The Machine Gunners (7 page)

The most they could do was rescue all the bits and pieces—the glass paperweight with the view of Boulogne in 1898; the great black Bible with the tarnished clasp; the bamboo table—and pack them up for storage. Granda dozed in his chair, the Battle of Caparetto fought and lost, his Kitchener moustache trailing over his open mouth. It was terribly black inside Granda's mouth. Chas was fascinated by it, kept staring at it, trying to see something in the blackness.

Had Granda fought his last battle? Would he die there and then among his bits and pieces? Sometimes his breathing went funny, but it always recovered. Sometimes he moved in his sleep. Chas was glad to go down to the corner shop for some more cardboard boxes. The corner shop was untouched; just fuller than usual.

Only once did he allow himself to slip away and look at Granda's special treasure. In the coal shed—open to the sky now—on a nail in the wall behind the heaped coal, hung a helmet. It was thick with rust, and the twisted leather chin strap was as hard as iron. But on top was a little bobble of candlegrease. In the dugout at Caparetto, Granda had used the helmet as a candlestick. That was the original candlegrease—he had never removed it.

At three o'clock, men came with a van for the furniture. It was going, Dad said, to the Repository. Chas thought the word had a sinister sound, like Mortuary or Infirmary, but he didn't say so.

At ten past three, a taxi for Nana and Granda arrived at the end of the road. Nana and Granda were coming to live at the Square. Chas had lost his bedroom. He would sleep on the settee in the Front Room, with the mysteries of chiming clock, wedding photographs and mothballs. He didn't mind. He was much more interested in that helmet. If no one remembered it...

Nana took a last look round her home.

"Pity about the coal in the coalhouse," she said. "Some trash will steal it. Ghouls."

"You can't put coal into a Repository, hinny," said Mr. McGill crossly. He was tired, and had night shift to look forward to. "C'mon, that taxi's costing money. Come on, Chas."

"Can I walk home? I want to see what's happened at the church." His dad glanced at his watch. Two full hours to bomber time. He nodded.

"See you don't go near that unexploded bomb. And be home by five."

"Yes, Dad." The taxi drew away, leaving the house to looters and to Chas. The Union Jack still flew. He took it down, took it to the coalhouse and wrapped his new treasure in it. Then he bounced along to Bunty's Yard skipping and mouthing Granda's remembered words.

Range three-seven-five. Cocked. Two hundred rounds expended...
The Germans were about to face a new McGill, with a new machine gun.

"You're mad," said Cem.

"No I'm not. We got Clogger now," said Chas.

"Even with Clogger you're mad. There's usually ten of them."

"Och, tripe!" said Clogger. He never said much of anything except "Aye" or "No" or "Och, tripe," even to masters. He was very silent and very hard. He was the junior team scrum-half and had once played a whole match after losing two front teeth: spitting blood thoughtfully before putting the ball in the scrum, and scoring two tries.

He was down from Scotland to stay with his auntie for the Duration, because his mum was dead and his father in the Navy. If he'd wanted to throw his weight about he could have been the boss, a terror. But he was content to trail around after Chas because he liked his stupid jokes (and had actually been seen to
smile
at them twice). He had ginger hair and freckles, and always spat on his hands before he started any job, even a Math exercise.

He knew about the gun, but he was safe. He never told anybody anything, even the time from his watch.

"Look," said Chas, "Sicky Nicky has something we need. We've got to make it worth his while."

"Why do we have to build our camp in
his
garden?"

"Because it's in the right place. And because nobody ever goes there any more. Where else do you know that's
private?"

Cem shrugged. He was beaten there.

"Right! So what do we offer Nicky? What does he need?"

"All right, so we walk home with him. And Boddser will kick your head in."

"We'll see." They were packing their schoolbags to go home. Across the classroom, alone as always, Nicky was packing his neat books, expensive drawing instruments into an expensive bag, nearly new. But all scuffed, mauled.

Nicky's time of ordeal had come. He looked pale, was already starting to pant. Outside, the wolf pack was gathering: waiting to pull his bag from his hand, strew his books over the pavement, kick him when he bent down to pick them up, pour gravel down his shirt, pull his shoes off and throw them over walls. Not till Nicky was reduced to screaming blind hysterics would he be allowed to creep home weeping.

Every night it happened, regular as clockwork. The wolf pack never tired of it. Mornings, they didn't bother. They were sleepy or had homework worries, or were late. But the end of the day was always rounded off by an hour of torture.

Chas looked at Nicky. The face was good-looking, with a pale girl's good looks. The hair was curly and kept long. He had an operation scar on the side of his neck. But did that explain the constant bullying? Every kid had
some
peculiarity—was fat or thin or had big ears. Chas got twitted because he had thick lips and a funny fold of skin on the back of his neck. So why was Nicky singled out?

Chas wondered how he himself felt about Nicky. He'd never touched him, but constantly teased him. Why? Chas shrugged. That wasn't the job in hand. The job was to see that, for once, Nicky got home unscathed. But not
too
painlessly. That would look suspicious.

Nicky sighed, closed his desk and walked to the classroom door. Chas, Cem and Clogger closed in round him.

"Good evening, Knickers, my dear chap," started Chas. "How seems the world to you today?" Nicky looked frightened and hopeful at the same time. Anything was better than the wolf pack. They walked downstairs and into the yard, making remarks about Nicky's puny muscles; asking him how many times a day he went to the toilet, and whether he wiped his bottom with his left hand or his right. Nicky blushed, but it wasn't as bad as being hit with school bags.

The wolf gang was waiting just beyond the school gate; nine of them, including pack leader Boddser Brown. Chas kept up his flow of rudeness, but watched Boddser out of the corner of his eye. Boddser was looking worried; he didn't like anything unusual.

"Gerraway, McGill; he's
ours,"
said Boddser.

"I beg your pardon, O Mighty One, O Star of the East, O Moon of my Delight. Your beauty is dazzling, especially your haircut, Four-eyes!" There was a titter even among the wolf pack.

Boddser reddened. He looked uneasily at Clogger. He didn't like the new confidence in Chas's voice.

"Gerraway, McGill. I'm warning you! I've got no quarrel with you, for now."

"Oh thank you, thank you, worshipful lord," said Chas, making low salaams. "May Allah bless your luscious toenails." The smaller group moved past the larger one. So far, so good. They went on down Hawkey's Lane, not hurrying. Hurrying would be fatal. The wolf gang looked at Boddser. Already their victim was past any previous torture-place, getting nearer the main road where adults might interfere.

"Pull him out," said Boddser to two of his minions.

The minions dived for Nicky, who was between Chas and Cem.

Clogger moved like greased lightning. His steel toecap caught the first minion on the knee, leaving him writhing in the gutter. His fist caught the second full on the nose, drawing a satisfying stream of blood. The wolf gang drew back, and looked pointedly at Boddser. It was up to him, now, and the main road, full of people who might telephone the school, was only forty yards away.

"Get past them," shouted Boddser. The wolf gang streamed past, well clear of Clogger's boots, and blocked the end of the lane, solid.

"Told you so," said Cem ruefully. "Bloody fool, Chas!" But he doubled his fists. He was loyal.

Boddser stepped out in front.

"Right, McGill, you've asked for this." His bluster was gone. He had made up his mind, as a man might decide to nail up a fence he'd watched sagging all winter. Chas had made Boddser's dignity sag a bit lately; now it was to be mended with Chas's blood. Boddser didn't even sound cruel or gloating as he did when he tortured Nicky; just determined. The time for talk, Chas decided, was over. It was time for action. But what? Chas was quick, and not soft, but no one he knew could stand up long to the pounding of Boddser's fists, except perhaps Clogger, and it wasn't Clogger's fight.

He could dive, head down, for Boddser's midriff, slide down and pinion Boddser's legs and hope to push him over. But that would end, inevitably, with Boddser sitting on his chest, banging his head against the pavement.

Boddser took off his gas-mask haversack, then his school-bag, his school raincoat, his blazer. He rolled up his sleeves slowly, one after the other. Chas could think of nothing but to do likewise. He took off his gas-mask case. It was not like Boddser's. It was a circular tin, twice the size of a large tin of beans and nearly as heavy. It swung from a long thin leather strap.

And then the idea came to Chas. It set him aghast. But it was maim or be maimed now. He put the case down carefully and took off his schoolbag and coat and blazer, laying them in the fine gravel of the gutter. He came up with his fists clenched, ready. Boddser advanced without hurry.

"Take your specs off," shouted Chas. "I don't want your mum complaining to me dad if I break them!"

"Playing for time, McGill," jeered Boddser. "That won't save you." But he took off his spectacles and handed them to a minion, and advanced again. Chas saw the first blow coming, and ducked it.

Then he swung his right fist wildly, a yard from Boddser's face, and opened his hand. Fine gravel sprayed into Boddser's eyes. There was no need for the second handful. The huge menacing figure was suddenly crouched up helpless, tears streaming down his face.

Calmly, full of murder, Chas picked up his gas-mask case and swung it. It hit the side of Boddser's head with a sound like a splitting pumpkin. Boddser screamed but did not fall. Chas swung at him again. The gas-mask case dented dramatically. Boddser crashed into the corrugated-iron fence. Chas raised his tin a third time. All the hate of all the years, infant school, junior, boiled up in him.

It was as well that Cem snatched the gas mask from his hand.

"You're bloody mad. Stop it, stop it!" Cem yelled. Chas snatched for his weapon again. Clogger kicked it away and held Chas's arms behind his back. Then everyone watched Boddser aghast as he reeled about, blood spurting from both hands held across his face. Then the wolf gang turned and fled.

It was Clogger who approached the moaning lump, pulled the hands away and looked. A two-inch flap of forehead hung loose.

"Shut your wailing man; ye'll live," he said to Boddser. "Stop going on like a wee bairn." He turned to the group. "We'd better be getting him to the hospital."

Fortunately it was only two hundred yards away. A stiff starched sister took over.

"How did this happen?" she said like a High Court judge.

"I hit him," said Chas.

"What with?"

"Me gas mask."

"You're a wicked, vicious boy," said the sister. "I shall ring up your headmaster personally. You grammar-school boys should know better. You might have killed him."

"He was bigger than me!"

"That's no excuse. British boys fight with their fists!" Chas felt like a criminal.

"British boys fight with their fists," said Chas's dad, and went off to mend the greenhouse. He didn't speak to Chas for two whole days, and neither did his mother, even all through the air raid.

"Britishers do not use weapons, they fight only with their fists," said the Headmaster, flexing his cane. "Bend over, boy!" It was six of the best and very painful.

The class treated him with awe-struck and horrified silence. It was their opinion that Boddser had asked for it, but Chas shouldn't have done it.

"But what do you
do
if you're small?" asked Chas hopelessly. Nobody answered; they got on with their class-work.

The neighbours said Chas was a wicked boy who would come to an evil end, mark their words. It was all very trying. Chas felt imprisoned in a glass bubble. No one would talk to him but Audrey. So it was Chas, Nicky and Audrey who started the whole thing off, one night after school.

"Look, there's Boddser," said Audrey. Both Nicky and Chas jumped, for their different reasons. But Boddser was only getting on a bus to go home with his mum, his head still completely encased in a spotless white bandage that was changed every night. The school was beginning to call him "The Sheik of Araby" because it looked like a turban.

Boddser had come down in the world since the fight. For a start, his mother kept him off school a whole week; and then began calling at school for him every day at four o'clock in case the "big rough boys" got him again. She went on and on to everyone who would listen about the amount of bullying that went on at Garmouth High School. But one or two people had told her a few home truths about her darling's arm-twisting, so it was doubtful if she even knew herself whether she was guarding Boddser from the World, or the World from Boddser.

But even discounting his mother's goings-on, Boddser was a flop. His gang didn't want to know him any more. There had been a disaster, and they wanted a new leader. Besides, now he knew what the other side of pain was like, he was uncertain of himself. He put out his tongue at Chas as the bus swept past, and fell to dreaming of future revenge.

"Sit up, you great hulk," said his mother, poking him in the ribs with her elbow, "and wipe your nose,"

Chas, Audrey and Nicky reached Nicky's gate and hung around, unwilling to break up. They were all outcasts now.

"Like to see my goldfish?" asked Nicky. "It's six inches long."

"Gerroff," said Chas. "They always die when they get too big for the jam jar."

" 'Tisn't in a jam jar. He's got a pond all to himself. He's four years old."