Beware This Boy (3 page)

“Give me a minute and I’ll let you know.” His accent was American. He rubbed at his shoulder. “What happened? What hit me?”

“Some idiot of a lad who thinks he can ignore the laws of physics. He was riding much too fast for these conditions.”

The American grimaced as he bent down and picked up his hat, which had been knocked off when he fell. “I hope the little brat hits a brick and gets his comeuppance. What the hell is he doing riding around at this time of night, anyway?” He looked around. “You know, I don’t have a clue which direction to go in.”

“Where were you heading for?”

“My hotel. It’s on Corporation Street. But even in broad daylight I’d have trouble finding it. You Limeys insist on changing the name of the street every block or so. And this was way before you thought the Nazis might invade.”

Tyler grinned at him. The man seemed a little on the tipsy side but his good humour was infectious.

“I was visiting the auntie of a friend of mine,” continued the American. “She kept plying me with her homemade cider. That stuff tastes like apple juice and has the kick of a mule.” He moved closer to Tyler. “Are you a warden? You don’t have your armband and hat on. You’re not a spy, I hope.”

“No, I’m not.” Tyler pointed ahead of him. “That’s the way to your hotel. If you keep close to the curb you should be all right. Corporation Street isn’t far. Just go past the next two streets.”

The American held out his hand. “My name’s Kaplan. If you get hold of that tear-ass bugger, give him a clout for me.”

“I will indeed. One for me too.”

They shook hands and parted company. Kaplan was walking much more tentatively than he had before. Maybe Tyler should have offered to escort him to his hotel. Good for
Anglo-American relations. Tyler wished he could have nabbed the little blighter, but he’d taken off in too much of a hurry.

The fog swirled in front of him as he trudged on.

Jack Walmsley, fourteen years old, a Boy Scout, and an official police messenger, was a lad in deep trouble and he knew it.

“Sod it.” He automatically whispered the bad word even though there was not a soul within earshot. He’d skinned his knee badly in the collision with the unknown pedestrian and he could feel a trickle of blood running down his bare leg into his sock. He wanted to go home but he daren’t. He had to come back to the gang with something to show for himself.

He started to count the streets, and at the third one he turned, dismounted, and wheeled his bike. Dorset Road had been bombed only a few days ago and he knew the houses were too badly damaged for anybody to have returned to live there. One of those that looked relatively intact had belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Cowan, an elderly couple he’d known since childhood. He’d heard they’d both died in the bombing raid. He shoved aside his feelings of uneasiness. They wouldn’t need their stuff now.

He pushed his bike under a remnant of fencing and slipped beneath the police ropes that were festooned around the area. He went to the front door, which was partly off its hinges, opened it cautiously, and stepped into the house.

“People are as thick as planks, Jack,” Donny had said to him. “Friggin’ stupid, most of them. They have no imagination. They usually leave their bloody money in the back of the wardrobe, in the pantry, or in the living room sideboard, bottom drawers at the back. Look for some sort of tin – biscuits, tea, stuff like that – Aunt
Fannie’s po with a lid on. If there isn’t any money, scarf the tins of food. Better than bloody silver plate these days. But we can still handle the odd picture frame if it’s nice. Keep alert at all times, like a soldier. You don’t want to come across a friggin’ granny who’s bin sitting in the bleedin’ pantry waiting out the Jerry. Got it?”

Donny Jarvis had accompanied his question with a painful twist of Jack’s ear. He enjoyed doing things like that, and the burn had lingered for a long time after. He’d almost broken Jack’s little finger a couple of weeks ago, when he bent it down into the palm until the boy had shouted out in agony
.

“Who’s the boss here, Jack?”

“You are, Donny,” gasped Jack
.

“And you love me, don’t you?” More pressure applied. “Say yes, like the little pouf you really are.”

“Yes, Donny.”

“And if I asked you to suck my cock, you would, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Donny.”

The two other boys, Art Fernie and Bert Teale, who were watching, had tittered at this, and Donny thrust away Jack so hard he fell to the ground, cracking his elbow
.

“You’re disgusting,” said Donny. “You’re worse than bleeding shit on my shoe.” And he’d wiped his foot on Jack’s trousers, going dangerously close to his privates. “Get up, arsehole. Don’t come back without that bleedin’ rucksack filled to the brim.”

Jack started to struggle to his feet, but Donny knocked him back again. “And don’t think of running to your old man or Mumsie. They won’t help you. Looters go to bloody jail for a long time. We have friends in jail, you little sod, and they would do whatever we asked them to. Got it?”

“Got it,” Jack whispered, and Donny let him get up
.

They’d been gathered in the air-raid shelter in Bert Teale’s backyard. Bert’s mother was sozzled as usual and had stretched out under the kitchen table, which she said was as safe as anywhere.
His dad was away in North Africa and Bert had declared one day that they didn’t know if he was alive or dead, but as for him, he hoped the bastard was dead. The boys didn’t usually exchange such personal feelings with each other, but both Art and Donny had nodded in agreement
.

“After the war, I’m going to drive up in my Bentley … and I’m going to offer my old man a bloody job working for me.”

Donny sported a scar on his upper lip where his dad had knocked him against the stove during one of his mad-drunk fits. Even Jack – who tried to make himself invisible at the meetings and acted as if he didn’t see anything – even he was impressed by the implacable hatred in Donny’s eyes whenever he mentioned his father
.

This cold, foggy November night, he’d gone to Donny’s house as instructed. “Fog is the perfect cover,” said Donny. “Nobody’ll be out and there won’t be a bloody raid. Soddin’ Jerry won’t risk it.” He grabbed Jack’s hand, ready to twist it. “You won’t get lost, will you, little ponce? You know what’ll happen if you try to weasel out of this with some poor excuse or other.”

Not being able to see more than a foot in front of you seemed more like a real reason than an excuse, but Jack didn’t dare say so
.

The gang operated like a small feral pack and always went out during an air raid, banking on people to be in the shelters and the streets to be empty. Donny made a point of scoffing at the bombs. “If it’s got your bleedin’ name on it, you’ll cop it; otherwise you won’t.” The other boys made sure to hide their own fear. They’d had a couple of close calls but otherwise Donny’s credo seemed valid. They had hit six houses in succession during the last big raid, early in November. In one place they’d found thirty pounds hidden in the bread box. “Probably saving for Christmas,” said Donny with glee
.

Usually they worked as a team, two to do the looting, one for a lookout. Tonight Jack was by himself. He was on probation, Donny said
.

“You’re a friggin’ messenger. A Boy Scout. You’re a good boy. Everybody thinks the bleedin’ sun shines out of a scout’s arse. Nobody will question you tootling about.”

Jack stood for a moment in the hall. It was totally black and the acrid smell of cordite and dust still lingered. He snapped on his torch, aiming the beam around the hall. Most of the roof was gone and the stairs had partially collapsed. In spite of what Donny had said about the wardrobes, he didn’t want to risk going up to the bedrooms.

There was a piece of plywood covering the entrance to the parlour, so he decided to check the kitchen first. Bits of plaster crunched underfoot as he walked down the narrow hallway. The woollen balaclava was itchy on his skin.

The kitchen was small, with yellow sprigged wallpaper that had once been bright and cheery but was now covered with red brick dust. He remembered being in here, sitting at that same table while Mrs. Cowan served him a glass of delicious eggnog. He hoped she couldn’t see him now.
Don’t think about that. Don’t think. Be a soldier
.

He opened the door to the pantry. The neat shelves were lined with tins. All kinds: tinned fruit, stewed tomatoes, peas and green beans, lots of baked beans.

He halted. Several tins had been opened and lay empty on the floor. He didn’t know what to make of it but he couldn’t back out now. He swung off his rucksack and shovelled in as many tins as he could, until it was bulging. He added a half bag of sugar and the tea caddy. What was that? He paused again, thinking he’d heard something, but it was just the wind blowing through the broken window. The tattered curtains were slapping and flapping like the flags of the dead.

Would this be enough for Donny? Jack couldn’t be sure. He’d better check the parlour. People often put their best china
and silver in there, like his mum did. He shrugged the heavy rucksack onto his back and, swinging his torch from side to side, he walked cautiously out into the hall.

His heart leapt into his throat.

He was sure there had been a piece of plywood in front of the entrance to the parlour. It wasn’t there now. He could see it leaning against the wall just to the left of the doorway. His knees started to tremble so hard he thought he might have to sit down. His mind immediately started to race with excuses –
I thought I saw a light in here and thought I’d better make sure … I’m a Boy Scout
.

Oh God, there was somebody just inside the parlour, a shadow against the lighter window. It moved towards him.

Suddenly a torch light flashed into his eyes, blinding him. “Stay right there, you little bastard,” a man’s voice hissed. “One move and you’re a dead man.”

Jack turned to make a bolt for it, flinging off his rucksack as he ran. He hadn’t even reached the front door when he felt the man grab hold of his collar. He was lifted into the air and slammed down hard on the floor. Then the man knelt on him so heavily it was hard to breathe. Jack was sure he was going to die on the spot, but suddenly the weight shifted and the man got off him.

“Turn over slowly.”

Gasping, he did as he was told and the man pulled off the balaclava. Jack heard the sharp intake of breath.

“Jack. What the hell are you doing here?”

He could just make out the man’s face. He was unkempt and filthy, but unmistakable.

It was his own brother.

Eileen Abbott climbed into bed, thrusting her feet between the flannel sheets to find the hot-water bottle, now only lukewarm. Usually the blessed privacy of her snuggery soothed and eased her, but tonight the room felt cold and lonely. Some time ago, when it was clear that she was the daughter who’d be living at home, Eileen had asked to have the front parlour as her own bed-sitting room. She furnished it simply: one armchair, the bed, and a matching wardrobe and dresser. Just enough space for books, her wireless, and a gramophone.

Eileen pointed her toes underneath the covers, something she did without thinking. Her aspirations to be a dancer had long since gone, but every so often when she felt wistful, she would push back the armchair, wind up the gramophone, and dance to a record. Even in that restricted area Eileen prided herself that she could still manage a tight pirouette or two.

She shifted restlessly. Sleep seemed far off. She sat up again and snapped on the bedside lamp. Perhaps writing her report would help her get out of this agitation.

At the outbreak of the war, she’d volunteered to be one of the diarists that the group called Mass Observation had asked for. They also used trained observers to record the voice of the people, as they put it. Typically, these observers noted down overheard conversations and opinions of the general population. “Good Lord, isn’t that what spies do?” her father had remarked when he heard about it. “They’re not undercover, just sometimes anonymous,” said Eileen. Joe had grunted skeptically. Eileen was more trusting. She thought it was a good idea and potentially lessened the gap between the governed and the government. However, she’d gone for the personal diary record. She could hardly use her position as a nurse to note down what were often private conversations with her patients.

Funny thing was, she found writing in the diary was comforting and she’d stuck to it faithfully. Mass Observation had
assured all their volunteers that everything was read even if they couldn’t comment.

She unscrewed the top of her Thermos and took a gulp of the hot cocoa her mother had made for her. Then she reached for the notepaper that was on the beside table. Each sheet was stamped across the top:
MASS OBSERVATION. DIARIST NUMBER SIXTY. BIRMINGHAM. (PLEASE DATE)

Her hand still didn’t feel quite steady and she took a deep breath. Just because she was a trained nurse didn’t mean she could be unaffected by the terrible accident that had occurred, but, as always, she forced herself to keep her emotions under control. Getting all weak and teary wasn’t going to help anybody.