Johnny and the Bomb (13 page)

‘Get yourself a cup of tea and a bun,' he said.

‘Hats. That's what
you
think,' said Mrs Tachyon, taking it.

‘Don't mention it.'

The sergeant headed back into the police station.

He was
used
to Mrs Tachyon. When nights were cold you'd sometimes hear a milk bottle smash on the step outside. This was technically a crime, and it meant that Mrs Tachyon was looking for somewhere warm for the night.

Not on
every
cold night, though. That was a puzzler, and no mistake. Last winter it had been very nippy indeed for quite a long time and the lads had got a bit worried. It came as quite a relief when they'd heard the crash of breaking glass and the cry of ‘I
told
'em! That's what
you
think!' Mrs Tachyon came and went, and no one knew where she came from, and you never found out where she'd gone …

Beam me up, Snotty? Mad as a hatter, of course.

But … strange, too. Like, after you'd given her
something you ended up feeling as if she'd done you a favour.

He heard the rattle of the trolley behind him, and then a sudden silence.

He turned around. The trolley, and Mrs Tachyon, had gone.

Johnny felt the
hereness
of here. It'd happen
here
, not in some far-off country full of odd names and foreign people with thick moustaches shouting slogans.

It'd happen
here
, where there were public libraries and zebra crossings and people who did the football pools.

Bombs would come crashing through roofs and ceilings and down to the cellars, and turn the world white.

And it would happen, because as Yo-less said, it
had
happened. It was going to have happened, and he couldn't possibly stop it, because if he
did
find some way of stopping it, then he wouldn't know about it happening, would he?

Maybe Mrs Tachyon collected Time. Johnny felt in a way that he couldn't quite put into words that Time wasn't just something that was on clocks and calendars but lived in people's heads, too. And if that meant you had to think like this, no wonder she sounded mad.

‘Are you all right?' said a voice, a long way away.

Miraculously, the rubble became houses again, the light came up, the football rattled against the goal in the warm afternoon air.

Kirsty waved a hand in front of his face.

‘Are you OK?'

‘I was just … thinking,' said Johnny.

‘I hate it when you switch off like that.'

‘Sorry.'

Johnny stood up.

‘We didn't come back here by accident,' he said. ‘I was thinking a lot about tonight, and we ended up coming here just in time. I don't know why. But we've got to do something, even if there's nothing we can do. So I'm going to—'

A bicycle came around the corner. It was bouncing up and down on the cobbles and the skinny figure riding it was a mere blur. It clanked to a halt in front of them.

They stared at the cyclist. He was shaking so much he looked slightly out of focus.

‘Bigmac?'

‘Ur-ur-ur—' shuddered Bigmac.

‘How many fingers am I holding up?' said Kirsty.

‘Ur-ur-ur-n-n-nineteen? H-h-hide the bike!'

‘Why?' said Kirsty.

‘I didn't do anything!'

‘Ah,' said Yo-less, knowingly. ‘It's like that, is it?'

He picked up the bike and wheeled it into the sooty shrubs.

‘Like what?' said Kirsty, looking bewildered.

‘Bigmac
always
never does anything,' said Johnny.

‘That's right,' said Yo-less. ‘There can't be anyone in the whole universe who's got into so much trouble for things he didn't do in places he wasn't at that weren't his fault.'

‘Th-th-they
shot
at me!'

‘Wow!' said Yo-less. ‘You must've not done anything really
big
this time!'

‘Th-there was th-this c-car—'

The ringing Johnny had heard before started again, somewhere behind the buildings.

‘Th-that's a police car!' said Bigmac. ‘I tried to give them the slip down Harold Wilson Drive and – it wasn't there! And one of them shot at me! With an actual gun! Soldiers aren't supposed to shoot people!'

They dragged the trembling Bigmac into the horrible bushes. Kirsty gave him her mac to stop him shivering.

‘All right, game over. I said game over!' he moaned. ‘Let's pack it in, all right? Let's go home!'

‘I think we should try to tell people about the bombs,' Johnny said. ‘Someone might listen.'

‘And if they ask how do you know, you'll say you're from 1996, will you?'

‘Maybe you could … you know … write a note,' said Yo-less. ‘Slip it into someone's letterbox?'

‘Oh, yes?' said Kirsty, hotly. ‘What should we write? “Go for a long walk” perhaps? Or “Wear a very hard hat”?'

She stopped when she saw Johnny's expression.

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘I didn't mean that.'

‘Wobbler!' said Yo-less.

They turned. Wobbler was toiling along the street. It took some effort for Wobbler to manage a run, but when he did so, there was also something terribly unstoppable about him.

He spotted them, and changed direction.

‘Am I glad to see you,' he panted. ‘Let's get out of here! Some loony kid chased me all the way down the hill. He kept shouting out that I was a spy!'

‘Did he try to shoot you?' said Bigmac.

‘He threw stones!'

‘Hah! I got shot at!' said Bigmac, with a sort of pride.

‘All right,' said Kirsty. ‘We're all here. Let's go.'

‘You
know
I don't know how!' said Johnny.

The bags lay there in the trolley. There were the words ‘Shop At Tescos' on a piece of metal on
the front of the wire. Probably Mr Tesco just owned a tiny grocery shop or something back here, Johnny thought wildly. Or hadn't been born yet.

‘It's your mind that works it,' said Kirsty. ‘It must be. You go where you're thinking.'

‘Oh, come
on
,' said Yo-less. ‘That's like
magic
.'

Johnny stared at the trolley again. ‘I could … try,' he said.

A police car went by, a street away.

‘Let's get somewhere more hidden,' said Yo-less.

‘Good idea,' muttered Bigmac.

A cinder path went around the back of the little church, to an area with dustbins and a heap of dead flowers. There was a small green door. It opened easily.

‘In those – in these days, they didn't lock churches,' said Yo-less.

‘But there's silver candlesticks and stuff, isn't there?' said Bigmac. ‘Anyone could walk right in and nick 'em.'

‘Don't,' said Johnny.

They manhandled the trolley into a back room. It contained a tea urn on a trestle table, a pile of battered hymnbooks, and not much else except the smell of old embroidery, furniture polish and stale air, which is known as the odour of sanctity. There was no sign of any silver candlesticks anywhere—

‘Bigmac! Shut that cupboard!' said Yo-less.

‘I was only
looking
.'

Johnny stared at the sacks. All right, he thought. Let's say they're full of time. It's a daft idea. After all, they're quite small sacks—

On the other hand, how much space does time take up?

Perhaps it's compressed … folded up …

Mrs Tachyon collects time like other old ladies collect string?

This is daft.

But …

There was a deep, rumbling sound. Guilty had sat up in the trolley and was purring happily.

Johnny took a sack and held it carefully by the neck. It felt warm, and he was sure it moved slightly under his grip.

‘This probably won't work,' he said. ‘Should we hold on to the trolley?' said Yo-less.

‘I don't think so. I don't know! Look, are you all sure? I really don't know what I'm doing!'

‘Yes, but you've never really known what you're doing, have you?' said Kirsty.

‘That's right,' said Yo-less. ‘So you've had a lot of practice.'

Johnny shut his eyes and tried to think of … 1996.

The thought crept into his mind from somewhere outside. It's not a time, it's a
place
.

It's a place where the model of a Space Shuttle on the ceiling hangs by a bit of red wool because you ran out of black thread.

And the model's got streaks of glue on it because you always get it wrong somewhere.

It's a place where your mum just smokes a lot and looks out of the window.

It's a place where your grandad watches TV all day.

It's
where you want to be
.

His mind began to go fuzzy at the edges. He thought of Thomas the Tank Engine wallpaper and the Mr Men lamp, until they were so close he could almost taste them. He could
hear
the place where Grandad had hung the wallpaper wrong so that there was an engine that was half Thomas and half James. It hung like a beacon in his head.

He opened his eyes. The images were still around him; the others looked like ghosts. They were staring at him.

He opened the bag, just a fraction.

Wobbler swallowed.

‘Er …' he said.

He turned around. And then, just in case, he looked behind the table.

‘Er … guys? Johnny? Bigmac? Yo-less?' He
swallowed again, but sometimes you just had to face up to unpleasant facts, and so he bravely said:

‘Er …
Kirsty
?'

No one answered. There was no one
there
to answer.

He was all alone with the tea urn.

‘Hey, I was even holding on!' he said. ‘Oi! I'm still here! Very funny, ha ha, now joke over, all right? Guys? Johnny? You've left me
behind
! All right? It worked, yes. Joke over, ha ha ha, all right? Please?'

He opened the door and looked out into the shadowy yard.

‘I know you're only doing this to wind me up, well, it hasn't worked,' he moaned.

Then he went back and sat on a bench with his hands on his lap.

After a while he fished out a grubby paper handkerchief and blew his nose. He was about to throw it away when he stopped and glared at it. It was probably the only paper handkerchief in the
world.

‘I can see you peering out at me,' he said, but his heart wasn't in it. ‘You're going to jump out any minute, I know. Well, it's not working. 'Cos I'm not worried, see. Let's all go home and get a burger, eh? Good idea, eh? Tell you what, I've got some money, I don't mind buyin' 'em, eh? Hey?
Or we could go down the Chinese and get a takeaway—'

He stopped, and looked exactly like someone who'd realized that it was going to be a long, long time before there were any beansprouts in this town. Or burgers, come to that. All there probably was to eat was meat and fish and stuff.

‘All right, fair enough, you can come out now …'

A fly stirred on the windowsill, and started to bang itself absentmindedly on the glass.

‘Look, it's not funny any m … more, all right?'

There was a movement of air behind him, and a definite sensation that, where there had been no one, there was now someone.

Wobbler turned around, a huge relieved grin on his face.

‘Ha, I bet you thought you'd got me going –
what
?'

The Over-5Os' Keep-Fit class was in full wheeze. The tutor had long ago given up expecting everyone to keep up, so she just pressed on in the hope that people would do what they could manage and, if possible, not actually die while on the premises.

‘And
bend
and
bend
and
bend
and – do the
best you can, Miss Windex –
step
and
step
and – what?'

She blinked.

Johnny looked around.

The keep-fit class, after ten minutes of aerobics, were not the most observant people. One or two of them actually made space for the newcomers.

The tutor hesitated. She'd been brought up to believe in a healthy mind in a healthy body, and, since she was pretty sure she had a healthy body, it was not possible, she reasoned, that a group of people and an overloaded shopping trolley could have suddenly appeared at the back of the old church hall. They must have just come in, she reasoned. Admittedly, there was no actual door there, but people certainly didn't just appear out of thin air.

‘Where are we?' Kirsty hissed.

‘Same place,' whispered Yo-less. ‘Different time!'

Even some of the slower fitness fans had caught up by now. The whole class had stopped and turned around and were watching them with interest.

‘Well,
say
something!' said Kirsty. ‘Everyone's
looking
.'

‘Er … is this Pottery?' said Johnny.

‘What?' said the tutor.

‘We're looking for Beginners' Pottery,' said
Johnny. It was a wild stab, but every hall and hut and spare room in Blackbury seemed to have its time filled up with people doing weird hobbies or industriously learning Russian.

A small light went on behind the tutor's eyes. She grabbed at the familiar words like a singer snatching a microphone.

‘That's Thursdays,' she said. ‘In the Red Cross Hall.'

‘Oh. Is it? Tch. We're
always
getting it wrong,' said Johnny.

‘And after we've lugged all this clay up here, too,' said Yo-less. ‘That's a nuisance, isn't it, Bigmac?'

‘Don't look at
me
,' said Bigmac. ‘They
shot
at me!'

The tutor was staring from one to the other.

‘Er. Yes. Well, it can get pretty nasty in Beginners' Pottery,' said Johnny. ‘Come on, everyone.'

They all grabbed hold of the trolley. Tracksuited figures limped politely out of the way as it squeaked its way across the floor, bumped down the step and landed in the damp yard outside.