Johnny and the Bomb

by Terry Pratchett

‘Everyone got out, Johnny,’ said Wobbler, watching him carefully.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The siren was just in time.’

  ‘I know.’

  Behind him, Johnny heard Kirsty say: ‘I hope they get counselling?’

  ‘We found out about that,’ said Bigmac’s voice. ‘They get a nice cup of tea and told to cheer up because it could be worse.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Well … there’s biscuits, too.’

  Johnny watched the street. The firelight almost made it look cheerful.

  And his mind’s eye saw the other street. It was here, too, happening at the same time. There were the same fires and the same piles of rubble and the same fire engines. But there were no people – except the ones carrying stretchers.

  We’re in a new time, he thought.

  Everything you do changes everything. And every time you move in time you arrive in a time a little bit different to the one you left. What you do doesn’t change the future, just a future.

  There’s millions of places when the bombs killed everyone in Paradise Street.

  But it didn’t happen here.

  The ghostly images faded away as the other time veered off into its own future. ‘Johnny?’ said Yo-less. ‘We’d better get out of here.’

  ‘Yeah, no point in staying,’ said Bigmac.

  Johnny turned.

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  ‘Are we going by trolley or are we going to … walk?’ said Kirsty.

  Johnny shook his head.

  ‘Trolley,’ he said.

  It was waiting where they’d left it. But there was no sign of Guilty.

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Kirsty. ‘We’re not going to look for a cat.’

  ‘He went to watch the bombing,’ said Wobbler. ‘Don’t know what happened to him after that.’

  Johnny gripped the handle of the trolley. The bags creaked in the darkness.

  ‘Don’t worry about the cat,’ he said. ‘Cats find their own way home.’

  The Golden Threads Club occupied the old church on Friday mornings. Sometimes there was a folk singer, or entertainment from local schools, if this couldn’t be avoided. Mainly there was tea and a chat.

  This was usually about how things were worse now than they had ever been, especially those golden days when you could buy practically anything for sixpence and still have change.

  There was a change in the air and five figures appeared.

  The Golden Threaders watched them suspiciously, in case they broke into ‘The Streets of London’. They also noted that they were under thirty years old, and therefore almost certainly criminals. For one thing, they’d apparently stolen a shopping trolley. And one of them was black.

  ‘Er …’ said Johnny.

  ‘Is this the theatre group?’ said Kirsty. The others were astonished at the quick thinking. ‘Oh, no, wrong church hall, very sorry.’

  They edged towards the door, pushing the trolley. The Threaders watched them owlishly, teacups cooling in their hands.

  Wobbler opened the door and ushered the others through it.

  ‘Don’t forget, one of them was black,’ said Yo-less, as he stepped out. He rolled his eyes sarcastically and waved his hands in the air. ‘We’s goin’ to de carnivaaal!’

  Chapter 13

  Some Other Now …

  The air outside smelled of 1996. Kirsty looked at her watch.

  ‘Ten-thirty on Saturday morning,’ she said. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Er, your watch is at ten-thirty on Saturday morning,’ said Johnny. ‘That doesn’t mean we are.’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘But I think we are, anyway. This all looks right.’

  ‘Looks fine to me,’ said Wobbler.

  ‘We’ve been out all night,’ said Yo-less. ‘My mum’ll go spare.’

  ‘Tell her you stopped at my place and the phone was broken,’ said Wobbler.

  ‘I don’t like lying.’

  ‘Are you going to tell her the truth?’

  Yo-less thought for a few agonized seconds. ‘Your phone was broken, right?’

  ‘Yeah, and I’ll tell my mum I was staying at your place,’ said Wobbler.

  ‘I shouldn’t think my grandad’s noticed I’m not in,’ said Johnny. ‘He always drops off in front of the telly.’

  ‘My parents have a very modern outlook,’ said Kirsty.

  ‘My brother doesn’t mind where I am so long as the police don’t come round,’ said Bigmac.

  Before time travelling to any extent, Johnny thought, you should always get your alibi sorted out.

  He stared at the place where Paradise Street had been. It was still the Sports Centre. That hadn’t changed. But Paradise Street was still there, underneath. Not underground. Just … somewhere else. Another fossil.

  ‘Did we change anything?’ said Kirsty.

  ‘Well, I’m back,’ said Wobbler. ‘And that’s good enough for me.’

  ‘But those people are alive when they ought to’ve been dead—’ Kirsty began, and stopped when she saw Johnny’s expression. ‘All right, not exactly ought, but you know what I mean. One of them might’ve invented the Z-bomb or something.’

  ‘What’s the Z-bomb?’ said Bigmac.

  ‘How should I know? It wasn’t invented when we left!’

  ‘Someone in Paradise Street invented a bomb?’ said Johnny.

  ‘Well, all right, not a bomb. Something else that’d change history. Any little thing. And you know we left all Bigmac’s stuff in the police station?’

  ‘Ahem.’

  Yo-less removed his hat and produced a watch and a Walkman.

  ‘The sergeant was so flustered he forgot to lock the cupboard after he got the siren out,’ said Yo-less. ‘So I nipped in.’

  ‘Did you get the jacket?’

  ‘Chucked it in a dustbin.’

  ‘That was mine,’ said Bigmac reproachfully.

  ‘Well, maybe that’s all right,’ Kirsty conceded reluctantly. ‘But there’s bound to be some other changes. We’d better find out pretty fast.’

  ‘We’d better have a bath, too,’ said Wobbler.

  ‘Your hands have got blood on them,’ said Johnny.

  Wobbler looked down vaguely.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Well … we were pulling at smashed-up walls and things,’ he said. ‘You know … in case there was anyone trapped …’

  ‘You should’ve seen him grab his grandad!’ said Bigmac. ‘It was brilliant!’

  Wobbler looked proud.

  *

  They met up an hour later in the mall. The burger bar was back to the way it had always been. No one said anything about it, but from the way he sighed occasionally it was clear that Bigmac was thinking of free burgers every week for the rest of his life.

  That jogged Johnny’s memory.

  ‘Oh … yes,’ said Johnny. ‘Er. We’ve got this letter … for you …’

  He pulled it out. It was crumpled, and covered in vinegar and sooty fingerprints.

  ‘Er, it’s for you,’ he repeated. ‘Someone … asked us to give it to you.’

  ‘Yeah, someone,’ said Yo-less.

  ‘We don’t know who he was,’ said Bigmac. ‘A completely mysterious person. So it’s no use you asking us questions.’

  Wobbler gave them a suspicious look, and ripped open the envelope.

  ‘Go on, what’s he say?’ said Bigmac.

  ‘Who?’ said Wobbler.

  ‘Y— this mysterious person,’ said Bigmac.

  ‘Dumb stuff,’ said Wobbler. ‘Read it yourself.’

  Johnny took the paper that had been in the envelope. It contained a list, numbered from one to ten.

  ‘“1) Eat healthy food in moderation”,’ he read. ‘“2) An hour’s exercise every day is essential. 3) Invest money wisely in a mixture of—”’

  ‘What’s the point of all this junk? It’s the sort of thing grandads say,’ said Wobbler. ‘Why’d anyone want to tell me that? You’d have to be some kind of loony to go
around telling people that. This was one of those religious blokes that hang around in the mall, right? Huh. I thought it might be something important.’

  Bigmac glanced at the burger bar again, and sighed deeply.

  ‘There have been changes,’ said Kirsty. ‘Clark Street isn’t Clark Street any more. I noticed when I went past. It’s Evershott Street.’

  ‘That’s frightening,’ said Bigmac. ‘Oooeeeoooeee … a street name was mysteriously changed …’

  ‘I thought it was always Evershott Street,’ said Yo-less.

  ‘Me too,’ said Wobbler.

  ‘And that shop over there … that used to sell cards and things. Now it’s a jeweller’s,’ said Kirsty insistently.

  The boys craned around to look at it.

  ‘It’s always been a jeweller’s, hasn’t it?’ said Wobbler. He yawned.

  ‘Well, you’re an unobservant bunch, I—’ Kirsty began.

  ‘Hold on,’ said Johnny. ‘How did you get all those cuts on your hands, Wobbler? You too, Bigmac.’

  ‘Well, er, I … er …’ Wobbler’s eyes glazed.

  ‘We … were messing around,’ said Bigmac. ‘Weren’t we?’

  ‘Yeah. Messing around. Somewhere.’

  ‘Don’t you remember—?’ Kirsty began.

  ‘Forget about it,’ said Johnny. ‘Come on, Kirsty, we’ve got to go.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Visiting time. We’ve got to see Mrs Tachyon.’

  Kirsty waved a hand frantically at the other three.

  ‘But they don’t seem to—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter! Come on!’

  ‘They can’t just forget!’ said Kirsty, as they hurried out of the mall. ‘They can’t just think: “Oh, it was all a dream”!’

  ‘I think it’s all sort of healing over,’ said Johnny. ‘Didn’t you see it happening back in 1941? Tom didn’t really believe anything that had happened. I bet by now … I mean, a few hours after … I bet they’re remembering … I mean, they remembered … something different. He ran all the way and got there just in time. Everyone was a bit shocked because of the bombing. Something like that. People have to forget what really happened because … well, it didn’t happen. Not here.’

  ‘We can remember what really happened,’ said Kirsty.

  ‘Perhaps that’s because you’re hyper-intelligent and I’m mega-stupid,’ said Johnny.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ said Kirsty. ‘You’re being a bit unfair.‘

  ‘Oh. Good.’

  ‘I meant I wouldn’t go so far as to say “hyper”. Just “very”. Why do we have to see Mrs Tachyon?’

  ‘Someone ought to. She’s a time-bag-lady,’ said Johnny. ‘I think it’s all the same to her. Round the corner or 1933, they’re all just directions to her. She goes where she likes.’

  ‘She’s mad.’

  They’d reached the hospital steps. Johnny trudged up them.

  She probably is mad, he thought. Or eccentric, anyway. I mean, if she went to a specialist and he showed her all those cards and ink blots she’d just nick them or something.

  Yes. Eccentric. But she wouldn’t do things like dropping bombs on Paradise Street. You have to be sane to think of things like that. She’s totally round the bend. But perhaps she gets a better view from there.

  It was quite a cheerful thought, in the circumstances.

  Mrs Tachyon had gone. The ward sister seemed quite angry about it.

  ‘Do you know anything about this?’ she demanded.

  ‘Us?’ said Kirsty. ‘We’ve just come in. Know about what?’

  Mrs Tachyon had gone to the lavatory. She’d locked herself in. And in the end they’d had to get someone to take the lock off, in case she’d fallen down in there.

  She wasn’t in there at all.

  They were three floors up and the window was too small even for someone as skinny as Mrs Tachyon to climb through.

  ‘Was there any toilet paper?’ said Johnny.

  The sister gave him a look of deep suspicion.

  ‘The whole roll’s gone,’ she said.

  Johnny nodded. That sounded like Mrs Tachyon.

  ‘And the headphones have vanished,’ said the sister. ‘Do you know about any of this? You’ve been visiting her.’

  ‘That’s only been because it’s, you know, like a project,’ said Kirsty, defensively.

  There was the sound of sensible shoes behind them.

  They turned out to belong to Ms Partridge the social worker.

  ‘I’ve phoned the police,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ said Johnny.

  ‘Well, she— oh, it’s you. Well, she … needs help. Not that they were any help. They said she always turns up.’

  Johnny sighed. Mrs Tachyon, he suspected, never needed help. If she wanted help she just took it. If she needed a hospital, she went where there was one. She could be anywhere now.

  ‘Must have slipped out when no one was looking,’ said Ms Partridge.

  ‘She couldn’t,’ said the sister stoutly. ‘We can see the door from here. We’re very careful about that sort of thing.’

  ‘Then she must have vanished into thin air!’ said Ms Partridge.

  Kirsty sidled closer to Johnny while they argued and said, out of the corner of her mouth: ‘Where did you leave the trolley?’

  ‘Behind our garage,’ said Johnny.

  ‘D’you think she’s taken it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Johnny happily.

  Johnny was quiet on the bus home. They’d gone to the library and he’d wangled a photocopy of the local paper for the day after the raid.

  There was a picture of people looking very cheerful in the ruins of Paradise Street. Of course, things were pretty faded now, but there was Mrs Density with her goldfish bowl, and Wobbler’s grandfather with his bit of bomb and, just behind them, grinning and holding his thumb up, you could just make out Wobbler. It hadn’t been a good photo to start with and it hadn’t improved with age and he had soot all over his face but, if you knew it was Wobbler, you could see it was him all right.

  They’re all forgetting except me, he thought. I bet even if I showed them the paper they’d say, ‘Oh yes, that bloke looks like Wobbler, so what?’

  Because … they live here. They’ve always lived here. In a way.

  When you travel in time it really happens, but it’s like a little loop in a tape. You go round the loop and then carry on from where you were before. And everything that’s changed turns out to be history.

  ‘You’ve gone very quiet,’ said Kirsty.

  ‘I was just thinking,’ said Johnny. ‘I was thinking that if I showed the others this piece from the paper they’d say, oh, yeah, that looks like ole Wobbler, so what?’

  Kirsty leaned across.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Well? It does look like Wobbler. So what?’

  Johnny stared out of the window.

  ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘it’s Wobbler in the paper. Remember?’

  ‘Remember what?’

  ‘Well … yesterday?’

  She wrinkled her forehead.

  ‘Didn’t we go to some sort of party?’

  Johnny’s heart sank.

  It all settles down, he thought. That’s what’s so horrible about time travel. You come back to a different place. You come back to the place where you didn’t go in the first place, and it’s not your place.

  Because here was where no one died in Paradise Street. So here’s where I didn’t want to go back. So I didn’t. So they didn’t, either. When the newspaper picture was taken we were back there, but, now we’re back here, we never went. So they don’t remember because here there’s nothing to remember. Here, we did something else. Hung on. Hung around.

  Here I’m remembering things that never happened.

  ‘It’s your stop,’ said Kirsty. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No,’ said Johnny, and got off the bus.

  It was raining heavily, but he went and checked to see if the trolley was
where he’d left it. It wasn’t. On the other hand, maybe it had never been there at all.

  When he went up to his bedroom he could hear the rain drumming on the roof. He’d vaguely hoped that he might have been a different person in this world but there it all was: the same bedroom, the same mess, the same space shuttle on its bit of red wool. The same stuff for the project all over the table.

  He sat on his bed and watched the rain for a while. He could feel the shadows in the air, hovering around the corners of the room.

  He’d lost Mrs Tachyon’s paper somewhere. That would have been proof. But no one else would believe it.

  He could remember it all – the rain on the moor, the thunderstorm, the sting on his whole body when they’d run through time – and it hadn’t happened. Not exactly. Normal, dull, boring, everyday life had just poured right in again.

  Johnny went through his pockets. If only there was something …

  His fingers touched a piece of card …

  The sound of Australian accents from downstairs suggested that his grandad was in. He trailed downstairs and into the little front room.

  ‘Grandad?’

  ‘Yes?’ said his grandfather, who was watching Cobbers.

  ‘You know the war—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know you said that before you went in the army you were a sort of aircraft spotter—’

  ‘Got a medal for it,’ said his grandfather. He picked up the remote control and switched off the set, which never usually happened. ‘Showed it you, didn’t I? Must’ve done.’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said Johnny, as diplomatically as possible. Before, his grandfather had always told him not to go on about things.

  His grandfather reached down beside his chair. There was an old wickerwork sewing box there, which had belonged to Johnny’s grandmother. It hadn’t been used for cotton and needles for a long time, though. It was full of old newspaper cuttings, keys that didn’t fit any door in the house, stamps for one half-penny in old money, and all the other stuff that accumulates in odd corners of a house that has been lived in for a long time. Finally, after much grunting, he produced a small wooden box and opened it.

  ‘They said they never knew how I done it,’ he said proudly. ‘But Mr Hodder and Captain Harris spoke up for me. Oh, yes. Had to be possible, they said, otherwise I couldn’t’ve done it, could I? The phones’d got hit by lightning and the bike wouldn’t start no matter what he yelled so I had to run all the way down into the town. So they had to give it to me ’cos they spoke up.’