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Dad drives me to the police station. He’s wearing a suit. He’s shaved. His hair has been combed awkwardly.
Claire and her parents are there too, waiting outside, for me. Claire’s nose is grazed and one of her hands is bandaged. Her mother looks at me reproachfully. Claire’s gaze is cold and unforgiving. It isn’t her hand she’s angry at me about, I know that, but I still can’t take my eyes off it. I did that. Me.
That is who I am.
She walks towards me; Dad steps between us. ‘You leave him alone, you hear?’
‘It’s OK, Dad,’ I say. I look at her steadily.
She moves closer. ‘Will, there’s just one thing I don’t understand.’
‘You can’t understand,’ I say. ‘You can’t see the world as I see it. You never will.’
She shakes her head irritably. ‘No, you don’t understand,’ she says. ‘It’s what you said about your dreams. Memories.’
I say nothing; I just raise an eyebrow.
‘Rwanda,’ she continues. ‘You said you were there. But how could you have been? You said you’d been missing for fifty years. Since Auschwitz. You said that. So how could you have been in Rwanda? You couldn’t have been. So it can’t be a memory. It must be something else.’
I stay silent. ‘The Rwandan genocide happened in 1994, Will. How could you have been there?’ Her eyes are alight, with vindication, with determination. ‘How?’
I open my mouth to tell her, to explain that I was watching from far away, that I was supposed to be there, but wouldn’t go back. Couldn’t go back. But I close it again. It was weakness that kept me away. I am not weak any more.
I look at her instead, my eyes hostile.
Eventually, to my relief, she turns back to her parents.
As she moves, I see that her eyes aren’t as clear as I’d thought they were. She looks almost forlorn. She looks vulnerable.
Weak, I remind myself. There is only strong and weak, nothing in between.
Yan’s dad bounds up the stairs suddenly. Dad freezes; his expression changes completely from apprehension to loathing. I narrow my eyes. Yan’s dad doesn’t notice, though. He runs up to me.
‘You going to tell the truth? You going to help my son?’ His face is gaunt, his eyes haunted. In them I see my mother, floating, her hair splayed out.
Silently I seethe at him. Killer. You thought you were strong. But I am stronger. You will learn. You will regret crossing me.
‘You’re going to tell them? That Yan didn’t do it? Claire said you were there. You were always good friends, Will. You used to play football together, the two of you. Remember?’
He has taken hold of my shoulders. I look at his hands with distaste and move backwards so that they fall limply at his sides.
‘Take your hands off him,’ Dad says, the tone of his voice a warning in itself. ‘You’ve done enough damage to this family.’
We walk towards the door, but something pulls me back. I am thrown to the ground and suddenly I am being hit, bitten, kicked. My hands move instinctively to protect my face. There is pain shooting through me. I can feel blood dripping from my nose. Confused, I throw my attacker off me. He returns, like an animal, he will not stop. I see his face; it is Yan’s brother. He is kicking me, punching me. My eyes widen. He is no longer afraid of me.
‘You think I am weak? You think my family is weak?’ he shouts, his attack growing in strength. ‘I am not weak. My brother is not weak. You’re the bully, you’re the weak one,’ he shouts. His father pulls him off; as he is dragged away, still kicking, I see tears in his eyes.
Dad helps me to my feet. ‘You all right, son? Little thug. Just like his brother.’
I look back and a policeman is restraining Yan’s brother. I frown. I am shaking. It isn’t fear. We are who we are. People don’t change. And yet . . .
Dad is holding the door open. ‘So you coming in?’
I look at him vaguely. ‘I . . . I need the bathroom,’ I say.
‘Through there,’ a policeman says, pointing to a door.
I walk in, stand over the basin, look at my reflection. I am who I am. Accept it.
The door opens and my father appears. ‘You OK?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
He walks towards me, puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t you let that little bastard get to you,’ he says. ‘You’re a good boy, Will.’
I turn to look at him. It is as though he is suddenly several metres away. I cannot see him properly. You’re a good boy, Will.
I pull away from him; I am sliding to the ground. My head is throbbing.
It’s like a red-hot poker in the side of my head. I gasp in agony.
You’re a good boy, Will. We’re on the same side, me and you. The two of us, Will. We know what happened.
The words echo around my head. Dad’s voice. A long time ago.
‘Son? Son, what’s wrong? If that boy has done anything to you . . . Wait there, I’m going to get someone. I’ll be back in just a second . . .’
You tell me what you saw, Will.
People rush in. I am carried out of the bathroom.
No, son, no, you’re getting confused. Now listen to me. He is insistent. He grabs me, too hard. I cry out. He lets go. ‘Now don’t make me hurt you,’ he is saying, his voice full of emotion. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Will. Just listen to me, will you? Let me tell you what happened . . .’
‘A cell?’ I hear Dad say.
‘Only place with a bed. We’ll call a doctor.’
I am placed on a blue plastic mattress. There is a hand on my hand. Dad’s hand. He squeezes. ‘You’ll be OK, son. There’s a doctor coming. Just close your eyes and rest.’
We are at the river. I see it in front of me. We are there, the three of us. Mum, Dad and me. It’s early morning. Very early – so early the sun hasn’t come up. I have not slept. I have been listening to them arguing, to thuds and crashes in the sitting room beneath me. I heard them leave the house and followed them. They are walking, and they are shouting. Mum starts crying. I move closer, take her hand. I can’t bear to hear her cry.
She turns, shocked to see me. ‘Will, go home, darling. You shouldn’t be out here,’ she says through her tears.
‘I want to be with you,’ I say.
‘You sit here,’ she says, pointing at a bench. ‘Mum and Dad are having a grown-up talk. You sit here and you don’t move. Promise?’
I nod and go to the bench. They aren’t walking any more; they are standing still. I stare resolutely at the river.
Dad is shouting. He is using words I don’t know, but I hear the anger in them, the accusations. ‘You slut. You slept with him, I know you did.’
‘No.’ She grabs him, tries to keep him still, to make him look at her. ‘No, Henry, I didn’t. It’s not like that.’
‘Not like that? Then what’s it like? He’s been coming to the house. You’ve been seen together. Admit it. Tell the truth for once in your life, will you?’
‘You don’t understand. It’s not like that. I –’
‘You what? You WHAT?’
She’s crying. ‘You think I’m having an affair with him? You really think that? Jesus, can’t you see? This isn’t about you. This is about me. About the world around us. He’s my friend. We’re . . . We’re . . .’
‘You’re what?’ Dad thunders.
‘You hate people. Hate everyone. You think people are the enemy, but they’re not. That man, as you describe him, is a good man. He’s created jobs. He’s tried to be part of the community. But you and your friends, the way you talk about him . . . He’s been getting hate mail. Threats. You won’t give him a chance, won’t give anyone a chance. I can’t be a part of that. I loved you. But I despise what you’ve become. I joined up. I joined the New Liberal party. I hate everything you believe in. I hate you.’
‘You hate me?’ He towers over her. I am scared. I edge backwards, behind the bench. I crouch down. I am watching them as though they are a scary television programme. ‘You’re leaving me for him? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No. I don’t want to leave. You’re not listening. It’s not like that. Nothing like that. I never . . . He came round to talk. About the movement. The New Liberal movement. Educating people, stopping the hatred, stopping the attacks . . .’
‘You’re lying!’ He pushes her; she stumbles to the ground. She falls awkwardly on her ankle, topples, uses her hands to break her fall, but she rolls over, and then she is in the river.
Mum can’t swim.
She is struggling, she is kicking.
I look at Dad. He doesn’t move. She surfaces; she looks at him. I see her expression: bewilderment, betrayal, devastation, acceptance.
I run, suddenly, run out from behind the bench. I can’t swim but I will save her.
But Dad sees me; he grabs me, holds me back. He is sobbing. His whole body is juddering.
‘She can’t swim,’ I say. ‘We have to get her out.’
‘It’s too late, she’s already gone,’ Dad says. ‘She wanted it this way.’
I don’t understand. ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Why?’
‘Because she wasn’t right,’ Dad says. ‘That’s why she killed herself. You saw her jump into the river. She wanted to go. She didn’t love us any more, you heard her say so. Not like me. I love you; I’m not going anywhere. We’re on the same side, me and you. We’re on the same side. The two of us, Will.’ He leads me to the water’s edge; she is floating, her hair splayed out. Her long, beautiful hair.
I open my eyes. I cannot move. I cannot speak.
I close them again. I am falling. I want to fall. I want to land, crashing on the floor, broken.
I never get what I want. I’m learning that, slowly, reluctantly.
I am watching over Rwanda. I hear a voice, shouting. It is my voice. I am shouting, ‘No. No, don’t do it.’ I have seen too much pain. I cannot watch any more. It makes no difference that the boy is not me; he is there and that is enough. I watch the people in the school. I watch them suffer, watch mothers tending their sick children, hope evaporating as the hours tick by, as the truth becomes unavoidable, as they realise that there is no escape, no protection. ‘No, no, you must not. You cannot.’
I am crying. I am helpless. I can do nothing.
Because I am not there.
Because I did not go back.
It hits me like a train.
Because I did not go back.
And I see that I must. I must go back. I must Return.
But I will be different. Everything will be different.
I will Return, and I will change. I will fight my destiny. I will not accept. I will never accept. I will fight . . . I will fight . . .
‘Son?’ Dad’s looking at me worriedly. ‘Where’s the doctor?’
Another man is beside me. A light shines into my eyes; I close them on reflex, pull away.
‘I’m fine.’ I sit up.
The man peers at me. ‘Does this sort of thing happen regularly?’ he asks Dad.
‘No, no. He’s a healthy boy. That thug attacked him. If there’s anything wrong with him, any lasting damage, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’
‘I’m fine.’ I push him away, swing my legs over the side of the bed and climb down.
My head still feels as though it is being clamped in a vice, but I don’t care. I know. I remember. I remember everything.
‘I want to get out of here.’
Dad nods. ‘Are you sure you’re OK, son? Where’s the Police Commissioner? You don’t have to do this now. You can do it whenever you want.’
‘Now,’ I say stonily. A policeman leads the way; I turn to look back at Dad. I find I can’t. I follow the policeman to the Police Commissioner’s office and he leaves the two of us alone. The door closes and I sit down. I make my statement slowly, precisely.
When I’ve finished, I go back to the foyer and Dad rushes over. ‘All right, son? It went all right, did it?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I say. ‘I’ve got some things to do now. I’ll see you later, OK?’
He nods; he can’t do anything else.
I leave the police station and walk back towards the river.