Read The Returners for Free Online Page B

nine-to-five conveyor belt. Then you’ll know about pointless rules. Then you’ll know about routine.
    I wander into the bathroom and brush my teeth.
    I have an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Like when I’ve forgotten something important. Only I haven’t forgotten anything – it isn’t that. It’s . . . It’s Patrick. I’m not sure he listened properly. Not sure he heard right. Like when I told him about Yan leaning over the body, giving him mouth-to-mouth. Did I see close up? he asked. I shook my head. You’re sure he was giving mouth-to-mouth? I shook my head again. So he could have been rifling through his pockets, could he?
    I put down my toothbrush. Who knows. Maybe he was. Like Patrick said, I wasn’t that close. Maybe I got it wrong. I told Patrick the facts, and that’s what matters. Like he said, it isn’t my job to interpret.
    But I’ve still got a bad taste in my mouth.
    Then I remember why. It isn’t Patrick. It isn’t Yan, or Mr Best even. It’s the young woman. Last night, in my garden. The freak. I know she was there, know I didn’t imagine it. I start to sweat. They’re getting closer. Either the freaks are getting closer, or I’m getting madder.
    ‘Don’t want to be late for school, son,’ a disembodied voice calls up the stairs.
    Don’t I? How does he know?
    ‘Yeah. Coming.’
    I decide against breakfast – instead I clean my teeth again. I look at myself in the mirror. I’ve got bags under my eyes, dark shadows that make me look a bit like a junkie. Not that I’ve ever come across a real junkie – just the ones you see on telly. Pathetic, isn’t it? Most of my life experience gleaned from programmes made by geeks who work for the BBC.
    School is a twenty-minute walk away. It’s a good school – well thought of, does OK in the league tables. We had an inspection a year ago and it was like one of those makeover shows – everywhere was painted, Sellotaped together, made to look as shiny as possible. We had to wear our uniform properly, neatly, with NO ABERRATIONS for the whole time they were there; we had to be polite, hold doors open, make out we were responsible, mature individuals who were having a great ‘learning experience’. I enjoyed it, actually – took the opportunity to do a bit of role play. I pretended I was someone called Alfred who loves geometry. One of the inspectors interviewed me and I think he was pretty impressed. I said my only criticism of the school was that people didn’t take trigonometry seriously enough. He didn’t say anything to that; he just nodded and looked at me strangely for a few seconds.
    Maybe I should be an actor when I’m older. Are actors all people just trying to escape from who they are?
    I walk through the gates. I’m in a sea of navy blue, white and grey. Grey trousers/skirts, white shirts, blue jumpers, blue cardigans, grey jackets. Grey socks, great clunky shoes. It’s familiar, reassuring. I can disappear into it, get swept away by the grey, navy and white current.
    A familiar smell hits me as soon as I get to the door, as soon as I’m in the corridor. School smell. Cleaning fluids, smelly feet, hormones, desperation, boredom, dirty hair, urine. They did their best to get rid of it for the inspectors – masked it with paint, mainly. But it was back before the week was up. It’s soaked into the fabric of the building.
    I wander into the boys’ toilets. There are several urinals, a few cubicles. You go in one of them at your peril; some idiot’s only going to bang on the door while someone else climbs up to see what you’re doing, to put you off your stride. It’s a jungle, school. You can’t let your guard down ever.
    I’m done now; I’m at the basin, washing my hands. Don’t know why I bother really – the moment I touch anything they’re going to be covered in germs again, but you go through the rituals, don’t you? Gives life order, or something like that. If you stop believing that washing your hands