Shrapnel (12 page)

No instructions came for me. One day the Skymaster wasn't quite as I'd left it, but the difference was small and it might have been Gran who moved it, or a parent. I didn't dare ask – how would I explain why it mattered? And anyway, the three of them were still raw from grieving, it was wise not to bother them.

Then we got word our house was ready. Gran said she'd miss us, but I reckon she was relieved really.

‘D'you think Mr and Mrs Myers'll mind if I keep the bike?' I asked her. I'd be much closer to school, of course.

She said ‘It's
yours
, sweetheart, they sold it to us. Look after it, that's all.'

So we went home, and it was there my shadowy controllers got back in touch.
They
didn't call me sweetheart.

I FOUND IT
in my satchel. It was a Friday evening. I was in my room, getting out my weekend homework. Sandwiched between two exercise books was a sheet of paper. How it got there I don't know – someone must have slipped it in while the satchel was hanging on my hook in the cloakroom. I unfolded it and read this:

Fly Saturday, M.S. Same time, same pilot error. Proceed as before,
own
shed. Burn this.

M.S.
was Myra Shay.
Same pilot error
meant
cross Manley's fence.
Own shed
meant not Gran's. They must think I'm daft – what sort of ass would travel right across town to leave the plane in Gran's shed, just because it said
proceed as before
? I suppose they've got to make absolutely sure.

There's no fireplace in my room, and no matches in Raymond's. I nipped downstairs for a glass of water and pinched a couple of Vestas from the box in the kitchen.

I don't like going in Raymond's room. It looks exactly the same, but he'll never be in it again and that makes it feel different. I laid the sheet of paper in the grate and put a match to it. It burned quickly. I crushed the ashes and left, closing the door behind me.

I'd lost the mood for homework. I lay on the bed and gazed up at my planes. Dad never brought them to Gran's for me after all: said they'd come to no harm where they were, and they hadn't. I didn't half wish I could do a swap – my planes in bits, my brother alive and well.

Gran says
if wishes were horses, beggars would ride
. Means it does no good, wishing. Can't help it though sometimes, can you?

THERE WAS NOBODY
at all on Myra Shay. People have to walk their dogs, even on raw November mornings, but they'd been and gone by the time I got there.

There was no burned patch either. Locals have a huge bonfire on Myra Shay every November. It leaves a big black circle you can see till the spring grass rubs it out. Not this year.

I flew the Skymaster a few times, working my way towards Manley's fence without making it obvious. I no longer wondered whether all this was a practical joke. Who'd keep
a joke of my brother's going after his death?

There was no wind today, no excuse for pilot error, but I couldn't help that. I had my orders. If anybody was taking notice they'd know I aimed at the fence on purpose – I just had to hope nobody was.

The plane landed on the cement path, hitting with quite a crack. I stood with my nose to the mesh, wondering what would happen if the Skymaster was damaged – too damaged to fly.

I watched the lean-to door, but that's not where the chap appeared from this time. He came round the end of the main building, stumping along the path with a pick handle in his fist.
A watchman
, I told myself,
on sentry duty
.

He saw the plane, and me, as he was about to go in the lean-to. He changed course and strode towards me, looking furious. I took a step back, though the mesh would've shielded me from the pick handle.

‘You again!' he roared. ‘You told me you'd play somewhere else, you bleat'n little liar. D'you think I've nothing better to do than fetch your bleat'n toys back, eh? Picking up after you as if you was two or sommink? What if I was to stamp
on your bleat'n plane? Feel badly done to then, I suppose. Wait here.' Halfway to the plane, he turned to glare back at me. ‘Last time, this. Last bleat'n time, sonny. Do it again and I'll kick it till you can't tell what it is.'

He went and picked up the plane. I half expected him to take it to the lean-to, but he didn't. He stood for a few moments with his back to me, presumably winding the engine, then turned, lifted and launched. The Skymaster came whirring over the fence, apparently undamaged, but when it landed on the lumpy turf the undercarriage collapsed and it did a forward flip onto its back. I ran and picked it up, and when I glanced round the watchman had disappeared.

The undercarriage, which should be springy but firm, flopped about uselessly. Impact with the cement path had torn its wire frame away from the balsa struts inside the fuselage. It would be disastrous to fly the aircraft again before the damage was fixed. It wasn't a big job, but I'd have to strip away some of the doped paper covering the plane's belly.
Do not examine plane
. That was an order, but how was I supposed to repair the thing without examining it?

Back home, I did the only thing I could think of. I left the Skymaster in the shed, unrepaired. I'd leave it till I was ordered to fly again, then fix it before going back to Myra Shay. And if this was the wrong thing to do and they decided to shoot me, what could I do about it?

SUNDAY MORNING THE
plane had been moved, definitely. I'd left it with its propeller facing the door, and now it faced the back wall. And anyway there was a note. Well, hardly a note. One word, scrawled in pencil on the damaged belly:

FIX

Thank you would be nice
, I thought. It's one of Gran's sayings. Then I realized whoever wrote it probably meant it to look as though I'd written it myself, in case somebody picked up the plane
before I did. We have to think of everything, us agents.

Refixing the undercarriage was a piece of cake, especially now I needn't worry about seeing inside. What made it hard was, Mum and Dad seemed to think that doing everyday things so soon after Raymond's death meant we were forgetting him already.

Dad said, ‘Must you do that
now
, Gordon, and your brother not buried a week?'

What was I
supposed
to do? Lie on my bed brooding? Sit in the chair with my head bowed?
Whatever
I did wasn't going to bring him back, was it?

I said, ‘Raymond gave me the plane, Dad. He wanted me to fly it. He
still
wants me to. I'm keeping it flying for
him
, like the ground crews do for our fighter pilots.'

Dad was silent for a moment, then he nodded. ‘Quite right, son. Keep 'em flying, eh?' He looked across at Mum. ‘That's the spirit, isn't it, old girl?'

Mum smiled faintly over her darning. ‘Yes, dear, that's the spirit.' She was always close to tears these days.

I was leaving the bike sheds Monday morning when Linton Barker intercepted me. ‘Hey, Pricey,' he husked in his twenty cigs a day voice, ‘I saw your brother's ghost last night, driving a Morris.' He gave a sticky chuckle. ‘Didn't know they dished out cars in Heaven.'

I couldn't speak, but stared at him aghast. He and I have never been enemies – why this appalling joke? I needed to know, but by the time I regained the power of speech he'd thumped my arm and ambled off, bubbling to himself.

‘
HOW MANY SQUARE
feet in a square yard,' snapped Whitfield. ‘Deadman?'

‘Uh . . . three, sir?' hazarded Dicky, who'd been dreaming.

‘Rubbish, that's feet in a yard.
Think
, laddie.'

‘I
am
, sir.'

The teacher shook his head. ‘No, you're
not
, Deadman. You never do, and I'll tell you why, shall I?'

‘Yes please, sir,' said the hapless Dicky. The class tittered.

‘You never think, Deadman, because you'll
never
need
to think. You won't bother getting a proper job when you leave us next year. You'll become a spiv instead. Know what a spiv is, do you?'

Dicky nodded. ‘A chap wot buys and sells stuff, sir, on the street, out of a suitcase.'

‘He's a parasite,' grated Whitfield. ‘A black marketeer, stealing goods that belong to the whole nation, selling them at exorbitant prices to the few who can afford them. He's undermining the rationing system, helping the enemy while helping himself to a handsome income without working.' The teacher's voice grew louder as he warmed to his subject. ‘The spiv is a
traitor
, Deadman – the lowest of the low. He'd sell his
mother
if he could get half a crown for her. He's selling
England
, laddie – selling everything we're fighting for, just so that he can walk our streets in his sharp suit and ghastly tie, dodging the law, dodging the call-up.'

Whitfield's face was purple now, his hands scrunched into fists. Spit shot through his clenched teeth as he bellowed at poor Dicky. ‘And I will not
have
,' he screeched, ‘I will not
tolerate
, a fellow of that sort in my classroom.
OUT
, Deadman –
GET OUT
.'

Dicky scrambled to his feet, gazing at that awful face like a bird mesmerized by a snake. He backed towards the door, stammering, ‘But, sir, I'm
not
. . . I won't
be
a spiv . . .'

‘OUT!' Whitfield groped behind his cupboard, drew out the cane and swished it like a sabre.

Dicky fled.