The Bombs That Brought Us Together (4 page)

•
Mum used to make her money teaching at the local primary school
. (After I was born they replaced Mum’s job with a man. The security feels that women should not do too much money-chasing work. I think that’s why she goes ballistic with me at times. Maybe she blames me for her being stuck inside the block day after day; that would drive anyone round the twist.)

•
Dad used to write all these cutting-edge and important articles.
(Now everything he writes has to go through his ‘editor’, who then sends it to the security people before it gets published in the paper. He says what he now writes now is soulless censorship rubbish and not proper journalism.)

When the Regime came into force, before I was born, their security people asked Dad if he wanted to become a ‘special driver’. For
security people
read: Rascals. He told them where to stick their special driver offer. Mum said it was just another illustration of how they wanted to control everything.

Dad turned them down because he said he believed in
democracy, not criminality
, as well as
staying alive
. Now Dad’s stuck in his boring desk job, never to get promoted because he’s not friends with the Regime or the Rascals. Like many people in Little Town, they are punished
because they don’t voice their support. Mum stays home with her inhaler to keep her company. But, silver lining, I, Charlie Law, am their pride and joy. And I know the rules and obey the rules and play with the rules of Little Town.

We couldn’t sit on our hands and wait for Norman to appear with the gear, so we kept our eyes open whenever we were out and about. But almost three weeks had passed since I’d asked him and still nada. Our shed was empty.

On the street, people were milling around, some walking alone; others were in small groups, which was OK because it wasn’t dark yet. Me and Pav were looking out in case anyone in our area had been shunted from their home – all you had to do was get behind with your rent or annoy the wrong people and you got booted out, kids and all. If they had, we’d be there like a couple of rabid dogs to snaffle what they discarded. It didn’t usually happen down our way though, not because it was full of toffs with decent jobs, but because it was full of true-blood Little Towners: people who lived in
silence and didn’t criticise. I’m sure if we went up behind the station we’d have maybe got our mitts on something cool, but that wasn’t my territory.

Pav had been keeping a low profile for a few days. We were now at the stage in our brief friendship where I could tell when he wasn’t being himself. Some telltale signs told me he was on another planet:

•
He didn’t laugh as much when he swore.

•
He didn’t eat like it was the first time he’d seen food after ten years of living on a desert island munching on leaves and bugs.

•
He didn’t change his clothes.

•
He didn’t follow my lead.

‘We’d better get back before it gets dark, Pav,’ I said.

I hadn’t heard the wagons yet, but the patrols always started just before sunset. Some said that The Big Man ran the wagon fleet, but nobody knew this for sure; I’d say he definitely did.

‘Come on, Pav, we’re losing light.’

‘I no care.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You know about the curfew. We can’t be out after dark.’

‘Little Town
stupid
.’

‘Have you any idea what will happen if we’re caught?
They might throw us in a cell for the night or, worse, give us a real sore skelping.’

‘I no scare of them, Charlie.’

‘Is everything OK?’ I said.

‘I here, in this place,’ he said, throwing his arms up into the air. ‘So no OK.’ He stopped walking and looked at the ground. For a moment I thought he was going to have a psycho breakdown before my eyes; at the very least I thought he was going to start sobbing in the street. My mind was going haywire thinking of different scenarios: will I have to give him a cuddle? Stroke his cropped hair and bony back? I hoped not. Imagine what a disaster it would’ve been if the wagon had spied these shenanigans going on, on their turf? How do you go about explaining that one?

‘Pav, what’s the matter?’ I asked.

‘I angry man, Charlie,’ Pav said.

His eyes looked sad.

‘Why?’

‘Mum cry for three day.’

‘Is she ill?’

‘She cry because …’

‘Because you’re missing Old Country?’

‘No, Charlie. Because bad men give Dad big hassle.’

‘What bad men?’

‘Little Town bad men. They come to him all time.’

I’d heard a bit about what happened sometimes to Old
Country refugees if they got on the wrong side of the Little Town Regime. The Rascals would be dispatched for a small word in their shell. But who knew for sure? It was only hearsay. Still, if I were Pav’s dad I’d have been keeping a low profile.

‘All the time? When?’ I asked.

‘They always to hospital for to see Dad. They make the bad crap for Dad when he try to work.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we from Old Country, Charlie, and they no like this. They make Dad size of this.’ Pav made the gap between his thumb and forefinger about two centimetres wide.

‘Bloody toerags.’ I felt the anger rise up inside me. ‘What do they say?’

‘Always same.’

‘What?’

‘Papers, papers, papers. They want see papers.’

‘But haven’t you got papers?’

‘I not sure, but Dad scare he lose job.’

‘Best just to keep the head down,’ I said. ‘I’m sure it will pass, Pav. These things normally do.’

‘I hate Little Town. Mum hate Little Town. Dad hate Little Town.’

‘Oh, don’t say that, Pav. Things will get better.’

‘I doubt.’

‘They will. Promise.’

‘But why you let these prick Rascal men run this town, Charlie? Why?’ Pav said. I knew he didn’t mean
me
personally.

‘What can we do about it?’

‘I have idea.’

Pav made his finger into the shape of a gun, or a pistol, and fired a shot. Followed by another.

‘Have you any idea how dangerous these men are, Pav?’

Pav nodded his head in agreement.

‘Too much dangerous, Charlie.’

‘But they give protection to Little Towners.’

‘I don’t believe.’

‘They do.’

‘No. They
no give
. They take.’

‘It’s called protection, Pav.’

‘From who protection?’ Pav’s baby blue blinders looked hard at me. Some blood webs were in the whites of them now. A stare-off. ‘From who protection?’ he said again. I think he wanted me to say protection from Old Country’s Government, but I wouldn’t say it. I couldn’t.

‘Protection from those people who want to do bad stuff to Little Town, that’s who,’ I said.

‘Dad no want to do Little Town bad stuff.’

‘I know he doesn’t, Pav. I know he doesn’t.’

‘He good man, just want to work, eat, sleep, live.’

This was probably not a good time to tell Pav about my special TO BE and TO HAVE verb charts. He’d have blown
the idea out of the water, telling me to shove my Little Town lingo straight up my funnel. Best to wait until the heat inside him had cooled.

The light was fading fast. Most of the streets were deserted; those still outside were either trying to get home or dicing with the devil. There had been rumours that a storm was coming to Little Town, and I’m not talking about the weather. Dad was always saying,
They’re going to send in the big boys to sort out these problems. Then they’ll have another bloody problem on their hands, a bigger one.
I listened but didn’t ask.

Heaven knows what we were still doing outside. The sound of the wagon patrols could be heard in the distance, like they were all waiting for some big race to begin. And as soon as that sun went down it was a green light for them. All systems go. Red for us.

‘Come on, Pav, we’d better get home.’

‘I no go.’

‘Pav, don’t be mental. We have to go.’

‘I look for chair.’

‘It’s getting dark. Can you not hear the wagons?’ I said.

Pav put his ear to the sky.

‘I no hear.’

‘Pav, if they find you wandering the streets, things will be worse for your mum and dad, don’t you see that?’

‘Worse how?’

‘For a start they’ll know you’re not from here …’

‘I not.’

‘They’ll soon discover that you’re from Old Country …’

‘I
from
Old Country.’

‘I know that. But they might lob you in a cell, skelp you around a bit or take you directly home. Then they might give your mum and dad a massive fine for not being able to
control a minor
.’

‘What is minor?’

‘A young person. You. And me. We are minors, Pav.’

‘I a minor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cool.’

‘This is no time for cool, Pav. We have to get out of here.’

The sound was getting closer. We could hear their engine splurt along some parallel road. Pav’s eyes flashed towards the sound.

‘How massive fine?’ he said.

‘I don’t know, a week’s salary?’

‘Christ mighty!’

‘Maybe even two weeks,’ I said.

His eyes widened.

‘Could be more, Pav. I don’t really know. I’ve never been caught.’

The switch had been flicked.

‘OK, we get fook out.’

‘Right, let’s go.’

We didn’t run. Didn’t want to attract attention. We walked at a steady pace. We were like those Olympic walkers when it seems as if their bums are chewing caramel.

Four blocks to go: my heart was going as fast as my feet. Pav’s too. I could hear his breathing.

Three blocks to go: my muscles were beginning to get sore with this new walking technique. Pav was lagging behind. I needed to slow down.

Two blocks to go: it was pitch-black. All I could hear was the vehicles closing in. I could smell their guns and petrol.

One block to go: I could see the lights of our block. My heart calmed. My feet were fierce sore.

Our block came into sight.

Our block:

Damn!

Blast!

If only we had been able to reach it.

The pain of not reaching our block stuck in my head like a poisoned arrow. I didn’t want to be annoyed at Pav, but I was a tiny bit. I’d spent my whole life avoiding trouble. Now we got huckled for disobeying the dark rule. How stupid is that?

The wagon had pulled us up just before we got home.

‘Leave the speaking to me, Pav,’ I said as a man rolled down the window.

‘OK, I say nothing,’ Pav whispered.

The window man leaned out, rested his elbow on the door and gave us the big cheesy. Teeth galore. His smile took me off guard, as everything I’d heard regarding the night wagons before that was all about them being pure nasty. Like, how they strip you down to make sure you aren’t carrying any weapons under your clothes, in your bum or between your
legs. The images flashed through my head. I saw myself standing in some corner of a cell, shaking with terror while they laughed at me and told me to put my clothes back on. Horrible images that made my body shudder with fear.

‘Good evening, lads,’ the window man said.

‘We’re just going home, sir,’ I said.

‘That’s what they all say,’ he said.

‘Sorry for being late; it was an accident. My fault entirely.’

‘Names?’ The man didn’t pull out a pen or pad. His smile had drifted off somewhere else too.

‘I’m Charlie Law and this is Pavel Duda.’ I nodded my head towards Pav; he was still sloping behind my back. The window man clicked his radio on and said our names into it. A loud crackling sound shot out, followed by the words ‘
Affirmative, over.
’

‘Duda, eh?’ the window man said to Pav. He drew his eyes from Pav’s toes to the top of his head. ‘You’re not from around here, are you, son?’

‘I live there,’ Pav said, pointing towards our block.

‘Don’t get cheeky, Duda. You know what I mean.’

‘He moved here recently, sir,’ I said. The window man stared at me, a teacher’s stare at insolent boys. ‘From Old Country.’

‘Am I asking you, Law?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So shut your trap then, OK?’

‘OK.’

He took his teacher stare away from me and passed it on to Pav.

‘Old Country not good enough for you lot, Duda?’

Pav said nothing, not because he didn’t understand the window man’s question, but because it was a dim-witted one.

‘Old Country chuck you and your family out, did they? Speak up against someone important, did you?’ the window man said.

‘They left because of –’ I felt Pav squeeze my love handle area. It’s not like I was going to tell the window man any-thing, was I? I’m not that stupid.

‘Am-I-talking-to-you-Law?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So button it then. Mouth.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘So, what’s your story, Duda?’

‘No story,’ Pav said.

The window man sniffed about a litre of snot up through his nose and gobbed it straight at our feet.

A green, slimy splat.

He gave Pav the once-over again.

‘Who cut that hair of yours, Duda? The blind barber?’ The window man’s smile returned, then he sniggered, laughed, howled.

‘No,’ Pav said. ‘Mum cut.’

The window man’s howl stopped.

‘I don’t like cheeky oafs, Duda. Got it?’ He pointed aggressively at Pav. ‘And I especially don’t like cheeky oafs from Old Country.’ The pointing made Pav’s body tense. Mine too. ‘Got it?’

‘Got it,’ Pav said.

‘So, can we go home now?’ I asked.

‘Now he’s asking if he can go home,’ the window man said to the night air.

‘Would that be OK?’ I said.

‘Now he’s asking if that would be OK.’ He was being strange, or
extracting the urine
, as Dad would say. ‘Sorry to break it to you, but you two clowns are going nowhere.’

‘But …’

‘There’s someone who wants to meet you two numpties. So, sorry to say, you won’t be setting off together into the night.’

‘Who wants to meet us?’ I said.

‘Get in.’ The window man pointed to the back of his truck.