The Machine Gunners (16 page)

It remained to save the little dark boy's pride. He slid the Luger back, just as carefully, between the outstretched fingers. Then he slid his wrist back through the chain, and yawned loudly. Through his lowered lashes, he watched Nicky awaken, and grab frantically at the gun.

"I'm hungry!" announced Rudi.

"Och, Ah could eat a horse too," said Clogger, stretching. "Ma turn to make the tea."

Rudi smiled. Life was good.

Chas looked round desperately, but there was no way out except the path Boddser Brown stood astride. Nor was there anything to hit Boddser with. He wrenched at a rib of the old boat, but his hand just slipped on the oozing wood. Next minute he was lying face down on the wet grass, with one arm twisted behind his back, and Boddser's knee on his neck. He twisted his head, for black water was getting into his nostrils and mouth.

"Gerroff, you sod," he snarled; it was a gesture without hope.

"Poor old Chassy McGill," crooned Boddser, with evil sentimentality. "Where's your brains now, Chas?" He twisted Chas's arm up tighter. "Why don't you shout for help? Go on, shout."

Chas shouted. It couldn't do any harm.

"Louder!" Boddser twisted Chas's arm tighter. "Louder!" He gave another twist. "Louder!"

Nobody came.

"Right, to business," said Boddser briskly, moving his knee from Chas's neck to the small of his back. "Where's that machine gun?"

"Sod off," gasped Chas. He gave a vigorous squirm that half threw Boddser off, and crawled for dear life. But it only made things worse. He was now hanging face down over a little black stream. And he knew what was coming next.

"Thank you, McGill," said Boddser. "That's saved me a lot of trouble." Chas took a deep breath and closed his mouth as his head was thrust under water. He was under a long time, while his chest swelled and swelled until it felt it would burst. Then his head was released. He breathed out. He felt Boddser's hand coming down to push him under again before he could breathe in. He moved his head quickly and Boddser's hand slipped. Chas snatched a breath before he went under again. He felt strangely calm.

After half an hour, Boddser began to get worried. Things were not turning out as usual. Usually, by this time, kids were blubbing, begging for mercy, willing to do anything; which made Boddser feel hot and good and squelchy inside, and then he'd let the kids go.

But McGill wasn't like that. He just went on spitting out swearwords, whenever he had the breath. And once, when Boddser's hand had slipped, McGill had bitten his wrist hard and savage, like a dog. Boddser stared fascinated at the horseshoe of teethmarks in his own precious flesh. They hurt; they seeped blood into the muddy wetness of his arm. Boddser started to fret. The dirty water might turn the wound septic.

And now McGill lay silent, motionless, breathing in a funny sort of way. Had he fainted, or had a fit? He had acted so queerly. Boddser gave his arm a twist.

"Want some more, McGill?" There was no response. Boddser got to his feet, suddenly shaking, terrified. What had he done?

Next minute, McGill was up and gone, running now like a small muddy rat. Boddser roared with rage and pursued. Fooled again!

McGill crossed the first plank bridge and seemed to fall. "Got you!" roared Boddser and made to cross the plank.

Chas twisted round, caught the end of the plank and threw it into the water. Boddser, unable to stop, went into the stream up to his waist. The coldness of the water made him gasp. By the time he'd scrambled out, McGill had crossed the next plank and thrown that in the water too. Boddser gathered himself and crossed the stream in one gigantic leap. McGill ran for his life.

He was catching him now! In fact, he'd stopped, with his back against a fence. Why, that was the old bombed-out Nichol house behind. What was the little rat shouting? Clogger? Why was he shouting Clogger?

"So we start again, McGill. Where's that machine gun?"

"No, we won't. Look behind you!"

"Think I'd fall for that trick, stupid?"

"Perhaps ye'd better," said a new voice behind him. Boddser whirled.

"Clogger Duncan! But you went home to Glasgow!"

"Some people thought Ah did," said Clogger grimly. "What shall we do with him, Chas?"

"He's been torturing me, to get me to tell about the gun."

"Och, he has, has he?"

"Now wait," said Boddser, backing away. "It's none of your business, Duncan. It was a fair fight, one against one."

"When did you fight fair?" said Clogger. He turned to Chas. "It's up to you, Chas. We can't afford this lad any more. Shall I do him proper?" Chas didn't even think. He was black with hate.

"Do him proper," he said.

It had been a fair fight. There had even been a time when Clogger's nose had streamed red, and Chas thought, horror upon horrors, that he might lose. But Clogger cared no more for his bleeding nose than a fly. He just kept on and on, white, silent, steady as a man chopping wood. He never touched Boddser's face; always hit his body where it wouldn't show. And Boddser was much too keen not to get hurt.

So, in the end, Boddser was lying on the ground being very sick. Chas watched fascinated as the green strings of slime trailed from his mouth.

"Had enough?" asked Clogger. Boddser nodded silently. "Aye, ye've had enough for now. Enough till ye get home and blab to your mother that I'm still here in Garmouth, and where I'm living, and that Chas knows all about it. You know where the machine gun is now, don't you?
And
your precious mother'll run straight to the police."

Boddser's eyes flickered. Clogger had read his thoughts exactly. "They'll send you away to Borstal," he managed to mumble.
"All
of you."

"If you tell them."

"Try and stop me!"

"Ah will!" Clogger raised his boot and kicked Boddser in the ribs three times. It made a terrible noise, like a butcher chopping a leg of lamb. Then he kicked him three times more, and three times more. Boddser was much more sick now. When he looked up, his eyes had changed. He looked as if he understood something he had never understood before...

"Ye can put me in Borstal," said Clogger, "but you can't keep me there. Ah'll get out, and when Ah do, Ah'll come looking for you, Brown. And Ah'll finish off what I started the day. Ye understand me, Brown? Ah'll kill you, if Ah swing for it."

Boddser believed him. Chas, staring in horror, believed him too. This was a Clogger he had never known existed; a Clogger he had called out.

They left Boddser lying, and walked back to the camp in silence. Somehow, the silence went before them. Cem, Audrey and Carrot-juice just sat and stared. Rudi, pretending to read, watched round a corner of
Beano.

"Ah'll wash ma face!" said Clogger loudly, to no one in particular. Audrey poured out hot water without a word. Clogger carefully cleaned the dark cracked blood off his mouth and chin. Then he looked up at Chas.

"Ye didnae like that, did ye? So yell no be speaking to me any more. You've nae time for Glasgow hooligans." Chas neither looked up nor spoke. He drew, in the dust of the floor, with the toe of his Wellington boot.

"D'you want to go running to the poliss about me as well?" Silence. "It was you who said to do him proper."

"I didn't know what doing him proper
meant."

"Ye didnae think it meant gieing him a clout on the ear and sending him bawling to his ma? Ye didnae want the poliss round here in an hour, did ye?" Chas shook his head mutely.

"Then what other way would
ye
have shut his trap?" Chas shook his head mutely again.

"Och, you're nobbut a bairn."

"I'm
not
a bairn. He ducked my head under water for half an hour and I told him
nothing."

Clogger walked across to Chas and, tipping his head back by the hair, examined him closely. Chas was as white as a sheet, with great black rings around his eyes. Clogger let go his hair and ruffled it with great affection.

"God, man, ye're half-drowned. Aye, Ah guess you're a hard man in your own way, Chassy McGill. Hard on yerself." Chas felt a hot traitor tear start in the corner of his left eye. It was the admiration in Clogger's voice he couldn't bear.

"Oh, let's have a cup of tea," he said. "I'm O.K." He proved it by being splendidly sick for the next quarter of an hour.

Stan Liddell knocked on Chas's front door. Mrs. McGill opened it.

"Why hello, Mr. Liddell! Do you want Charles? You'll have to go up to the bedroom I'm afraid. He came home in a right muck last night—thick wi' mud and soaked to the skin. He can't raise his arms above his head this morning, and he looks like someone's been at his eyes wi' a blackin' brush. Expect he's been fighting again—you know what lads are."

Half an hour later, Stan knocked on Boddser Brown's front door.

"Mr. Liddell," said Mrs. Brown. "I was just thinking of calling the police, but you'll do as well. Bernard came home in a shocking state last night—soaked to the skin and plastered with mud from head to foot. He's been crying all the morning—I've had the doctor to him. You should see his poor little ribs—they're black and blue. He won't say a word, but a mother
knows—
it's those big lads been at him again—that Charles McGill. I don't know what the world's coming to, with all this hooliganism... you should just see his bruises, poor mite..." She went on for a very long time, saying the same things over and over again. Finally Stan gave her a look that stopped her dead.

"I wouldn't advise the police, madam. I've just come from McGill's house, and he's in just the same state. What's more, your son's far bigger than McGill, and I happen to know he started the business..." Stan was amazed how sharp his voice was; he supposed it was the permanent whine in Mrs. Brown's voice, her permanent conviction that the world would always do her and hers down, the mingy look on her face...

But it wasn't her face that Stan remembered as he walked home for tea; it was the two boys' faces. McGill as pale as death, but oddly triumphant; Brown cowering and hopeless. It was easy to guess who'd won the fight. But there was more to it than that, something that Stan couldn't put his finger on.

Both boys, of course, shut up like clams when he mentioned their injuries. Ah, well, thought Stan, at least I know they haven't killed each other. Then he went back to worrying about German paratroopers.

Nicky was as stubborn as a mule.

"I never went sailing with my father before the War!"

"Yes you did," said Cem. "You used to boast about it at school. And I saw you out with him once. It was a boat with a red sail!"

"He hired that from a fisherman."

"No he didn't. You told me he had his own boathouse on the river."

"It got bombed," said Nicky stubbornly.

"Where
was
it, then?" Everyone stared at Nicky in silence; he fidgeted a long time.

"All right, it's still there. At Prior's Haven. But the key to the boathouse got lost when our house was bombed."

"Where was it kept?" asked Clogger. "We'll find it!"

They searched the ruined kitchen half the day. At last, Clogger straightened his back, groaned wearily and said, "It is lost, Ah reckon. We'll have tey force the lock on the boathouse door."

"It's all right," muttered Nicky. "I've got the key here." He reached down into his shirt and pulled up a key on a string.

"For hell's sake, what's the matter with ye?" roared Clogger. "Are ye part of this gang or no?"

"It's my boat," said Nicky. "It's my father's boat." He began to snivel. Clogger stared at him.

"Aye, well, in that case I'll be away home to Glasgow the morrow. Ah can't afford to hang round here all ma life. Ye can have the Fortress, Nicky, all of it. That's yours as well. And you can sort out Rudi as you think fit. Ah'll be packing ma things." Nicky looked round the others for support. They all stared at the floor. Nicky suddenly felt alone, and very frightened.

"Sorry, Nicky," said Chas, "but we've got to give Rudi that boat, 'cos otherwise he won't mend that gun. And the Germans are coming soon, and we'll need it."

"Who says the Germans are coming?"

"My dad. He says if they don't come soon, they won't be able to come, and then they'll have to admit they've lost the War." There was a murmur of assent.

"Everyone knows they're coming."

"The soldiers dug pits on our soccer field to make their gliders crash."

"The BBC said vicars had to ring the church bells when they came."

"Oh, all right," said Nicky, hopelessly. "What do you want me to do?"

"Take us and show us where the boat is," said Chas, embarrassed.

"But I can't go out. People will recognise me!"

"Not in a balaclava helmet they won't. You'll pass for a slum kid. You're mucky enough."

The boathouse lock was rusty, but Clogger had brought an oil can and it yielded at last. They passed into a gloom that smelled of tar, rope and stale water. They pulled the door shut behind them, and there was only light from a little window high up.

Half the place was filled with the licking smacking waters of the river; the other half was full of white boat, yellow masts and red sails.

There was a packet of Capstan cigarettes on the side bench, falling apart and brown with damp. Nicky could remember his father putting it there. Halfway home in the car, his father had remembered that packet of Capstans, left behind on the bench. But he'd said, "Never mind, we'll pick them up the next time we sail." There never had been a next time.

"My mother never came here," said Nicky, staring at the cigarettes. "She said sailing was a man's thing." The other two boys shuffled awkwardly.

"Ah see the boat's outa the water." Clogger hefted the boat's weight.

"Yes, that stops her rotting in winter."

"Ah reckon we can manage her. Gies a hand, lads." Slowly they edged the boat in. Chas was clumsy, and the stone of the jetty scraped the dinghy's white paint. Nicky felt it was his own heart that was being scraped. But in it went.

"Och, it's filling up wi' water!" said Clogger in disgust. "It's no good. It's rotted."