The Bombs That Brought Us Together (10 page)

The eejits.

The brainless.

And me.

Charlie Law.

The night before the NO STEALING law was butchered
I spent an hour listening to my belly make sounds that the percussion section of an international orchestra would have been proud of. You’d have thought a quality baker was mixing cakes inside my stomach. Cakes. If only.

Since the bombs, and the arrival of Old Country’s (hungry) troops, food was seriously scarce. Well, everything was scarce. I’d visited every known and unknown chemist trying to get an inhaler for Mum. No luck. It wasn’t panic stations just yet, but it was getting dangerously close. Mum couldn’t go out – the air was still debris-dusty from the bombing, and the sight of Old Country troops on the streets made her chest tight. Great tidal waves of hunger pangs engulfed us all, but it was much worse for poor Mum because she had to cope with breathing issues on top of those waves. The main shopping centre had been destroyed. The borders were closed, and the farmers didn’t seem in a hurry to get food to Little Town. It was clear that supplies just weren’t reaching us. Maybe due to drivers’ fear of entering Little Town. Maybe out of Old Country’s refusal to allow them entry. Either way, food was running low in everyone’s gaff.

For the past week we had had soup for dinner. Two potatoes, two carrots, an onion, a bit of turnip (I found some turnip and carrots in the street, result!). Add some water, mush together with a little salt and pepper and hey presto! Soup. Soup for three. Soup that would have to last a week.
Delicious, tasteless soup. No dipping bread. Just soup. Bland Little Town Veggie Soup.

That night I didn’t lie in bed thinking about Erin F’s hair in my hands or Pav’s family’s safety or Mum and Dad smiling again or The Big Man handing over some plush chairs. God, The Big Man. I wasn’t even sure The Big Man was still alive. I watched my dream shed flutter away. It was food which consumed my every thought now. Nothing else.

Food.

And food.

And more food.

It was as if my head was a supermarket’s conveyor belt with all this wonderful, scrumptious scran passing through, with me pouncing like a rabid dog to get my chops on it. My head and stomach rumbled constantly. I was beginning to think that the first major casualty of these bombs – this war – was food itself. Or lack of it.

That night I couldn’t read a book as my concentration was below gutter level. I decided to cry instead. For an hour. At first a drip. Then a flow. Followed by a flood. I couldn’t stop it.

The only shop that was still doing any business was FruitLoop; I’m not sure why, as surely there was only a tiny amount of produce left to sell. Shame because FruitLoop used to have every fruit and veg type under the sun. When Little Town was in calmer times, Mum occasionally sent me
there to pick up her messages when she couldn’t be bothered herself. The shop only survived because it sat in a little parade which the bombs hadn’t obliterated; even so FruitLoop was now a sorry sight. The main colour from the display outside was fire-damaged brown. But each time I walked past FruitLoop the temptation killed me. The monster’s voice appeared on my shoulder, whispering into my lug:

Go on, Charlie, who’s going to notice? Go on, Charlie. You’ll never in a month of Sundays get caught. Go on, Charlie, I’ve got your back on this. You’re a shoo-in.

Now, I’m fully aware that shoplifting is high on my list of Little Town DON’Ts, but I let my fingers run wild and free. I ran them gently over the fruit and veg, caressed an apple, placed all five digits over its waxy skin. Its bruising didn’t matter to me. I only saw this juicy, delicious apple sitting pretty, waiting to be picked up, examined, breathed on, rubbed on a thigh and plunged into my mouth. I held it. Smelt it. I hadn’t eaten fruit in weeks. The little monster mumbled:

Go on, Charlie. Stick it in your bag. No one has clocked you. Remember, I’ve got your back.

I looked left and right, unzipped my bag and plonked it in.

Good on you, Charlie. Walk away. Slowly does it. Don’t want to attract any attention.

But I didn’t walk away. I reached out and nabbed another.

One for Mum.

Enough, Charlie. Leave it now.

Then blagged another. For Dad.

Oh, sweet Jesus, Charlie, what are you doing, son?

RUN! RUN LIKE THE WIND, CHARLIE. RUN LIKE THE BLOODY WIND.

I didn’t hear exactly what the FruitLoop man said, but it was something like,
There’s no use in running, Charlie Law. I know it’s you. Just wait till they hear about this. Just wait till I tell them what you’ve done.
I couldn’t hear anything after that; my heavy breathing and thunderous heart drowned out his ranting.

When I got to our block I went directly into the shed and waited for my body to calm down. I dug deep into my bag, fished out the three apples: vile, repulsive excuses of apples, further bruised with the bashing they took during my scampering. I lofted them up like trophies. Turned each one in my hands. Held them. Smelt them. My belly didn’t rumble with much excitement. My tongue didn’t lick my lips. My eyes didn’t bulge. The hunger had jumped ship and left my tummy, hadn’t it?

Mum and Dad should never find out that their son was nothing more than a common thief. I couldn’t tell them. It would have to be a waiting game. Waiting for
them
to come and get me. Waiting for the FruitLoop man to knock on my door, flanked by some burly Rascal bruisers ready to dish out what had been coming to me. I could face anything, or so I thought. But a life of parental fear? No thanks.

Bombs? Pure doddle.

Bullets? No problem.

The Big Man’s Tough Guys? Easy.

Searches? Effortless.

Nicking three putrid apples? Terror alert.

Pav stared at the piece of paper for ages. I gave him some space and didn’t peer over his shoulder during his thinking time. He was muttering stuff in his own lingo. Thinking words. I was standing at one end of the shed. Pav was at the other, struggling with the contents of the paper.

‘Do you want me to go over it one more time, Pav?’ I said.

‘No, I have answer.’ He came towards me, showed me the paper and pointed to where the apostrophes should go. ‘You put here and here.’

‘This one’s right, Pav. This one’s wrong,’ I said. I gave him a tick. I didn’t give him a red pen ‘X’ in case it psychologically damaged his confidence. ‘That’s not bad, Pav. Fifty per cent, that’s good.’

The lessons would need to be of high intensity before
school started. If we only knew when that would be. I’d heard that part of the building had been hit, but we didn’t know what to believe. We didn’t venture that far to find out – there was still no phone signal. Although I did bump into Norman in the street and he gave me the utterly fantastic news: Erin F was alive and kicking; apparently Norman had been given the task of taking vital medicine to her mother’s house. Who gave him the medicine? I didn’t ask. But I had my ideas. I didn’t care. Erin F was ALIVE.

Food shortages and troops clamouring about our streets I could just about swallow, but having my school closed was a total head-wrecker.

It was hard to get any quality work done standing up. Still no sign of The Big Man. Something told me that Pav’s mind wasn’t up to studying anyway. The whole bombing and thug thing had hurt him, dented his mind. A sadness had returned to his baby blue blinders again.

‘Sure you don’t want to go over it just one more time, Pav?’

‘My brain is fook melt, Charlie,’ Pav said.

‘Are you OK? Is everything OK?’

‘Little Town hating us so no OK.’

‘They don’t, Pav.’

‘We not bomb Little Town. Bastard from Old Country did bomb. Not us Duda.’

‘I know that, Pav.’

‘We run from Old Country bomb many times. Old Country hating us too.’

‘I know that. I understand.’

‘Yes, but not every others,’ Pav said, indicating with his head the blocks that surrounded us.

‘They do, Pav. They know you’re refugees. They know that you ran from the Government in Old Country. They know that you hate them more than we do. Everyone knows this.’ I tried to reassure him.

‘Yes, but look they still with the dagger eye at us.’

‘It’s not you. They’re just scared of the Old Country troops now.’

‘I not patrol troop, Charlie.’

‘I know you’re not, Pav.’

‘I fook hate Old Country troop.’

‘Me too.’

‘More me.’

Pav folded the paper and put it in his shirt pocket. His shirt flapped around his tiny body like a sail in the wind.

‘And how are your mum and dad?’

‘All time in house. Shitless scared.’

I knew Pav’s dad was still working at the hospital, which thankfully had escaped bomb night. An Old Country tactic? But Pav’s dad could no longer ride the bus. It was too dangerous in case Old Country patrol did a quick-fire stop check. There had been news of some Old Country refugees being
hunted down, discovered, taken away, questioned and never seen again. Game over. Pav told me that his dad had to be smuggled to work in the boot of a compassionate co-worker’s car. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know this info or not. Imagine that I myself was dragged in for interview by Old Country troops one day and asked to provide them with any relevant info about traitors, plotters or schemers I knew of. I don’t think I could hold my tongue if they brought out the water buckets. Maybe it was better to know nothing. Head down. Nose clean. Say, do, see and know nada.

‘I’m sure it will ease off, Pav. I actually think that the Old Country troops will leave.’

Pav sniggered. ‘Don’t be eejit, Charlie. They want own Little Town. Make like Old Country. Soon they bring Old Country people to live here. So troops be here to protect these people. They no go anywhere. Trust in me.’

‘You think?’

‘I hundred per cent sure.’

‘My dad says this will happen as well,’ I said.

‘Then all Old Country people be the most hated in Little Town.’

‘Yeah … I think you may be right there, Pav.’

It was hard to disagree with Pav. No one really wanted mega numbers of Old Country folk arriving thinking they owned the place. Popping up their shops everywhere and
speaking a lingo nobody understood. I wouldn’t have a clue what was going on. Imagine the confusion and all the kerfuffles. Maybe having their own shops was the reason for flattening the shopping area on bomb night. A part of me was thinking that perhaps life would be better with new shops: different places to go, a selection. Choices. We’ll see.

‘I no want to be person everyone hate, Charlie,’ Pav said.

‘You won’t be. Not while you’re in my company anyway.’ I pointed to the folded paper in his pocket. ‘You want to continue with the apostrophes?’

‘Let have break, Charlie.’

‘Sure thing, Pav. We can do some vocab instead.’ Pav groaned. I was unsure if it was his hunger pangs or his passion level. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll just point out random things and you can tell me what they are. OK?’

‘OK,’ Pav said, with all the enthusiasm of a dead pig.

‘Come on, Pav, the brain still needs to be active. Keep it ticking over. A healthy mind and all that.’

Pav looked at me as if he was chatting to someone from another planet.

‘You know what I mean, Pav?’ I said.

He shook his head.

‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway, let’s start, OK?’ I said.

‘OK.’

‘Right.’ I looked around the empty shed. I pointed to my shoe. ‘What’s this?’

‘Feet.’

‘No,
this
?’

‘This is shoe.’

‘And this?’

‘This is floor.’

‘Or you could say ground.’

‘Floor ground.’

‘It’s one or the other, Pav. You choose.’

‘I choose floor.’

‘Good man. And this?’

‘This is arm.’

‘Yes, but what specific part of the arm?’

‘Middle arm.’

‘Good guess, Pav, but not right.’

I moved my arm up and down like I was pumping iron.

‘Muscle,’ Pav said.

‘No, this part.’

I pointed at the specific part.

‘I not know.’

‘It’s I
don’t
know, Pav. I
don’t
know. Not, I
not
know.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll give you a clue; it begins with the letter E.’

Pav’s eyes shot through me. Clueless.

‘I don’t know. My head empty.’

‘What I’m pointing to is my elbow, Pav.’ Pav touched his own elbow, all jaggy boned. ‘Say elbow.’

‘Elebow.’

‘No, not elebow … el-bow. Say it slower; it’s like two little words.’

‘El-bow.’

‘Brilliant.’

‘Why I need know this, Charlie?’ Pav said.

He had a point.

‘Well, in case you hurt it and you need to go to the doctor,’ I said, trying to think of good uses for elbows. ‘Or if you want to rest it on your knee when you’re knackered after a hard day’s graft. Or if some beautiful hot stuff does a romantic stroke on it or, even better, she wants you to hold on to hers because she needs protection.’ Pav was blank. Then the major significance of this word came to me. ‘But, most importantly, Pav, you’re not allowed to put these on your desk at school.’

‘Why?’

‘OK, I think we can move on,’ I said.

More groans. Not the hunger pangs.

‘What is this?’ I said, pointing to my bum. I thought it was time to inject some fun into the day. See if Pav’s eyes could glow. ‘Come on, you know this, Pav.’

Pav’s body tensed with the hard thinking.

‘Arsehole!’ said a voice from the shed’s door. ‘What are you two fudge-packers up to then?’ Norman’s head popped around.

‘Blooming hell, Norman,’ I said, putting my hand on my heart. ‘I pure shat it there.’

Pav didn’t budge.

‘Not to worry, it’s only me,’ Norman said. ‘You didn’t think it was one of those Old Country dickheads, did you?’ Norman’s eyes flicked towards Pav. ‘No offence.’

‘It no offend,’ Pav said.

‘How did you know where to find us?’ I said.

‘Where else would you two weirdos be?’ Norman stepped into the empty shed. With Erin F in mind I noted that there was no overcrowding problem. Result!