Shrapnel (3 page)

I don't usually have thoughts like that. Going cuckoo, probably. Anyway, I'd just sniffed Raymond's Bakelite ashtray and put it back on the shelf over the small fireplace, when a rattling noise made me jump. It was coming from the
hearth. As I stepped back, something fell out of the chimney in a shower of soot and thudded on the tiles.

My first thought was,
a bomb
. Daft I know, but bombs were on everybody's mind at that time. Good job it wasn't, because I just stood gawping at it. When it didn't do anything, I approached and touched it with my toe. Some soot was dislodged and I saw it was a package, wrapped in oilskin and tied with string. I knelt on the rug and picked it up. It was heavy.
Gold sovereigns
, I thought.
Some miser's hoard
. My fingers plucked at the knot. The string loosened. The oilskin fell away.

It was a revolver.

YOU'VE PROBABLY NEVER
had hold of a gun. A real one, I mean. They're far heavier than you expect. I blame Tom Mix and Hopalong Cassidy. You see them at the pictures, doing flashy tricks with their Colt 45s, spinning them on one finger and stuff like that. You imagine they weigh about the same as a toy gun, but they don't.

I knelt on the rug, gazing at the weapon in my right hand. It was blue-black except for the grip, which was brown Bakelite. The five-chamber magazine was loaded with dully gleaming,
snub-nose bullets. A five-shooter. Never heard of a cowboy with one of those.

I was excited. Breathing fast while my heart hammered at its bony cage.
I've got a gun – a real one. When the invasion comes I can fight
. I grinned.
Keep the storm troopers out of Whitfield's classroom, be the hero of Foundry Street School
.

I knew it wasn't that simple, of course. There's laws about guns, even in wartime. You can't own a revolver unless you've got a licence, and most people don't get licences. That'll be why it was hidden up the chimney.

But whose is it? Can't be Dad's. And nobody else has lived here since before the Great War.

Raymond. This is Raymond's room, so it must be his. But where did he get it from? Why would he want it, and surely he'd have taken it with him when he left?

It was a mystery: the sort boys always hope to stumble across and never do. Well, I'd stumbled across this one, and I wouldn't solve it kneeling on the rug. Mum and Dad'd be home soon. All I could do for now was rewrap the parcel and stick it back up the chimney.

So that's what I did.

‘GOOD PICTURE, MUM?'
It was a quarter past ten, they'd just got in.

‘
Very
good thanks, Gordon.' She smiled. ‘That Tommy Trinder, I felt like bringing him home.'

‘Now then, Ethel,' growled Dad, getting out of his coat. ‘Remember you're a married woman.' He looked at me. ‘True story, Gordon. This engineer goes across to France to snatch some hush-hush machinery just before Jerry gets his dirty paws on it. Brings it home with help from some Tommies. This was before Dunkirk.' He glances at Mum. ‘Trinder's one of the Tommies.'

‘He could have Raymond's room,' joked Mum, filling the kettle. I knew it was a joke – my brother's room would stay exactly as it was till he wanted it again.

‘Hope there won't be a raid tonight,' I yawned. ‘I'm all in.'

‘I'm not surprised, young man,' said Mum. ‘Look at the time. Drink that cocoa and get yourself off to bed, or you'll never get up for school tomorrow.'

I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep for thinking about the gun in the next room. The more I thought about it, the surer I was that it must belong to my brother. But
why
? What did he want a revolver for? And why would he leave it here?

I knew I ought to tell Mum and Dad about it, but I wouldn't. It'd be telling tales, and no decent chap does that to his brother.

I'll go and see him
, I promised myself.
He hasn't gone away. People see him about. I bet he still goes in Farmer Giles. I'll find him and ask. He can only tell me to mind my own business.

That settled, I treated myself to a fantasy in which I had the gun in my satchel next time the Deadman gang ambushed me. I pulled it out,
pointed it at their shoes. ‘Dance,' I said, and fired between their feet. They capered about like lunatics, while everybody laughed.

If only life was like that.

IT'S NOT A
good idea to go home after school and tell your mum you're popping out for a bit. She'll say your tea's nearly ready, or it'll be dark soon, or what if there's a raid. Any excuse to keep you in. Best to do whatever it is you want to do,
then
go home. You might be in trouble for being late, but at least it's mission accomplished.

So instead of turning left on Foundry Street at four fifteen that Tuesday I turned right, heading for the city centre and Farmer Giles. Farmer Giles is a milk bar. In peacetime they serve milk shakes, ice cream and sticky cakes. Now it's
weak tea, pretend coffee and a biscuit if you're lucky. It's a place where people meet – local businessmen, wives out shopping, young singles who gather to smoke and chat. My brother's used the place for years.

And there he was, alone at a corner table, smoking. He looked surprised when he saw me. ‘What
you
doing down here, kiddo?' He took to calling me kiddo last year. Gets it from American films.

‘Looking for you,' I told him.

‘Why?' He seemed concerned. ‘Mum and Dad all right, I hope?'

I nodded. ‘Oh yes, it's nothing like that. Can I sit down?'

He indicated the vacant chair. ‘Help yourself. Smoke?'

I grinned, shook my head. He withdrew the packet, regarded me quizzically. ‘So, what's new?'
That's
film talk as well.

Now that the moment had arrived, it didn't feel quite so straightforward. For one thing, he'd know I'd been snooping in his room. For another, I'd uncovered something he obviously wanted to keep secret. And lastly, the revolver might not even be his.

‘It's . . .' I gulped.
Just say it
. ‘There's a gun in your room, Raymond.'

‘Ah.' He drew on his cigarette, blew a perfect smoke ring, watched it drift over my head. ‘Yes, I know. Do the parents?'

I shook my head. ‘No. What's it for, Raymond?'

He shrugged. ‘It's for killing people, kiddo.' He sighed. ‘Y'know, I thought I'd found a darned good hiding place for it. Do you stick your head up a lot of chimneys, Gordon?'

‘I didn't stick my head up. I was there when the gun fell out. It could just as easily have been Mum.'

‘What – falling out of the chimney?'

‘No, you fathead, I meant . . .'

He laughed. ‘I know what you meant. Listen.' His expression grew serious as he leaned across the table. ‘In wartime,' he murmured, ‘things go on that most people don't know about. You realize that, don't you?'

I looked at him. ‘You mean spying, stuff like that?'

He nodded. ‘Spying's one thing, but there's a lot more, mostly done by people who aren't in uniform.' He glanced round the room and
dropped his voice even lower. ‘Why d'you think I packed in my job at Beresford's, Gordon?'

I shook my head. ‘I don't know, Raymond. Mum and Dad don't either. They talk about it sometimes.'

He covered my left hand with his right. ‘They must never know, kiddo.
Never
. It'd be dangerous for them. It's dangerous for
you
, but you found the gun so I've no option but to tell you the truth.' He gazed into my eyes. ‘Can you keep a secret, Gordon? A
state
secret?'

‘A
state
secret?'

‘Ssssh!' He squeezed my hand. ‘Yes. The reason I left Beresfords is, I was recruited to undertake vital work for the Government.'

‘Wow!'

‘Keep your
voice
down, Gordon, for Pete's sake. What I'm doing – me and a few others – is setting up a secret army to resist the invader if he comes.'

‘You mean, besides the
real
army?'

He nodded. ‘The secret army will go into action when our forces have surrendered or been wiped out.'

‘They
won't
surrender, will they?' I said this
out loud, couldn't help it. ‘Mr Churchill said—'

‘Ssssh!' He crushed my knuckles. ‘They might have to, kiddo. It's not a toy-town army you know, old Adolf's. Look at Belgium, Holland, France. Look at Poland. This isn't a game we're playing.' He looked at me. ‘Will you help me, Gordon?'

I gulped. ‘
Me?
'

He nodded. ‘Yes,
you
. There are kids your age in the French Resistance you know – younger in fact. They carry messages. Packages. At night. Their mums and dads don't know. Think you can do that?'

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. None of it felt real. Me, doing secret work for the Government. I'd wake up in a minute.

‘Well – are you up to it or not?' asked my brother.

‘
I . . . I THINK
so, Raymond, yes.'

‘Good lad.' He patted the back of my hand. ‘Now listen. I want you to go home, act normally. Mum and Dad mustn't suspect anything. Stay away from that revolver – someone'll collect it soon anyway.' He saw my puzzled frown. ‘Not while anyone's in, I don't mean that.' He smiled. ‘Just do the stuff you always do, all right?'

I nodded.

‘And don't go blabbing to your chums. It's tempting, especially when they call you a dodger and stuff leaves down the inside of your shirt.'

‘How the
heck
 . . .?'

He grinned. ‘Eyes everywhere, kiddo, that's us. There're chaps like your friend Deadman on every street corner – chaps who think they know what's what, when actually they know nothing. People like them're going to need people like us if the worst happens. You won't find 'em kicking leaves about
then
– hiding
under
'em, more likely, like slugs from the sun.'