The Bombs That Brought Us Together (7 page)

‘Yeah, right!’

‘We are, swear to it.’

‘Where are you getting the stuff from?’

‘Contacts, Erin F. Contacts,’ I said, trying to sound like one of those dudes who knew all the comings and goings of a place.

‘I’ll believe it when I see it, Charlie.’

‘If you want you can come round and see the shed?’ She looked at me. Silence. ‘Only if you want, like,’ I said. I think my heart was sweating as well as my pits. Time slowed. Everything slowed.

‘OK, I will, Charlie. Thanks.’

‘You will?’

‘I’ll take you up on the offer of seeing your shed.’

‘Brilliant,’ I said, before remembering to play it cool. ‘So, will I just text you or something when the chairs and stuff arrive?’

‘Yes, that’s probably best.’

Erin F pulled out her phone and gave me her number. I took Erin F’s number and put it in my phone. Imagine, Erin F’s actual phone number sitting pretty in my phone. When the info shot over to the main phone-receiving depot they’d see that it was only Erin F’s number I’d put in my phone. Nothing sinister. They’d see that Erin F was no infidel or social problem or rogue trader. Erin F just happened to be the diamond in the rough of Little Town, and her number was snuggled up tight in my phone. In fact, this number would be going straight into my brain. Cemented. This number would be my tattoo.

‘I’ll text you then, Erin F,’ I said.

‘Cool,’ she said.

‘Cool,’ I said.

‘Cool,’ she said. ‘See you then, Charlie.’

‘See you then, Erin F,’ I said, to the back of her head. Erin F walked off to the right and out of sight. I watched her every step of the way.

Every step.

My mum was one of the few people who didn’t look forward to the summer holidays. She hated me getting under her feet at home. If we had the money I bet she’d have sent me off to a snobby boarding school somewhere to fester my teenage years away. But who else would take the journey to get her inhalers?

Our summer holidays were almost over and Pav’s lingo had not shown significant improvement in spite of my best efforts. Also, The Big Man hadn’t come up with the goods yet. There was no sign of our chairs, table or lock. No sign of The Big Man himself. No sign of Norman. I was totally relieved with not seeing The Big Man. However, the dream shed we had in our minds was just an empty box of nothingness at the bottom of the garden. I decided to cut The Big
Man some slack, understanding that he was probably knee deep in organising manoeuvres, patrols, checkpoints and some other serious stuff.

And there was serious stuff brewing in Little Town. You could cut the atmosphere with your finger. Tense didn’t even cover it. TV reports speculated day after day about some military build-up by Old Country. No wonder people were tense! I didn’t really like watching the news – but Mum and Dad were completely addicted. Dad huffed and tutted and argued noisily with the guys in ties on a daily basis. The Old Country threat was nothing new, but it fuelled the lack of friendliness towards Pav’s family and the other Old Country refugees who’d accidentally – or unfortunately – found themselves stuck in Little Town for the rest of their days.

It wasn’t surprising the last thing on The Big Man’s mind was our shed furniture.

But bombs or no bombs, a promise is a promise. Just saying.

After my brief encounter with Erin F, I had revisited The Bookshop and bought a lingo-learning book and a grown-up novel with dosh I’d borrowed (I’ll pay it back with interest) from the secret stash (in the soap powder box) Mum kept in the kitchen for emergencies. I hadn’t had the courage to call Erin F, especially without a suitably welcoming shed in which to entertain her loveliness. I wanted to be able to play a word game with her on the table, sip specially made (by yours
truly) smoothies with her and have some deep chat. But the shed was not yet ready for seduction or wordplay.

I finally plucked up the courage to send her a message:

Hope you are well Erin F. See you next week at school. Hopefully. Charlie

Erin F’s reply was brief:

Yes

I didn’t know whether to take the YES as a positive or negative. I shilly-shallied about making my next big courageous move after receiving her YES text. Yes
is
positive, isn’t it?

The shed is coming on, looking forward to having you in it.

As soon as I sent the text I instantly regretted what I’d done and frantically pressed all the buttons on my mobile, attempting to UN-send it. No chance. These mobile phones aren’t programmed to give you a few seconds’ grace period for regret texts. Mobile phones don’t do emotion. Thankfully Erin F was a clever cookie so she’d have known that when I wrote
looking forward to having you in it
I didn’t mean that I was looking forward to actually
having her
in it. Erin F’s reply was longer this time:

Me too.

Like I said, clever cookie.

A week before we were due back to school the guy in the tie who reads the news interrupted our programmes with
an
extraordinary special announcement
. By the look in his eyes I knew that the special announcement wasn’t going to be a joyous one. The news guy looked as if he’d been howling floods of tears just a few seconds before the cameras rolled. He managed to hold it together for the
extraordinary special announcement
:

Good evening, residents of Little Town. It is with great sadness that I inform you of tonight’s imminent events. Our intelligence reports indicate that Little Town will come under a sustained attack sometime before midnight … We expect this criminal act to be catastrophic for some of our residents …

The news guy continued speaking but what came out of his mouth, or rather what entered my lugs, was
nanananananananananananananananananananananananan
instead of words and sentences. People talk about having a numb feeling when something drastic happens. I thought they meant a numb feeling like when it’s F-word cold outside and you’re freezing your rocks off. How wrong was I? Me, Mum and Dad sat in our triangle of numbness, staring at the television news guy as if it was his fault that Little Town was about to come under attack. While he advised us of what we should do, everything he said sounded like an inaudible slur.

•
If you have them, assemble in the basements or bunkers of your homes.

•
Turn off all lights in your homes.

•
Under no circumstances go outside.

•
Do not drive.

•
Good luck and stay safe.

When the numbness wore off I sat shaking my head. Dad sat with his hands on his thighs, stiff. Mum sat on the edge of her chair with her knees pressed together, like people in wheelchairs do. She took two puffs on her inhaler before shaking it to check how much she had left.

‘Attack us for what reason?’ I asked.

‘Because they can,’ Mum said.

‘It’s easy,’ Dad said. ‘They want our Government out and they want to come in instead. To control from within.’

Mum and Dad still said Government – they still believed in the sense of Government – but really they should’ve said Regime.

‘But they don’t live here, they’re not from here,’ I said.

‘Try telling them that,’ Mum said.

‘They think some parts of Little Town should be theirs, and to get it they think they should overthrow our Government,’ Dad said.

‘But that’s a good thing, no?’ I asked.

‘No, it’s not a good thing, Charlie,’ Dad said.

‘But I thought you hated our Reg– … Government, Dad?’ I said.

‘That may be true, if you can call them a Government –
more like a cabal of hoodlums! I want them overthrown through democracy and diplomacy, Charlie. Not with bombs and bullets.’ Dad pointed to his head and mouth. ‘I want to do it with this and this.’

‘So why do they want our land?’ I asked.

‘They say they have a right to it,’ Dad said.

‘It’s written somewhere apparently, Charlie,’ Mum said, taking yet another puff.

‘Your mum’s right,’ Dad said.

‘So? Some guy writes it somewhere and everyone believes him?’ I said.

‘That’s about the size of it,’ Dad said.

‘That’s hardly a law,’ I said.

‘It’s illegal, that’s what it is,’ Mum said.

‘That’s what they believe,’ Dad said. ‘That’s what they live by.’

‘And so that means you have to start bombing people out of their homes just because you believe in some tripe that was written, like, a million years ago?’

‘It’s a world gone wrong, morally mad,’ Mum said.

‘That’s just crazy stuff,’ I said.

‘I couldn’t agree more, son,’ Mum said.

I bowed my head and tried to gather my thoughts. Mum stood up and looked out of the window. The news guy was now off our telly screen. Our screen was blank. Obviously all the television-making people had done a runner. No chance
would I have stayed peering through a camera; I’d have been offski too. Stuff that, waiting to film bombs being fired straight at you.

Mum whispered from the window, ‘So this is it then?’ and just before she sat down she said, ‘The place is deserted.’

In all the books I’d read about bombs and coups and death there is always this big moment of panic before everything hits the fan. But that was fiction. Here in the reality of Little Town my family sat in silence. A strange sort of calm washed over us. Usually at this time of night Mum would be busting my chops to do the dishes, tidy my room or to stop ripping
her
knitting. Instead we sat in the silence of our own thoughts.

‘Can’t they just live here with us … in harmony … or whatever?’ I said. ‘It’s not as if they’re perfect.’

‘It’s not as easy as that, Charlie,’ Dad said.

‘It’s not, Charlie,’ Mum said.

‘Why?’ I said.

‘The fact is, they don’t like us and we don’t care much for them. We’re not compatible. End of. And anyway, replacing one controlling Regime with another is hardly a progressive move, is it?’ Dad said.

‘Our ways are different, Charlie,’ Mum said.

‘But how can I not
like
them when I don’t even know any of them?’ I said.

‘But you do know them,’ Mum said.

‘No I don’t,’ I said.

‘What about your wee buddy across there?’ Dad said, pointing at our front door.

‘Who?’

‘The Duda fella,’ Dad said.

‘Pav?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s not one of them,’ I said.

‘He is, Charlie,’ Mum said.

‘He’s only from there,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t make him one of them.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Dad said.

‘But Pav and his family don’t want our land; they only came here for protection, like refugees. Pav’s dad earns an honest crust. It’s not like they pure love our Regime or anything.’

‘We know this, Charlie, son,’ Mum said.

‘And he was a major player in some brainy job back in Old Country.’

‘I know this,’ Dad said.

‘How do you know?’ I asked.

‘This is Little Town, Charlie. We do know a thing or two about who comes in and who goes out. People talk … well, whisper. People listen,’ Dad said.

‘So if you know what he did why can’t he get a similar job here then?’

‘It’s not as simple as that, Charlie,’ Dad said.

‘But he has the skills,’ I said.

‘And so do many Little Towners,’ Dad said. There was anger in his voice. Maybe it was fear. ‘Our Government don’t want skills, they want control, or men who’ll exercise that control.’

Dad was meaning people like The Big Man.

‘So you’re telling me that people in Old Country don’t like Pav’s family, and people in Little Town don’t like them either?’

‘It’s not a question of
like
, Charlie,’ Dad said.

‘But they came here in order to feel safe,’ I said.

‘They are safe here,’ Mum said.

‘Try telling them that,’ I said.

‘Well, they’re probably safer here than they were in Old Country, aren’t they?’ Dad said.

‘Not after tonight they won’t be,’ I murmured.

‘You don’t know that, Charlie,’ Mum said. ‘We don’t know what will happen tonight.’

‘They’ll probably launch a few warning shots,’ Dad said. ‘Without much damage, just to remind us that they’re right there over the border, watching. It’s all about control and paranoia.’

‘But what happens if Old Country soldiers find Old Country refugees living in Little Town?’ I said. ‘They’ll definitely know the names of those people who left.’

Mum and Dad shifted their eyes to the floor. Then my mind flashed towards poor Anne Frank and her family. I’d read the book about their hiding exploits at school once.

Surely Pav’s family wouldn’t have to go into hiding from Old Country soldiers? Surely they wouldn’t have to go into hiding from folk here who think they’ve just arrived from Old Country to pinch their land, nick their jobs and dilute their culture? I looked at Dad. I looked at Mum. Surely no Law family member would grass them up. I looked at Mum. I looked at Dad. Surely not.

‘They hate Old Country more than you do,’ I said. In truth I didn’t know this as a fact, but why else would they come
here
if they didn’t? They had to hate Old Country.

‘Well, I’m not too sure about that,’ Mum said, and sat back in her chair, taking in a big puff.

Dad sat back in his chair as well. Both let out a massive sigh. Me too.

Dad broke the stalemate.

‘Well. I suppose we best do something about these bloody bombs then.’

And it arrived. My chest felt compressed; the reality of it all jolted my emotions into action. I looked at my mum and dad and cried.

We didn’t have a basement or a bunker. We didn’t have a lock-up. The shed was too rickety, and it was mine and Pav’s
anyway. We didn’t have a cellar. We didn’t have a shelter. We had nothing big and bomb-resistant. The only thing we had was bed covers. Huge duvets. When the bombs came, just before midnight like the news guy said, I was underneath mine in the foetal position, snug as a bug. Mum and Dad were in it with me.

Then it happened.

They sounded far away, as if they were on the other side of Little Town, somewhere near the station. The bombs didn’t thud the way I’d expected them to thud.