Beware This Boy (17 page)

She smiled quickly. “Course you did. It was bloody marvellous.”

“Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked.

She was pulling on her jersey and her voice was muffled. “Not tomorrow. It’s too risky. Besides I’m too tired, Bri. I work, don’t forget.”

“While I was away, you didn’t visit Mum and Dad much, did you. She wrote me about that.”

She wriggled away from him and, sitting on the side of the bed, started to pull on her stockings, carefully so as not to snag them.

“You know they can’t stand me. Why should I put up with your mother’s looks and secret insults? And your gran’s just as bad, you know. You might think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but she can be a right cow sometimes.”

“Ness, that’s not fair. Why do you say that?”

Vanessa imitated Beatrice’s voice. “Going out again, Vanessa? Must be nice to have extra money these days. You must have quite a nice bit of savings by now for the house you and our Brian are going to buy.”

Brian frowned. “So do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Go out a lot?”

“Why shouldn’t I? If you were me you wouldn’t want to sit at home with Mum and Dad arguing all night. And him getting pissed. Talk about savings. We’d be living in a palace if we had all the money he’s spent on booze. So yes, I go to the pictures whenever I can.”

“Who do you go with?”

“Girls from work.”

“Like who?”

She stood up abruptly. “For Christ’s sake, Bri. You sound like my ma.”

She was glaring at him and he swallowed his anger quickly.

“I’m sorry, pet. I know being separated has been hard on you too.” He tried to smile. “We won’t have to be apart much longer. Can you hold on?”

She moved back a little so she could offer him her lips. “Just about.”

They kissed, and when she broke away, she giggled. “Now look what’s happened. If you think I’m going to get undressed again, you’ve got another think coming.”

He grinned at her. “That don’t mean we can’t still do something.” He directed her hand. “See, he’s good and strong now.”

“Oh, all right, then.” She began to unfasten her skirt. “But promise you won’t shout like you usually do.”

Donny made his way towards Endicott’s factory, walking at as fast a clip as he could. He loathed this weather. His coat was thin and cheap and the damp penetrated to the bone. He had no gloves. He couldn’t afford them and they were for poufters anyway. He tucked his chin into his muffler but even that wasn’t much help. It was very late but this was the time Comrade Patrick had given him. Personal contact was allowed only in an emergency. You had to mark a certain brick in St. Paul’s Church wall. Just your initial was all that was necessary. The Chief answered by chalking a time on another brick.

Donny didn’t really mind the darkness. The silence, the emptiness of the streets gave everything a taste of excitement. You never knew what would happen in the night.

In the daytime, this part of Birmingham looked neat and trim; better-class houses, women with pride. But those same women were not above spending a good part of the day queuing up for something or other. When he’d gone out earlier, he’d passed a long line outside the butcher’s shop on Broad Street. He’d noticed a handwritten sign in the window. today,
FRESH MINCE. HALF A POUND PER CUSTOMER
. Rumour had it that the butchers were mixing in horsemeat with the mince, but Donny thought it was stupid to care where the stuff came from as long as it was edible. What was the difference, really?
Dead meat was dead meat. The women in the queue were waiting patiently with their shopping bags and baskets. They were docile as sheep, and he despised them for it.

Donny had met Patrick only once before, also at night. He’d been almost literally dragged there by a black-souled Welshman who’d nabbed him as Donny was coming out of this very church. The taffy had deduced that he, Donny, was up to no good. Not surprising, as it was midnight and he had a suspicious bulge under his coat – the poor box, as a matter of fact, that he’d just nicked. Taffy had given him a cuff across the head and a talking to. Essentially Taffy said he wouldn’t throw Donny to the dogs as long as he made himself useful. There was this group of blokes, see, who were against the war and wanted to do whatever they could to make things difficult for the government. Donny could understand that, couldn’t he? “I’m no bolshie,” Donny had blurted out. The taffy had laughed. “That’s not what holds us together, boyo. Some is bolshie, some isn’t. But I know we’ll find a suitable job for you to do.” Donny had no recourse but to agree, and the next day he’d had a meeting with the bloke called Patrick. If the taffy was scary, this man was worse. He hadn’t said much, but at the end of the meeting he said, “He’ll do.” That’s it. “He’ll do.” And Donny felt as if he’d been given a sentence of death. So far he hadn’t been called on. Somebody else had done the dirty. But his turn was coming; he knew it was.

Donny had a torch but the battery was fading and the beam was weak. It was bloody dark and he might have gone right past the alcove in the church wall if he hadn’t seen the faint glow of a cigarette. He kept on walking as instructed, then at the gate turned around and retraced his footsteps. At the alcove he could just make out the shape of a man.

“Got a light, chum?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Still not turning, the man handed over a box of matches and waited while Donny went through the ritual of taking out his cigarette makings, rolling his fag, and lighting up.

“Everything all right, then?” the man asked. He was wearing a workman’s cap pulled down over his forehead and the lower part of his face was obscured by a thick scarf that he moved only to drag on his cigarette. Donny didn’t think he’d recognize him if he passed him on the street. Even his voice seemed phony, sort of gravelly, unnatural. It was impossible to say where he was from.

“Right as rain,” Donny answered. “By the way, don’t know where I can get hold of some pliers, do you? I’ve got a mate who’s in the electricity business and he’s agreed to do a bit of work for me. He’s lost his. Somebody must have bleedin’ nicked them.” He smirked, enjoying his own private little joke.

He could feel the anger running through the other man’s body as if he’d actually touched him, but when he spoke, his voice was the same, low and even. “Is that why you’ve come here? To ask about frigging pliers? I don’t call that an emergency.”

“No, right, sorry. What I wanted to let you know was that this bloke can make timers. They’re useful things, they are. They’ll set off bloody anything you want them to at any time you pick.”

“Yes, I know what timers are, sonny.”

Suddenly they saw the light of a torch and two men emerged out of the fog. Comrade Patrick shrank back into his alcove and Donny held himself very still. Both of them automatically hid their cigarettes. The men going by didn’t seem to notice them. Both had posh educated voices. God knows where they were coming from at that time of night. Or going to, for that matter.

“He’s worth listening to, in my opinion. He knows things the government won’t tell us about.”

“I consider him a traitor … pile of rubbish …”

They faded out of earshot.

Donny jerked his head, trying to find something to ease the situation. “Stupid ponces. They’re talking about that bloody Lord Haw-Haw. He don’t know nothing. It’s our bloody government puts him up to it, if you ask me. Riles up the bloody people ’gainst Jerry.”

The other man shifted slightly. “You’ve got one more minute, then I’m going. What’s on your mind?”

Donny dragged deeply on his fag. “This bloke’s in a spot of trouble, see. He’s deserted from the army and he needs to get away from here. I told him if he helped me out, I’d get him some papers that’ll get him into Ireland.”

The comrade coughed, a harsh, dry cough. “My, my, that’s big of you. You have access to false papers, do you, then?”

“No, but I thought you might know where I could get them.”

Another cough, worse this time. “If I had such stuff I frigging wouldn’t hand it over just like that. That’s no bargain. Timers aren’t that hard to make.”

Donny quailed. He’d come to the meeting jaunty, like a young wolf laying his prize catch at the feet of the leader. It didn’t seem to be such a prize after all. He fished in his pocket and took out a grubby piece of paper, which he gave to the other man. “Last time there wasn’t much damage if you look at it. The bloody factory’ll be up and running soon as spit. With my plan, it’ll be all over.
Boom
. No more factory whatsoever.” He pointed to the paper, which the man was studying. “See, I drew a diagram. We’d only need small bombs. Two at the most. One here, in the boiler room. It’s right under the factory floor and would wipe out the machines totally. The
second one is here, in the men’s change room. That would be set to go off a few minutes later. And the change room is right underneath the bleedin’ office.”

That got Patrick’s attention. He half turned towards Donny. “And?”

“That’s where we can get lots of lovely moolah.” He smirked. “Every cause could do with money, don’t you think?”

“You’re right about that, Comrade Bolton.”

“I made sure I kept my peepers open when I was working there.”

Patrick’s eyes flickered over to him. “And when was that, sonny?”

“Few months ago. Unfortunately I got the boot. I was accused of being light-fingered, you see.”

“Why aren’t I surprised.”

“Yes, well, they couldn’t prove anything, could they? I was in the mailroom. Nice cushy job. Too bad. Anyways, I noticed Endicott always trots off to the bank on the morning of payday. He takes out money and brings it to the office. We don’t need to worry about a safe – there ain’t one. Just a tin box. At noon, his poncey secretary takes out this same money box, goes into the canteen, and hands out the wages to the first shift. He’s always on time. Never fails. It would be easy as pie to time the bomb to go off just as Miss Nancy Boy is walking across the hall. Our comrade, who is all safe and waiting for the bang, could just go and nick it, snip-snap. Stick it in a bag. Nobody’s going to notice him in all the botheration that’ll be happening. He can walk outside and hand the bag over to … to whoever is waiting for it.”

Donny was getting excited as he talked. He’d been working on this plan ever since Jack had revealed that his brother was in hiding.

Comrade Patrick was still looking at the sheet of paper. It
was impossible to tell whether or not he liked the idea. Donny felt like rolling another fag but made himself wait.

Finally the other man spoke. “How do you see these objects being put in place?”

“It’s easy. First, Comrade Chopin can put one down in the boiler room. He gets out. Tick, tick … 
boom
. Up it goes. Ta-ta factory. The second bomb, same thing. Comrade Cardiff works in the caf. All he has to do is hide the bomb in his bait tin, put it in his locker, and Bob’s your uncle …” Donny could feel that a fleck of saliva had appeared at the corner of his mouth but he ignored it. This was almost as good as a bit of shagging. “So what do you think?”

“Sounds possible. I’ll have to show it to the Chief.”

“I thought that was you.”

“Me, I’m just a foot soldier.”

Donny didn’t know if he believed him, but he didn’t pursue it. “We would time it so the two comrades could get well out of the way.”

“Maybe.”

Donny felt a stab of fear in his gut. He knew what
maybe
really meant.

The comrade stashed the paper in his pocket. “You’re a lad who takes the initiative. That could be a good thing or a bad thing. Depends on whether or not you’re going off half-cocked. To pull this off properly, we’d need the wherewithal.”

“I’m telling you I can get it. Well, at least I can get the timer part. You’d have to come up with the bangers. He’s desperate, is this bloke I mentioned. He’ll do anything. We’ll have the friggin’ factory on its knees, and make us a bit of dosh on the side.”

“Do you know anything about making bombs, Comrade Bolton?”

“Er, no. But I thought as somebody else would.”

The man tapped his arm. “I am starting to like the idea. To tell you the truth, I was casting my mind around for something just like this. Smart lad.”

Donny felt himself actually blush with pleasure. Praise indeed.

“But we’ll have to move fast. Can your pal be ready with the goods by tomorrow night?”

“Piece of cake. Take him no time at all. He’s not doing anything else, is he.”

“It’ll cost him. Timers are cheap, papers aren’t.”

“How much?”

“Forty pounds.” The man dropped his fag end and crushed it with his shoe. “Meet me tomorrow. Same time. And no word to anybody. The future success of our enterprise will depend on everybody keeping their traps tight shut. Including you, me boyo.”

Donny shivered; he couldn’t help it. Initially he’d thought this kind of talk was a pile of tommyrot, but he had the feeling that if it suited his purpose, his so-called comrade would wipe out opposition with no more hesitation than killing a fly. Donny also knew without a shadow of a doubt that his own survival depended on his usefulness. Once that was over, so was he. Dead men have a way of keeping their mouths shut.