Дэвид Муди - Hater

‘What happened?’ Harry asks again as I follow him and Liz into the living room. I stop and quickly look into the children’s bedrooms. Ed’s lying on his bed reading. Ellis’ room is empty.

‘We walked down to Pedmore Row to catch the bus,’ I tell him. ‘Group of blokes came out of nowhere and started kicking hell out of this guy. He was a Hater. Where’s Ellis?’

Harry nods towards the living room. I peer over the back of the sofa and I’m relieved to see her curled up in a ball asleep with her grandad’s jumper draped over her shoulders. She looks peaceful and relaxed. The room is quiet and dark and the only light comes from the flickering TV in the corner.

‘She wouldn’t go to bed,’ he explains, standing and watching her with me. ‘Kept asking where you two were. I let her stay with me for a while. I knew she’d fall asleep eventually.’

Liz crouches down in front of Ellis and brushes a strand of hair away from her face.

‘I’ll take her back to bed,’ she whispers as she carefully slides her arms underneath her and lifts her up. Ellis mumbles and shuffles but she doesn’t wake up. Harry and I watch as she carries her away. Harry then walks around and sits down in the middle of the sofa where he’s probably been sitting all evening. I lay Josh down on my lap.

‘So tell me again,’ he says quietly, ‘what exactly did happen?’

I sit down next to him and kick off my shoes.

‘I don’t know any more than what I’ve already told you. A group of blokes lynched a Hater, that’s all. Evil bastard probably deserved everything he got. Then the bus was late and a road was closed and…’

Harry nods his head, sighs and rubs his eyes. He looks tired.

‘I don’t know what’s going on out there,’ he says quietly. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re back. I had a feeling you might have some trouble tonight.’ I’m about to ask him what he means when he grabs the remote control and turns up the volume on the TV. ‘Been watching the news since the children’s programmes finished,’ he explained. ‘Things are getting out of control.’

I turn my attention from Harry to the TV. There’s been no let up in the level of trouble across the country. On the news they’re talking about an ‘exponential increase in incidents’. Mathematics was never my strongest subject at school but I know what they mean. One incident becomes two, two becomes four, four becomes eight and it goes on and on until… Jesus, where’s this going to end?

There’s a definite change in the way the reporters on TV are talking about what’s happening tonight. They’re concentrating on the people — the so-called Haters — who seem to be at the root of all the troubles. They’re stressing that it’s only a very small minority who have been affected but they’re warning the public to stay away from anyone who appears to be behaving erratically. Bloody hell, that’s half the population of this town on a good day.

‘It’s like a disease,’ Harry says. ‘Crazy, isn’t it? It’s spreading just like a disease.’

‘Someone better hurry up and find a cure then,’ I mutter under my breath, still staring at the screen.

‘They keep saying that all of this is down to just a few people, you know,’ he continues, repeating what I’ve already heard. ‘When it gets them, whatever it is, it drives them mad. They had some doctor on talking about it earlier. It’s the first few minutes you have to watch out for.’

‘What?’ I mumble, only half-listening.

‘When it gets them they lose control, like that chap you saw tonight I expect. They just lash out at whoever or whatever’s around them. Then they say they start to calm down. They’re still capable of doing these things, but they’re not quite so volatile.’

What is he talking about?

‘What do you mean, not quite so volatile?’ I ask him. ‘Are you saying they’ll only do enough to hospitalise you and not kill you?’

‘I’m only telling you what I’ve heard,’ he sighs. ‘I won’t bother if you’re going to be like that.’

I shake my head and look back at the TV. The screen is filled with images of convoys of troops driving into a city centre somewhere. Not sure where it is but it’s nowhere I recognise. The reporters are talking about the police and armed forces being used to full capacity and I think back to the TV debate we watched last night. Have we reached the saturation point they were talking about yet? The voices on the TV are taking great pains to stress that, although stretched, the authorities are still coping. Just. Christ, imagine what will happen if this thing gets any bigger and they can’t cope. Bloody hell, it doesn’t bare thinking about.

The screen shows a stream of government statistics and I lose interest. I don’t believe statistics. They’re all made up. They can make statistics say whatever they want.

‘Problem is,’ Harry says, ‘they’ve let it get out of control. This is too little, too late.’

‘It?’ I say. ‘What’s ‘it’ supposed to be?’

He points at the screen.

‘The trouble,’ he answers, ‘the violence… the people.’

The statistics have gone and we’re left watching footage of a row of burning houses. Desperate, screaming people are being held back by a police blockade. All they can do is watch as their lives go up in flames.

‘What’s happening,’ he whispers secretively, ‘is people are panicking and overreacting to the slightest thing because of what they’re seeing and what they’re being told. The whole situation has been allowed to get out of proportion. People are seeing the death and the destruction on the television and it’s making them want to become a part of it too. It’s like those bloody awful horror films that you and Lizzie watch. They make you want to do things. They put ideas in your head and they make you think it’s all right to do things. They’re even giving these people a label now. Calling them ‘Haters’ for God’s sake. They’re glamorising it. Almost makes it sound like a club you’d want to join, doesn’t it?’

He’s saying the same kind of things I was saying just yesterday. But I’ve already begun to accept that I was wrong, and when I look at the TV screen tonight I’m even more sure that I’d misjudged the situation badly when I was rambling last night. The sheer scale of what’s happening is really beginning to scare me now. They keep talking about small minorities but thousands, possibly even tens of thousands of people are involved in this violence. Hundreds of lives are affected by every incident in some way. Young, old, male, female… people from every section of society are involved. This is far more than just paranoia. This is more than the media stirring things up.

‘I don’t want to join any club,’ I tell him, ‘and no-one’s put any ideas in my head. I haven’t started any fights. I’m no more going to go out and attack anyone than you or Lizzie are.’

‘I know that. We’ve got maturity and common-sense on our side though, haven’t we? We know the difference between right and wrong. We know what’s acceptable and what isn’t.’

‘Are you trying to say that everyone who’s been affected by this is just immature? Come on, Harry, do you really think…’

‘There are plenty of people out there who couldn’t give a damn about right or wrong,’ he continues, ignoring me. ‘There are people who get a kick out of causing trouble, and putting it on the television like this has just made things worse. By showing it they’re saying it’s all right, that it’s acceptable.’

‘Bullshit! They’re not saying that at all…’

‘They’re implying that because so many people are involved now, anyone left might as well join in.’