The Bombs That Brought Us Together (13 page)

‘The Big Man will probably forget all about us anyway,’ I said.

‘He not forget, Charlie. He like huge elephant.’ Pav pointed to his temple.

‘Look, if the worst comes to the worst, the most he’ll want us to do is run a few errands for him. Go to the shops. Keep an ear to the ground. Stuff like that. Nothing we can’t handle.’

‘I not believe,’ he said.

‘Don’t believe what?’

‘That Big Man only want small thing from us.’

‘Of course he does, Pav. What else would he want us for? I mean, we have nothing to offer.’

‘That what I worry. Why he give stuff, eh? You OK, Charlie. Me? I refugee. No one want here. Big Man very
powerful. He do big damage to Dad work. They do the bad thing to Mum. Me? I no get choose; I must do what Big Man say.’

‘I’m not OK either, Pav. You see, I asked him to get medication for my mum. If she doesn’t get it,’ I said, feeling my throat vibrate. ‘If she doesn’t get it, who knows what’ll happen to her. She might … she could …’ I rubbed my eyes. ‘I guess what I’m saying, Pav, is that The Big Man’s got us both by the short and curlies.’

Pav’s chin was practically on the floor. Not the grand comfy shed opening I’d imagined. ‘Look, I’m sure everything will be OK,’ I added.

‘I no want to be bitch of Big Man, Charlie.’

‘I no want to be bitch of Big Man either, Pav.’

‘I no want to be bitch like Norman, Charlie.’

‘I no want to be bitch like Norman either, Pav.’

It seemed that Pav’s lingo ability was improving a tad, while mine was being ripped to shreds. His influence was strong.

‘Little Town no good for me if I caught with stealing. They send me back to Old Country or put me in jail with men who want to do the sexy with me.’

‘Listen, I’ll go back and speak to The Big Man and ask him what exactly he wants from us. OK?’

‘When you go?’

‘I’ll leave it for a week or so, to see what happens, and then I’ll go see him. Deal?’

The very thought of going to see The Big Man alone sent shivers up my legs. I was afraid that he’d eat me alive for going to him without an appointment. Or one of his muscle men would. That image of The Big Man sitting on his huge leather chair in that dingy room was still very much alive in my mind. If I was going to get through this with my sanity intact, I’d need to buck up my ideas.

‘OK,’ Pav said. ‘You speak to Big Man.’

We used the sturdy lock to secure our shed from thieves. But not bombs though.

‘Charlie?’ Pav said.

‘Yes?’

‘What short and curlies mean?’

‘Hair around your willy area, Pav.’

It was Sunday afternoon. Three weeks since the bombs came, ten weeks since Pavel Duda arrived in Little Town, a few days after I traded my freedom for some chairs and a cheeseburger. We were due to start school the following week. The Old Country invaders seemed keen to get things back to normal. Fortunately for me our school
had
survived the bombing. Pav wasn’t exactly cock-a-hoop about the notion of educating himself. His face was thunder at the very thought of going to a new school. A fresh group of jokers ready to welcome him with open mouths; a brand new set of Old Country refugee haters waiting to pounce.

I had a feeling that Pav wasn’t your typical A-grade learner. No, Pav would be your up-the-back-of-the-class-head-on-desk sprawler type of guy peeking up at the clock every two
minutes because he believed all this learning guff was the most excruciatingly painful experience of his entire life.

Mum had managed to get her hands on some spanking trousers for my first day back. Cheap and nasty. Electric shock numbers. But new. She’d bleached some of my shirts from last year so that the yellow sweat marks and bogging collar stains were only a memory. My three shirts were pressed, hanging up and raring to go. I’d been busy swotting up. A complete nerd? A weedy geek freak? Whatever people wanted to call it. I’d read three books for our English course, two plays for Classics and two biographies for history. I tried to go through some of it with Pav as well, but he was having none of it. Pav told me that he’d be wearing the same school clothes he wore last year in Old Country. Neither of us would have new bags.

Since the transmitters were thankfully back up and running I’d sent Erin F a text inviting her to our newly furnished shed. No reply. Perhaps the network was still scrappy.

That Sunday I was busy rearranging and rejigging the shed furniture. I did it so many times that I couldn’t tell what the best position for things was. I read a book once about this mad oriental technique of furniture organising that was supposed to help soothe the soul and make your life all harmonising and groovy, but when I tried it out in the shed it didn’t work for me; instead it seemed to have the opposite
effect: muddling my head and sending me into a wind tunnel of confusion. I asked Pav if it would be better to have one chair near the door, one below the window and one in the corner? What didn’t help was that Pav’s answers to my questions seemed to take the shape of:

‘It bloody chair. I no mind.’

or

‘Put there. I no shitting care.’

A career in interior design was definitely not Pav’s future bag.

‘Forget chair, Charlie. When you go to see Big Man?’

‘I …’

‘You promise, Charlie.’

‘I know I did, Pav, but I’ve had stuff on my mind and I just haven’t got round to it yet.’

‘You make huge promise to me.’

‘And I’ll keep it, Pav. I will.’

‘If you no speak to Big Man, Charlie, it mean he has our short and curlies. You know this.’

‘I know, Pav.’

‘I no want my short and curlies in Big Man’s hands.’

I sat down, not knowing what to say. The truth was I was scared to death of going to see The Big Man again. The very thought of it knotted my tummy. We sat in silence for a moment. Then something weird happened: a tear fell from Pav’s eye and landed on his cheek. I watched it trickle down,
until his hand came up to wipe it away. I looked closer in case it was a tear mirage. It wasn’t. I saw the trickle from my own tearless eyes.

‘Are you OK, Pav?’ I asked.

He said nothing.

Sniffed up the snot that fell on to his top lip.

‘Pav?’

I began to worry.

He ran his sleeve across his mouth, cleaning that hard-to-shift snot.

‘Pav, speak to me.’

He looked up; another tear dropped on to his cheek. Smaller this time.

‘What’s up, Pav?’

More sleeve-wiping.

‘Pav, what’s wrong? Is there anything I can do?’

‘No.’

‘Has something happened?’

No answer, which told me that
something
had happened.

‘Hey.’ I reached out and touched his elbow. He didn’t flinch. I gripped harder. ‘Speak to me, buddy.’ I gave his arm a soft pal rub. ‘I’ll go see The Big Man, promise.’

‘That not problem, Charlie,’ Pav said.

I released my grip on his elbow.

‘Is it the thought of going to school? Are you scared?’

‘I handle school.’

‘Look, if you’d rather not talk about it that’s OK with me.’

‘No, I want.’

‘Listen, take your time. My ears are yours.’

‘I no want take ears from you, Charlie.’

‘No, it’s just an express– … oh, it doesn’t matter. If there’s anything I can do, just say.’

‘It is Mum,’ he said, wiping more tears. ‘My poor mum.’ I wanted to hug him. I thought about Erin F’s mum and wondered if Pav was going to have to care for his in the same way she cared for hers. A sentence for both of them.

‘She’s not ill, is she?’

‘No, but she cry all time.’

‘Your mum? Why?’

‘She thinking too much about my sister.’

‘Your sister back in Old Country?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s understandable, Pav. Natural.’

‘There is mass problem.’

‘What problem?’

‘My sister not in Old Country no more, Charlie.’

‘She’s not?’

‘No.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She here.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes, here.’

‘Here? Like in Little Town here?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I thought …’

‘Mum see my sister three day ago.’

‘In Little Town?’

‘In patrol.’

‘An Old Country patrol?’

‘Yes, she working for Old Country patrol. Mum see her.’

‘Did your mum speak to her?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘My sister no see Mum.’

‘But she’s sure that she saw your sister in an Old Country patrol truck though?’

‘Sure one hundred of per cent.’

We spent a minute or so thinking. I tried to imagine what Pav’s sister looked like; was she as gaunt, pale and hungry as her younger brother? I tried to imagine her dressed in a uniform with a killing machine slung over her shoulder. All mean-faced in search of any scallywag Little Towners. Wow! Pav’s sister an Old Country troop? It was hard to believe. The shame and dismay his parents must have felt.

‘Maybe they grabbed her off the street, Pav. You can’t be sure she wasn’t.’

Pav shook his head, almost sniggering at my naivety.

‘She not taken by them, Charlie. This is thousand of per cent definitely.’

‘Really?’

‘Really yes. My sister wear the Old Country uniform, Charlie.’

‘The military one?’

‘Yes.’

‘So your sister works for Old Country?’

‘Yes, she works.’

‘But … how?’

I scrunched my eyes, confused. I didn’t understand how Pav and his family could loathe the Old Country Government and Military so much, yet his sister decided to hobble off and get herself a position with them. Surely that was a major betrayal of her family?

‘Why does your sister work for the Old Country Military, Pav? I just don’t get it,’ I said.

‘She work for a while, they wash her brain when at university. Say to her many lies. Then one day she leave me, Mum and Dad to work for Government Military.’

‘No explanation?’ I said.

‘Nothing.’

‘She just got up and left like that?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you never saw her again?’

‘She leave home.’

‘And never returned?’

‘Only one time for tell Mum and Dad they must become Government supporter.’

‘Your sister
told
your mum and dad that?’

‘She say we support or we have much troubles.’

‘When you say
troubles
what you really mean is … ?’

‘Troubles. I mean troubles, Charlie.’

‘Like she was going to kill you if you didn’t support the Government or something?’

‘No! I no mean that.’

‘To me
troubles
means bad stuff, Pav.’

‘Bad stuff, yes. But not die. My sister not psycho maniac.’

I don’t know so much. Let’s look at the evidence: she’s part of an Old Country Military who gained entry here by bombing us to bits. She’s now part of those ground troops who tell us how we should be living our lives. And if we don’t live our lives according to the way they want us to, they’ll make that life a tough one … or worse. So I’d say
psycho maniac
just about covers it.

‘I’m not saying she is, Pav. I just thought –’

‘She tell to us, without supporting Government it best leave Old Country.’

‘Wait,’ I said, putting my hands up to my chest so Pav could hold them wild horses back for a second. ‘So you’re telling me that it was your sister who told you to leave Old Country?’

‘Yes, she say.’

‘Say or told?’

‘Told.’

‘Like a threat?’

‘No, like told.’ Pav was firm.

I couldn’t see the difference, but I think Pav had convinced himself there was one.

‘Better to leave than to be like chicken on toast, no?’

Sorry … what?

Excuse me?

Come again?

This must’ve been a direct Old Country lingo translation; I didn’t get the chicken on toast thing. Pav’s hands were wide open; he was expecting a response. I gave him one, of sorts. Nodding my head in agreement.

‘No, you definitely don’t want to be the chicken on the toast, Pav. That doesn’t sound like a good place to be.’

‘Exact … so that why we come here.’

Collating it all in my head, it became clear that the reasons the Dudas came to Little Town wasn’t because their daughter had joined up with their Government’s Military; it wasn’t because she had tried, and failed, to have them follow in her footsteps; it wasn’t because she had threatened them with experiencing some
troubles
(yeah, right!) if they didn’t show their support. No, it was all because the Dudas were scared shitless that someone from the Military – maybe their own
daughter – was going to force them to lie under a giant metaphorical toaster like a family of chickens. I don’t think so somehow.

‘Is your mum afraid?’ I said.

‘Afraid. Sad. Angry. Every things.’

‘Does she think that your sister and her Old Country buddies will come for you?’

‘Yes and no and maybe. Her head is the spaghetti plate at moment, Charlie.’

I got this meaning.

‘So what you’re telling me is that your sister works for Old Country Military?’

‘Yes, she work.’

‘And that she’s now on the ground here in Little Town?’

‘She in Little Town, yes.’

‘And that she and her cronies might be on the lookout for you and other Old Country refugees?’

‘True it could be.’

If ever there was a swear moment this was it. I was having so many of them since I’d met Pav. I said it into my head. A whole sentence full of them.

‘A bit of advice, Pav.’

‘What advice?’

‘Whatever happens, do not mention any of this to anyone. Not to Norman and definitely not to The Big Man.’

‘You also no say Erin F too,’ he instructed me.

‘Erin F doesn’t even answer my texts, Pav, so don’t worry about me; my lips are zipped.’ I pulled an imaginary zip across my mouth. Pav did the same, then we pretended to lock them with an invisible key. We even swapped lock keys and put them into our pockets. That’s the sort of silly thing mates do, isn’t it? I’d have buried my key for Pav. It made us laugh. We needed a laugh.

‘What are you planning on doing? Your mum and dad, that is?’ I said.