Then the sounds arrived. They weren’t bangs but crunches, punches, great wads of noise hammered into the head.
Finally they died away, leaving only a distant crackling and the rising sound of a fire bell.
‘Oh, no!’ said Kirsty.
Tom had stopped. He stood and stared at the distant flames.
‘The phone wasn’t working,’ he whispered. ‘I tried to get here but the phone wasn’t working.’
‘We’re time travellers!’ said Yo-less. ‘This isn’t supposed to happen!’
Johnny swayed slightly. The feeling was like flu, but much worse. He felt as if he were outside his own body, watching himself.
It was the hereness of here, the nowness of now … People survived by not paying any attention to feelings like this. If you stopped, and opened your head to them, the world would roll over you like a tank …
Paradise Street was always going to be bombed. It was being bombed. It would have been bombed. Tonight was a fossil in time. It was a thing. Somewhere, it would always have happened. You couldn’t steer a train!
That’s what you think …
Somewhere …
Flames flickered over the housetops. More bells were ringing.
‘The bike wouldn’t start!’ mumbled Tom. ‘The phone wouldn’t work! There was a storm! I tried to get down here in time! How could it have been my fault?’
Somewhere …
Johnny felt it again … the sense that he could reach out and go in directions not found on any map or compass but only on a clock. It poured up from inside him until he felt that it was leaking out of his fingers. He hadn’t got the trolley or the bags but … maybe he could remember how it felt …
‘We’ve got time,’ he said.
‘Are you mad?’ said Kirsty.
‘Are you going to come or not?’ said Johnny.
‘Where?’
Johnny took her hand, and reached out for Yo-less with his other hand.
Then he nodded towards Tom, who was still staring at the flames.
‘Grab him, too,’ he said. ‘We’ll need him when we get there.’
‘Where? ’
Johnny tried to grin.
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘Someone has to.’
He started to walk. Tom was dragged along with them like a sleepwalker.
‘Faster,’ said Johnny. ‘Or we’ll never get there.’
‘Look, the bombs have fallen,’ said Kirsty, wearily. ‘It’s happened.’
‘Right. It had to,’ said Johnny. ‘Otherwise we couldn’t get there before it did. Faster. Run.’
He pushed forward, dragging them after him.
‘I suppose we might be able to … help,’ panted Yo-less. ‘I know … first aid.’
‘First aid? ’ said Kirsty. ‘You saw the explosions!’
Beside her, the young man suddenly seemed to wake up. He stared at the fire in the town and lurched forward. And then they were all running, all trying to keep up, all causing the others to go faster.
And there was the road, in that direction.
Johnny took it.
The dark landscape lit up in shades of grey, like a very old film. The sky went from black to an inky purple. And everything around them looked cold, like crystal; all the leaves and bushes glittering as if they were covered in frost.
He couldn’t feel cold. He couldn’t feel anything.
Johnny ran. The road under his feet was sticky, as though he was trying to sprint in treacle.
And the air filled with the noise he’d last heard from the bags, a great whispering rush of sound, like a million radio stations slightly out of tune.
Beside him Yo-less tried to say something, but no words came out. He pointed with his free hand, instead.
Blackbury lay ahead of them. It wasn’t the town he knew in 1996, and it wasn’t the one from 1941 either. It glowed.
Johnny had never seen the Northern Lights. He’d read about them, though. The book said that on very cold nights sometimes the lights would come marching down from the North Pole, hanging in the sky like curtains of frozen blue fire.
That was how the town looked. It gleamed, as cold as starlight on a winter night.
He risked a glance behind.
There, the sky was red, a deep crimson that brightened to a ruby glow at its centre.
And he knew that if he stopped running it would all end. The road would be a road again, the sky would be the sky … but if he just kept going in this direction …
He forced his legs to move onward, pedalling in slow motion through the thick, cold, silent air. The town got closer, brighter.
Now the others were pulling on his arms. Kirsty was trying to shout too, but there was no sound here except the roar of all the tiny noises.
He snatched at their fingers, trying to hold on …
And then the blue rushed towards him and met the red coming the other way and he was toppling forward onto the road.
He heard Kirsty say, ‘I’m covered in ice!’
Johnny pushed himself to his feet and stared at his own arms. Ice crackled and fell off his sleeves as he moved.
Yo-less looked white. Frost steamed off his face.
‘What did we do? What did we do?’ said Kirsty.
‘Listen, will you?’ said Yo-less. ‘Listen!’
There was a whirring somewhere in the darkness, and a clock began to strike.
Johnny listened. They were on the edge of town. There was no traffic in the dark streets. But there were no fires, either. There was the muffled sound of laughter from a nearby pub, and the chink of glasses.
The clock went on striking. The last note died away. A cat yowled.
‘Eleven o’clock?’ said Kirsty. ‘But we heard eleven o’clock when we … were … on the downs …’
She turned and stared at Johnny.
‘You took us back in time?’
‘Not … back, I think,’ said Johnny. ‘I think … behind. Outside. Around. Across. I don’t know!’
Tom had managed to get to his knees. What they could see of his face in the dusk said that here was a man to whom too much had happened, and whose brain was floating loose.
‘We’ve got seven minutes,’ said Johnny.
‘Huh?’ said Tom.
‘To get them to sound the siren!’ shouted Kirsty. ‘Huh? The bombs … I saw the fires … it wasn’t my fault, the phone—’
‘They didn’t! But they will! Unless you do something! Right now! On your feet right now!’ shouted Kirsty.
No one could resist a voice like that. It went right through the brain and gave its commands directly to the muscles. Tom rose like a lift.
‘Good! Now come on!’
The police station was at the end of the street. They reached the door in a group and fought one another to get through it.
There was an office inside, with a counter running across it to separate the public from the forces of Law and Order. A policeman was standing behind it. He had been writing in a large book, but now he was looking up with his mouth open.
‘Hello, Tom,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You’ve got to sound the siren!’ said Johnny.
‘Right now!’ said Kirsty.
The sergeant looked from one to the other and then at Yo-less, where his gaze lingered for a while. Then he turned and glanced at a man in military uniform who was sitting writing at a desk in the office. The sergeant was the sort of man who liked an audience if he thought he was going to be funny.
‘Oh, yes?’ he said. ‘And why should I do that, then?’
‘They’re right, sergeant,’ said Tom. ‘You’ve got to do it! We … ran all the way!’
‘What, off the down?’ said the sergeant. ‘That’s two miles, that is. Sounds a bit fishy to me, young man. Been round the back of the pub again, have you? Hah … remember that Dornier 111 bomber you heard last week?’ He turned and smirked at the officer again. ‘A lorry on the Slate road, that was!’
Kirsty’s patienc
e, which in any case was only visible with special scientific equipment, came to an end.
‘Don’t you patronize us, you ridiculous buffoon!’ she screamed.
The sergeant went red and took a deep breath. Then it was let out suddenly.
‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’
Tom had scrambled over the desk. The soldier stood up but was pushed out of the way.
The young man reached the switch, and pulled it down.
Chapter 11
You Want Fries With That?
Wobbler and Bigmac skulked behind the church.
‘They’ve been gone a long time,’ said Bigmac.
‘It’s a long way up there,’ said Wobbler.
‘I bet something’s happened. They’ve been shot or something.’
‘Huh, I thought you liked guns,’ said Wobbler.
‘I don’t mind guns. I don’t like bullets,’ said Bigmac. ‘And I don’t want to get stuck here with you!’
‘We’ve got the time trolley,’ said Wobbler. ‘But do you know how to work it? I reckon you’ve got to be half mental like Johnny to work it. I don’t want to end up fighting Romans or something.’
‘You won’t,’ said Bigmac.
He froze as he realized what he’d said. Wobbler homed in.
‘What do you mean, stuck here with you? What does happen if I don’t go home?’ he said. ‘You lot went back to 1996. I wasn’t there, right?’
‘Oh, you don’t want to know any stuff like that,’ said Bigmac.
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘You come in here and act cheeky—’ the sergeant began.
‘Be quiet!’ snapped Captain Harris, standing up. ‘Why doesn’t your siren work?’
‘We tests it every Tuesday and Friday, reg’lar—’ said the sergeant.
‘There’s a hole in the ceiling,’ said Yo-less.
Tom stood looking at the switch. He was certain he’d done his bit. He wasn’t sure how, but he’d done it. And things that should be happening next weren’t happening.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he mumbled.
‘Your man fired a gun,’ said the sergeant. ‘We never did know where the bullet went.’
‘We know now,’ said the captain grimly. ‘It’s hit a wire somewhere.’
‘There’s got to be some other way,’ said Johnny. ‘It mustn’t end like this! Not after everything! Look!’
He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and held it up.
‘What’s that?’ said the captain.
‘It’s tomorrow’s newspaper,’ said Johnny. ‘If the siren doesn’t go off.’
The captain stared at it.
‘Oh, trying to pull our leg, eh?’ said the police sergeant nervously.
The captain turned his eyes from the paper to Johnny’s wrist. He grabbed it.
‘Where did you get this watch?’ he snapped. ‘I’ve seen one like it before! Where do you come from, boy?’
‘Here,’ said Johnny. ‘Sort of. But not … now.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then the captain nodded at the sergeant.
‘Ring up the local newspaper, will you?’ he said. ‘It’s a morning paper, isn’t it? Someone should still be there.’
‘You’re not seriously—’
‘Please do it.’
Seconds ticked by as the policeman huddled over the big black phone. He muttered a few words.
‘I’ve got Mr Stickers, the chief compositor,’ he said. ‘He says they’re just clearing the front page and what do we want?’
The captain glanced at the paper, and sniffed at it.
‘Fish? Never mind … is there an advertisement for Johnson’s Cocoa in the bottom left hand corner of the page? Don’t stare. Ask him.’
There was some mumbling.
‘He says yes, but—’
The captain turned the page over.
‘On page two, is there a single column story headed “Fined 2/6d for Bike Offence”? On the crossword, is One Down “Bird of Stone, We Hear” with three letters? Next to an advertisement for Plant’s Brushless Shaving Creams? Ask him.’
The sergeant glared at him, but spoke to the distant Stickers.
‘Roc,’ said Kirsty, in an absentminded way.
The captain raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s a mythical bird, I think,’ said Yo-less, in the same hypnotized voice. ‘Spelled like “rock” but without a K. “We hear” means it sounds the same.’
‘He says yes,’ said the sergeant. ‘He says—’
‘Thank you. Tell him to be ready in case … no, let’s not be hasty … just thank him.’
There was a click when the sergeant put the phone down.
Then the captain said, ‘Do you know how long we’ve got?’
‘Three minutes,’ said Johnny.
‘Can we get on the roof, sergeant?’ said the captain.
‘Dunno, but—’
‘Is there some other siren in the town?’
‘There’s a manky old wind-up thing we used to use, but—’
‘Where is it?’
‘It’s under the bench in the Lost Property cupboard but—’
There was a leathery noise and suddenly the captain was holding a pistol.
‘You can argue with me afterwards,’ he said. ‘You can report me to whomever you like. But right now you can give me the keys or unlock the blasted cupboard, or I’ll shoot the lock off. And I’ve always wanted to try that, believe me.’
‘You don’t believe these kids, do—’
‘Sergeant!’
In a sudden panic, the sergeant fumbled in his pockets and trotted across the room.
‘You do believe us?’ said Kirsty.
‘I’m not sure,’ said the captain, as the sergeant dragged out something big and heavy. ‘Thank you, sergeant. Let’s get it outside. No. I’m not sure at all, young lady. But I might believe that watch. Besides … if I’m wrong, then all that will happen is that I’ll look foolish, and I daresay the sergeant will give you all a thick ear. If I’m right then … this won’t happen?’ He waved the paper.
‘I … think so,’ said Johnny. ‘I don’t even know if any of this will happen …’
Bigmac was on the floor with Wobbler on top of him. Wobbler might not know how to fight, but he did know how to weigh.
‘Get off!’ said Bigmac, flailing around. Trying vicious street-fight punches on Wobbler was like hitting a pillow.
‘I’m still alive in 1996, aren’t I?’ said Wobbler. ‘’Cos I’ve been born, right? So even if I never time travel back I ought to still be alive in 1996, right? I bet you know something about me!’
‘No, no, we never met you!’
‘I’m alive, then? You do know something, right?’
‘Get off, I can’t breathe!’
‘Come on, tell me!’
‘You’re not supposed to know what’s going to happen!’
‘Who says? Who says?’
There was a yowl behind him. Wobbler turned his head. Bigmac looked up.
Guilty the cat stretched lazily, yawned, and hopped down off the bags. He padded confidently alongside the mossy wall, moving in his lurching diagonal fashion, and disappeared around the building.
‘Where’s it going?’ said Wobbler.
‘How should I know? Get off’f me!’
The boys followed the cat, who didn’t seem at all bothered by their presence.
He stopped at the church door and lay down with his front paws outstretched.
‘First time I’ve seen him go away from the trolley,’ said Bigmac.
And then they heard it.
Nothing.
The faint noises of the town didn’t stop. There was the sound of a piano from a pub somewhere. A door opened, and there was laughter. A car went by slowly, in the distance. But suddenly the sounds were coming from a long way off as if there was some sort of thick invisible wall.
‘You know those bombs …’ said Wobbler, not taking his eyes off the cat.
‘What bombs?’ said Bigmac.
‘The bombs Johnny’s been going on about.’
‘Yeah?’ said Bigmac.
‘Can you remember what time he said? It was pretty soon, I think.’
‘Brilliant! I’ve never seen anywhere bombed,’ said Bigmac.
Guilty started to purr, very loudly.
‘Er … you know my sister lives in Canada,’ said Wobbler, in a worried voice.
‘What about her? What’s she got to do with anything?’
‘Well … she sent me a postcard once. There’s this cliff there, right, where the Indians used to drive herds of buffalo over to kill them …’
‘Isn’t geography wonderful.’
‘Yeah, only … there was this Indian, right, and he wondered what the drive would look like from underneath … and that’s why it’s called Head-Bashed-In Jump. Really.’
They both turned and looked at the chapel. ‘This is still here in 1996,’ said Bigmac. ‘I mean, it’s not going to get bombed …’
‘Yeah, but don’t you think it’d be better to be sort of behind it—’
The wail of a siren rose and fell.
There were faint noises in Paradise Street. Someone must have moved a blackout curtain, because light showed for a moment. Someone else shouted, in a back garden somewhere.
‘Great!’ said Bigmac. ‘All we need is popcorn.’
‘But it’s going to happen to real people!’ said Wobbler, aware that real people could include him.
‘No, ’cos the siren’s gone off. They’ll all be down their bomb shelters. That’s the whole point. Anyway, it’d happen anyway, right? It’s history, OK? It’d be like going back to 1066 and watching the Battle of … whatever it was. It’s not often you get to see an entire pickled onion factory blow up, either.’
People were certainly moving. Wobbler could hear them in the night. A sound from this end of the street was exactly like someone walking into a tin bath in the darkness.
And then …
‘Listen,’ said Bigmac, uncertainly.
Guilty sat up and looked alert.
There was a faint droning noise in the east.
‘Brilliant,’ said Bigmac.
Wobbler edged towards the side of the church.
Johnny and the Bomb Page 14