. And they’re on the rise.’

  The creature in my gut is writhing. I’m back in that imaginary well again, being dropped deeper and deeper, struggling to breathe. I keep doubting whether the world that I left at the top of the well is still there. Things are getting so unrecognisable, I’m beginning to wonder if the world that I left was ever really there at all.

  Jamie continues, ‘If you know something, Josh, you need to do something about it.’

  ‘I know. I will. We will.’

  ‘We? Who’s “we”?’

  ‘Me and … Dana.’

  ‘Dana? Carl’s girlfriend Dana?’

  ‘She’s not his girlfriend. She’s…’

  ‘She’s not your girlfriend is she?’

  ‘Are you talking about Dana?’ Mum is standing in the doorway. I didn’t hear her come back down the stairs. ‘I didn’t know she was your girlfriend, Love?’

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend!’ All of my frustration pours out in one bellow.

  Mum and Jamie are stunned into silence.

  ‘I … think I’ll be on my way, Mrs Milton.’

  ‘It was lovely to see you, Jamie. Have a happy New Year.’

  ‘You too, Mrs Milton.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ I mutter.

  I walk with Jamie down the drive. At the pavement, he spins on his crutches. ‘Get some help, Josh. The police, that’s what they’re for. You don’t fix this on your own. Especially not… You’re not right at the moment. I thought you were, but…’

  ‘Yeah, so did everyone.’ I shrug my shoulders.

  ‘If you need me, you know where I am. OK?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. I’ll sort it out. Get it sorted, I mean.’

  ‘Happy New Year, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Happy New Year.’

  Yes, I do know where Jamie is. He’s safe. And that’s exactly where he needs to stay. At the top of the well.

  FIFTY FIVE

  School goes back on a Thursday. My hand is a lot better. It still aches a bit, but I can pretty much move it normally. I can feel the stitches tugging a bit under the bandage, but it’s not as uncomfortable as it was.

  Not because I want to, but to keep up appearances, I drag myself along to Mr Walters’ classroom at the end of the day. My legs get heavier with each step closer to the door.

  I’m the first to arrive. Mr Walters looks up as I enter. ‘Happy New Year, Josh.’

  I take up my usual seat.

  ‘I’ve given Alan and Vince – and Brandon I suppose – a stay of execution this week. Turning over a new leaf and all. I expect they’re off causing havoc somewhere, no doubt earning their spot on these hallowed stools for the rest of the year.’

  ‘Oh…’ I don’t think I can last an hour here on my own.

  ‘There’s no reason for you to stick around either, I suppose.’

  Perhaps I swing my bag onto my back too quickly, perhaps it’s the relief on my face, or maybe it’s because my eyes dart straight to the door like something hunted. Whatever it is, Mr Walters sits up in his seat and puts his newspaper to one side.

  ‘But as you are here.’

  His chair, as he stands up, rolls backwards into the wall and knocks three marker pens from their tray under the board.

  ‘Maybe we could have a little talk.’

  He comes around the front of the desk, perches on the front of it. His fingers wrap around the edge of the desk like talons.

  ‘Have a seat, Josh.’

  He indicates the stool in front of him. I sit down.

  ‘I’ve… I’ve spoken to your mum. She’s told me what you’ve been dealing with. The websites, the rhetoric. Your dad would be—’

  ‘Don’t.’ My voice is louder than it should be. But this time I don’t care.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Don’t bring him into this.’ Remembering where I am, I add a ‘Please’.

  I feel his stare on the top of my head as I stare into my lap, unable to meet his eye.

  ‘OK. That’s fine. I’m sorry. I wish you’d have talked to someone before you started looking at all these things. They’re dangerous, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘I’d like to think, perhaps, that I’m not completely distant from you, Josh.’

  I pull at my bandaged thumb until it starts to really hurt, the wound opening up a little.

  ‘I’m here if you need me, OK?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  ‘I’m here to stop you from breaking. If there’s anything…’ He squats down, his face across the bench just inches from my own. Coffee and stale cigarettes, cheap aftershave. ‘Anything at all. We all need comfort, sometimes. Someone we can count on.’

  His voice is little more than a whisper, now.

  ‘I know you’ve missed that, Josh. Being able to rely on someone. But I’m here.’ There’s a long pause before he changes tack, ‘How was Christmas? Get what you wanted?’

  ‘No. Can I go now,’ I do look at him then, hard and steady and direct. ‘Sir?’


  He stands up, taken aback. Shocked, even. ‘Yes, Josh. You can go. But you know what to do if you need anything.’

  The stool clatters to the floor as I grab my stuff and bolt for the door.

  Yes, I know what I have to do.

  FIFTY SIX

  Friday’s Biology lesson comes around too quickly. I can’t shake the memory of Mr Walters’ ‘chat’.

  It doesn’t seem to be playing on his mind though. ‘Right then, eager young minds,’ he booms. ‘Today we have a new addition. I’m sure you all know Ahmed already. Quite distinctive around here is young Ahmed. Anyway, he’s been moved up into top set this term, so let’s welcome him.’

  There’s a low drone of ‘Hi, Ahmed’.

  Mr Walters continues. ‘Ahmed, you picked a grand day to join us. Today is experiment day, and we’re going to look at the calorific content of this variety of healthy Christmas snacks, all leftovers from the Walters’ family hoard this year.’ Mr Walters pours, from a cardboard box onto his desk, a bright waterfall of rustling, plastic-wrapped goodies: selection boxes, bags of chocolate coins, giant candy cane packets full of brightly coloured sweets, even a couple of huge, round, red-and-white striped lollipops.

  There’s a palpable buzz in the room as everyone leans in a little closer.

  ‘Josh, please remind us of what a calorie is.’

  I murmur, ‘The energy needed to raise the temperature of a litre of water by one degree centigrade.’

  ‘A textbook answer, young man.’ He seems to have forgiven me then. ‘So class, we’ll be setting fire to these tasty nibbles and seeing how much juice they’ve got in them, how fat they’ve made us over Christmas, so that when we look at exercise this term, you’ll all know how much lard you have to lose. List of equipment and how to assemble the experiment is on your worksheets, along with a table to record your results. Ahmed, I’m afraid I couldn’t track down any Knafeh or Halawet el jibn for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. It’s not a problem.’ Ahmed smiles, but he seems embarrassed at having been singled out. I know that look. It’s probably plastered all over my face.

  ‘Shukraan, Ahmed. Shukraan. I’ve put you with Josh today. It’s your first experiment and he’s the best we can offer to show you how we do things up here in the top set.’ Mr Walters turns his attention back to the room. ‘Right then everyone, look at the board to find your partner, then come and pick something to burn. Ahmed. Here, try one of these.’ He throws one of the giant lollies at Ahmed.

  There are ‘aws’ of disappointment as the other kids see one of the top targets go.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ Ahmed catches the sweet in one hand, then looks at me sitting a few rows behind him.

  I don’t catch his eye as I slip off my stool and go to collect the equipment.

  A few minutes later, and we’re all set up. A beaker of water sits on a tripod, a weighed fragment of the lolly clamped beneath it and, further up the clamp stand, a thermometer held in the water. To one side, the Bunsen burner’s orange flame dances slowly. We worked in silence, Ahmed and I, and it’s clear that he knows his way around the equipment as well as I do. We’re waiting for the rest of the class to get to this stage.

  ‘Right everyone,’ Mr Walters’ voice booms across the lab. ‘Everyone stop and look at Josh’s table.’

  Everyone turns, the flicker of our burner caught in twenty-odd pairs of safety goggles.

  ‘Look what they’ve done with their thermometer. It’s sat in the middle of the water, not resting at the bottom. Someone please tell me why that’s a good move.’

  Silence.

  ‘Fine. Go on then Josh. Tell us why you did it.’

  ‘It was Ahmed’s idea, Sir. Not mine.’

  Mr Walters seems slightly taken aback.

  ‘It’s so you take the temperature of the water, rather than the temperature of the glass at the bottom of the beaker, Sir.’ Ahmed’s voice is clear, confident. ‘Otherwise the readings will be artificially high, given that the flame is in direct contact with the Pyrex.’

  There’s a short pause before Mr Walters replies. ‘Yes, well. In future, if you can set things up as per the instructions and diagram on the board that would be great, Ahmed. Otherwise you’re going to skew the class’s data. Josh, could you set it right please.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ I adjust the thermometer, dropping it a few centimetres lower in the beaker.

  Ahmed fiddles with the Bunsen’s collar, the flame flashing blue, growling, then flicking back orange again. ‘We should be doing this properly,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, we need some kind of guard around the flame, right? Otherwise all the heat’s going to spill out the sides.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Gives us something to put in the evaluation I guess.’

  We sit in silence again.

  ‘That was mean, what he did to you just then.’ I readjust the thermometer again, moving it back to the centre of the water.

  I feel the tension in Ahmed slacken a little.

  ‘He’s alright though, Mr Walters. What were your teachers like at home?’ I wonder if ‘home’ is the wrong word. I add, by way of correction, ‘In Halab?’

  Ahmed smiles. ‘Hey, you remembered. Not Aleppo. They were fine I guess. Like here. Some want to be your friend, some want to stay as far away as possible. Some good, some bad.’

  ‘Did they all do the thing where they stand at the classroom door and say hello when you’re coming in?’

  ‘Sometimes. Some stayed at their desks as we filed in silently. Some met us at the door. There were handshakes as well from some of them.’

  ‘Wasn’t that really awkward?’ I try to imagine a compulsory handshake from Mr Glynn, our greasy history teacher.

  ‘Depends on the teacher, you know?’ Ahmed goes back to fiddling with the Bunsen burner.

  ‘Sorry. I guess you don’t like talking about it.’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘And when you get singled out, like earlier, it…’

  ‘It makes it even worse. Yes.’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it,’ I say. ‘How people think they can show they understand how you feel just by using a few words you might recognise. Words they probably googled anyway. They think they can somehow jump into your head and make a connection—’

  ‘And then everything will be fine. Yeah, I’ve noticed how some of them do that.’

  From the other side of the room, Mr Walters threatens a few boys with detentions if they keep eating the experiment.

  I continue. ‘And all it does is push you further out. Further away.’

  There’s another pause before Ahmed speaks. ‘I don’t know. What would they use if they didn’t use words? And isn’t it maybe better that they at least try?’

  ‘So what do you think about Walters? Is he a good one or a bad one?’

  Ahmed turns the burner to a blue roar, pinning the lolly above it. The sweet’s red surface blackens, begins to bubble as the flame takes on a greenish tinge. ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’

  *

  When I plug in the secret SIM that night, there’s a message from a number which must be Carl. Two words is all he needs. Phase one.

  And I go along with it. I have to. For now.

  That weekend and for the few weekends after, Ahmed, Jamie and I stand together on the touchline at the rec, shouting encouragement, laughing, complaining about the cold. And I lend Ahmed a few homeworks and old essays in English. He still has a few problems with writing in English, especially the really formal stuff. I’m better at English than Jamie, and I can kind of explain to him where he’s going wrong; the places where the normal rules don’t apply.

  And we talk, then, about all the other places in England where the normal rules don’t apply; how to start conversations, where to start conversations, what it means when people say ‘maybe’ or ‘perhaps’. Ahmed reads a lot, and I recommend a bunch of books, lend him a few of my own. In only a few weeks, we’re texting about characters, plots, the right thing to
do when you enter a public toilet and there’s only one urinal free. We share links to Youtube videos. He asks me why it’s actually funny to watch montages of the guys from Masterchef making a bunch of weird noises. I say I don’t know, but we both agree it’s hilarious. It’s like we’re becoming friends.

  And I’m enjoying it. For the first time in ages, it doesn’t hurt to smile.

  Every three days, Carl asks for updates about the condition of ‘the package’ and whether it’s ready for ‘delivery’.

  I don’t think Jamie’s convinced that what he refers to only as ‘the stuff from last year’ is over. On the one occasion that he brings it up, we’re outside the public toilet on the high street, waiting for Ahmed. It’s a Sunday, late January.

  ‘Is it sorted then?’

  ‘Yeah, nearly.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means yes, it’s sorted.’