The Returners by Gemma Malley

know, want to know.’
    ‘I know.’ He puts his drink down. ‘I know you used to like him. But people turn bad, Will. People are bad. His family . . . They’re bad news. We’ve known that for years. You move to a country, you have to respect it, respect its people, its traditions. You have to see where you fit in. His family are like the rest of them. Foreigners are never interested in fitting in, just in taking over. And now look what’s happened. He has to pay for what he’s done, Will. People always have to pay.’
    I don’t go to bed until late, too late, and even then I can’t sleep. I lie there thinking, not about anything properly – my brain is like a scattergun, full of thoughts and images but none of them are related, none of them go anywhere. It’s all just random, all just flashing up.
    Maybe that’s the point. Maybe everything is random.
    I want my mind to slow down. I count to a hundred and then count back down to one. By the time I’m in the seventies my mind is wandering again, but less like a slide show, more like the wandering it does before you fall asleep. Semi-conscious. Calm.
    Sixty-three’s the last number I remember counting.
    Then I’m not counting any more.
    The cold is not just around me; it is part of me. My clothes are no protection; my hands and feet are blocks of ice, crying out for mercy. On we trudge. The man in front of me is stumbling; his coat is torn, his boots too big. Not his. He hobbles. He has grey hair; he is too old for this place. A mistake, perhaps. He turns, catches my eye briefly, then immediately turns back again. He seems disoriented. The cold can do that to you. I think I recognise him. He used to own a shop in the village where I grew up. He was always kind, always had a joke with us. Suddenly he falls sideways, into the snow, the ice. He rolls over; his eyes are wide with terror. He pulls himself up. ‘Comrade,’ he says, although it is barely a word. ‘Comrade, if you would just . . . I can still . . . A stone – I tripped over a stone.’ His voice is rasping; he scrabbles desperately. I watch as a bayonet lands on his head; it kills him immediately, his blood unspeakably bright against the white beneath him. A voice: ‘Comrade? He is no comrade. He is useless. You see what happens, if you don’t pull your weight? Learn from this. And keep walking.’ I start to walk again. I do not look back.
    A new place. It is dusty. No, not dust. Ash. It sticks in my throat and my nose. It permeates everything. I want to leave here. It is a bad place. I watch the line, the pathetic line, weaving its way towards the doors, human but only just – not enough flesh to be fully human. Children clutching hands, men with hollow eyes, others with grit – they will not give up, not until they have to. The line moves and I move too. An ending, a beginning, I don’t know any more. This place is not what I expected. I breathe; the ash is choking me. I know where it comes from. I know. I walk forward. I look at no one . . .
    And now another place, more familiar but I can’t place it. There are lorries, people being herded on to them. Like sheep. We are all sheep. It is for improvement. Flaws eradicated, evolution once more on track. The inside of the lorry is dark. People are screaming, they fear the lorries, they run, they are chased. Gunfire, then more screaming. Resistance is futile. Some give up. Others urge people not to make a fuss, not to cause more problems. I feel bodies pushing against me as more people are forced into the lorries. There are no lines, there is little organisation. A voice is shouting, ‘Britain for Britons. Britain for Britons.’ Someone shouts, ‘Bigots! You can’t do this!’ There is a loud bang. I feel something fall against me; it is a woman. She has long hair. She looks at me as she falls, her eyes wide in shock. She is bleeding. She clutches at my shoulders. ‘This must end.’ She is sinking down to the floor. I can’t help her. I am