I'm hailed as a hero by the baby's mother. She hugs me and thanks me through her sobs, saying I'm wonderful, I saved her child, I should get a reward. Strangers look on and beam. Guards and staff from the museum congratulate me. My mates from school watch, astonished. Burke is smiling. He winks when I catch his eye.
The guards try to get descriptions of the men from me. I tell them I didn't see much, that they didn't let their hoods drop. I don't tell them about the odd skin, the yellow eyes, that they looked like mutants. I'd sound like a lunatic if I did.
I shrug off the compliments on the Tube back to school, scowling and saying nothing. Burke tells the others to leave me alone and I sit in silence, listening to the rumblings of the train, staring out of the window at the darkness of the tunnels, unable to forget the men's lips, their skin, those eyes. If I did imagine all that, I have a more vivid imagination than I ever gave myself credit for.
Back at school, Burke asks if I'm all right. When he sees that I'm not, he offers to take me home early. I don't want any special treatment, so I tell him I'd rather stay and I sit in an empty classroom for the rest of the afternoon. Burke and Mrs. Reed pop in to see me a few times - Mrs. Reed says I've done the school proud - but otherwise I'm alone with my thoughts. And if I could get away from them, I would.
The minutes drag but eventually pass and I slip out of school ahead of the bell, so as not to have to face my friends. I feel strange, like I've been violently sick. I just want to go home, rest up, stay in for the weekend, and hopefully return in better form on Monday.
Mum has already heard about the incident at the museum when I get back. She squeals when I walk in and calls me her little hero. Hugs and coos over me, asks if I want anything special for dinner. I grin weakly and tell her I don't have much of an appetite, I'll just have whatever she's having.
She wants me to tell her all about it, the kidnapping, the rescue, how I stood up to two grown men. I try to shrug it off but she keeps on and on about it. Eventually I give in and start talking. I hold back the bit about how the men looked. I don't plan on telling anyone about that.
Dad gets home before I'm finished. He's grinning when he comes in and sees us chatting - he thinks we're gossiping. When Mum starts to tell him what happened, he frowns, tells her to shut up and makes me go through it again from the start.
Mum serves up dinner - fish and chips, usually my favorite, but they taste like cardboard in my current state. She keeps saying how brave I was, how she's proud of me, how the staff at the museum shouldn't have let me face a pair of dangerous criminals by myself.
Dad doesn't say much. He's got a face on him, the sort of scowl I know all too well. He's brooding about something. Mum's so excited, she doesn't notice it, but I do and I keep my trap shut, not wanting to wind him up any further. It's best to say as little as possible when he's in a mood like this.
It finally comes out when we're watching TV after dinner. Mum's still babbling about the baby and how I should get a medal. Dad sighs irritably and says, "I wish you'd drop it, Daisy."
"But aren't you proud, Todd?" Mum replies, surprised.
Dad grunts and shoots me a dirty look. I act as if I'm fascinated by the chef who's showing us how to cook a meal for six people in less than thirty minutes.
"Of course I'm pleased that you stood up for yourself," he says to me. "But..."
"What?" Mum huffs when he doesn't go on. I groan. Why doesn't she know when to keep quiet?
"They were Indian," Dad says softly, and I look around. I didn't know what was gnawing at him before. Now it becomes clear.
"What's that got to do with anything?" Mum asks, bewildered.
"We'd be better off if they took a dozen little Indians and dumped them in the Thames." Dad laughs, like he's only joking, but I know he's genuinely angry.
Mum frowns. "Don't say things like that, Todd. It's not funny. It's not the poor baby's fault it's Indian."
"It's not mine either, is it?" Dad snaps. He glares at Mum, then looks at me and grimaces. "I like that you tried to help, but if it had been an English kid..."
"That's outrageous," Mum says frostily. "Babies are innocent. Would you have left the child to those two beasts?"
"Nobody's innocent," Dad says. "It's us against them. Always has been, always will be. If we start fighting their battles for them, where will it stop? Do we let them stay because they have cute babies? Keep on giving them benefits, so they can spit out more of the buggers, until they have enough to out-vote us? Babies grow up. They infest good schools and ruin them. They buy houses and destroy neighborhoods. They import drugs and sell them to our kids. They blow things up.
"They were all babies once," Dad says. "Every last terrorist and job-stealing scab was like that boy in the museum. We can't be soft. We can't give ground. Ever."
"You're wrong," Mum says, and I think Dad's even more amazed than I am. She's never spoken to him like this before. I wouldn't have thought that she could. "There are bad people in the world, Todd, white as well as colored. We can't let people steal babies. We'd be cruel if we - "
Dad's hand shoots up and he slaps her, hard. Her head cracks back and she cries out. He grabs her throat and squeezes. His eyes are wild. I throw myself at him, roaring at him to stop. He hits me with his free hand, slaps me even harder than he slapped Mum. I'm knocked to the floor by the force of the blow, but Dad barely notices. He's fully fixed on Mum.
"Don't ever talk to me that way," Dad snarls. "I won't have you turn on me. If you ever stick up for those bastards again, I'll kill you. You hear me, woman? Do. You. Bloody. Well. Hear. Me?"
He shakes her with every word. Mum makes a choking noise and tries to nod. Her fingers scratch at his arms. For a moment I think he's gonna finish her off, that this is how it will end. All these years, all the beatings, all leading to this. I push myself to my feet, ready to lunge at him again, desperate to stop him, to save Mum, to escape with her before he can make good on his threat.
But then Dad's fingers relax and withdraw. He clutches Mum's chin and gives her the evil eyeball. She's weeping. Her nose is bleeding. The flesh under her left eye is already starting to puff up. Dad wipes blood from her lip and smiles tightly.
"You'll be all right," he says as if she'd just tripped and hurt herself. "Go make us all a cuppa. Have a cig out back. You'll be fine when you come in. Won't you?"
Mum gasps repeatedly like a dying fish. Dad's fingers clench.
"Won't you?" he barks, sharper this time, wanting to hear an answer.
"Yes... Todd," Mum wheezes.
Dad releases her. She gets up and stumbles to the kitchen, trying not to sob, knowing that if she makes too much noise it will infuriate him and maybe set him off again.
Dad looks at me and I wait for him to follow up his first blow. If he lays into me, I'll just stand here and let him beat me. It's the best thing to do. He loses his head completely if I fight back. I don't mind the beatings, the pain. As long as Mum's out of the way and safe, he can hit me as hard as he likes.
"I'll say this, though," Dad says slowly, then pauses, letting me know that he could swing either way right now, that he can laugh this off or come down hard on me, that he has the power, that me and Mum are his to control. "I wish I'd been there to see you knee that sod."
We both laugh, Dad loudly, me weakly. He switches channels to a quiz show, gets a few answers right and chuckles proudly, delighted with himself. Mum brings the tea and he pats her bum as she places it before him. She smiles crookedly, sits by his side and kisses the hand he struck her with.
Later, in my room, sitting up in bed, listening to tunes on my iPod. Crying. I hate tears but tonight I can't hold them back. I'm not in much pain - the slap didn't even leave a mark - but inside I feel wretched.
I don't want to blame Dad for what he did. I make excuses for him, the way I always do. Mum shouldn't have challenged him. She knows what he's like. She should have read his mood and...
No. I can't put the blame on her. I was wrong too. I shouldn't have risked my neck for an Indian kid. I should have left the baby to the mutants. One less for us to kick out of the country. Dad was right. He was trying to help us see the world the way it really is. We should have listened. It wasn't his fault. I shouldn't have saved the baby. Mum should have kept her mouth shut.
I tell myself that over and over. I make every excuse for him that I can. And I try to believe. I try so bloody hard to justify his actions, because he's my dad and I love him. But deep down I know it's a load of bull.
When I'm crying so hard that I'm making moaning sounds, I channel the music through my speakers so that Dad won't hear. Then I weep harder, fingers balled into fists, face scrunched up with hate and confusion.
He's a bully. A wife beater. A racist. A hateful, nasty sod. I want to hang him up by his thumbs. Sneer at him as he writhes in agony. Ask him if he's proud of himself now, if he still thinks it's all right to beat up a woman and child.
Then I despise myself for thinking such a terrible thing. He wants what's best for us. He's trying to help, doing all that he can to steer us the right way. He only hits us when we let him down. We have to try harder. We...
"I hate him," I moan, burying my face in my hands.
But he's my dad.
"I hate him."
But he's my dad.
"I hate him."
But...
