Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

Anyway, I ran in, grabbed his arm and shook him awake.

One of the stupidest things I’ve ever done.

I don’t remember the movement clearly, but he was instantly in motion. Before I could utter another syllable I was in a headlock and he was squeezing my windpipe tightly. I remember that his right hand went to my temple and braced. I realise now that he was about to snap my neck.

He came to just in time, got his bearings, woke up properly. Then he sprang back across the bed, pushing me away from him with a cry of terror and alarm. He curled up into a ball then, too, shaking, the horror of what he’d almost done sending him into a near catatonic state of shock. I sat on the floor, mouth open, stunned. I definitely remember thinking that my dad really needed me not to cry, so I tried very hard and managed to stop my lower lip trembling.

After a minute or so I calmed myself down and I climbed on to the bed, where I put my arms around him and gave him a cuddle. We stayed like that for a long time as he muttered, over and over again “I’m so sorry, so sorry”, and I said it was okay, everything was okay.

From that day on, if I ever had to wake Dad for any reason, I always talked to him at a normal volume from beyond arm’s reach until he awoke. Nothing like that ever happened again, but I had learned, at five years old, that my dad, my brilliant, wonderful, funny, teach me cycling, football kicking, fish and chip supper Dad was in some fundamental way broken. And he never told me why.

I SAT IN the corner of the cell, opposite the bucket, at the foot of the mattress, and just started to talk.

“I waited for you. At school. I waited a whole year for you to come and get me. But you didn’t show up, so I figured I’d better keep my promise and come get you. I stole a plane, mapped out a route, selected RAF bases for refuelling and here I am.

“Remember how annoyed you were when I joined the cadets? Even though it wasn’t the army cadets, you were still furious. ‘I don’t care if you get to fly, you still have to handle a gun and I won’t allow it,’ you said. But I argued and argued, and Mum backed me up. Wow, I remember that row. But hey, they taught me to fly, which is all I really wanted. I didn’t care about the guns and the uniform and the drill. It was just an excuse for the really crappy teachers to shout at us a bit more and make themselves feel important. Anyway, I hate guns. Always have. Still do. But I can’t deny that training came in useful.

“So here I am and it’s all the RAF’s fault. So I’m glad I stood my ground, ’cause otherwise I might never have found you. And that would have been terrible.

“I got shot down on approach though. I couldn’t find the airport and I was circling the city trying to make it out, navigating by the river. I flew God knows how many thousand miles in a straight line, found and landed at three different RAF bases, then I get to my destination without a hitch and can’t find an international bloody airport! Pathetic, really.

“Anyway, I crash landed, threw out my shoulder, and got chased halfway across town by a bunch of local nutjobs who kept taking pot shots at me. But eventually I got lucky, found this place. I thought I was safe.

“So much for that.”

The man on the mattress slowly began to unfold himself as I wittered. I caught my breath and my monologue petered out. Gradually he levered himself upright and I could see his face.

He was unshaven, his hairline had receded a bit and there was a lot more grey there. His eyes were deep pools of black. But it was Dad.

“Lee?” His voice was little more than a whisper.

“Yes.”

“Oh God, Lee?”

He raised his hands to his face and a flash of white bandage caught the scarce light. His right arm ended in a mass of bandages.

Someone had cut off two of his fingers.

I GULPED THE coke gratefully but soon remembered why it was a drink for sipping; the bubbles burned my parched throat and I let out a mighty belch.

“I’m sorry,” said Brett after he’d massaged my damaged shoulder more securely back into its socket. “We’ve got no painkillers left. It’s just going to have to heal at its own pace. You’ll have restricted movement for a while.”

I laughed. “I broke my other arm about six weeks ago and I still can’t quite use it one hundred per cent. I’m going to look like Frankenstein’s monster.” I tried to lift both my arms straight in front of me, but it hurt too much. “Maybe not.”

Brett smiled and went back downstairs. I remained on the roof with Tariq, sprawled on a tatty old sofa that had been dumped up here, enjoying the soft, shapeless, smelly cushions; after a week in the cockpit of a light aircraft it felt like the Ritz.

Tariq looked at me thoughtfully. Nineteen or twenty, the Iraqi was about five seven, with short black hair, dark skin and brown eyes. His geeky T-shirt (“What, you don’t know Jonathan Coulton?” he said, amazed, when I asked about it), Converse sneakers and jeans, not to mention his improbably white teeth, brilliant colloquial English, and the shoulder holster with sidearm nestled snugly beneath his left arm, sent out a confusing mass of signals that I couldn’t quite decipher.

“So Brett’s a Yank,” I said, “but you and your friends are fighting the Yanks?”

He nodded.

“And even though the Yanks and the Brits were allies, my dad has been fighting with you?”

Tariq nodded again.

“And you’re not Islamic fundamentalists?”

Tariq shook his head, grinning.

“What are you then?”

Tariq thought about this for a moment then he shrugged and said: “Brett is a hockey fan from Iowa, Toseef has a thing for thrash metal, and I’m a celebrity blogger.” My confusion must have been obvious. Tariq laughed. “We’re a family,” he said simply.

I thought of Norton and Rowles, the dinner lady and Matron, and all my friends back at the school. I nodded. I understood that. “And the guy who attacked me? The one who died?”

He shook his head sadly. “Jamail. Good kid but hotheaded. A shoot first, ask questions later kind of boy. He was hard to control, and he made me crazy. But he would have grown into a fine man. He was the one who shot you down, even though I ordered him not to.”

“I didn’t kill him, you know. The plane exploded, there was shrapnel.” It suddenly occurred to me that word was way too obscure, so I added: “that’s metal that goes flying around after a big bang.”

He looked at me like I was an idiot. “I know what shrapnel is.”

“Sorry. Of course you do.”

“I’ve lived in a fucking war zone the last eight years.”

“Of course, I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s not a word we use every day in England.” I suddenly felt very embarrassed. “Your English is really good,” I added, lamely.

He beamed, his face transformed into a mask of boyish glee. “I know. I studied very hard. I wanted to go to university in England. Your father was going to help me with my applications.”

“You knew him before The Cull, then?”

“Everyone knew your dad. Most people kept their distance. It was not wise to be too friendly with the occupying forces. But it was his job to make friends with local people, and I decided to become his friend. I was a liaison. I got good books and DVDs that way. And these sneakers which you fucking well threw up on.”

“Sorry. But you did tie me to a chair and threaten to decapitate me.”

“It’s a traditional Iraqi greeting.” He was so stony faced as he said this that, for a moment, I didn’t realise he was joking.

“Very funny,” I said. Only the tiniest twinkle in his eye betrayed his amusement. A big, gun-carrying geek with a desert-dry sense of humour.