The Bombs That Brought Us Together

by Brian Conaghan

  Pav said the worst thing was how everybody made vile comments about refugee folk from Old Country. His mum felt that Little Town was one giant women’s prison. Like Pav’s dad, she’d had a big job in Old Country, writing for papers and stuff (like my dad). But here she was chained to a bread maker and manky dishes. And his dad was still getting hassled by thugs at the hospital. No one ever had anything good to say about these poor Old Country people.

  As if they knew any proper Old Country refugees.

  As if they knew what it was like to live in Old Country where their top brass pestered you every day.

  As if they knew what it was like for refugees to live in Little Town without properly knowing the lingo.

  As if they knew that living in Little Town with rubbish lingo skills was akin to being a deaf mute.

  As if they knew all that.

  Talk about being slow. These people were slower than coastal erosion. That’s why I kept telling people at school to read books.

  I thought that if I could just help Pav to speak the lingo a little bit better, he’d be able to help his folks, and the world of Little Town would get a bit easier for all of them. The bookshop mission turned out to be a disaster.

  Reason One:

  I hung about the Teenage Reading Section: Boys far too long, scanning through all these books I couldn’t afford to buy. Who could? Regime workers and their supporters, that’s who. I had to make do with second-hand ones at school and home, sometimes third, fourth and fifth hand-me-downs. Here I loved nothing better than to feel their spines and get a good whiff of new book covers. I worshipped the tang of new books. It’s not like I needed to be on some deviants’ register or anything, I just thought the reek of a new book screamed out information and knowledge. If something took my fancy, which it always did, I’d try like a desperate man to speed-read a first chapter so I could then speed-read the following chapters on my next visit. That was the only way I could get my hands on a proper new book. Far too much time wasted in the Teenage Reading Section: Boys.

  Reason Two:

  I almost died. Properly died. Heart attack material! A heart attack so massive that it could’ve resulted in a triple or quadruple bypass, maybe even a transplant. A heart attack so titanic that the moment it started pounding away I thought it was going to explode from my body and splat on to the wall behind the shop assistant, leaving a red mess dripping behind her head. I’d never felt that way before.

  Reason for this Major Organ Malfunction:

  Guess who I spied flicking through the books at the Teenage Reading Section: Girls?

  Eh?

  None other than the amazingly stunning and utterly gorgeous Erin F.

  YES, THAT ERIN F.

  I moseyed into the Learning Section and plucked a book from the shelf, a book big enough to cover my face. A4 size. I didn’t care what it was just as long as it kept me incognito. Elevator Engineering throughout the Years: The Ups and Downs made it possible to sidle up and get a good glimpse of Erin F. It was nice to see her out and about, away from her infirmed mum for some quality her time. I couldn’t see what she was reading. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because I was sharing her air space, seeing how her tummy went up and down to the rhythm of her breathing, which I then copied. Seeing how she stood with one foot crossed over the other, which I then copied. How her hair hung over her face, which she would occasionally place behind one of her ears. The right one. Why do boys have to have such short hair in Little Town? I was close enough to see how her jeans were turned up, revealing sockless ankles. Skin. To see how her flowery blouse was cut at the shoulders, revealing her long, slender arms. No hair. Smooth skin. More skin. Lovely skin. Erin F’s skin. My body shuddered because I was in the vicinity of Erin F’s skin, being able to stare at it without being told off or being laughed at by her friends. She looked so alive and radiant.

  With one foot in the Learning Section and the other in the Teenage Reading Section: Girls, the nerves were going ninety because of the possible danger this one foot could bring. It wasn’t that boys weren’t allowed in the Teenage Reading Section: Girls area, it was just really bizarre to see them in there among all that girl stuff. Why are you in there? What are you looking for? Who are you looking to supply? So it was best to tread with super caution.

  Erin F put the book she was reading back on the shelf and made her way to the Learning Section. Big relief. Neutral territory. She picked up a learning book – How to Speak a Foreign Language in Two Weeks – and began flicking through it. I wondered what lingo Erin F wanted to learn. Maybe I could teach her too?

  MENTAL MEMO: WHEN ERIN F REPLACES HOW TO SPEAK A FOREIGN LANGUAGE IN TWO WEEKS, TAKE IT OFF THE SHELF, HAVE A GOOD GANDER AND WHIFF OF IT. MAYBE EVEN BUY IT, IF IT’S IN MY AGE RANGE.

  I followed her movements. With her back to me she ran her hand across the spines of books like a piano player would do for their final crescendo. She stood on her tippy toes and tried to look at some top-shelfers, stretching her Achilles tendon to do so, which was sensational to see; it made the butterflies dance away inside my stomach. I heard her cough once, a tiny cute-as-a-button cough. Poor soul. A piece of dust maybe. Or the dry air we were breathing. Our shared air. I did a tiny cough as well, in solidarity. Perhaps she had a slight cold and that’s why she couldn’t be around her mum that day? Makes sense. I did another little cough.

  ‘Charlie, I know it’s you.’ Erin F’s voice floated over my head.

  Elevator Engineering throughout the Years: The Ups and Downs had failed me.

  ‘Charlie, stop hiding behind that awful book.’

  I froze as if I’d been left in a freezer for twelve days. Everything froze, even that. A frozen twig.

  ‘I know it’s you so there’s no use denying it,’ she said. Her voice was closer. I lowered the book.

  ‘Oh, hi, Erin F, I didn’t see you there.’

  I could hear the crack in my voice.

  ‘Don’t talk garbage, Charlie.’ She shook her head. ‘You’ve been totally gawping at me for the last ten minutes.’ She wasn’t angry. Praise be for that. Result!

  ‘Have I? I wasn’t aware that –’

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to gawp. But you know when you think you know someone and you do a double take and it is that person you think you know and then you don’t know what to say to them after that but you’ve already moved closer to them and the only reason you’ve moved closer to them is because you thought you recognised them in the first place. Know what I mean?’

  Erin F looked confused.

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re going on about, Charlie.’

  ‘I just wanted to say hello, Erin F, but I didn’t know how to go about it, that’s all.’

  ‘Just say hello then. It’s no big deal, is it?’

  Now wasn’t the time to tell Erin F that she was the last thing in my head when the lights flick off at night. Now wasn’t the time to mention to Erin F that together in my dreams we have snuggled up in a chilly igloo, snowboarded in our swimming togs through a giant mudslide and heave-hoed, heave-hoed during a mighty one-on-one tug-of-war session. Or that every time I laid eyes on her my heart suddenly became the fastest, highest and longest triple jumper in all of Little Town.

  Hopping.

  Skipping.

  Jumping.

  Bouncing.

  ‘No, you’re right, it’s no big deal,’ I said. ‘I should’ve just come over and said hello without all the cloak and dagger stuff.’

  Erin F looked confused again. I knew the look by now. It was her usual expression whenever we had our brief chats. This, in fact, was the longest chat we’d had since her mum became unwell.

  ‘You should have,’ she said. ‘I don’t bite, Charlie.’

  ‘How’s your mum doing, Erin F?’ I wanted to punch myself for jumping right in with two giant feet, especially when she was probably trying to forget about all that stuff for a few hours.

  ‘Fine. Y
ours?’ she said.

  ‘Erm … yes … fine too … So are you buying a book then?’

  ‘Just browsing. You?’

  ‘I was after a good lingo book for my mate Pav,’ I said.

  ‘Pav?’

  ‘Pavel Duda, to be exact.’

  ‘Weird name,’ Erin F said.

  ‘He prefers to be called Pav.’

  ‘Does he speak the lingo?’

  ‘Not too well. That’s why I thought I’d help him out a little.’

  ‘Where is he from, this Pav guy who doesn’t speak the lingo?’

  ‘He’s from Old Country.’

  ‘Oh,’ Erin F said; then she looked to her right and left.

  ‘Pav’s a top bloke, Erin F.’

  ‘I’m sure he is, Charlie.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘You should meet him. You could come round to my place and meet him.’

  Erin F hesitated, as this sounded like an overenthusiastic invitation. We paused. Big-time awkward. I’ve never invited Erin F to anything before. Not even to read my recom-mended books.

  ‘Only if you want, that is,’ I said.

  My mind was screaming at my tongue to put a sock in it. Not only did this sound like an overenthusiastic invitation, but it also sounded as if I was trying to play Little Town/Old Country Cupid. Hands across the barricades and all that jazz.

  ‘Erm … is he our age?’ Erin F said.

  ‘He’ll be fifteen soon, same as us.’

  ‘So he’ll be coming to our school then?’

  ‘Yes, after the summer.’

  ‘Jeepers, Charlie. I hope you’re going to keep an eye on him at school. You know what some people can be like.’

  ‘I’ll have his back, Erin F. Don’t worry about that.’ I sounded like a hip dude, someone who had his eye on the ball and knew the score. The ear-to-the-ground guy.

  ‘And you know what the teachers think of non-lingo speakers, don’t you?’

  ‘I do. That’s why I’m going to teach him the lingo.’

  I think she was impressed at my heroic nature.

  Erin F’s eyes left mine and shifted sideways towards the assistant’s desk. The assistant was scowling at us. She lifted the phone receiver and put it to her ear. Her eyes never left ours. A warning? You never knew who was watching you in Little Town. Her fingers slowly pressed the buttons on the phone. Regime eyes everywhere.

  ‘I think we better make like a banana, Erin F,’ I said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Split!’

  Erin F looked at me. Her face suggested that if I wanted further chat I’d need to improve the patter.

  ‘Yes, I think we should go, Charlie.’

  ‘Me too.’

  DID SHE JUST SAY WE?

  Erin F’s block was in the opposite direction, over the big hill, whereas mine was past the shops and through the park. I didn’t want our confab to be over. I didn’t want to watch her naked Achilles tendons saunter away from me on their own. I wanted to stand outside The Bookshop and chew some serious fat with Erin F. Make her giggle. Make her flick her hair over her ear. Make her touch my arm cos she’d been laughing so much and needed to steady herself. Make her say, We should do something together sometime, Charlie because she couldn’t face the thought of us being separated. What I didn’t want was for her to give me a lazy little wave followed by a See you around, Charlie before bolting.

  ‘Well, see you around, Charlie,’ Erin F said. ‘Got to get back. Mum, you know?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, I know. I know.’

  She threw me a lazy little wave and made her way to the big hill. I watched each step she took.

  Step one.

  Gutted.

  Step two.

  Absolutely gutted.

  Step three.

  Swift-kick-to-the-balls gutted.

  Step four.

  A monstrous voice arrived on my shoulder: Do something, Charlie.

  Step five.

  Same voice: Say something, Charlie.

  Step six.

  Charlie, say something. Do something. Anything. Charlie.

  Step seven.

  CHARLIE!

  Eight …

  ‘We have a shed,’ I said.

  LOUDER, CHARLIE.

  ‘We have a shed,’ I shouted.

  Erin F’s arm-swinging stopped. Her hair fell to a flop. Her ankles halted. She turned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just thought you’d like our shed, Erin F,’ I said as soon as she was back within chatting distance.

  ‘Speak the lingo, Charlie. What are you going on about?’

  ‘Me and Pav have ourselves a wee shed.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the bottom of the garden behind our block.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We just found it and then we cleared it out – well, Pav did. You should see him in action, Erin F, he’s, like, dead strong and stuff.’

  MENTAL MEMO: STOP TALKING ABOUT PAV BEING SO GREAT.

  ‘And what’s in this shed now?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but we’re getting chairs and a table and a lock. We’re going to make it into a pad. A place to hang out. Just us and our mates.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’

  ‘We are, swear to it.’

  ‘Where are you getting the stuff from?’

  ‘Contacts, Erin F. Contacts,’ I said, trying to sound like one of those dudes who knew all the comings and goings of a place.

  ‘I’ll believe it when I see it, Charlie.’

  ‘If you want you can come round and see the shed?’ She looked at me. Silence. ‘Only if you want, like,’ I said. I think my heart was sweating as well as my pits. Time slowed. Everything slowed.

  ‘OK, I will, Charlie. Thanks.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘I’ll take you up on the offer of seeing your shed.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ I said, before remembering to play it cool. ‘So, will I just text you or something when the chairs and stuff arrive?’

  ‘Yes, that’s probably best.’

  Erin F pulled out her phone and gave me her number. I took Erin F’s number and put it in my phone. Imagine, Erin F’s actual phone number sitting pretty in my phone. When the info shot over to the main phone-receiving depot they’d see that it was only Erin F’s number I’d put in my phone. Nothing sinister. They’d see that Erin F was no infidel or social problem or rogue trader. Erin F just happened to be the diamond in the rough of Little Town, and her number was snuggled up tight in my phone. In fact, this number would be going straight into my brain. Cemented. This number would be my tattoo.

  ‘I’ll text you then, Erin F,’ I said.

  ‘Cool,’ she said.

  ‘Cool,’ I said.

  ‘Cool,’ she said. ‘See you then, Charlie.’

  ‘See you then, Erin F,’ I said, to the back of her head. Erin F walked off to the right and out of sight. I watched her every step of the way.

  Every step.

  11

  Politics

  My mum was one of the few people who didn’t look forward to the summer holidays. She hated me getting under her feet at home. If we had the money I bet she’d have sent me off to a snobby boarding school somewhere to fester my teenage years away. But who else would take the journey to get her inhalers?

  Our summer holidays were almost over and Pav’s lingo had not shown significant improvement in spite of my best efforts. Also, The Big Man hadn’t come up with the goods yet. There was no sign of our chairs, table or lock. No sign of The Big Man himself. No sign of Norman. I was totally relieved with not seeing The Big Man. However, the dream shed we had in our minds was just an empty box of nothingness at the bottom of the garden. I decided to cut The Big Man some slack, understanding that he was probably knee deep in organising manoeuvres, patrols, checkpoints and some other serious stuff.

  And there was serious stuff brewing in Little Town. You could cut the atmosphere with your finger. Tense didn�
��t even cover it. TV reports speculated day after day about some military build-up by Old Country. No wonder people were tense! I didn’t really like watching the news – but Mum and Dad were completely addicted. Dad huffed and tutted and argued noisily with the guys in ties on a daily basis. The Old Country threat was nothing new, but it fuelled the lack of friendliness towards Pav’s family and the other Old Country refugees who’d accidentally – or unfortunately – found themselves stuck in Little Town for the rest of their days.

  It wasn’t surprising the last thing on The Big Man’s mind was our shed furniture.

  But bombs or no bombs, a promise is a promise. Just saying.

  After my brief encounter with Erin F, I had revisited The Bookshop and bought a lingo-learning book and a grown-up novel with dosh I’d borrowed (I’ll pay it back with interest) from the secret stash (in the soap powder box) Mum kept in the kitchen for emergencies. I hadn’t had the courage to call Erin F, especially without a suitably welcoming shed in which to entertain her loveliness. I wanted to be able to play a word game with her on the table, sip specially made (by yours truly) smoothies with her and have some deep chat. But the shed was not yet ready for seduction or wordplay.

  I finally plucked up the courage to send her a message:

  Hope you are well Erin F. See you next week at school. Hopefully. Charlie

  Erin F’s reply was brief:

  Yes

  I didn’t know whether to take the YES as a positive or negative. I shilly-shallied about making my next big courageous move after receiving her YES text. Yes is positive, isn’t it?

  The shed is coming on, looking forward to having you in it.

  As soon as I sent the text I instantly regretted what I’d done and frantically pressed all the buttons on my mobile, attempting to UN-send it. No chance. These mobile phones aren’t programmed to give you a few seconds’ grace period for regret texts. Mobile phones don’t do emotion. Thankfully Erin F was a clever cookie so she’d have known that when I wrote looking forward to having you in it I didn’t mean that I was looking forward to actually having her in it. Erin F’s reply was longer this time: