We Used to Be Kings

by Stewart Foster

  Another flash of lightning.

  1 2 3 4 5—

  Shit!

  The ground rumbles beneath us. The rain turns to ice.

  Is it an earthshake?

  An earthquake?

  Yes.

  No.

  A tin hut lights up silver in the distance. We run up and down the path and then scramble inside. We put our hands on our knees, try to get our breath back as the rain drips off our hair onto our feet. We sit down on the bench. The hail falls like bullets on the roof as we dry our face and watch the storm cross the sea.

  A lady with a black dog stumbles across the sand towards us.

  Hide!

  Where?

  We slide along the bench and sit in the darkest corner.

  The lady comes through the door, her face is red from running, her glasses are steamed from the rain. She puffs out her cheeks.

  ‘Phew,’ she says. ‘We didn’t see that coming, did we?’

  We did.

  Shush.

  The lady smiles. ‘Still, we can’t complain, can we boy?’ She bends down and pats her dog. ‘Because it’s been a wonderful summer.’

  Has it?

  !

  Can’t we talk to her?

  No.

  Because she’s a stranger?

  Yes.

  And we don’t trust strangers?

  —

  The lady turns around and looks at us.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

  She takes off her glasses and wipes them on her blouse. We pull our bag and book towards us.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘very kind.’

  The dog wags its tail, sniffs the ground, then our trainers. We hold out our hand.

  Don’t touch it.

  But I like dogs.

  I don’t.

  Hello . . . what’s your name?

  I said we don’t talk to strangers.

  But I’m talking to the dog.

  !

  What’s your name?

  The lady holds her glasses up to the light. ‘Rufus,’ she says. ‘His name’s Rufus.’

  Don’t touch—

  We stroke the dog’s head.

  !

  Hello Rufus.

  The lady smiles. ‘Not everyone likes dogs.’

  I do.

  I don’t.

  ‘Sorry?’

  I do.

  I don’t.

  The lady sits down on the bench, puts her glasses on and sees us for the first time.

  ‘Oh . . . Oh . . . I thought there were two of . . . Rufus!’ She slides her fingers through Rufus’s collar and pulls him towards her.

  We’re looking for our dad.

  ‘. . . Sorry?’

  We’re looking for our dad.

  ‘Are you?’

  Yes.

  ‘Well . . .’ She leans forward and looks out into the storm. ‘I . . . I don’t think I passed him.’

  She doesn’t want to talk to us.

  We’re writing a book.

  !

  This is our book. Tom did the writing, I did the pictures.

  ‘Umm . . .’

  The lady slides along the bench.

  Because she needs the light to see?

  Because we stink.

  We slide towards her.

  This is my picture.

  !

  Do you like it?

  ‘It’s . . . it’s lovely.’ She looks out of the door. ‘Oh, look,’ she says. ‘I think the rain is stopping.’

  It’s not, it’s still pouring. Do you like this one?

  She slides further away and we follow until she is trapped in the corner.

  Will you read it?

  She shakes her head.

  Will you read it? Beep.

  She doesn’t know about the beep.

  Oh . . . it’s what the Russians do in space.

  ‘I’ve . . . I’ve not got any money.’

  ?

  !

  ‘I’ve not got any money.’

  That’s OK, neither have we.

  Her eyes glisten behind her glasses.

  We don’t want your money.

  Her hand shakes as she rolls back her sleeve.

  ‘Here.’

  Ten to ten?

  We don’t want your watch.

  Ten past two?

  We hold her wrist.

  Is that the time in Russia or here?

  ‘Please . . .’

  Let go.

  —

  But she hasn’t read Dad’s letter—

  Rufus barks.

  We let go of her hand and search for one of Dad’s letters.

  Got one.

  The lady stands up, backs away towards the door.

  He sent it from the—

  The lady turns and runs out into the rain.

  —

  —

  I thought I told you not to talk to strangers.

  But she wasn’t strange.

  Strangers and being strange aren’t the same thing.

  Oh . . . So the lady wasn’t strange?

  No.

  And the lorry driver?

  No.

  And Reverend Franklin?

  —

  And Reverend Franklin?

  No, he was strange.

  We rest our head against the tin, close our eyes and remember all the strangers we used to count as we tried to get to sleep.

  Mr Dobbs. Mrs Curtis. Mrs Jenkins. Mr Forster—

  You don’t have to count them now!

  Aren’t we going to sleep?

  No, it’s too early.

  We look at the letter in our hand.

  28th June 1971

  Dear Tom. Dear Jack.

  The sun is getting hotter. The moon is getting colder. I checked both of them this morning with my thermometer.

  Tom, make a note of the readings, 6,000 degrees and minus 238.

  Jack, here are the pictures I took. Sorry, Georgi has hidden the crayons.

  Georgi says Ha!

  Viktor tells him to stop laughing because he’s using up all the oxygen. I can hold my breath................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ for 2 minutes and 12 seconds.

  Tom, write it down.

  Jack, don’t try it.

  Love, Dad.

  X

  The wind whistles past the door and blows in the rain. The clouds hang low and black as the sun peeps out behind them and turns the sea silver.

  We think about Dad and his letters, how we wished he’d sent more, how we wished we’d replied quicker.

  And we think of Georgi and Viktor.

  . . . Yes. We think about Georgi and Viktor and we are glad that Dad didn’t go alone.

  The ridges of the tin dig into our back. We pick up our book and wipe the rain off the cover and lie down.

  Are we reading again?

  There’s nothing else to do.

  We could play with my Lego.

  We’re too old.

  !

  —

  Maybe we could get Meccano!

  Maybe.

  Can we get it tomorrow?

  Yes.

  If the sun comes out?

  Yes, if the sun comes out.

  Summer 1971

  Dad always told us that we’d climbed the hill so many times we could do it blind. Me and Jack stood at the bottom and tied the ropes of our dressing gowns together so we wouldn’t lose each other in the dark. I had the instructions in my pocket and a screwdriver and a spanner. Jack carried the torch and a hammer.

  I’m scared.

  You were scared.

  No, I’m scared now.

  Because of our story?

  Because it’s dark.

  We turn off the torch to save the battery. Everything is black. The waves sound so loud they could be rushing around our fe
et.

  Our head aches.

  I know.

  Do we need our—

  No, we need water.

  And food?

  Yes.

  Eggs and bacon?

  —

  Beans and toast?

  You’re making us hungry.

  Fish and chips?

  We’ll find some in the morning.

  Everything?

  All those things.

  We lean forward and hold our head.

  To keep me in?

  To stop it exploding.

  Will it?

  No.

  But it feels like it?

  Yes.

  —

  We shiver, wrap our jumper tight around us and wish we’d had enough space in our bag to pack the other two.

  Ready?

  Yes.

  We turn the torch back on.

  The washing machine and the fridge shone like car headlights in the dark. The dustbin lids and tyres were deep holes in the ground. Me and Jack walked round them and ducked under the radar scrambler. Wires trailed across the grass into the boxes and out again, just as Dad had drawn them in his diagram. We bent down, picked up the ends and wrapped them around our arms. The wind blew and a noise like a hundred owls hooting sounded across the site.

  Jack stopped. I checked the sky for spies and satellites, but all I saw was the moon and a shooting star.

  The hooting sounded again. Jack’s eyes grew wide in the dark.

  ‘It’s just the poles,’ I said. ‘It’s just the wind blowing across the poles.’

  I unfolded Dad’s instructions and we walked around inside the circle. Jack shouted out the parts. I ticked them off the list.

  ‘Dustbin.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Hairdryer.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Electric fire.’

  ‘Check.’

  I put the list down. We were running out of time.

  We picked up the wheels and the tyres, rolled them to the edge and pushed them off into the dark. We ran back to the launch site and untied our dressing gowns so we could work faster. I carried all the boxes and wires, Jack wheeled the lawnmower and the vacuum cleaner. Then we carried the spotlight together. It was so heavy that our arms ached when we got to the bottom. We wanted to stop and have a rest but we had to go back up for the petrol can. Dad said it was the most important thing, that it was pointless building a rocket if you didn’t have any fuel to fly it. It was so important that he wrote the equation in white paint on the front of the can.

  We carried it down together, stopping every twenty strides so it wouldn’t spill. We were as careful as we could be but we still stank of petrol when we got into bed in the middle of the night.

  When I woke up in the morning the sky was blue in the middle, turning white and misty at the edges. The weatherman had said the mist would burn away during the day and that there would be no wind. Me and Jack got up, put our clothes on and ran out into the garden. All the rocket’s parts were laid out on the grass just as we had left them. We looked at the sky, then looked at each other and smiled. It was a perfect day to build a rocket.

  I found some wire in the shed and wrapped it around two posts. Jack found a piece of card and wrote a sign:

  Then we got the instructions and tried to put the launch site back together.

  I put boxes on top of boxes and trailed wires across the ground. We put the washing machine drum under the radar scrambler and stacked the tyres on top. Then I got the petrol can and placed it in the shadow of the fridge.

  We spent all morning and all afternoon moving things around and checking them with the diagram, checking the boxes, tracing the wires, but Dad had drawn so many arrows pointing in so many directions that we couldn’t tell if we were holding the diagram the right way up or upside down. Where I had the tyres he had the washing machine, and where I had the washing machine he had the wheels. I tried moving them around inside my head but it still didn’t make any sense. I couldn’t find the rocket boosters or the stabilising struts and even if I had been able to find the red button to start the engines, I didn’t have any nitrogen to cool them down.

  It was T minus one hour, thirty minutes, twenty-five seconds and counting when we got two chairs from the kitchen and put them in the rocket.

  I think we should stop now.

  Why?

  Because I’m tired.

  But you’re never tired.

  Then I’m cold.

  We hug ourself.

  Better?

  No.

  —

  The radar scrambler—

  We haven’t told them about the radio.

  What?

  We haven’t told them about the radio.

  I thought the rocket was more important.

  I’ll tell them.

  !

  We built a radio . . . a fox’s radio.

  A fox radio.

  ?

  The radio didn’t belong to a fox.

  No, it belonged to us. I’ll show them the diagram.

  I think they’ve seen enough diagrams.

  I’ll have a look . . .

  I think we should keep reading.

  Do we have to?

  But you always want to read.

  I know.

  What’s wrong then?

  . . . Nothing.

  Are you bored?

  No.

  What then?

  I just want our story to last longer.

  Why?

  Because . . .

  Because?

  Because this is the last bit before I die.

  —

  —

  The radar scrambler glowed red as the sun went down behind our house. Jack pushed the vacuum cleaner around the launch site like he was sweeping for mines. Mum sat beside me on the back step while I checked the instructions for the last time. She nodded at our rocket.

  ‘How long did it take you?’ she asked.

  ‘All day,’ I said.

  ‘And all night?’ She smiled as she took a sip from a mug of coffee.

  ‘Did we wake you up?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You have to go to sleep to wake up.’

  ‘And you didn’t sleep?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  Jack did a second sweep of the launch site.

  ‘Were you thinking about Dad?’

  ‘Yes . . . and . . .’

  I waited for her to say something else but she just sat there staring, with her finger tracing a ring around the top of her mug.

  I thought about the hottest summer, how it felt like she had been away almost as much as Dad. I thought about how much she must have missed him, that maybe she was lonely. Me and Jack always had each other and our letters, and we got to see him on the TV. All she had was a picture of Dad on the fridge, and Auntie Jean.

  ‘Why didn’t you watch him?’ I asked.

  She turned her head slowly towards me.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Why didn’t you watch Dad on TV?’

  She smiled, but looked sad and tired.

  ‘I did,’ she said. ‘I do . . . I watch him all the time.’

  ‘But not on TV?’

  She put her hand on my head and slid it down to my neck.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not on TV.’

  She got up and went inside. I looked down at the instructions and followed the wires across the paper, out of the boxes, into the washing motor and then through the tyres until the line stopped at the edge of the page.

  ‘Finished!’ Jack shouted from the middle of the launch site.

  It was T minus forty-six minutes, twenty-three seconds and counting. Me and Jack were almost ready to launch. All we needed was power.

  I flipped the paper over, traced the wire across the page until it went into a big box with the words Electricity Generator written on it. I looked around the garden but none of the parts looked like a generator.

  I thought of going into the house, c
onnecting a wire under the stairs, but Fuel = W x V ÷ D when E = MC2 and E is constant. I read it again. E must be constant . . . I needed maximum power that wouldn’t cut out. I couldn’t rely on our electrics, I couldn’t rely on a power that might switch off in the middle of the launch just because Mum didn’t have enough coins.

  I picked my torch up off the step and walked the path along the back of the house.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Jack shouted.

  ‘Looking for a generator,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Electricity,’ I said.

  I went into the shed and flashed the torch around. There were two brushes leaning against the wall and a grass box for the mower. I shone the torch further but there was nothing else except for my old bike and two motorcycle helmets. I picked them up and carried one under each arm.

  ‘Jack,’ I shouted.

  I waited for Jack to answer but all I could hear was my breath and the buzz of insects. I stepped out of the shed and walked back into the garden. The moon was above me now, the launch site was a series of dark shapes that threw darker shadows across the ground.

  ‘Jack!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve found us two helmets.’

  He didn’t reply.

  I walked down through the garden and ducked under our launch-site sign. The clocks were still ticking, T minus twenty-eight minutes, thirty-three seconds and counting. The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed in the air. I shone the torch in the boxes, in the fridge and inside the drum of the washing machine.

  ‘Jack?’

  The sound grew louder. I walked under the radar scrambler, the foil brushed against my head and made me shiver. I looked around for Jack but all I could see was the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the garden with the flex trailing off into the dark. It twitched like a snake on the grass.

  ‘Jack?’

  I picked up the flex, ran it through my hands like I was a climber in a cave and followed it to the bottom of the garden where the grass turned to stingers. The flex twitched in my hands. I followed it to a ladder that was leaning against the fence over into Auntie Jean’s garden. I looked up and saw Jack standing at the top, grinning, with the vacuum-cleaner plug in his hand.

  ‘Jack,’ I whispered, ‘what are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve found it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The electricity.’ He nodded to a sign that was nailed to the fence.

  ‘No, Jack,’ I said.

  ‘But the diagram says we need a generator.’

  ‘I don’t think Dad meant that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it says Danger – Keep Out . . . and we only need 600 volts, not 50,000.’