If anyone was going to break CHARLIE LAW’S TEN LAWS OF LITTLE TOWN it was Pav. If someone had a gun to your head and asked you who’d disobeyed CHARLIE LAW’S TEN LAWS OF LITTLE TOWN you’d have blurted out Pav well before trigger time. But guess who did violate CHARLIE LAW’S TEN LAWS OF LITTLE TOWN? Charlie Law, that’s who. The worst law of them all. Law number nine: NO STEALING. Only the eejits and brainless dare break law number nine.
The eejits.
The brainless.
And me.
Charlie Law.
The night before the NO STEALING law was butchered I spent an hour listening to my belly make sounds that the percussion section of an international orchestra would have been proud of. You’d have thought a quality baker was mixing cakes inside my stomach. Cakes. If only.
Since the bombs, and the arrival of Old Country’s (hungry) troops, food was seriously scarce. Well, everything was scarce. I’d visited every known and unknown chemist trying to get an inhaler for Mum. No luck. It wasn’t panic stations just yet, but it was getting dangerously close. Mum couldn’t go out – the air was still debris-dusty from the bombing, and the sight of Old Country troops on the streets made her chest tight. Great tidal waves of hunger pangs engulfed us all, but it was much worse for poor Mum because she had to cope with breathing issues on top of those waves. The main shopping centre had been destroyed. The borders were closed, and the farmers didn’t seem in a hurry to get food to Little Town. It was clear that supplies just weren’t reaching us. Maybe due to drivers’ fear of entering Little Town. Maybe out of Old Country’s refusal to allow them entry. Either way, food was running low in everyone’s gaff.
For the past week we had had soup for dinner. Two potatoes, two carrots, an onion, a bit of turnip (I found some turnip and carrots in the street, result!). Add some water, mush together with a little salt and pepper and hey presto! Soup. Soup for three. Soup that would have to last a week. Delicious, tasteless soup. No dipping bread. Just soup. Bland Little Town Veggie Soup.
That night I didn’t lie in bed thinking about Erin F’s hair in my hands or Pav’s family’s safety or Mum and Dad smiling again or The Big Man handing over some plush chairs. God, The Big Man. I wasn’t even sure The Big Man was still alive. I watched my dream shed flutter away. It was food which consumed my every thought now. Nothing else.
Food.
And food.
And more food.
It was as if my head was a supermarket’s conveyor belt with all this wonderful, scrumptious scran passing through, with me pouncing like a rabid dog to get my chops on it. My head and stomach rumbled constantly. I was beginning to think that the first major casualty of these bombs – this war – was food itself. Or lack of it.
That night I couldn’t read a book as my concentration was below gutter level. I decided to cry instead. For an hour. At first a drip. Then a flow. Followed by a flood. I couldn’t stop it.
The only shop that was still doing any business was FruitLoop; I’m not sure why, as surely there was only a tiny amount of produce left to sell. Shame because FruitLoop used to have every fruit and veg type under the sun. When Little Town was in calmer times, Mum occasionally sent me there to pick up her messages when she couldn’t be bothered herself. The shop only survived because it sat in a little parade which the bombs hadn’t obliterated; even so FruitLoop was now a sorry sight. The main colour from the display outside was fire-damaged brown. But each time I walked past FruitLoop the temptation killed me. The monster’s voice appeared on my shoulder, whispering into my lug:
Go on, Charlie, who’s going to notice? Go on, Charlie. You’ll never in a month of Sundays get caught. Go on, Charlie, I’ve got your back on this. You’re a shoo-in.
Now, I’m fully aware that shoplifting is high on my list of Little Town DON’Ts, but I let my fingers run wild and free. I ran them gently over the fruit and veg, caressed an apple, placed all five digits over its waxy skin. Its bruising didn’t matter to me. I only saw this juicy, delicious apple sitting pretty, waiting to be picked up, examined, breathed on, rubbed on a thigh and plunged into my mouth. I held it. Smelt it. I hadn’t eaten fruit in weeks. The little monster mumbled:
Go on, Charlie. Stick it in your bag. No one has clocked you. Remember, I’ve got your back.
I looked left and right, unzipped my bag and plonked it in.
Good on you, Charlie. Walk away. Slowly does it. Don’t want to attract any attention.
But I didn’t walk away. I reached out and nabbed another.
One for Mum.
Enough, Charlie. Leave it now.
Then blagged another. For Dad.
Oh, sweet Jesus, Charlie, what are you doing, son?
RUN! RUN LIKE THE WIND, CHARLIE. RUN LIKE THE BLOODY WIND.
I didn’t hear exactly what the FruitLoop man said, but it was something like, There’s no use in running, Charlie Law. I know it’s you. Just wait till they hear about this. Just wait till I tell them what you’ve done. I couldn’t hear anything after that; my heavy breathing and thunderous heart drowned out his ranting.
When I got to our block I went directly into the shed and waited for my body to calm down. I dug deep into my bag, fished out the three apples: vile, repulsive excuses of apples, further bruised with the bashing they took during my scampering. I lofted them up like trophies. Turned each one in my hands. Held them. Smelt them. My belly didn’t rumble with much excitement. My tongue didn’t lick my lips. My eyes didn’t bulge. The hunger had jumped ship and left my tummy, hadn’t it?
Mum and Dad should never find out that their son was nothing more than a common thief. I couldn’t tell them. It would have to be a waiting game. Waiting for them to come and get me. Waiting for the FruitLoop man to knock on my door, flanked by some burly Rascal bruisers ready to dish out what had been coming to me. I could face anything, or so I thought. But a life of parental fear? No thanks.
Bombs? Pure doddle.
Bullets? No problem.
The Big Man’s Tough Guys? Easy.
Searches? Effortless.
Nicking three putrid apples? Terror alert.