Johnny and the Bomb (10 page)

Johnny reached into his own pocket, and then hesitated.

‘Only we haven't got any money,' he said.

‘Yes we have, I've got at least two pou—' Kirsty began.

‘We haven't got the
right
money,' said Johnny meaningfully. ‘It was pounds and shillings and pence in those days, not pounds and pee—'

‘Pee?' said the woman. She looked from one to the other like someone who hopes that it'll all make sense if they pay enough attention.

Johnny craned his head. There were a few newspapers still on the counter, even though it was the afternoon. One was
The Times
. He could just make out the date.

May 21, 1941.

‘Oh, you have a paper, dear,' said the old woman, giving up, ‘I don't suppose I shall sell any more today.'

‘Thank you very much,' said Johnny, grabbing a paper and hurrying the other two out of the shop.

‘Sambo,' said Yo-less, when they were outside.

‘What?' said Kirsty. ‘Oh, that. Never mind about that. Give me that newspaper.

‘My grandad came here in 1952,' said Yo-less, in the same plonking, hollow voice. ‘He said little kids thought his colour'd come off if he washed.'

‘Yes, well, I can see you're upset, but that's just how things were, it's all changed since then,' said Kirsty, turning the pages.

‘
Then
hasn't even happened yet,' said Yo-less. ‘I'm not stupid. I've read old books. We're back in golliwog history. Plucky niggers and hooray for the Empire. She called me
Sambo
.'

‘Look,' said Kirsty, still reading the newspaper. ‘This is the olden days. She didn't mean it … you know, nastily. It's just how she was brought up. You people can't expect us to rewrite history, you know.'

Johnny suddenly felt as though he'd stepped into a deep freeze. It was almost certainly the
you people
. Sambo had been an insult, but
you people
was worse, because it wasn't even personal.

He had never seen Yo-less so angry. It was a kind of rigid, brittle anger. How could someone as intelligent as Kirsty be so dumb? What she needed to do now was say something sensible.

‘Well, I'm certainly glad you're here,' said Yo-less, sarcasm gleaming on his words. ‘So's you can explain all this to me.'

‘All right, don't go on about it,' she said, without looking up. ‘It's not
that
important.'

It was amazing, Johnny thought. Kirsty had a sort of talent for striking matches in a firework factory.

Yo-less took a deep breath.

Johnny patted him on the arm.

‘She didn't mean it … you know, nastily,' he said. ‘It's just how she was brought up.'

Yo-less sagged, and nodded coldly.

‘You know we're in the middle of a war, don't you,' said Kirsty. ‘That's what we've ended up in. World War Two. It was very popular around this time.'

Johnny nodded.

May the twenty-first, 1941.

Not many people cared or even knew about it now. Just him, and the librarian at the public library who'd helped him find the stuff for the project, and a few old people. It was ancient history, after all. The olden days. And here he was.

And so was Paradise Street.

Until tonight.

‘Are you all right?' said Yo-less.

He hadn't even known about it until he'd found the old newspapers in the library. It was – it was as if it hadn't
counted
. It had happened, but it wasn't a proper part of the war. And worse things had happened in a lot of other places. Nineteen people hardly mattered.

But he'd imagined it happening in
his
town. It was horribly easy.

The old men would go home from their allotments. The shops would shut. There wouldn't be many lights in any case, because of the blackout, but bit by bit the town would go to sleep.

And then, a few hours later, it'd happen.

It'd happen tonight.

Wobbler wheezed along the road. And he
did
wobble. It wasn't his fault he was fat, he'd always said, it was just his genetics. He had too many of them.

He was trying to run but most of the energy was getting lost in the wobbling.

He was trying to think, too, but it wasn't happening very clearly.

They hadn't gone time travelling! It was just a wind-up! They were always trying to wind him up! He'd get home and have a sit down, and it'd all be all right …

And this
was
home.

Sort of.

Everything was … smaller, somehow. The trees in the street were the wrong size and the cars were wrong. The houses looked … newer. And this was Gregory Road. He'd been along it millions of times. You went along halfway and turned into …

… into …

A man was clipping a hedge. He wore a high collar and tie
and
a pullover with a zig-zag pattern. He was also smoking a pipe. When he saw Wobbler he stopped clipping and took his pipe out of his mouth.

‘Can I help you, son?' he said.

‘I … er … I was looking for Seeley Crescent,' whispered Wobbler.

The man smiled.

‘Well, I'm Councillor Edward Seeley,' he said, ‘but I've never heard of a Seeley Crescent.' He called over his shoulder to a woman who was weeding a flowerbed. ‘Have you heard of a Seeley Crescent, Mildred?'

‘There's a big chestnut tree on the corner—' Wobbler began.

‘We've got a chestnut tree,' said Mr Seeley, pointing to what looked like a stick with a couple of leaves on it. He smiled. ‘It doesn't look much at the moment, but just you come back in fifty years' time, eh?'

Wobbler stared at it, and then at him.

It was a wide garden here, with a field beyond it. It struck him that it was quite wide enough for a road, if … one day … someone wanted to build a road …

‘I will,' he said.

‘Are you all right, young man?' said Mrs Seeley.

Wobbler realized that he wasn't panicking any more. He'd run out of panic. It was like being in a dream.
Afterwards
, it all sounded daft, but while you were in the dream you just got on with it.

It was like a rocket taking off. There was a lot of
noise and worry and then you were in orbit, floating free, and able to look down on everything as if it weren't real.

It was an amazing feeling. Wobbler had spent a large part of his life being frightened of things, in a vague kind of way. There were always things he should have been doing, or shouldn't have done. But here it all didn't seem to matter. He wasn't even born yet – in a way, anyway – so absolutely nothing could be his fault.

‘I'm fine,' he said. ‘Thank you very much for asking. I'll … just be off back into town.'

He could feel them watching him as he wandered back down the road.

This
was
his home town. There were all sorts of clues that told him so. But all sorts of other things were … strange. There were more trees and fewer houses, more factory chimneys and fewer cars. A lot less colour, too. It didn't look much fun. He was pretty certain no one here would even know what a pizza
was
—

‘'Ere, mister,' said a hoarse voice.

He looked down.

A boy was sitting by the side of the road.

It was almost certainly a boy. But its short trousers reached almost to its ankles, it had a pair of glasses with one lens blanked out with brown paper, its hair had been cut apparently with a
lawnmower, and its nose was running. And its ears stuck out.

No one had ever called Wobbler ‘mister' before, except teachers when they wanted to be sarcastic.

‘Yes?' he said.

‘Which way's London?' said the boy. There was a cardboard suitcase next to him, held together with string.

Wobbler thought for a moment. ‘Back that way,' he said, pointing. ‘Dunno why there's no road signs.'

‘Our Ron says they took 'em all down so Jerry wun't know where he was,' said the boy. He had a line of small stones on the kerb beside him. Every so often he'd pick one up and throw it with great accuracy at a tin can on the other side of the road.

‘Who's Jerry?'

One eye looked at him with deep suspicion.

‘The
Germans
,' said the boy. ‘Only I wants 'em to come here and blow up Mrs Density a bit.'

‘Why? Are we fighting the Germans?' said Wobbler.

‘Are you 'n American? Our dad says the Americans ought to fight, only they're waitin' to see who's winnin'.'

‘Er …' Wobbler decided it might be best to be American for a bit. ‘Yes. Sure.'

‘Garn! Say something American!'

‘Er … right on. Republican. Microsoft. Spiderman. Have a nice day.'

This demonstration of transatlantic origins seemed to satisfy the small boy. He threw another stone at the tin can.

‘Our mam said I've got to stop along of Mrs Density's and the food's all
rubbish
,' said the boy. ‘You know what, she makes me drinks
milk
! I dint mind the proper milk at home but round here, you know what, it comes out of a cow's
bum
. I seen it. They took us to a farm with all muck all over the place and, you know what, you know how eggs come out? Urrr! And she makes us go to bed at seven o'clock and I miss our mam and I'm going home. I've had enough of being 'vacuated!'

‘It can really make your arm ache,' said Wobbler. ‘I had it done for tetanus.'

‘Our Ron says it's good fun, going down the Underground station when the siren goes off,' the boy went on. ‘Our Ron says the school got hit an' none of the kids has to go any more.'

It seemed to Wobbler that it didn't matter what he said. The boy was really talking to himself. Another stone turned the can upside down.

‘Huh,' said the boy. ‘Like to see 'em hit the school
here
. They just pick on us just 'cos we're from London and, you know what, that Atterbury kid pinched my piece of shrapnel! Our Ron give it
me. Our Ron's a copper, he gets a chance to pick up really good stuff for me. You don't get shrapnel round here, huh!'

‘What's shrapnel?' said Wobbler.

‘Are you a loony? It's bits of bomb! Our Ron says Alf Harvey got a whole collection
an'
a bit off'f a Heinkel. Our Ron said Alf Harvey found a real Nazi ring with an actual finger still in it.' The boy looked wistful, as though unfairly shut off from untold treasures. ‘Huh! Our Ron says other kids down our street have gone back home and I reckon I'm old enough, too, so I'm goin'.'

Wobbler had never bothered much with history. As far as he was concerned it was something that had happened to other people.

He vaguely remembered a TV programme with some film shot back in the days when people were so poor they could only afford to be in black and white.

Kids with labels round their necks, waiting at railway stations. Every single adult wearing a hat …

Evacuees, that was it. Sent out from the big cities so's they wouldn't get bombed, it said.

‘What year's this?' he said.

The boy looked at him sideways.

‘You're a spy, incha,' he said, standing up. ‘You don't know anyfink about nuffink. You ain't
American 'cos I seen 'em on the pictures. If you're'n American, where's your gun?'

‘Don't be daft, Americans don't all have guns.' said Wobbler. ‘Lots of them don't have guns. Well … some don't, anyway.'

‘Our Ron said there was something in the paper about German parachuters landing disguised as nuns,' said the boy, backing away. ‘Seems to
me
you could've been a parachuter, if it was a big parachute.'

‘All right, I'm English,' said Wobbler.

‘Oh, yeah? Who's the Prime Minster, then?'

Wobbler hesitated.

‘I don't think we've done that at school,' he said.

‘You don't get no lessons in knowing about Winston Churchill,' said the boy dismissively.

‘Hah, you're just trying to mess me around,' said Wobbler. ‘'Cos I know for a
fact
we've never had a black Prime Minister.'

‘You don't know
nuffink
,' said the boy, grabbing his battered suitcase. ‘And you're fat.'

‘I don't have to stand here listening to you,' said Wobbler, heading off down the road.

‘Spy spy spy,' said the boy.

‘Oh, shut up.'

‘
An'
you wobble. I saw that Goering on the newsreels. You look
jus'
like him.
An'
you're dressed up all funny. Spy spy spy!'

Wobbler sighed. He was fairly used to this, only not so much these days because once he'd just been fat and now he was
big
and fat.

‘And
you're
stupid,' he said. ‘But at least
I
could get slimmer.'

Biting sarcasm didn't work.

‘Spy spy spy! Nasty nasty Nazi!'

Wobbler tried walking faster.

‘I'm goin' to tell Mrs Density an' she can telephone our Ron and he can come an' arrest you!' shouted the boy, jumping along behind him.

Wobbler tried walking faster still.

‘He's got a
gun
, our Ron.'

A man went by slowly on his bike.

‘He's a spy,' said the boy, pointing at Wobbler. ‘I'm arresting him for our Ron.'

The man just grinned at Wobbler and pedalled onwards.

‘Our Ron says you spies send Morse code messages to Nazi submarines by flashing torches,' said the boy.

‘We're twenty miles from the sea,' said Wobbler, who'd almost broken into a run.

‘You could stand on something high. Nyer nyer nyer. Spy spy spy.'

It was just plain stupid, thought Bigmac, as he watched the two plumes of steam in front of him.

What kind of idiots built a car without power steering or synchromesh gears and put in brakes apparently operated by string? He was practically doing the world a favour by taking the car off the road.