THE H-BOMB GIRL

by Stephen Baxter

  As the Ted went to take another kick she swung the mike stand up between his legs, from behind. The heavy base slammed into his groin with a crunching sound. The Ted’s eyes went wide, and he grabbed his crotch. “Oh, me mutton dagger!” He fell over as if chopped down.

  Laura ran forward to Nick. He lay motionless, in a pool of blood.

  With a flash and a pop, the amps cut out. The crowd’s fighting stopped as if a switch had been pulled, and there was a collective groan.

  Beatle John clambered back on to the stage, his hair a tangle from the ruck. But his voice, unamplified now, carried over the crowd. “Oh, well. What shall we do while we wait for Uncle Albert to change the fuse on the Vox? How about a singalong? She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes. Honk! Honk!…”

  The crowd joined in, Mods and Rockers, bikers and schoolkids alike.

  They’re all mad, Laura thought. I must be mad to be here.

  “Come on,” said Bernadette. “We’ve got to get Nick out of here.”

  Chapter 13

  Pooling their money, they took a taxi to Broad Green Hospital, although Nick insisted he didn’t need a doctor.

  At the hospital they had to wait, with mothers with sick children, and half-asleep drunks.

  Laura and Bernadette had a couple of bruises, and Laura had ruined her school tights. Joel had had his fingertips ripped open by fish hooks embedded in that Ted’s lapels, put there to trap anybody who attacked. His hands were so swathed in bandages from the Cavern’s first-aid box it looked like he wore white gloves.

  Of course Nick was the worst. His face was so battered it was purple and swollen, his lips cut, one eye closed. His body was a mass of bruises too.

  They were all streaked with black, where they had fallen on the filthy floor of the Cavern.

  Nick ran his tongue around his mouth. “I’ll need National Health choppers after this.”

  “You’re going to need a new drummer too,” Bernadette said. “Once I get my hands on that coward Billy Waddle.”

  “You should have stayed out of it, Bern. A lady in your fragile condition.”

  “You’ll feel fragile with my fist in your gob.”

  “So,” Joel said, his hands huge. “ ‘Bash the queer.’”

  Nick said, “Funny how a bunch of head-the-balls can be so perceptive.” His eyes were closed, his voice a flat whisper, as if he was half asleep.

  “You knew,” Laura said to Bernadette.

  Bernadette shrugged. “It was Nick’s business.”

  “It is the business of my group, though,” Nick said. “They’ve taken their share of queer-bashings on my behalf before. But they look after me.”

  “Even Billy?” Bernadette asked sourly.

  Nick looked away.

  “So how did the Teds know?” Joel asked.

  “They might just have seen me around town. There are places you can go. There’s a pub called the Magic Clock, behind the Royal Court theatre. And a hotel called the Stork, where they turn a blind eye.” He put on a Colonel Blimp voice. “Because what we deviants get up to is illegal, you know, by God and Her Majesty.

  “Anyway I’ve had worse. National Service was tougher. Got my jaw broke in there. Stopped me singing for a month. That sarge was a music lover, probably. Or he might have fancied me. Some of the worst of them do.”

  Bernadette teased him. “I always wondered if you liked a bit of rough.”

  He grimaced. “Not that rough. I’m a romantic, me. I fall in love. Isn’t that stupid?” He looked at Laura through his one good eye. “So do you think less of me?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Have you met anyone like me before? A queer, a gay?”

  She thought it over. “Probably.”

  Nick said, “We’ve all got secrets, haven’t we, H-Bomb Girl? I’ll tell you the irony. I’ve never gone in for bashing myself. But I’ve stood aside and let others take it.” He looked at Joel as he said this. “Even queers. If you’re a target yourself it makes you feel better to see somebody else getting his head kicked in. Maybe I deserved this.”

  At last the doctor came. Nick insisted he felt fine. But the doctor decided Nick would have to stay in overnight to have his head injuries checked out, and the rest of him explored for internal injuries. Joel was going to need stitches, and would be kept in too.

  It was gone eleven by the time Laura and Bernadette left the hospital.

  “We’re dirty stop-outs. And on a school day too,” Bernadette said mockingly.

  “Yes. And we missed the Beatles.”

  Bernadette asked quickly, “Can I come home with you?”

  “What? I mean—yes. Of course.”

  “If I get home this late my mum will kick off. Better to let her sleep off the mother’s ruin. Anyway, I’d like to see your Mort in his undies.”

  “Don’t even joke about it.”

  They walked to a bus stop. They picked at the dirt on their clothes, the bruises on their arms.

  “Bern, when I met you, I thought there was something between you and Nick.”

  “How wrong you were. Nick’s as bent as a nine-bob note. But he’s the only boy I ever met I could trust.”

  “What about Joel?”

  “Oh, yes, him. But he doesn’t count.”

  Laura felt very sad for Joel.

  The bus came. It was the last service, and the bus smelled of pee and ciggie smoke.

  At home, Mum answered the door. Laura could hear the telly in the background. She expected a chewing-out. But Mum looked troubled.

  Mum asked, “Who’s this?”

  “Bernadette. From school. I said she could stay.”

  “Oh, did you? Well, I suppose you’d better come in.”

  In the house, Mort was sitting in the parlour before the telly, which showed a grave talking head.

  Bernadette said, “Wow. Nice set.”

  “Shut up,” said Mort casually, without looking round. Though it was midnight he was in his uniform shirt and tie.

  Laura recognised the man speaking on the telly. It was President Kennedy.

  “Uh oh,” she said to Bernadette. “Cuba.”

  “What?”

  The telephone rang in the hall. Mort got up smartly, and went out to take the call. Then he came back in. “It’s for you,” he said to Laura, irritated.

  Laura hurried to the phone. Bernadette followed.

  It was Dad. “You’ve been out late, haven’t you? I phoned earlier.”

  “What’s going on, Dad?”

  “Well, they’re going public. The Americans. Kennedy is speaking to the nation right now about the crisis.”

  “I know. Mort’s watching him on telly.”

  “How does he look to you?”

  “Who, Mort? He’s a git.”

  Dad suppressed a laugh. “Not him. The president.”

  Laura peered through the door at the pale, ghostly face. Handsome, strained. “He looks ill.”

  “I’ve met people, our senior chaps, who’ve met him. He’s only a young man, you know. Mightn’t seem young to you. But he’s got a crippling back injury, and a bad bowel, and glandular problems. He gets through the day with a suite of drugs and painkillers. Now Khrushchev is quite different. A peasant. Fought the Nazis at Stalingrad, a bloody mess that was. Then he had to survive Stalin’s purges, and fight his way to the top. Bit of a shower by all accounts. These things are never about bombs and missiles and submarines and airplanes, you know. It’s always the people.”

  “What’s Kennedy saying?”

  “He’s told the public something about the Russian missiles on Cuba. He’s sent sixty-odd nuclear bombers off to fly around the North Pole. And he’s announced that he’s blockading any more ships going to Cuba. He’s put the US forces on DefCon 3. That’s a state of alert, a ‘Defence Condition.’ There’s another stage called DefCon 2, and then DefCon 1, which means war.

  “He’s speaking to America, but he’s speaking to the Russians too. He’s standing firm, but he
’s still trying to find a way to let everybody back down without losing face.”

  Laura listened in to a bit of what Kennedy was saying. He talked about the risks of a worldwide nuclear war, “… in which even the fruits of victory would be ashes in our mouth.”

  Bernadette was staring at the telly, and at Laura. “You really do have secrets, don’t you, H-Bomb Girl? Did you know about this stuff?”

  Cradling the phone handset, Laura admitted, “Sort of.”

  Dad began talking about the Key, once more running over her instructions on how she had to use it “if the balloon goes up”: the phone numbers, the enabling code.

  There was a high-pitched warble, like a small bird. It was coming from Bernadette’s bag.

  “Dad, I’ll talk to you in a minute.”

  They crept to the stairs and sat on the bottom step, out of sight of Mort and Mum in the parlour. Bernadette dug into her bag, and pulled out the “phone,” Miss Wells’s little gadget. It was glowing blue, and chiming.

  Bernadette stared at it. “It’s vibrating.”

  Laura hissed, “Shut it off. They’ll hear.”

  “I don’t know how.” She flipped it open, and the noise stopped. There was a message on the little screen. Bernadette looked at Laura, amazed. “This is for you as well.”

  Laura stared into the screen.

  Text Message

  FROM: Miss Wells

  TO: Laura

  MESSAGE: Don’t be afraid.

  Chapter 14

  She was woken by the sound of the wireless from downstairs.

  “This is the BBC Home Service. Here is the seven o’clock news for today, Tuesday 23rd October. Following President Kennedy’s television address to the American people last night, there has been no lessening of tension in the international waters around Cuba. Urgent negotiations are underway at the United Nations in New York. The Russian Premier Mr Khrushchev has yet to respond to the president’s announcement of a ‘blockade.’ At home, Prime Minister Harold Macmillan is expected to speak to the nation later today. In other developments—”

  “Oh, how dull.” That was her mother. Click. Jolly marching music.

  Bernadette had slept on Laura’s bedroom floor. But she’d gone before Laura woke.

  Laura had to wait ages for a bus. There was a long queue at the stop.

  At last a bus came. The queue patiently filed on, but the conductor lowered his arm like a barrier before Laura got to the front.

  A woman complained, “What’s going on? Where’s all the buses? This is disgusting.”

  “Requisitioned, love. For official purposes. Shipping soldiers about, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t you know there’s a war on?”

  The bus drove off, packed.

  There was no point waiting. Laura walked.

  The traffic was heavy that morning. Lots of police vehicles, and green army trucks rolling along in convoy. A bunch of squaddies sitting in the back of one truck leered at Laura and whistled.

  There was a new air, she thought. Army lorries rolling through suburban streets. A sense of urgency. But people didn’t seem to mind. Most of the older folk looked quite happy, in fact. As if it was a holiday.

  But on the other hand there were queues outside all the churches she passed. People wanting to make their confessions, she supposed.

  There was a special assembly this morning, and all the kids streamed into the hall.

  Laura found Bernadette and Joel. She was faintly surprised Bernadette had turned up at all, and it was a miracle she had managed to smarten up her one and only school uniform, which she’d been wearing down the Cavern.

  They inspected each other’s battle scars. Bernadette’s worst problem was broken nails. Joel’s gouged fingers were out of their bandages but were swathed in Elastoplast. “Not as bad as it looks,” he whispered. But he had a big purple bruise on his forehead where that Ted had head-butted him.

  Everybody stood up as the head walked on to the stage. The senior staff followed, Mrs Sweetman the deputy head, Miss Wells, the others. The teachers actually marched, like soldiers in the war they all remembered so well.

  And they had a guest. A policeman in a black uniform and an officer’s peaked hat. He had a gun, a revolver, in a black holster at his waist.

  A stir went around the hall. Outside her Dad’s military bases, Laura had never seen anybody carry a gun before. This big grey-haired scuffer with a gun at his waist, strutting across the stage of a school assembly hall, was a genuinely frightening sight.

  Mr Britten led the school in brief prayers. The policeman joined in, hands clasped, head bowed.

  “I’m sure you’ve all heard the news this morning,” Mr Britten said. “There’s a situation developing between the Americans and the Russians over Cuba. Well, it’s Britain’s duty now to stand firm with our ally. And it’s our duty, here at Saint Agnes’s, to do what we can to help the war effort.” He was a small, round, pompous man with tiny National Health specs. He looked pleased with himself at being able to make such a grave announcement. “You mustn’t be concerned. We’re here to guide you. All of us up here have been through this before, when old Hitler thought he could pull the tail of the British lion. Well, we showed Jerry and we’ll show comrade Khrushchev too.” There was a reluctant rumble, like a muted cheer.

  “Now I’ll introduce you to our visitor. Chief Inspector Robert Gillespie, of the city constabulary. I’m sure you’re going to treat him with the usual Saint Agnes’s courtesy. And if you don’t you’ll be seeing me.” Just for a second there was a glimpse of the usual “Bulldog” Britten.

  The scuffer remembered to smile. It was a horrible expression that looked as if his cheeks were being dragged back by wires.

  “Gillespie,” Laura murmured. “Where do I know that name?”

  Joel whispered, “His son plays lead guitar for the Woodbines.”

  “Paul. Oh, yes.”

  “Don’t know who’s more embarrassed, father or son,” Bernadette said.

  “Now then,” the chief inspector said. “You heard what your headmaster said. Things are looking grave, and we must be prepared. That’s why I’m here today, with some of my officers. To help you prepare.

  “Things are going to be different as long as the crisis lasts. As I speak the Houses of Parliament are meeting to pass an Emergency Powers Act. Everything will be reorganised, from the structure of the government itself, down to what we eat, and even what we watch on television.

  “But while all this is going on, remember one thing. ‘Business as usual!’ That’s going to be your motto. Life will be harder in some ways. But you must keep up with your schoolwork. That’s your duty. For, you see, somebody is going to have to run the country when we all retire.” That ugly smirk again. “We’ll be seeing you all individually during the day.”

  Bernadette murmured, “Why do they need to do that?”

  “In the meantime, keep calm, do your duty, pull together, and we’ll see this thing through with our essential British liberties preserved.”

  Joel stood up. “Like free speech?”

  “Be quiet!” thundered the policeman.

  “See me!” yelled the headmaster.

  That morning, normal classes were suspended.

  Mrs Sweetman, the deputy head, took Laura’s class. She had a copy of a slim government Civil Defence booklet called “Your Protection Against Nuclear Attack,” and she read extracts to the class.

  If the sirens sounded, she said, that would mean Russian missiles had been spotted by radar on their way to Britain. “You will have four minutes’ warning before the first missiles land.”

  Joel stuck his hand up. “Actually it would be more like three minutes. Perhaps as little as two and a half minutes.”

  “Mister Christmas—”

  “And if they launch from submarines off the coast, we might have no more than thirty seconds.”

  “You may be right, Mister Christmas. But I have to give you the official figures.”

  Bern
adette put her hand up now. “Miss. Why are you reading this out? Why don’t we all have a copy?”

  “Well, they aren’t about to give it away for free. This booklet cost ninepence, you know. Let’s get back to the sirens.”

  “Mrs Sweetman,” Joel said.

  She sighed. “Yes, Mister Christmas?”

  “What if you’re deaf, and can’t hear the sirens?”

  Mrs Sweetman flicked through the leaflet. “It doesn’t say. You would have to ask a hearing person what’s going on, I suppose.”

  “Won’t they be in a bit of a rush? They’ll only have the four minutes.”

  The class were enjoying watching Joel wind up Mrs Sweetman. But Laura felt sorry for her. About forty, plump, her hair grey, she seemed to be a decent woman, being asked to do a horrible thing to the children she was in charge of.

  Laura asked, on impulse, “Do you have kids, Miss?”

  “Yes. Younger than you. I’d rather be with them, frankly. But we’ve all got our jobs to do, haven’t we? Let’s get on with this. Next. How to construct a fall-out shelter…”

  They were trained on what to do if the sirens went up while they were at school. Duck and cover.

  “You kneel down under your desk,” Mrs Sweetman said. They all obeyed, with a shuffle of desks.

  “I’m too big for my desk.”

  “Shut up, Deborah Sweeney. Crouch down. Done that? Next. Put your hands over your head. And kiss your jacksie goodbye.”

  Bernadette looked up. “What was that, Miss?”

  “You didn’t hear it. Now. Whitewash.”

  The school caretaker delivered a wheelbarrow-load of decorating sheets, brushes, and cans of whitewash. They all put on filthy old smocks that they used in art classes. The sheets hadn’t been used since the last time the school was painted, which was evidently a long time ago. They cracked as they were unfolded.

  When the desks were covered up the whitewash cans were opened. It wasn’t paint, just a gritty, stinking mixture of quicklime and water. The pupils took their brushes, climbed on the desks, and began to slap this stuff on the classroom windows.