Free The Returners by Gemma Malley Page A

I’m surprised. Weird way to describe your own brother.
    His head shoots up. He looks scared. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
    ‘No need to be sorry.’ I shrug.
    He says nothing. But he doesn’t go either.
    ‘So how is he? All right?’ I’m just making conversation now, filling the space.
    ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. My father . . . He has been to the prison. He won’t let me go. Me and my mother. He says it is a bad place.’
    ‘Yeah, I guess it’s pretty bad,’ I say uncomfortably. ‘But that’s what you get for killing someone, right?’
    ‘He didn’t kill no one.’
    There’s a defiance in Yan’s brother’s eyes that I haven’t seen before.
    I shrug again. ‘Maybe. Didn’t look like it from where I was. But the police seem pretty sure, don’t they?’
    ‘You were there?’ He’s looking at me incredulously.
    I look back at him blankly and he edges away. I’m relieved. I don’t want to have this conversation.
    ‘See you then,’ I say.
    His eyes cloud over and he nods, then turns and runs.
    I look at my watch. It’s already the end of morning lessons. Time has fast-forwarded in a good way. Must be the sunshine. I put my hand in my pocket. I pull out 50p along with a piece of paper. I grin. It’s a fiver. Another fiver I don’t remember. I’m getting good at this. Time for lunch, I think.
    The canteen is a low, red brick building that’s tacked on between the science block and the main school. It’s a jarring sight – the school is Victorian, old yellow brick, tall, imposing, gothic even. Then there’s the squat canteen with small windows out of which the smell of burger fat spills. I survey the queue, which is wending its way along the wall and out into the courtyard outside. There’s always a kink in the corner – with a bit of clever manoeuvring it’s usually a good place to queue-jump. Once I’m in, I wander over, peer at the sausage rolls in their clear plastic cabinets.
    ‘You want one of those?’ one of the dinner ladies asks with a sigh. I turn my head a fraction – behind me is a group of girls, two years below me, absorbed in giggles about something.
    ‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘With chips and beans.’ Pushing the boat out here, I think to myself. I take the plate greedily, put it on a tray. Maybe I was wrong when I said you didn’t need more than lemonade in hot weather. I’m starving. I pay and look for a table. There’s an empty one, down in the far corner. I head there, put my tray down, then realise I’ve forgotten to pick up any cutlery. I look at my plate. I could take the tray with me and risk losing the table, or I could leave it, save the table but risk losing my food. I curse myself inwardly – so stupid. Could I eat with my fingers? Steal cutlery from someone else?
    ‘You need a fork?’ I turn around, my heart lifting at the sound of Claire’s voice. Then I redden, I’m not sure why. She’s holding out a fork. ‘I noticed you didn’t pick one up.’
    I frown. ‘I didn’t . . .’
    ‘Didn’t see me? No. You were in another world.’
    ‘Aren’t you meant to be in French?’ I regret the words as soon as I utter them. Why do I know her timetable? Now she’ll know I do.
    ‘Teacher’s off sick. We were meant to sit there reading Le Grand Meaulnes . Which doesn’t strike me as the best possible use of our time. I’ve read it twice already.’
    It’s so long since I last spoke to Claire I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to act. I take the fork. ‘Thanks.’
    She eyes my table. ‘You sitting here?’
    I nod. ‘You want to join me?’
    ‘Sure.’
    And then she’s sitting down opposite me like it’s perfectly normal, like two years haven’t passed since we last made proper eye contact, as if it’s all just disappeared like the smoke: evaporated, dissipated, forgotten.

g
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    The truth? I used to be in love with Claire. The sort of love that consumes you – hopeless, soft, vulnerable love. I wanted her to be there