National Holiday

I didn’t want to be late on a ritual day, so I woke early to eat breakfast and pin my new Union Jack badge on my coat. When the walking bus came, Mum did the zipper up to my chin and sent me off without saying a word.

Mum and Dad say the rituals weren’t a thing when they were young but I can’t see how that could be true. They help us understand what it means to be British. How to understand who the good guys are. At least, that’s what Mr. Piggott, the National Values Advisor at school tells us. He has a lot to do with the rituals, and he always picks who gets to do one.

I was a bit disappointed to be left out again for that month. That stupid, snot-nosed sack of flies Robert had been chosen again. It’s his third time, and we all know it’s to do with his dad and that massive house on the hill with the heated swimming pool. They say his dad is a party member but I’ve never been invited to one.

We walked out in a line with the other kids, all of us talking excitedly. Robert out in front, his mole eyes behind his thick glasses. The Union Jack he held waved in the wind. You should have seen his buck-toothed smile. Even though I hated him, I would have loved to be him. My day will come soon, even if Mum says she hopes it doesn’t.

We’ve got a national shrine not far from the school. The local ones are only tiny, not like the massive types where they hold the stuff for TV. When we got there, the other schools from the area were already waiting, lined up in rows by age and class. The teachers had to blow whistles to get us all to listen and stand where we should be.

The shrines really are amazing. There’s this long path of white marble tiles that leads through the gate, to the yard where everyone stands before a grand black stone house where they keep the honoured dead. There must be hundreds of flags, and they’re all much bigger than the one Robert carried in his twig arms.

Once we’d all lined up, the ritual could begin. Out from a waiting van came two men in handcuffs. Kids talked among themselves and were quickly shushed. I recognised one of them, the Polish man who used to fix the boiler at my parent’s house, but I didn’t say I did. Dad said it’s not a good idea to do that.

Mr. Piggott walked out in front of them. He held in his hand a piece of paper and a microphone in the other. He read out what they did wrong and the loudspeakers rattled with his voice and I did not really understand the words that he used. But I did know I should hate them both for real. Hate them more than I could ever hate Robert and his stupid teeth and his rich dad. But I did understand the last word Mr. Piggott said. “Traitors.”

“Traitors!” shouted a kid from the school on the other estate. Then we were all shouting it. We yelled until our throats went scratchy and sore, until the whistles blew again. The traitors were led down by their handcuffs to the Cleansing Wall. I know it’s called that because it was on the spelling test last week.

The traitors stood in front of it as quiet as trees. I hope they were thinking about what they’d done. The boys and girls chosen for ritual duty all went and stood out in front in a line. One from each of the five primary schools there that day. They were joined by soldiers at their sides. They always looked so cool, and I felt so jealous again when the soldiers got down on one knee and pushed the rifles into the other kids’ hands, helping them take the weight, aim at the traitors’ black hearts.

The countdown from three always reminded me of blowing out birthday candles.