‘Charlie, get back to bed at once,’ Mum whispered with her angry voice. It didn’t have the same impact as the bellowing voice she normally uses so I chose not to return to bed.
‘Keep that shut,’ Dad whispered, and drew a zip across his mouth. ‘If they know we’re in here listening, we’re done for.’
That’s when I knew it was serious. So did my heart. I ran an imaginary zip across my own mouth and lobbed an imaginary key over my real shoulder. We were all huddled beside the door. Listening. It reminded me of Anne Frank again. Even our eyes didn’t move as we listened.
‘You. Stand there,’ said the voice from behind our door.
‘You. Stand there,’ the same voice said.
‘You. Stand there.’ Same voice again. But there was more than one person because we could hear them shuffling about. Maybe three. Maybe more. Speaking the lingo. The voice sounded agitated and annoyed.
I just knew that Pav, his mum and his dad were lined up outside their front door totally shitting themselves. I was too scared to look through the letter box. I’d heard all about these night visits. We all had. I didn’t know if they were true or not. Nobody had actually experienced seeing one in action; it was just some eejits at school full of bravado who said that these raids happened. They’d probably upped the ante since the bombs. Someone must have grassed on Pav and his family, that’s all I can say. Told these thugs about Old Country folk living here.
‘Who else is inside?’ a second voice said.
‘We are just three,’ Pav’s dad said.
‘You better not be lying to us,’ Voice Two said.
‘No, go see inside; we are just three,’ his dad said again.
‘What do you think they want?’ I whispered to Dad.
Mum put a finger to her lips. Dad’s lips said shut up to me. His eyes became zombieish, as if to say I’m going to kill you Charlie if you don’t rap it, son.
‘All clear,’ a third voice said.
‘Papers,’ Voice One said.
You could hear the man rustling through Pav’s family papers: ID papers, entry and exit papers, birth papers, marriage papers, religion papers, employment papers, education papers. All the essentials needed for Little Town Rascals.
‘Are you Jan Duda?’ Voice One asked.
‘I am,’ Pav’s dad said.
‘Are you Danica Duda?’ he asked Pav’s mum.
The silence seemed to last for ages.
‘Speak!’ Voice Two said.
‘What’s the matter with your tongue, woman? Don’t you speak the lingo here or something?’ Voice Three came in, which brought a bit of sniggering from the other two voices.
‘I not so good,’ Pav’s mum said quietly. They probably thought that she was scared stiff of them, but what they didn’t know was that Pav’s mum was a smashing woman who always spoke softly.
‘Are you or are you not Danica Duda?’ Voice One asked again.
‘My name is Danica Duda, yes,’ Pav’s mum said.
‘And you, you must be Pavel Duda?’ Voice One said.
‘My name is Pavel Duda.’ Pav’s voice suggested that he was a tough little nut.
‘How old are you?’ Voice Three said, as if he was trying to trip Pav up.
‘I have fourteen years,’ Pav said.
The thug Rascals howled.
‘I have fourteen years, that’s brilliant!’ Voice Three said, mimicking Pav.
‘I fifteen years after summer,’ Pav said. I wanted to open our letter box and scream: Don’t say another word, Pav; please schtum it. Don’t give them the ammo to shoot you with.
‘They’ve tried to butcher our town and now they want to butcher our lingo as well,’ Voice Two said.
‘Disgusting,’ Voice One said.
‘Funny though,’ Voice Three said.
‘It is funny,’ Voice Two said.
‘Very funny,’ Voice One said.
More howling and giggling.
I suspected that all the neighbours in our block were terrified to even breathe heavily; I was glad Mum didn’t need a puff to keep her going. She was on puff rationing.
Then all three Rascals hit Pav’s dad with a quick-fire torrent.
‘Why did you come here?’
‘Why did you leave Old Country?’
‘Did they boot you out?’
‘What did you do?’
‘Tell us.’
‘Who were you against, Duda?’
‘Spit it out.’
‘We can find out, you know.’
‘Scum too much to handle in Old Country for you then?’
‘Yeah, full of scum, was it?’
‘Riddled with them, was it?’
‘Stinking the place up, were they?’
‘Mingers.’
‘Filth.’
‘Tramps.’
‘Beggars.’
‘Vagrants.’
‘Infidels.’
BACK OFF A LITTLE AND GIVE THE MAN SOME SPACE TO SPEAK, WOULD YOU?
They started up their laughter routine again.
‘Why you want us?’ Jan Duda asked.
As quick as a light being switched off, the sniggering stopped. Routine over. Mum and Dad changed their facial expressions. Dad shook his head. Mum put a hand to her mouth. I did an inside swear word.
‘What was that?’ Voice One said.
‘What the hell did you say?’ Voice Three said.
‘You don’t ever ask why we want you, got it?’ Voice Two said.
Silence.
‘Got it, Duda?’ Voice Three said.
‘Got it, yes,’ Jan Duda said.
‘See, you Old Country people, you’re all the same,’ Voice One said. ‘Think you’re better than everyone else, think you’ve got a right to everything here. Well, I’ve got news for you, Duda.’
‘You lot come to Little Town and think you own the place,’ Voice Two said.
‘What your mob have to remember, Duda, is that Little Town is ours,’ Voice Three said.
‘A few bombs isn’t going to change that,’ Voice One said.
‘So, we’ll be keeping an eye on you,’ Voice Two said.
‘See, we know where you work, Duda. We know where you live. We know everything in Little Town,’ Voice One said.
‘You wouldn’t want that information to be passed into the wrong hands now, would you?’ Voice Three said.
‘People who might come and take that pretty little wife of yours away while you’re out scrubbing floors,’ Voice Two said.
‘Old Country psychos perhaps,’ Voice One said.
‘Oh, I can imagine what they’d do to a cute thing like her, can’t you, Duda?’ Voice Three said. ‘Everything has a price. Information is costly.’
‘Especially information with benefits,’ Voice Two said.
‘Consider yourselves watched,’ Voice Three said. ‘Any shit against our Regime and we’ll come for you.’
‘Unless Old Country beat us to it,’ Voice One said.
‘And you might not see that lovely wife of yours again,’ Voice Two said.
‘Or that skinny kid,’ Voice Three said.
‘Got it?’ Voice One said.
‘Got it, yes,’ Jan Duda said. ‘Can we go sleeping now?’
The voices did more hyena sniggering.
Then a long pause.
‘Go,’ Voice One said. ‘Get out of our sight.’
We could hear the sound of Pav and his parents shuffling back into their house.
‘Remember,’ Voice Two said. ‘Be good.’
These were definitely the Regime’s Rascals. Thugs with legitimacy. You’d never see any of the actual Regime en-forcing their brand of law and order like this. When all that stuff about Pav’s mum was going on, Dad squeezed my mum tight into his chest.
When the Duda door slammed shut Mum’s shoulders drooped; once again Dad drew an imaginary zip across his mouth, just in case the voices were still hovering about. I didn’t sleep too well that night. I certainly didn’t do any more dreami
ng. All thoughts of Erin F had to be put on the back burner for the time being.
I couldn’t even read; the words weren’t going in the way they should have. I lay awake thinking about poor Pav and his folks. They were well and truly on the Rascals’ radar now.
When I thought about the raid on Pav and his family I was embarrassed to be a Little Town person, knowing that my people could do shocking things to those people. These were my initial feelings, but when logic hit the brain I thought: Come on, Charlie, cop yourself on, son. Who else is going to look after us here? Who else is going to make sure Little Towners don’t have bombs lobbed at them again and again? Who else is going to keep buses, cafes, markets and parks panic-free and safe? Get a grip. That didn’t mean what happened to Pav’s family benefited any of us.
The morning after the raid on Pav’s, Mum and Dad slurped their tea, crunched at their jammy toast, nosed a local paper – the first since the bombs – and listened to some guy on the radio prattle on about how everything in Little Town would be back to normal in no time. Regime propaganda, no doubt. Not a ditty about any late-night raids by their Rascal thugs, not even from Mum or Dad. Nothing.
It was as if nothing had happened.
Say nothing, do nothing, pretend it didn’t happen. Was this how things were going to roll in the Law household?
‘Do you have a pen, Mum?’ I asked.
They both looked up from their reading material.
‘What are you planning, Charlie?’ Dad said.
‘I’m not planning anything. I just want a pen. That’s not a crime now, is it?’ I said.
‘Watch it!’ Dad said.
‘There.’ Mum handed me an old biro. Blue. My favourite.
‘Any free paper floating about?’ I asked.
‘Charlie!’ Dad said.
‘What?’
‘Here.’ Mum gave me an A4 sheet whipped straight out of Dad’s bag.
I needed to stick my oar in and help Pav’s family. But how? The only thing I had to help the Dudas was Charlie Law’s power of language. It was time to make a start with getting the lingo on to Pav’s tongue. I didn’t want to think about bombs and raids and refugees and death any longer. It was time to start living again.
To get us started I drew two little charts, carefully covering my A4 from Mum and Dad’s eyes. The charts consisted of the verb TO BE and the verb TO HAVE. The most important ones. First, I intended to go through them with Pav and explain the basics before having him fill in the blanks in column three.
I am Pav.
I am happy.
I am sad.
I am from Old Country.
Surely they had verbs and stuff in Old Country lingo?
To cement things in his head I’d get him to do more blank-filling homework tasks. I was sure he would flip his lid with excitement when he saw them; I hoped at least it would take his mind off the Rascal thugs who carried out the raid.
VERB: TO BE
SUBJECT
I VERB
AM COMPLEMENT
YOU
WE
THEY
ARE
HE
SHE
IT
IS
VERB: TO HAVE
SUBJECT
I VERB
HAVE COMPLEMENT
YOU
WE
THEY
HAVE
HE
SHE
IT
HAS
What we needed to pull it all together was that table and those chairs. Doing it standing up would do bugger all for Pav’s concentration.
‘What’s that you’re scribbling?’ Dad asked.
I flipped the A4 over.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing,’ I said again.
‘Nothing’s nothing,’ Dad said, which didn’t make much sense to me.
‘Oh, Bert, leave him alone. You know what he’s like,’ Mum said.
‘I don’t want any trouble, Charlie,’ Dad said.
‘Like I do?’ I said.
‘Just be careful,’ Dad said, grabbing his bag and jacket. ‘Right, I’m off.’
‘Where are you going, Dad?’ I said.
‘What do you mean, where am I going? I’m going to work.’
‘But –’
‘It’s OK, Charlie. Things will be fine. I got a call last night. The office has reopened.’
‘But what if –’
‘Don’t worry. Right, I’m off.’
‘Bye, love,’ Mum said.
‘Bye, Maggie.’ Dad gave Mum a peck on the cheek, which she held out for him. He kissed her longer than usual. Not the best thing to witness first thing in the morning, but cute as well.
‘Bye,’ I said.
‘Remember, no trouble, Charlie. Got it?’ Dad said, sounding like the Rascal thugs.
I stared at him for a moment. He knew what I was thinking. He was many things, my dad, but Mr Thick wasn’t one of them.
‘Got it,’ I said, sounding like Pav’s dad.
13
Concrete Streets
THINGS I DID BEFORE THE BOMBS CAME
•Got really bored because Little Town had a lack of teenage things to do. (If there’s a word below LACK that’s what we have now, which means we also need a word below BORED)
•Went to school for an education that would allow me to get a decent job. (Then I would escape Little Town, maybe find my fortune some place else)
•Dreamt that one day I’d become a doctor, lawyer or teacher. (Without education I’d be lucky to get a job cleaning the schools)
•Browsed bookshops. (Browsing days have been destroyed)
•Dreamt about Erin F and the possibility of … you know what. (I still do actually. The bombs have had no bearing on that. Still, I’ve no idea if she survived)
•Didn’t feel that I had to protect my mate Pav from his people and mine. (Who’d be an Old Country refugee these days, eh?)
•Ate whatever I wanted to. Well, what Mum made me to eat. (I can’t believe how fussy I was pre-bomb days; now I’d munch on a scabby dog if it filled me up)
•Walked miles to get Mum her inhaler. (She’s had to decide how much breathing to do throughout the day. Something good to come out of this: her shouting at me has reduced)
•Never cried myself to sleep because I was starving. (In old-time lingo, Dad calls it being Hank Marvin, after some song-and-dance guy from way back when)
After four days I left the house.
No one knew how many Old Country troops were on the ground. How do you go about counting? But it seemed as if they were everywhere, like a plague of sewer rats infesting Little Town. Each one carried a gun, or had one slung over their shoulder. Some of them were so young it looked as if they’d just completed their schooling. No wonder Pav and his family wanted out quick style. The guns were huge, long metal contraptions. Any false move, sprint in a different direction or suspicious behaviour could mean a bullet in the neck or a butt on the nose. That’s why we all walked towards the checkpoint areas with special care. In a weird way I was happy to see the Old Country troops; it meant that there’d be no more bombs. I mean, what country would lob bombs on top of their own army? Not even Old Country’s Government is that daft. Are they?
School was closed, and all my friends were shut up in their houses – I didn’t even know if they were all still alive. I didn’t really want to go out but someone had to get Mum’s inhaler. The reek attacked me as soon as daylight hit; this burning smell hovered thick in the air, as if it was the day after a bonfire. Not the comforting smell of smouldering embers though; this smelt like human flesh and fear. The sky was a grieving grey colour too; it seemed to be in mourning with us. The outside was eerie. The people walking didn’t speak. Food hunters? Relative hunters? Whatever, no one spoke. I didn’t feel like speaking either. As I walked further along, towards the park, another rank smell battered my senses. Rubbish. Garbage. Trash. The rubbish hadn’t been c
ollected; it was strewn along the streets, definitely more than a week’s mess. I had to dodge the bags, paper and rotten food as I shifted along the pavement. I tried not to think too much about the food. This was Ratland. Give it a few days and we’d have an actual rat infestation.
At the park’s entrance the burning smell grew stronger. Four figures huddled in chat. Smoke drifted my way. Two of them had fags dripping from their mouths. Khaki combats tucked into bovver boy boots. No helmets. They saw me coming. The smokers chucked their stubs away. Their conversation ended. Smiles disappeared. Eyes my direction. Sussing me out. I tried not to make eye contact with them. It was no use though. The sight of them was magnetic. One of them was female, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was an odd sight in her boots and swagger. Maybe she was their leader? It was the closest I’d been to Old Country troops. My neighbours. Oppressors. My stomach rumbled, again. My heart plundered my chest. Put the head down and keep walking, Charlie, my monster said. You’ve done nothing wrong, son. You’ve done nothing wrong. I could feel their eyes and sniggers burrowing into me. I clocked their hanging guns. I was scared senseless. They knew it. They revelled in it. My brothers and sister across the border. How did it come to this? They gave me my very own guard of honour. One gobbed at my feet, khaki coloured like their combats. Walk with a purpose. If one of them had stamped their boot on the ground I’d have soared like a firework. A male voice guffawed. The female voice chuckled. I advanced. That’s it, nothing to worry about.
‘Stay on path,’ one of them shouted when I was beyond them.
The see-saw that I used to go up and down on when I was at primary school had been snapped in two. The see was missing from the saw or the other way around. The roundabout was lying upside down with no chance of spinning again. Of the six swings that swung before the Old Country days only one remained, and that was buckled and wrapped around the top metal bar. Broken glass, like little diamonds, glistened off the ground. Booze bottles mainly. The grass surrounding the playground was a cow’s dreamland. Long and tired. This park was no more, only a tiny memory for people my age. Sad, that. In a few weeks it would become a dumping ground.
The smell of burning got more intense. There were little pockets of smouldering fires dotted around the park with soldiers clustered around them. So many of them. Various heads turned to examine this lone figure walking on through. One jittery move and I knew it was curtains. All it would take was a reach into the inside pocket of my jacket, an aggressive yank on my belt. That’s all the excuse they’d need. The soldiers were burning the rubbish and rubble. Where were the people of Little Town? The Regime? Our Rascals? The men who hassled Pav’s mum and dad? Had we given in so easily already? Near the exit of the park a pile of shoes and boots of all sizes were waiting their turn to be cremated. That’s when I thought that maybe it wasn’t just the rubbish they were burning. My stomach turned. Not for the first time.
The Bombs That Brought Us Together Page 7