It was Sunday afternoon. Three weeks since the bombs came, ten weeks since Pavel Duda arrived in Little Town, a few days after I traded my freedom for some chairs and a cheeseburger. We were due to start school the following week. The Old Country invaders seemed keen to get things back to normal. Fortunately for me our school had survived the bombing. Pav wasn’t exactly cock-a-hoop about the notion of educating himself. His face was thunder at the very thought of going to a new school. A fresh group of jokers ready to welcome him with open mouths; a brand new set of Old Country refugee haters waiting to pounce.
I had a feeling that Pav wasn’t your typical A-grade learner. No, Pav would be your up-the-back-of-the-class-head-on-desk sprawler type of guy peeking up at the clock every two minutes because he believed all this learning guff was the most excruciatingly painful experience of his entire life.
Mum had managed to get her hands on some spanking trousers for my first day back. Cheap and nasty. Electric shock numbers. But new. She’d bleached some of my shirts from last year so that the yellow sweat marks and bogging collar stains were only a memory. My three shirts were pressed, hanging up and raring to go. I’d been busy swotting up. A complete nerd? A weedy geek freak? Whatever people wanted to call it. I’d read three books for our English course, two plays for Classics and two biographies for history. I tried to go through some of it with Pav as well, but he was having none of it. Pav told me that he’d be wearing the same school clothes he wore last year in Old Country. Neither of us would have new bags.
Since the transmitters were thankfully back up and running I’d sent Erin F a text inviting her to our newly furnished shed. No reply. Perhaps the network was still scrappy.
That Sunday I was busy rearranging and rejigging the shed furniture. I did it so many times that I couldn’t tell what the best position for things was. I read a book once about this mad oriental technique of furniture organising that was supposed to help soothe the soul and make your life all harmonising and groovy, but when I tried it out in the shed it didn’t work for me; instead it seemed to have the opposite effect: muddling my head and sending me into a wind tunnel of confusion. I asked Pav if it would be better to have one chair near the door, one below the window and one in the corner? What didn’t help was that Pav’s answers to my questions seemed to take the shape of:
‘It bloody chair. I no mind.’
or
‘Put there. I no shitting care.’
A career in interior design was definitely not Pav’s future bag.
‘Forget chair, Charlie. When you go to see Big Man?’
‘I …’
‘You promise, Charlie.’
‘I know I did, Pav, but I’ve had stuff on my mind and I just haven’t got round to it yet.’
‘You make huge promise to me.’
‘And I’ll keep it, Pav. I will.’
‘If you no speak to Big Man, Charlie, it mean he has our short and curlies. You know this.’
‘I know, Pav.’
‘I no want my short and curlies in Big Man’s hands.’
I sat down, not knowing what to say. The truth was I was scared to death of going to see The Big Man again. The very thought of it knotted my tummy. We sat in silence for a moment. Then something weird happened: a tear fell from Pav’s eye and landed on his cheek. I watched it trickle down, until his hand came up to wipe it away. I looked closer in case it was a tear mirage. It wasn’t. I saw the trickle from my own tearless eyes.
‘Are you OK, Pav?’ I asked.
He said nothing.
Sniffed up the snot that fell on to his top lip.
‘Pav?’
I began to worry.
He ran his sleeve across his mouth, cleaning that hard-to-shift snot.
‘Pav, speak to me.’
He looked up; another tear dropped on to his cheek. Smaller this time.
‘What’s up, Pav?’
More sleeve-wiping.
‘Pav, what’s wrong? Is there anything I can do?’
‘No.’
‘Has something happened?’
No answer, which told me that something had happened.
‘Hey.’ I reached out and touched his elbow. He didn’t flinch. I gripped harder. ‘Speak to me, buddy.’ I gave his arm a soft pal rub. ‘I’ll go see The Big Man, promise.’
‘That not problem, Charlie,’ Pav said.
I released my grip on his elbow.
‘Is it the thought of going to school? Are you scared?’
‘I handle school.’
‘Look, if you’d rather not talk about it that’s OK with me.’
‘No, I want.’
‘Listen, take your time. My ears are yours.’
‘I no want take ears from you, Charlie.’
‘No, it’s just an express– … oh, it doesn’t matter. If there’s anything I can do, just say.’
‘It is Mum,’ he said, wiping more tears. ‘My poor mum.’ I wanted to hug him. I thought about Erin F’s mum and wondered if Pav was going to have to care for his in the same way she cared for hers. A sentence for both of them.
‘She’s not ill, is she?’
‘No, but she cry all time.’
‘Your mum? Why?’
‘She thinking too much about my sister.’
‘Your sister back in Old Country?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s understandable, Pav. Natural.’
‘There is mass problem.’
‘What problem?’
‘My sister not in Old Country no more, Charlie.’
‘She’s not?’
‘No.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She here.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, here.’
‘Here? Like in Little Town here?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I thought …’
‘Mum see my sister three day ago.’
‘In Little Town?’
‘In patrol.’
‘An Old Country patrol?’
‘Yes, she working for Old Country patrol. Mum see her.’
‘Did your mum speak to her?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘My sister no see Mum.’
‘But she’s sure that she saw your sister in an Old Country patrol truck though?’
‘Sure one hundred of per cent.’
We spent a minute or so thinking. I tried to imagine what Pav’s sister looked like; was she as gaunt, pale and hungry as her younger brother? I tried to imagine her dressed in a uniform with a killing machine slung over her shoulder. All mean-faced in search of any scallywag Little Towners. Wow! Pav’s sister an Old Country troop? It was hard to believe. The shame and dismay his parents must have felt.
‘Maybe they grabbed her off the street, Pav. You can’t be sure she wasn’t.’
Pav shook his head, almost sniggering at my naivety.
‘She not taken by them, Charlie. This is thousand of per cent definitely.’
‘Really?’
‘Really yes. My sister wear the Old Country uniform, Charlie.’
‘The military one?’
‘Yes.’
‘So your sister works for Old Country?’
‘Yes, she works.’
‘But … how?’
I scrunched my eyes, confused. I didn’t understand how Pav and his family could loathe the Old Country Government and Military so much, yet his sister decided to hobble off and get herself a position with them. Surely that was a major betrayal of her family?
‘Why does your sister work for the Old Country Military, Pav? I just don’t get it,’ I said.
‘She work for a while, they wash her brain when at university. Say to her many lies. Then one day she leave me, Mum and Dad to work for Government Military.’
‘No explanation?’ I said.
‘Nothing.’
‘She just got up and left like that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you never saw her again?’
‘She leave home.’
‘And never returned?’
‘Only one time for tell Mum and Dad they must become Government supporter.’
‘Your sister told your mum and dad that?’
‘She say we support or we have much troubles.’
‘When you say troubles what you really mean is … ?’
‘Troubles. I mean troubles, Charlie.’
‘Like she was going to kill you if you didn’t support the Government or something?’
‘No! I no mean that.’
‘To me troubles means bad stuff, Pav.’
‘Bad stuff, yes. But not die. My sister not psycho maniac.’
I don’t know so much. Let’s look at the evidence: she’s part of an Old Country Military who gained entry here by bombing us to bits. She’s now part of those ground troops who tell us how we should be living our lives. And if we don’t live our lives according to the way they want us to, they’ll make that life a tough one … or worse. So I’d say psycho maniac just about covers it.
‘I’m not saying she is, Pav. I just thought –’
‘She tell to us, without supporting Government it best leave Old Country.’
‘Wait,’ I said, putting my hands up to my chest so Pav could hold them wild horses back for a second. ‘So you’re telling me that it was your sister who told you to leave Old Country?’
‘Yes, she say.’
‘Say or told?’
‘Told.’
‘Like a threat?’
‘No, like told.’ Pav was firm.
I couldn’t see the difference, but I think Pav had convinced himself there was one.
‘Better to leave than to be like chicken on toast, no?’
Sorry … what?
Excuse me?
Come again?
This must’ve been a direct Old Country lingo translation; I didn’t get the chicken on toast thing. Pav’s hands were wide open; he was expecting a response. I gave him one, of sorts. Nodding my head in agreement.
‘No, you definitely don’t want to be the chicken on the toast, Pav. That doesn’t sound like a good place to be.’
‘Exact … so that why we come here.’
Collating it all in my head, it became clear that the reasons the Dudas came to Little Town wasn’t because their daughter had joined up with their Government’s Military; it wasn’t because she had tried, and failed, to have them follow in her footsteps; it wasn’t because she had threatened them with experiencing some troubles (yeah, right!) if they didn’t show their support. No, it was all because the Dudas were scared shitless that someone from the Military – maybe their own daughter – was going to force them to lie under a giant metaphorical toaster like a family of chickens. I don’t think so somehow.
‘Is your mum afraid?’ I said.
‘Afraid. Sad. Angry. Every things.’
‘Does she think that your sister and her Old Country buddies will come for you?’
‘Yes and no and maybe. Her head is the spaghetti plate at moment, Charlie.’
I got this meaning.
‘So what you’re telling me is that your sister works for Old Country Military?’
‘Yes, she work.’
‘And that she’s now on the ground here in Little Town?’
‘She in Little Town, yes.’
‘And that she and her cronies might be on the lookout for you and other Old Country refugees?’
‘True it could be.’
If ever there was a swear moment this was it. I was having so many of them since I’d met Pav. I said it into my head. A whole sentence full of them.
‘A bit of advice, Pav.’
‘What advice?’
‘Whatever happens, do not mention any of this to anyone. Not to Norman and definitely not to The Big Man.’
‘You also no say Erin F too,’ he instructed me.
‘Erin F doesn’t even answer my texts, Pav, so don’t worry about me; my lips are zipped.’ I pulled an imaginary zip across my mouth. Pav did the same, then we pretended to lock them with an invisible key. We even swapped lock keys and put them into our pockets. That’s the sort of silly thing mates do, isn’t it? I’d have buried my key for Pav. It made us laugh. We needed a laugh.
‘What are you planning on doing? Your mum and dad, that is?’ I said.
‘We keep head down, like always.’
‘Well, nobody knows about the shed, so maybe this would be a good place to keep the head down. It’s safe anyway.’
The words had barely left my mouth …
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Went the shed door.
After the initial fright we froze.
The adrenalin arrived tsunami style.
Everything jingled-jangled inside our bodies.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
The wooden door almost flew off its hinges. But The Big Man’s lock held firm. Just.
‘Open up,’ the voice said.
‘Who is it?’ I said.
‘Open up or I’ll break the thing down.’
‘What you want?’ Pav said.
‘You’ve got three seconds,’ the voice cried.
I was afraid that Mum, Dad or the Dudas would hear the commotion and investigate.
‘One!’
‘We do nothing,’ Pav shouted.
‘Two!’
‘Open door,’ Pav whispered.
‘You open it,’ I whispered back.
‘Three!’ the voice howled. At least the voice spoke the lingo, which meant that, whoever it was, it wasn’t an Old Country patrol hunting down dissidents and refugees. ‘I’m warning you two, I’ll boot this thing down.’
‘NO! DON’T!’ I said. ‘Don’t break down the door, mister. I’ll open it.’
‘Move it then,’ he said.
As soon as the door opened I recognised him straight away. It was none other than our good friend Muscles, standing upright with his biceps flexed, head to toe in black clothes – bouncer clobber.
‘I don’t have time for this crap, especially from you two clowns. You’d better start toeing the line here.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘We were just shifting some furniture around and then the knocks gave us a fright, that’s all.’
‘I’ll give you more than a fright,’ Muscles said.
‘Want to come in?’ I stepped aside so he could enter.
When he came into our shed it didn’t feel as big and spacious any longer. Pav sat in one of the chairs, almost hugging it for special protection.
‘So this is the hole you two are busy rearranging?’ He looked around our shed, shaking his head. ‘What’s happened to the youth these days?’ he said under his breath.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ I asked him.
He didn’t give me a reply. ‘It beggars belief to think what you two lesbians get up to in here day and night.’
I could see Pav shifting in his chair, ready to pounce and correct Muscles. Fortunately, without Muscles noticing, I managed to give him a little shake of the head, telling him to stay calm.
‘Nothing much,’ I said.
‘Nothing much, eh?’ Muscles said.
‘We do no things,’ Pav said.
Muscles stood hovering over him.
‘You’d be lucky to get a bird in an aviary, Old Country, so if I were you, I’d take what I can get, son.’
Pav gave him his death stare.
Muscles looked away first.
Victory to Pav.
After losing the contest, Muscles laughed, then flopped himself down on one of the other chairs. He pulled a small rucksack from behind his shoulder and placed it between his feet.
‘This isn’t a social call,’ he said.
‘Aw, that’s a pity,’ I said.
‘Watch it, Law,’ he said, pointing to his mouth. ‘This is going to get you into some deep shit one of these days if you’re not careful.’
I didn’t reply. Pav snorted.
‘That goes for you as well, Old Country,’ he said to Pav.
‘So why are you here?’ I asked.
‘Yes, why here?’ Pav said.
‘The Big Man wanted to give you a little something.’
‘The Big Man?’ I said.
‘What Big Man wanting?’ Pav said.
‘What he wants, Old Country. What he wants. Jesus, you’ll have to learn our lingo properly, son, if you want to get by in this town.’
‘What does he want to give us?’ I asked.
‘A few presents.’ He looked around the shed. ‘Let’s call it a house-warming gift.’
He dug deep into the bag, pulled out two Moleskine notepads and handed them to us along with a pen each – one of those pens that had a choice of four different colours. Each colour huddled together in the same pen. Genius. I’d always wanted a Moleskine notepad. I tried to hide my smile. Pav didn’t need to try.
‘He knows you’re going back to school tomorrow. He just wanted to give you a little starter pack.’
He rummaged again. Deeper. When his hand came out it was clutching a small brown paper bag.
‘This one is for you, Law.’
‘What is it?’ I said.
‘Open it and see.’
I made to unwrap the paper.
‘NO! DON’T OPEN,’ Pav shouted. He was on his feet with his hands out towards me.
Everyone stopped.
‘Could be boob prize, Charlie,’ Pav said.
‘A what?’ I said.
‘A what?’ Muscles said.
‘Like bomb of nail,’ Pav said.
‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Old Country. Do you think I’d bring a nail bomb in here and sit watching while he opens it in my presence?’
Muscles had a point.
Pav saw his point.
‘What sort of tripe goes through that Old Country brain of yours?’ Muscles pointed at Pav’s head. There was a tense moment as he waited for his answer. ‘Do you think I’m a numpty, son? Eh?’
‘Erm … No … I no think this,’ Pav said before sitting back down again.
‘Open it.’ Muscles said. ‘Go on.’
I raised the bag up to my eyes in order to peek inside.
‘BOOM!’ Muscles shouted, then laughed as if he’d just heard the funniest joke ever. Or seen someone walk into a glass door. ‘Only kidding. Go,’ he said to me.
I opened the brown bag.
APPLES.
THREE APPLES.
THREE BIG APPLES.
THREE BIG, JUICY APPLES.
Apples like the ones I’d blagged, except more edible. An apple for each of us. My hand rummaged further. Hidden underneath the apples were two, TWO, inhaler medicines for Mum. Packaged up with the fruit, subtle.
‘Want one?’ I said, holding out an apple towards Muscles.
‘Don’t mind if I do, Law. Don’t mind if I do.’
I tossed it to him.
‘Pav?’
Pav almost took my arm off he was so quick to grab the apple off me.
We all bit into our apples together. Munched and crunched in silence. I could feel the apple drop into my empty stomach. Joy of joys. Muscles’ mouth was so mammoth that he ate his apple in about three bites. Core and everything.
‘You’ll be hearing from The Big Man soon,’ Muscles said as he stood up to leave.
Pav threw me the eyes.
‘Can I see him tomorrow?’ I said.
‘You can’t just come round, Law. It doesn’t work like that.’
‘I just want to thank him,’ I said.
‘I’ll thank him for you,’ Muscles said.
‘No, I’d rather thank him myself. Tomorrow’s good because I can come to his block after school.’
‘He might not be available, Law.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ I said.
‘He take chance,’ Pav said.
‘Right, I’ll tell him, but he might not be happy and, like I said, he might not be available.’
‘That’s fine with me.’
Muscles stared at us in silence. He spat out a couple of apple pips as if he were firing bullets at us.
Notepads, eh?
Pens, eh?
Apples, eh?
Each gift cocked and loaded.