The Bombs That Brought Us Together (8 page)

There was no BOOM.

There was no BANG.

There was no ROAR.

They echoed like fireworks going off in the sky; the echo was so fireworky in fact that it teased and tempted me to get up from the foetal position and look out of my window, mouth open in awe at the beauty of Little Town’s sky of many colours.
Stay under
was the call from Dad so I stayed under. At other times the bombs seemed just like cracks of thunder. Definitely not like bombs in the films I’d seen or in the books I’d read. The sustained attack lasted for six minutes. Under the duvet I counted. Six whole minutes of fireworks and thunder.

After the six minutes of sustained attack a hush came over Little Town. That lasted for seventeen minutes. Under the duvet I counted. Seventeen minutes of Little Town being dead as a dodo. A place fireworked to buggery. I was now
going to be living in a desert of rubble and ruin. My new home. Under that duvet I imagined the amount of buildings destroyed, the amount of people missing, the amount of money the clear-up operation would cost and the amount of stress parents would have on their plates. I lost count.

Little Town was then shunted back into life. A life with a severe limp, that is: the sirens started up; even from under my duvet I could see their blue, red and orange lights illuminating the walls.

Blue.

Red.

Orange.

Dark.

Blue.

Red.

Orange.

Dark.

Blue.

Red.

Orange.

Dark.

The combination of the police, ambulance and fire brigades’ sirens made a shocking crescendo of sound. Then the screams kicked in again and every sound went up a notch, from shocking to terrifying level. I squashed my face into the pillow, pulled up the sides so it fully covered my
ears. Blocking it all out. The noise still managed to find its way through the duvet though, through the pillow and right into my lugs. It was clear that loads of people were out of their blocks. Folk shouting, questioning and just being nosy. People were yelling for their family members who’d been out and about. Screaming for them. I don’t think anyone gave a monkey’s about the dark curfew.

‘Charlie? Charlie?’ Mum said.

‘Yes?’ I muttered. My face still deep in the pillow.

‘Are you OK, son?’

‘I’m good now,’ I said, taking my face off the pillow. My mouth and pillow were sodden with saliva. We pulled the duvet from over our heads and breathed normally again. ‘Is it over for the night, do you think?’

‘I think so,’ Mum said. ‘Do you want to sleep with Dad and me tonight?’

‘No, I’m OK here.’

So it was all fine and dandy cuddling up to Mum and Dad when I thought we were about to be blown to bits, but now that wasn’t the case, not a chance was I sleeping with them. I was almost fifteen, for God’s sake; time to unshackle the MAN.

‘OK, then,’ she said.

‘I don’t think the bombs reached us, Mum.’

‘They mostly bombed up near the station, I think,’ Mum said.

‘Does that mean there won’t be any trains coming and going from Little Town any more?’

‘It’s probably too early to tell, Charlie.’

Mum sat on the edge of my bed and stroked my hair. No doubt she was worried sick for her son’s mental safety. I was fine apart from the wet mouth, clammy hands and bumpy heart rate.

‘You should try getting some sleep, darling,’ Mum said, lifting the duvet away from the bed so I could lie down properly. This was going back to the old days of stories and kisses and songs and hugs and alphabets. Mum seemed to enjoy it. I thought it was weird but I put my head down and allowed her to tuck me in, peck me on the head and tell me how much she loved me before she left my room. Classic old-school mummying.

It was way too noisy to sleep. I was way too adrenalin-pumped. The real reason I didn’t want to sleep was that I was afraid I wouldn’t wake up again. I was scared the bombs would come back and bounce off my head. That they’d return to our part of Little Town and I wouldn’t see the light of day again because of them. Or worse, I would be stuck under an avalanche of debris and dust and left for days on end before finally perishing from dehydration and lack of vital-organ oxygen. But the amazing thing was that I did see the light of day again and I did manage to get some sleep. One minute I’m lying watching the blue, red, orange, dark
spin around my room, listening to the muffled street sounds and thinking about Pav and how he and his mum and dad were coping with all this, how they were processing the fact that it was
their
people who’d done it,
their
mob’s mental politics who lobbed bombs at us, and the next minute I’m creaking my eyes open at sunlight sneaking through my window. It wasn’t as if I’d slept like a baby, but I’d slept.

The next morning was spent glued to the telly screen until something or someone came on. The news guy eventually returned with his eyes even more mangled than they had been the previous night. It was clear this man definitely hadn’t slept like a baby. He said that he was broadcasting from a
secret and secure location
because of
circumstances outwith our control
and went on to tell us about the
criminal devastation
Old Country had caused. You could hear a smidgen of a pin being dropped in our house when he was reading out the list of destruction.

DEVASTATION OLD COUNTRY HAD CAUSED

•
Shopping Area: bombed to smithereens.

•
Train Station: bombed to smithereens.

•
Metal Factory near Station: bombed to smithereens.

•
Sports Stadium: bombed to smithereens.

•
Little Town’s Town Hall: bombed to smithereens.

•
Three Hundred and Twenty-Seven Souls (and Rising): bombed to smithereens.

In his secret location the news guy shuffled in his seat. He then paused. The pause gave the viewers time to swallow what he’d told us. Once again we sat in open-mouthed silence. Mum puffed her inhaler and then put her hand over her mouth and shook her head. Dad’s eyes had a look of revenge about them. As always Dad broke the silence, but when he said, ‘Rotten murdering bastards,’ it wasn’t meant as a conversation starter.

The news guy perked up once more and told us about the many things that weren’t bombed to smithereens but merely seriously damaged or semi-destroyed:

•
Some Schools: just damaged.

•
The Bicycle Tricks Park: just damaged.

•
The Big Supermarket: just damaged.

•
Mobile Phone Transmitters: disabled.

•
Six Hundred and Forty-Two Souls (and Rising): just damaged.

All this info left me with some serious questions of my own to mull over:

•
With the transmitters down, how was I going to find out if people were OK? Mainly Erin F.

•
How were we going to be educated?

•
Where were we going to do bike tricks now?

•
How in the hell’s fire were we going to get scran in our bellies?

•
Who was going to help the relatives of the hundreds of poor souls with all their tears and pain?

And the biggie:

•
Was The Big Man dead?

After the bombs came I didn’t get out of bed for two days except to watch news on the telly. Mum and Dad were glued to the sporadic news broadcasts, trying to find out as much information as possible. Apparently, Old Country soldiers were spreading through Little Town, but we hadn’t seen any yet. I read, slept, thought, shook and one time cried when I heard people wailing outside. It was probably all in my mind but the smell of everything crept into my room: a pungent mixture of burning, blood, dust and death. It dried my throat and latched on to my skin. I worried about Pav and his family, wondering if they were huddled behind a wardrobe, too scared to show their faces. Hungry. Exhausted. Terrified.

I thought about Erin F and wondered if I’d ever get to see
her again. Tears filled my eyes. In fact, who would I get to see again? More tears.

On the third night there was a thud. I thought I was still dreaming. The non-dream part was Mum telling me to stay in my bed, Dad saying through gritted teeth not to make a sound or else we’d be next. He didn’t say
next
though, he used another word.

The first THUD made sure I wouldn’t be finishing my dream. The second THUD woke me up proper. And the third THUD shuddered my innards. I got up and went to see what it was. Mum and Dad were hunched together at our main door, listening to what was happening at the other end of our shared block. Directly outside Pav’s place.

‘Charlie, get back to bed at once,’ Mum whispered with her angry voice. It didn’t have the same impact as the bellowing voice she normally uses so I chose not to return to bed.

‘Keep that shut,’ Dad whispered, and drew a zip across his mouth. ‘If they know we’re in here listening, we’re done for.’

That’s when I knew it was serious. So did my heart. I ran an imaginary zip across my own mouth and lobbed an imaginary key over my real shoulder. We were all huddled beside the door. Listening. It reminded me of Anne Frank again. Even our eyes didn’t move as we listened.

‘You. Stand there,’ said the voice from behind our door.

‘You. Stand there,’ the same voice said.

‘You. Stand there.’ Same voice again. But there was more than one person because we could hear them shuffling about. Maybe three. Maybe more. Speaking the lingo. The voice sounded agitated and annoyed.

I just knew that Pav, his mum and his dad were lined up outside their front door totally shitting themselves. I was too scared to look through the letter box. I’d heard all about these night visits. We all had. I didn’t know if they were true or not. Nobody had actually experienced seeing one in action; it was just some eejits at school full of bravado who said that these raids happened. They’d probably upped the ante since the bombs. Someone must have grassed on Pav and his family, that’s all I can say. Told these thugs about Old Country folk living here.

‘Who else is inside?’ a second voice said.

‘We are just three,’ Pav’s dad said.

‘You better not be lying to us,’ Voice Two said.

‘No, go see inside; we are just three,’ his dad said again.

‘What do you think they want?’ I whispered to Dad.

Mum put a finger to her lips. Dad’s lips said
shut up
to me. His eyes became zombieish, as if to say
I’m going to kill you Charlie if you don’t rap it, son.

‘All clear,’ a third voice said.

‘Papers,’ Voice One said.

You could hear the man rustling through Pav’s family papers: ID papers, entry and exit papers, birth papers,
marriage papers, religion papers, employment papers, education papers. All the essentials needed for Little Town Rascals.

‘Are you Jan Duda?’ Voice One asked.

‘I am,’ Pav’s dad said.

‘Are you Danica Duda?’ he asked Pav’s mum.

The silence seemed to last for ages.

‘Speak!’ Voice Two said.

‘What’s the matter with your tongue, woman? Don’t you speak the lingo here or something?’ Voice Three came in, which brought a bit of sniggering from the other two voices.

‘I not so good,’ Pav’s mum said quietly. They probably thought that she was scared stiff of them, but what they didn’t know was that Pav’s mum was a smashing woman who always spoke softly.

‘Are you or are you not Danica Duda?’ Voice One asked again.

‘My name is Danica Duda, yes,’ Pav’s mum said.

‘And you, you must be Pavel Duda?’ Voice One said.

‘My name is Pavel Duda.’ Pav’s voice suggested that he was a tough little nut.

‘How old are you?’ Voice Three said, as if he was trying to trip Pav up.

‘I have fourteen years,’ Pav said.

The thug Rascals howled.

‘
I have fourteen years
, that’s brilliant!’ Voice Three said, mimicking Pav.

‘I fifteen years after summer,’ Pav said. I wanted to open our letter box and scream:
Don’t say another word, Pav; please schtum it. Don’t give them the ammo to shoot you with.

‘They’ve tried to butcher our town and now they want to butcher our lingo as well,’ Voice Two said.

‘Disgusting,’ Voice One said.

‘Funny though,’ Voice Three said.

‘It is funny,’ Voice Two said.

‘Very funny,’ Voice One said.

More howling and giggling.

I suspected that all the neighbours in our block were terrified to even breathe heavily; I was glad Mum didn’t need a puff to keep her going. She was on puff rationing.

Then all three Rascals hit Pav’s dad with a quick-fire torrent.

‘Why did you come here?’

‘Why did you leave Old Country?’

‘Did they boot you out?’

‘What did you do?’

‘Tell us.’

‘Who were you against, Duda?’

‘Spit it out.’

‘We can find out, you know.’

‘Scum too much to handle in Old Country for you then?’

‘Yeah, full of scum, was it?’

‘Riddled with them, was it?’

‘Stinking the place up, were they?’

‘Mingers.’

‘Filth.’

‘Tramps.’

‘Beggars.’

‘Vagrants.’

‘Infidels.’

BACK OFF A LITTLE AND GIVE THE MAN SOME SPACE TO SPEAK, WOULD YOU?

They started up their laughter routine again.

‘Why you want us?’ Jan Duda asked.

As quick as a light being switched off, the sniggering stopped. Routine over. Mum and Dad changed their facial expressions. Dad shook his head. Mum put a hand to her mouth. I did an inside swear word.

‘What was that?’ Voice One said.

‘What the hell did you say?’ Voice Three said.

‘You don’t ever ask why we want you, got it?’ Voice Two said.

Silence.

‘Got it, Duda?’ Voice Three said.

‘Got it, yes,’ Jan Duda said.

‘See, you Old Country people, you’re all the same,’ Voice One said. ‘Think you’re better than everyone else, think you’ve got a right to everything here. Well, I’ve got news for you, Duda.’