Free The Returners by Gemma Malley

Tutsis and massacred them.’
    ‘Their friends and neighbours,’ the teacher nods. ‘Hacked to death with machetes. Thousands and thousands. Because the Hutus had been led to believe that the Tutsis were to blame for everything that was wrong with their lives. But were they? Were the Jews a malevolent force in 1930s Germany? Are immigrants responsible for the economic collapse of our country?’
    ‘No,’ everyone says. All I can hear is Claire’s voice. ‘No.’ She is talking to me. Directly to me. I feel her eyes on me. I feel the freak girl’s eyes . . .
    ‘No,’ I shout. ‘No!’ I scream. ‘Noooooooooo!’
    I run to the door, hurl it open. I feel as though I’m suffocating. I have to get some air.
    I get outside. I breathe, in and out, in and out. The pain is receding. I feel embarrassed suddenly. I allowed myself to lose it.
    But at least I didn’t cry.
    I walk to the bike shed, find my usual resting place behind it. Someone has left a packet of cigarettes with a lighter inside. I pick it up. Mum always hated the idea of me smoking. Then again, she isn’t here, is she? I take out a cigarette and light it, breathing in deeply.
    I exhale slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the air, wishing actions were the same, would just blend into thin air and disappear.
    I finish my cigarette and stub it out, lean back, take a deep breath. I’d like to go to sleep, like to curl into a ball, bury myself under a duvet. I briefly consider going home, then rule it out. Dad might find out. Can’t risk it. I can’t go back into school either, not for another fifteen minutes, not if I don’t want to get stopped in the corridor and sent to the head’s office. I don’t want to go back full stop, but I guess I don’t really have a choice.
    I don’t want to go back.
    I remember saying these words before. In a memory. A dream? I don’t want to go back. I won’t. I can’t. Who was I speaking to? It doesn’t matter.
    I close my eyes. Fifteen minutes. It isn’t long. The sun’s shining – its rays have found their way through the bike shed to land on my arms, my face, like little torches. Time goes past. I’m warm, I’m comfortable. I remember dappled sunlight, a mellow breeze. Someone stroking my head. Mum? She’s soothing me. Everything will be OK. What happened in class made no sense. My reaction followed no logic. It must have been a dream. If I decide it didn’t happen then it will be erased.
    I stretch, open my eyes again. It takes me a while for my eyes to focus, to realise that Yan’s brother is lying next to me. I didn’t hear him arrive. I look at him suspiciously.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask gruffly.
    He looks up – he has dirt on his face, a swollen eye. ‘Jeez,’ I breathe out. ‘You look terrible.’
    He appears embarrassed, pulls his hands up to hide his face. I shake my head. He must go looking for trouble – it’s easy enough to avoid it if you try. Keep your head down, avoid certain people. The boy must have a death wish.
    ‘You don’t learn, do you?’ I ask. He looks down.
    I don’t want to know what happened. Not really. But I ask anyway.
    ‘Piss someone off, did you?’
    He shakes his head. ‘No.’
    I shrug. Dad says Yan’s whole family don’t belong here. He says they’re thieves. ‘Must’ve done. Someone’s given you a great little shiner. Must’ve upset them.’
    He shakes his head more vehemently. ‘No one did this,’ he says.
    ‘No one.’ I nod. ‘OK.’
    He is sitting now; painfully, he pulls himself up to standing.
    I feel like I need to say something. He looks so pathetic. Like an injured animal.
    ‘Sorry about your brother,’ I say. I’m an idiot for even mentioning Yan. I should have just let him leave, should have kept my mouth shut.
    His eyes widen, his lips start to tremble. ‘You’re not sorry. He’s a dirty foreigner.’
    He looks scared after he speaks, like he didn’t mean to. His eyes widen.
    ‘You said it,’ I say. Although