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."