Free The Returners by Gemma Malley Page B

all the time. She just had this way of listening to me, putting her hand on mine, all soft and warm, not like Dad who would punch me on the shoulder if he touched me at all. I can’t put it into words without sounding like a sap. She had this way of making me feel . . . cherished. That’s what it was. Sad, right?
    Like I said, it was a long time ago when I was younger. A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then. Loads of the stuff. And to be honest, not having her around has had its advantages. I mean, she’s difficult, Claire. She used to contradict me, argue with me, challenge me. All the time. She’d never just accept what I said, never just let an opinion be expressed – she had to question it, analyse it, suggest alternative viewpoints. Basically, she complicated everything. Like I said before, she was difficult. Still is, probably.
    ‘So you were there. You saw what happened.’
    I looked up sharply. News travels fast. Did Yan’s brother run straight to Claire? I berate myself silently for saying anything.
    ‘Saw what?’ I say. I feel deflated. Irritated with myself for thinking . . . What? That she cares about me? Grow up, Will.
    ‘What happened – with Yan. You were there, weren’t you?’
    ‘Kind of. I didn’t really see . . .’ I look down. Don’t give anything away. Trouble is, Claire’s the sort you want to confide in. She makes you feel a better person for letting things out, saying how you feel. She’s clever like that – she wheedles stuff out of you, then pounces when she hears what she’s known all along you were thinking. She’d be a great interrogator. People would be queuing up to tell her stuff.
    ‘Right.’ She looks disappointed. She looks as though she doesn’t believe me. I feel disappointed too, but I can’t put my finger on why.
    ‘So how’s it going? Otherwise, I mean.’
    Crap question. Stupid question. But what else do you say?
    ‘Good,’ she says. ‘I mean, you know, fine.’
    I nod. She nods. It’s one of those awkward silences. I hate them – I usually just walk away. I’m tempted to do that right now, but I don’t. That’s the thing with Claire. You can’t walk away. I can’t, I mean.
    ‘You’re not eating,’ she says.
    ‘Not hungry,’ I lie. Although I do seem to have lost my appetite a bit.
    She nods again. ‘You want to go for a walk?’
    I get a funny feeling in my stomach. Surprise maybe?
    ‘Sure.’ I wait for her to stand up first, just in case. In case of what? Who knows. She does stand up, though, and I follow her out of the canteen. I feel self-conscious, too big all of a sudden. I’ve always been taller than her but in the last two years I’ve grown even more. When we’re in the courtyard outside the canteen, she slows down a bit and I catch up so we’re walking side by side. My heart’s beating rapidly and my palms are sweating. I tell myself to calm down. I tell myself this is no big deal.
    ‘So what happened in History?’
    We’re out of earshot of anyone; now I know why Claire wanted to go for a walk. Again I get a slight surge of disappointment, but not as much this time. She’s interested in me at least.
    ‘I dunno.’ I put my hands in my pockets. I feel stupid. I want to tell her, want to admit that I really don’t know, that I lost it, that it was terrifying, that the pain was so unbearable I didn’t know what to do with myself, that I could hear voices in my head, see things that I recognised but couldn’t place, feel things that I didn’t understand. Like fear, hatred, anger. I want to tell Claire that I’m afraid I’m going mad. I want to ask her for help.
    But it’s not going to happen. I mean, why would she want to help me? Part of the reason I don’t talk to anyone, don’t hang out with anyone, is because of what I know about myself. I mean, the truth is, why would anyone want to hang out with me? Claire obviously doesn’t – otherwise we wouldn’t have been virtual strangers for two years.