The Bombs That Brought Us Together (20 page)

‘Try telling the eejits at school that,’ I said.

Norman’s head spun with thoughts. I knew that look from being in the same class as him for years. It was his I-shouldn’t-really-tell-you-this-but-I’m-going-to-anyway face.

‘You tell Pav not to worry, Charlie.’

‘How?’

‘It’s been sorted.’

‘Sorted?’

‘Tell him no more shit will happen to him.’

‘What’s been sorted exactly?’

Norman hesitated.

‘Look, Charlie, just know that Max and Bones have been sorted.’

‘Who sorted them?’

‘Aw, come on, Charlie, I can’t be revealing my sources, now, can I?’

He would reveal them if pushed.

‘Did
you
do them in, Norman? Did
you
batter them?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why in God’s name would I batter them?’

He had a point. It wasn’t as if we were bosom buddies with Norman. And, after all, Pav
was
Old Country breed. Norman owed us nothing.

‘So who sorted it then?’

Norman heaved himself up in the chair. For a minute I thought he was trying to scratch his arse without touching it, attempting to rub his two cheeks together.

‘Let’s just say someone got wind that Pav took a leathering and did something about it.’

‘Someone got wind of it?’ I said.

Norman’s mouth channel was on mute.

You know who got wind of it, so why are you asking? Blurt it out yourself.

‘Come on, Norman, who?’

YOU say it.

‘Come on. Spit it out. I won’t say a word, not even to Pav. Promise I won’t.’

Norman’s gub was locked and the key swallowed. Time to throw down the winning hand: ‘Was it The Big Man?’

Norman almost vomited the key back up.

Bingo!

‘Might have been.’

‘Wise up, Norman. You know I know it was The Big Man.’

Norman clicked his feet together, making little nuggets of dirt fall on the floor. More cleaning.

‘OK, OK, it was The Big Man,’ Norman said, lowering his voice.

MENTAL MEMO:
NEVER, EVER TELL NORMAN A SECRET. OR SOMETHING YOU DON’T WANT THE WHOLE OF LITTLE TOWN TO KNOW ABOUT.

‘How did The Big Man find out? That’s what I want to know,’ I said.

‘Charlie, he’s The Big Man. He knows everything that goes down here. Especially these days.’

‘What did he do to get it sorted?’

‘That I don’t know; all I know is that it’s sorted.’

‘Sorted how?’ I said, not that I was concerned for the welfare of Max or Bones. I was curious. Norman did his face contortion. ‘Sorted good or sorted bad?’ Very curious.

‘It’s The Big Man, Charlie. He doesn’t tell me these things. If he says it’s been sorted then it’s been sorted, end of.’

I looked at Norman’s boots. Big chunks of mud clung to his heels.

I was going to plonk myself in one of the comfy chairs, but I didn’t want him to feel that I was opening the door for a lad-on-lad chat. I remained standing.

‘Is that all you came to tell me, Norman?’

‘No.’

‘Well, what then?’

‘The Big Man wants to see you.’

My heart sank. Not again? Not so soon after the last time.

‘When?’ I asked.

‘The day after the day after tomorrow.’

‘But that’s Tuesday! I have school on Tuesday.’

My mind was awash with images of blankets, air, cars, blindfolds, orders and fear.

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘He’s going to come here when you get back.’

‘Here? Like, here, to my house?’

NO WAY CAN THAT HAPPEN. Mum would flip her lid if she thought that The Big Man and me were in cahoots. Although, perhaps she wouldn’t if she knew it was down to him that her inhaler medicine was still getting to her. She knew the chemist hadn’t reopened yet, but not once had she questioned where I was getting the stuff from. She might welcome my
friendship
with The Big Man under the current
circumstances. Who was I kidding? If she found out, I’d be consigned to a life of everlasting skelpings.

‘Not at your house; he wants to come
here
.’

‘Here, where?’ I said.

Norman gestured his two index fingers around in little circles. ‘Here.’

‘The shed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘He wants to speak to you, that’s why.’

‘No, I get that bit, but why here? Why not at one of his places?’

‘He’s The Big Man, Charlie. He makes the decisions. Not you. No questions asked.’

‘So I’ve just got to stay in here after school until he arrives?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does he want to see Pav?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘How do I know?’

‘It’s Pav’s shed as well, you know.’

‘The message is that he wants to see only
you
.’ Norman pointed at me.

‘Just me?’

‘Just you.’ Norman made for the door. ‘I wish I could stay and talk all day, Charlie, but I’ve got to see a man about a
dog.’ He flicked his finger at my zip and laughed. ‘And next week you’ve got to see a dog about a man, know what I mean, eh?’ His attempt at being funny was only funny because it wasn’t funny.

When Norman left I wiped the muck off the floor and puffed up the chairs, then went up to the house to wash and spray my pits. I was half thinking of going to see how Pav was doing. I got as far as pausing outside his door. I didn’t knock. Not sure why. I suppose I didn’t want to tell him the good news about Max and Bones getting sorted.

I hadn’t been out on the streets for a while, except getting the bus to and from school. The Old Country patrols were either stopping people for nothing, asking banal questions or simply intimidating everyone by their presence. Erin F told me she’d been hassled before so I was worried about her when she failed to turn up for school on the Monday. That’s why, after school, I went in search for her.

In order to get to her section of town I had to go through the park and past the shops area. Climb the big hill. Erin F’s section was down the other side of the big hill.

Walking through the park, I noticed that the smell had gone. The air was better. The rubbish had been cleared. There weren’t as many troops. Everything was eerily silent. Only half the street lights worked, making this mad humming
sound. They flickered and flashed as they hung on to the last breath of electrical life. To keep calm I imagined them saying hello to me as I ambled past. Although I also imagined them warning me about some pending doom. DO NOT ADVANCE, CHARLIE.

The park was different this time round: the see-saw had been fixed. It seed and sawed once again. The roundabout spun again. The six swings swung another day. All the broken glass and booze bottles had been swept off the ground. I put it down to the locals and a collective spirit. I’m pretty sure the Little Town Regime and Rascals would have just left it to ruin. Maybe Old Country troops helped?

Before the bombs Mum and Dad sent me off to the shops to buy things all the time. I’d hated being the house slave, whipped into action to purchase teabags, biscuits, chips, milk, a paper, bread, etc. Nothing ever for myself. Now they told me never to go near the shops area. Old Country had that part of town secured. I needed to go there though; there was no other direction I could have taken. It was the only way I knew how to get to her house. Some of the shops still had their windows panned in. The pavements sparkled with shards of glass. Sharkey’s, which was an Aladdin’s cave of crap household goods, was an empty shell; just a few lampshades and picture frames remained. Tragic. Mum would shed a tear at this. Sharkey’s and Mum were magnets. Tommy Tango’s, which had row upon row of bright, mouth-watering
sweets stacked up in oversized plastic bottles, was our candy shop Mecca, so it was heartbreaking to walk past its shattered windows. Death of the sugar hit. Dad’s pub, The Big Tree, had lost its door, its seats, its stools and, by the look of it, its soul; The Big Tree was now a cold empty space, dust and rubble strewn over its bar. Should be renamed The Little Depressed Twig
.
The shops area was deserted, like a scene from one of Dad’s cowboy movies. The sight of the chemist depressed me still.

I couldn’t see them, but I heard them in the distance. The chug-chug sound of big trucks growling around, the muffle of voices – probably children shouting and chucking things at the patrol before hightailing it back to the safety of their blocks. Then the worst sound of all. Each crack made my innards shudder. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t see them. I bet they could see me. I bet they were watching my every move, wondering where this young figure was going to, and why I was out on my own. They might’ve thought I was a maverick rogue searching for something left to loot. A sewer urchin. I imagined guns pointed at my skull from every direction. Old Country patrol guns. Maybe Little Town Rascal guns too.

Head down, keep walking.

The one good thing about being scared out of my skin was that it took my mind off Erin F for a few minutes. I was no longer racking my brain about why she was failing
to show up to school. I couldn’t text her since she no longer had her phone. I had a bad feeling – Erin F wasn’t the type of person who’d choose to skip school. Even in a war zone.

If I’d known they’d be coming over the top of the hill there’s no way I’d have started climbing it. I was about halfway up, heading towards Erin F’s block. Puffing hard.

Naturally I heard it before I saw it. The cough of the truck lugging its sad arse up the hill. I always wondered why Old Country hadn’t kitted themselves out with spanking new vehicles before they came here. That’s what I’d have done if I was trying to wield all the power. If I had occupied somewhere.

The patrol approached me. I stopped walking, gulping for air. They shone their headlights, full beams. There was no reason to do this; they could see me perfectly well. The full beams made me use my hand as a shield, the only weapon I had. The chug got louder. There was an exhaust backfiring noise. I prayed it was only the exhaust. The brakes were worn down; they braked early. I stood rigid. The patrol screeched to a halt beside me. My breathing stopped. There was some hope in my mind that this was The Big Man’s mob playing silly buggers. Had they managed to get their paws on an Old Country wagon? No such luck.

Two troops jumped out. One pushed me back with a powerful one-handed shove. I heard my shoulder crack. I
bounced off the wall like a wrestler on the ropes. The other troop rammed me again. Same shoulder cracked. I bounced back to them. A third push hit me, but not like the others. I didn’t bounce back this time. I was stuck there with a hand on my throat. Gloved hand. He looked into my eyes and I stared at his. No game. They were almond-shaped, like Pav’s. Not the blue blinders of Pav’s, but blue enough. A clear spring day. I’d give him between twenty-two and twenty-seven years of age. His mate as well. The Throat Crusher didn’t say a word.

Keep cool. You’ve done nothing wrong.

‘Where you go?’ his mate said.

I could hardly breathe. Speaking was out of the question. The hand squeezed harder. I felt the blood rush to my face. Beetroot chops.

‘Where you go?’ the mate asked again.

Tighter.

‘Where are you go?’ the Throat Crusher said, like an iconic horror film character.

‘To … see … a … friend,’ I managed to force out.

Any tighter and that would be it. Honestly, the blinds were being drawn. I could sense it happening. This was my moment and there was no floating towards the white light, no flying above and looking down on things, no life flashing before my eyes. Disappointing or what? They’d have to leave me lying there. Me, lying there like a dodgy sleeping bag on
its knees. They’d have that on their consciences. Did that bother Old Country troops though?

The hand slackened its grip. I fought for air. Rubbed my neck. Loosened my jaw. The two other nuggets stepped back, creating a pathway for the third person to enter. I didn’t see the face of the new soldier. I didn’t look at it. My eyes were on the concrete. The new soldier was closer, invading my personal space. Boots that were once shiny stopped moving; the baggy khakis tucked into them fluttered in the wind. My head and eyes rose, pinned to the uniform. Rising. Huge brown belt with bronze buckle. Ammo belt. No need to use ammo on me. Surely not? Khaki jacket. Eyes rising. Eyes … STOP! Rising …
STOP!
My eyes didn’t go further than the little strip of fabric on the left breast pocket of the khaki jacket. The name fabric. The name tag. The name leapt out and punched me full force on the cheek. I read it through watery eyes:

CAP DU …

CAPTA DUD …

CAPTAIN DUDA!

There was no mistaking the name. And then those eyes. The same eyes. The same baby blue blinders as Pav’s. The exact same. No difference. The same blood. Before me, giving me the mad daggers, was the female Pav. No doubting it, this was the little man’s sister. I’d give her the same age as the Throat Crusher. She was the same woman I’d seen at the park’s entrance a few days after the bombs came.

It was as if I’d known her for ages. After all, her younger brother was my buddy. I knew her parents. I knew some of her Old Country history. In fact, I knew loads about her. Whereas she knew nothing about me. To her I was nothing more than a sewer urchin.

I’d heard about the things that Old Country troops did to stray teens. Give you a few happy smacks, interrogate you for hours on end until you reached breaking point, leave imprints of their boots on your chest. I’d heard that if they nabbed any Old Country teens they’d ruffle them up good and proper before sending them back to Old Country so they could do their Military Service. Real torture. I could feel the colour draining from me.

I smiled. Her expression stayed the same. Serious and deadly.

‘Why you fook smile?’ Even the way she swore sounded like Pav. She also had Pav’s ability to stare hard at people. I didn’t know how to reply but I was about to unleash the tongue when it came. I didn’t see it coming. It came from below. Wham! She gave me a little rabbit punch to the gut. No back lift. Just a simple dig. I winced in agony, as anyone with a low pain threshold would have done. Captain Duda bent down and pulled me up by the back of the hair. ‘You don’t fooking smile at me, little shit. OK?’ No more smile.