Shrapnel (14 page)

BANG!

Home Guard
, they'll say,
mistook the poor kid for a saboteur
.

Easy as that.

I HARDLY SLEPT,
got up Wednesday morning with red eyes and raw nerves. It was porridge again. I growled ‘not porridge again,' and pushed my bowl away. ‘There's a war on, son,' said Dad in a dangerously mild tone, and Mum said, ‘What on earth's the matter with you, Gordon – anybody'd think you'd spent the night in the shelter.'

I couldn't
tell
them, could I? Couldn't say,
I'm scared. I've got myself into something dangerous and now I could die, just because I wanted a bit of glamour, bit of excitement
. I wanted to –
longed
to – but I was trapped, like the lad who volunteers as
a fighter pilot so he'll have wings on his tunic and girls all over him, then finds the likely prospect of being fried to a crisp in a burning plane completely swamps any glamour there might be in it.

Truth is, I was getting cheesed off not being able to talk to anybody about the important things in my life. I mean, what's the use of parents, chums and teachers if you can't confide in them?

The life of the secret agent is a lonely one
. And if you think that's got a romantic ring to it, try it.

Last period Wednesday morning is geography. We've finished wheat, the class is doing corned beef. The
class
is, I'm not. I'm ruminating. Ruminating's when you gaze out of the window and see nothing, because you're deep in thought.

I was ruminating about being unflappable. I wish I was unflappable – agents ought to be, but I'm not. Dad found a piece in a magazine about an unflappable butler the other day, and read it out to Mum and me.

It's a true story; it happened at a great house where they have a butler who stays calm whatever happens. One day a crippled Hurricane made a wheels-up landing in the grounds of the
house, ploughed across their massive lawn at a rate of knots, crashed into the conservatory in a blizzard of splintered glass and came to a stop. The pilot clambered out unhurt, and the butler went to his master and said, ‘There's a young man to see you, sir – he's in the conservatory.'

I loved it. Wished I was that butler.

‘Price?' I jerked back to reality. Lines was looking at me. ‘Are you all right, lad?'

‘Y – yes, I was just thinking, sir.'

‘You look a bit rocky – perhaps a breath of fresh air, eh? Splash of cold water?' He's all right, old Contour. Almost human.

I nodded. ‘Yes, thank you, sir, I'll just . . .' I got out of my seat. I was tired, not ill at all, but a break is a break.

Lines turned to Linton. ‘Go with him, Barker.'

We crossed the yard to the toilets. I dashed a handful of water onto my face, then nodded towards a cubicle. ‘I'll sit down in there for a bit, if you don't mind hanging on?'

He grinned. ‘'Course I don't. Fag?' He held out the Woodbine packet.

‘No thanks, but have one yourself. I won't be long.'

I pushed the door to, sat on the seat. I felt perfectly well, but I was in no rush to get back to Argentina and corned beef. I could hear Linton shuffling about outside, hawking and coughing. I thought some more about the unflappable butler, but doesn't time crawl when you want it to pass?

For something to do I started reading the graffiti that covered the door so densely you could hardly see the cream paint. It was vulgar stuff mostly, but some bits were quite funny.

I like grils
was crossed out and corrected –
I like girls
. Under this in a different hand was,
What about us grils?

I chuckled, then noticed a line in eye-catching green that read:

Sat same t. same p. same drill

I shook my head, but there was no mistaking the style. I'd been contacted again.

‘All right now?' asked Linton when I emerged. I nodded. He dropped his tab-end, ground it under a heel. ‘Good-o, it's nearly lunch time. Come on.'

I could have done with that Woodbine now, but it was too late.

SATURDAY DAWNED AND
I was still unshot. This didn't make me unflappable, but I
had
simmered down a bit which was just as well, since it was time to carry out my third assignment.

In stories, agents never receive their instructions on lavatory doors. It felt disrespectful, and I wondered whether the chaps who don't mess around had chosen this way of showing their displeasure at my blabbing all over Farmer Giles. If so, I suppose I got off lightly.

It was a foggy morning, and I'm not talking
about mist. Everywhere was clotted with thick yellow stuff you could nearly gather by the armful and pile into a barrow. It was like cotton wool some giant had cleaned his filthy ears out with. I had to bike at about four miles a fortnight all the way to Myra Shay. It's a good job I'm familiar with the route, or I'd never have found the place at all.

When I did, the grass was cold and sodden. When I stretched out my arm my hand was invisible. If anybody else was barmy enough to be here, I didn't see 'em. In fact, Hitler could've landed three airborne divisions on Myra Shay that morning and nobody would've been any the wiser.

I groped my way to Manley's fence and peered through dripping mesh. I couldn't see the building, or even the cement path. If I sent the Skymaster over in this, the security man wouldn't see me do it, wouldn't know where to look.

What was I supposed to do? The chap couldn't know, when he scribbled on that lavatory door, that there'd be a peasouper on Saturday. Mind you, he couldn't know I'd be the one to read it, could he, out of a schoolful of kids?
Maybe he's a wizard
, I thought.
Knows everything
.

Which didn't help at all.

‘That you, Biggles?' growled a nearby, sullen voice. I nearly jumped out of my skin. The watchman was a blob six feet away, on the other side of the fence. ‘Y . . . yes,' I stammered, ‘only it isn't Biggles, it's . . .'

‘Whoa!' he bellowed like somebody stopping a runaway horse. ‘Don't tell me your bleat'n name, you fathead. Fly the plane.'

I flew it. It vanished into the muck. The watchman vanished as well. I stuck my hands in my pockets and stood, screwing up my eyes into the fug.
Like standing in Linton Barker's lungs
, I thought.

It was a neat simile, but I hadn't long to enjoy it. As the blob reappeared, holding the plane aloft, somebody shouted and more blobs materialized, bobbing towards the watchman. He started to run, crying out as the phantom shapes merged with him. I heard a tearing, splintering noise, and knew that this time the Skymaster would fail to return.

I fled, thankful now for the fog.

I PLUNGED THROUGH
the noxious vapour, gibbering like an idiot. It took for ever to find the bike. The wet saddle soaked my pants, felt as though I needed my nappy changed. The only good thing was, whoever had pinched my plane wouldn't find me, let alone take pot shots.

I wobbled homeward. Or what I
hoped
was homeward.
Who were those fellows?
murmured a little voice in my head.
Germans? Traitors? Should I have stayed, helped the watchman? Sexton Blake would have. Yes, but
how,
with the fence between?

Mum was washing spuds. She didn't peel 'em nowadays – it was a waste of good grub. There was a cartoon in the paper – a spud with arms and legs, wearing a jacket.
Good taste demands I keep my jacket on
, said the speech bubble. Old Hinkley reckons peeling spuds is as bad as signalling to enemy planes.
Mein Fuehrer, our agents in England are persuading housewives to peel potatoes: victory cannot be far away
.

I'd made up a story about the Skymaster. It wasn't exactly a lie. ‘I lost the plane, Mum. It went over Manley's fence. I couldn't see because of the fog. Had to leave it.'

She sighed, shook her head. ‘Never mind, love – perhaps they'll let you have it back if Dad telephones to them on Monday, explains it was an accident.'

‘No!' I spoke more sharply than I'd meant to. Mum looked startled. ‘I . . . don't think we should bother them, Mum. Kids lose planes at Manley's all the time, they're probably fed up to the back teeth with it.' Truth was, I doubted what me and the watchman had been up to at Manley's was strictly official. To alert the company might betray our secret.

Mum started grating a potato, she was making something called potato ring. ‘Your brother gave you that aeroplane,' she murmured. ‘It was his last gift to you. I'd have thought you'd want to have it back, if only as a keepsake.' Her voice wavered. ‘Yes, that's it . . . a keepsake.' She dropped the grater and the potato and burst into tears. Feeling rotten for having snapped at her, I went to give her a hug like a Robinson probably would, and we were like that when Dad walked in.

‘
WHAT'S UP – HAS
something happened?' Dad nudged me aside, gripped Mum's shoulders. ‘Tell me, Ethel.'

Mum shook her head. ‘It's nothing, Frank. I'm being daft, that's all.' She pulled a hanky out of her pinny, dabbed her eyes. ‘Gordon's lost the aeroplane Raymond gave him. It felt like another link broken – a link to him, I mean. Daft.' She blew her nose.

Dad looked at me. ‘You didn't take the Skymaster out in this filthy fog, son, surely?'

I nodded dumbly.

‘
Why
, for heaven's sake? You can't see your hand in front of your face out there. Didn't you realize the thing'd vanish as soon as you launched it?'

I nodded again. ‘Yes, Dad, of course I did. But I
had
to go.'