The Bombs That Brought Us Together

by Brian Conaghan

  ‘Hi, Charlie.’

  ‘Hi, Mercy.’

  Like me, Mercy enjoyed a good old-fashioned readathon. Sometimes we’d exchange book ideas or recommend titles. I read some of her suggestions, but not the chick-lit girl-out-shopping-and-being-boyfriend-dumped ones. She wore specs, which made her look clever. She was even cleverer than she looked though.

  ‘How was your summer?’ she said.

  ‘Pure mental. Yours?’ I said.

  ‘Same.’

  ‘Mad, innit?’ I said.

  ‘Same for everyone, I think,’ she said. ‘At least we don’t have to put up with crap TV now.’

  ‘Yeah, that is one consolation.’

  Mercy then directed her gaze towards Pav.

  Pav flashed Mercy his baby blue blinders.

  I’m happy that she was sitting down because those knees of hers would have buckled under the pressure of Pav’s eyes. No doubt about that.

  I felt part of something special.

  She wanted an introduction.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Mercy. This is Pav; he moved into my block at the start of the summer. Before the bombs. We’ve been hanging around a bit since then.’ I felt a little bad in myself for saying a bit. There was no a bit about it, as we’d barely left each other’s sight since his arrival.

  ‘Hi, Pav,’ Mercy said, giving him a friendly hand wave across the aisle.

  ‘Pav, this is Mercy. She’ll be in our class.’

  ‘Hello, it is pleasing to meet you,’ Pav said in his best voice. The poshest one I’d heard. His eyes never left hers. Mercy looked away, more out of awkwardness than rudeness.

  MENTAL MEMO: HAVE A WORD WITH PAV ABOUT STARING AT PEOPLE. I KNOW HE DOESN’T MEAN TO BUT IT CAN TURN FOLK TO JELLY AT TIMES. MAYBE EVEN PRACTISE SOME SOFT-STARING TECHNIQUES WHEN YOU HAVE SHED TIME.

  ‘Pav’s still learning the lingo, Mercy,’ I said.

  Pav smiled a bashful one. He even tucked his shirt into his trousers and straightened his tie. My tie.

  ‘Well, I think you’re doing quite well, Pav,’ Mercy said.

  ‘Thank you. I trying,’ he said. ‘I studying hard.’

  I turned to look at Pav, but didn’t blow his cover.

  ‘And where did you used to live, Pav?’ Mercy asked.

  ‘I from Old Country,’ Pav said.

  It wasn’t as if the colour drained from her or anything like that; it was the shuffling in her seat, the flicking of her hair, the fiddling with her glasses and the look towards me that gave the game away. She tried to hide her disappointment, but it was there for all to see. At that moment I felt sorry for Pav. Or maybe I was just imagining it all.

  ‘Well, it’s nice to have met you, Pav,’ Mercy said, and started rifling through her bag, searching for nothing in particular.

  Pav gave me his little-boy-lost look. I’m sure his eyes were bluer than they had been two minutes ago. He was urging me to help him. Was this Pav’s sledgehammer moment? Had Cupid taken him by the tie and swung him from a great height?

  ‘He came to Little Town before those Old Country bastards arrived here, Mercy.’ She looked up from her bag-burrowing. ‘They drove him and his family out of Old Country, you see. They’re proper refugees.’

  ‘Really?’ she said.

  ‘Is true. They violent. We refugee,’ Pav said.

  ‘But why?’ Mercy asked.

  ‘Because we no believe in bastard country they create,’ Pav said.

  Mercy nodded.

  ‘They have a different political outlook, Mercy,’ I said.

  ‘That must have been terrible, Pav?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. It terrible.’ His eyes twinkled at her.

  ‘And now you have to put up with those people here as well; that must be hard going? You must feel like they’re chasing you?’

  ‘It hard. It very hard.’

  Mercy nodded her head in agreement.

  ‘Well, I hope you have a great first day, Pav,’ she said.

  ‘Thanking you,’ he said, almost bowing his head towards Mercy.

  Pav had his first fan. Oh, he was good.

  The bus turned a corner and the school came into view. Everyone on it hushed. Stun-gun silence as everyone looked out of the window with mouths gaping. Well, everyone apart from Pav. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw what was left of our school. Only the vile ‘main building’ was still standing, erect and strong. This grey square monstrosity, which looked more like a borstal than a place of learning, had somehow escaped the bombs, like one giant brick with a few windows dotted about for good effect. It appeared to be flipping us the middle finger and sniggering as our bus approached. I couldn’t believe that not one bomb had hit it. Not even a stray.

  Debris from the demolished sports hall, new science block, the art and drama studios and the humanities area had mostly been removed. Only small hills of rubble remained. Cordoned off. Out of bounds. No-go areas. I’d bet my granny that Bones and Max had their murky hearts set on exploring those areas. That bloody main building! Religion, maths. Classics and lingo studies. It would be a tight squeeze in there now. To make it worse the sun never shone in the main building; in winter it was too cold – jackets on in lessons, hard to concentrate – and in spring and early summer it was like a Turkish bathhouse. If ever a bomb should’ve fallen, why couldn’t one have fallen here?

  I looked for Erin F among the hordes. No sign.

  ‘Oh, my,’ Mercy said.

  ‘Oh shit, more like,’ I said.

  The bus stopped; its doors snapped open.

  ‘See you two bitches later,’ Max shouted up to me and Pav as he jumped off, ready to rock this place up.

  ‘Yeah, bitches, laters,’ Bones said, ready to follow Max.

  Pav nodded to them in defiance.

  I made sure he stayed close.

  Mercy, Pav and me entered the huge grey disaster together.

  I tried really hard to hold it in, but some people couldn’t help themselves. The lump in my throat was like having swollen glands. If at that moment I’d needed to speak, for sure the tears would have poured out of me. Thankfully the news acted like a silencer. The teacher could hardly read out all the names in the register without taking deep breaths between each one. His eyes were like glass. We sat in our registration class looking at some of the empty chairs. Six of them in my class alone, missing, presumed dead. How many in Erin F’s class? Mercy’s class? God, thinking that Erin F could be an empty chair sent shudders right through me. Of course it was terrible that I wouldn’t get to play Capital Cities Quiz again with Taylor Crainey, dodge the fiery tongue of Annette Burns or chat books with Mungo McGhee, but my mind was on Erin F. I could feel my eyes glazing over.

  After registration she was all I could think about. From nine until twelve thirty I hadn’t clapped eyes on Erin F. My mind was filled with all these images of her lying at the bottom of a pile somewhere, helpless and lifeless. Thinking what her last words and thoughts were. Of all the things I should have told her. I also felt bad for not having more sadness for those who we knew hadn’t made it. Some teachers hadn’t made it either, as there were lots of new faces to be seen. This wasn’t my school. The first day back after summer holidays is always raucous; this time was different: you could hear people’s footsteps as they walked through the corridors between lessons.

  That first morning I had three classes:

  Classics (New Teacher blathered on about how we needed to put the traumatic events of the summer behind us and focus on what we need to do to pass the big end-of-year exam … basically start working our socks off NOW. Erin F didn’t do Classics this year).

  Biology (New Teacher blathered on about how we needed to put the traumatic events of the summer behind us and focus on how important it is to start working from the outset if we want to pass the big end-of-year exam. Erin F took chemistry as her science subject).

  English (New Teacher blathered on about how we needed to put the traumatic events of the summer behind us and focus on how imperative
it is to hit the ground runningand that we must hit the books from day one if we want to hit the high grades and pass the big end-of-year exam. Lots of hitting involved there. Not sure many people understood the word imperative. Erin F’s name was called out and she didn’t appear. My heart sank).

  That first morning was blurry brain melt.

  Things change quickly in schools though. Brain melt turned to heart melt.

  When I eventually saw her she was like an oasis in the desert, all by herself at the end of a corridor. Books in hand. Hair tied back. Oh, to be a hair bobble. I sped up my walk. All the time I was thinking:

  Please don’t turn around, Erin F.

  Please don’t turn around.

  Then the little monster appeared with his stupid irritating voice. There he was, perched on my shoulder like butter wouldn’t melt. If the nerves weren’t bad enough! This pesky percher was the last thing I needed.

  Don’t say anything too dickish, Charlie.

  How could I disagree with him on this?

  Please don’t say anything too dickish.

  I was close. I followed the pendulum of her hair flow. I’d say Erin F’s hair could’ve hypnotised me into submission if I’d followed it for a mile or more. She could’ve made me do anything she wanted to: eat an onion thinking it was a juicy apple, sing huge serenades to strangers in the street, speak in goblin or elf lingo, or reveal my innermost thoughts to her and hand over my Moleskine when it was complete. Man alive! Imagine.

  I was trying to walk in her air, getting the waft of her special smell up my nostrils, that unique blend of sweeties and flowers. An exclusive brand of girly shampoo just for her dome. Top of the range. Collector’s item.

  I marched in her footsteps.

  Left.

  Right.

  Left.

  Right.

  So close. There couldn’t have been more than a metre between us. My little monster noticed this.

  Don’t get caught or she’ll think you’re a mad stalker.

  Don’t make her think you’re a mad stalker, not on the first day back. No turning back. Only one thing to do. My legs were shaking with fear. My back dripping. Only one thing I could do. I knew it. My little monster guy knew it.

  So do it then.

  A tender tap on the shoulder.

  Go on, do it.

  DO IT!

  I tapped her once on the shoulder.

  ‘I thought I could hear someone breathing down my neck,’ Erin F said. It was good to hear her voice again. ‘What are you? Some kind of mad stalker?’

  ‘Hi, Erin F,’ I said.

  ‘Hi, Charlie Law,’ she said. ‘Should you not be in the library at this time?’

  ‘I was taking my mate Pav to see his guidance teacher.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy I told you about when we met at The Bookshop. He’s new.’ Erin F obviously hadn’t remembered our chat about Pav.

  ‘Oh, right. Yes. I remember.’ She didn’t. ‘Shame The Bookshop’s gone now, eh?’

  ‘Total shame,’ I said. ‘Anyway, there isn’t a library in this building either.’

  She had her what-do-you-want-then face on.

  ‘I didn’t see you in English,’ I said.

  ‘That’s because I wasn’t in English.’

  ‘Were you late?’

  ‘I had to see someone about something, Charlie.’

  I took this to mean, It’s none of your effing business where I was, Law, so don’t ask again.

  ‘How was the rest of your summer?’ I asked.

  Erin F took a big deep breath.

  ‘Oh, you know, dodging bombs, hiding from Old Country patrols, trying to eat properly, trying to get life back to normal, trying to keep Mum alive – what can I say? My summer? Couldn’t have been better.’

  Was this a joke?

  Was I supposed to laugh?

  I laughed.

  Erin F glared.

  ‘Charlie, those Old Country bastards have destroyed our town, our school and our spirit, don’t you see that?’

  ‘I do see it, Erin F, but I think you have to remain positive.’

  ‘Remain positive, that’s all I hear these days. Remain positive about what?’

  ‘Well, education for starters; it’s one way to get out of here.’

  ‘That’s if they let you.’

  ‘Of course they’ll let us. We can go anytime, can’t we?’

  ‘But go where? Some other shit, dangerous place? That’s exactly what they want, isn’t it? Divide and conquer. It’s a classic manoeuvre, Charlie. Classic manoeuvre.’

  Erin F was a top-notch history student. Another tick in the box of her modes of attraction.

  ‘So what can we do about it?’ I asked.

  ‘Protest? Demonstrate? March? I don’t know. I don’t have the answers, do I? I’m just a teenage girl with no influence, no opinions and therefore no voice.’ I could see the wheels going around in her head. ‘Maybe I should just strap a bomb to my waist and twaddle off into the moonlight.’

  This chat was turning serious. It slowed my heart rate down, which was a bit of a relief.

  ‘What? You don’t mean, like, a real bomb?’

  ‘Of course I mean a real bomb.’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘Easy. Just saunter to one of their checkpoints or patrols and press the boom button.’

  On the word boom she exploded one of her hands in front of my face, widening her stunning eyes.

  ‘But then you’d be …’ I began to say, before it dawned on me. ‘You mean, like a suicide bomber?’

  ‘Exactly. It happens to us all one day.’

  ‘But where would you find the bomb to do that?’ I asked. It was a vital question because I didn’t have a clue where someone would go to find a bomb if they wanted to blow themselves up. I wouldn’t know where to start. Maybe The Big Man could sort me out if I asked him.

  ‘Minor problems, Charlie. They can always be sorted out later in the day.’

  Now I really wasn’t sure if this was a shared joke moment, an extract the urine out of Charlie day or a cheeky yarn.

  I neither laughed nor sniggered.

  I didn’t even grin.

  Erin F laughed.

  Oh, now I got it!

  Erin F looked at me, serious again. ‘Do you know what the real problem is, Charlie?’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘That nobody gives a toss. Everyone in Little Town is happy to just sit back and let all this happen.’

  ‘Not true,’ I said, thinking of my mum and dad, then The Big Man’s guns flashing through my mind. ‘There are some people raging about this, Erin F.’

  ‘Who? You?’

  ‘And Pav.’

  ‘Your buddy, he’s one of them, is he not?’

  ‘He hates Old Country more than me and you. This is the second time he’s been persecuted by them, you know.’

  But Erin F had steam coming out of her lugs. This wasn’t the Erin F I knew; this was an Erin F with fire in her belly and too much wagging in her fingers.

  ‘I doubt anyone hates them more than me at the moment, Charlie,’ she said.

  I wanted to ask about her mum’s health but didn’t wish to send her into a tailspin of fury. ‘Does that mean you don’t want to meet Pav?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I sent you a message to see if you wanted to come see our shed,’ I said. Erin F stroked her dazzling locks. ‘You never replied. I mean, I know the network was down so maybe your phone wasn’t working.’ She crossed her feet. ‘Maybe I took your number down wrongly.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘I didn’t?’

  ‘No, my phone got taken off me, Charlie.’

  ‘By your dad?’

  The moment I said it I knew that it was a twelve-year-old’s question.

  ‘No, not by my dad.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Some woman from Old Country patrol searched me.’

  ‘A woman?’
r />   ‘Slimy hands all over me like I was packing twenty kilos of Class A.’

  My mind whizzed with the phrase hands all over me. I could see it happening; in fact I couldn’t stop seeing it happen.

  ‘That’s totally terrible,’ I said.

  ‘I know. Can you imagine having to do a grubby job like that?’

  ABSOLUTELY!

  ‘No way could I imagine that,’ I said.

  ‘And from a woman too. God, it’s so disgusting and degrading to women all over. A crime against sisterhood.’

  This was the best piece of news I’d heard all day. Erin F hadn’t rejected me; she hadn’t really thought that I was stalking her like a crazy mad fool; she hadn’t decided that I wasn’t to be the one and only guy for her. I was delighted, but I couldn’t show it on my face. The pain of keeping a smile in went all the way down to my toes.

  ‘It’s scandalous, Erin F. Scandalous.’

  Then I smiled, which turned into a massive chuckle.

  ‘Not funny, Charlie.’

  ‘I know, but I’m just thinking that some Old Country woman has been getting all these texts inviting her to see my shed. She could be there at my shed now for all I know,’ I said.

  Erin F slapped me on the arm, before howling herself. A real touch on the arm. Human contact. Not-washing-for-a-month contact.

  ‘How many texts did you send?’ Erin F asked.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘How many texts did you send?’

  Big giant swear word entered my head. I didn’t expect this question.

  ‘Erm … three … maybe four … I don’t actually remember,’ I lied.

  I couldn’t really tell her that the figure hit the two-digit mark; if I did she would have definitely thought that I was the king of the stalkers.

  ‘Oh, right,’ Erin F said, shifting the weight to her other foot. ‘Well, sorry I didn’t get them.’

  ‘That’s OK, your excuse is watertight,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, well …’

  ‘So do you want to see it then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our shed. Do you want to see it?’