Shrapnel (15 page)

He stared at me. ‘Go – go
where
, Gordon? And why did you
have
to?'

I shook my head. ‘I can't explain, Dad. It's . . . something I'm doing. For the war. It's a secret.'

‘A secret.' He shook his head. ‘Thirteen-year-old boys aren't
allowed
secrets, son. Not in this house, so you'd better tell me and your mother what you're up to, right now.' He led me through to the living room. Mum followed.

Well, I had to say
something
, didn't I? When you're thirteen, your parents are boss. I hadn't signed the Official Secrets Act.

‘I'm doing it for Raymond,' I began. ‘
Was
, I mean. It's what he gave me the plane for.'

Mum made a mewing sound into her hanky.

Dad frowned at me. ‘What on
earth
are you talking about, lad? Can't you see you're upsetting your mother?'

I nodded. ‘I know, Dad, but it's true. I had to
buy the Skymaster and build it, then wait for instructions.'

‘Instructions? From
who
, son?'

‘I don't know. Some chaps who don't mess around, Raymond said.'

Mum was sobbing on the sofa. Dad looked dangerous.

‘Look, son,' he growled, ‘if you're making all this up, shooting some sort of line to glamourize yourself, you'd better stop this minute, because I'll not have your mother more distressed than she is already.'

I shook my head, pacing the room. ‘You
asked
me, Dad. I'm not making anything up. Raymond was working for the Government.'

‘
What?
'

‘The Government. As an agent. He told me.' I looked at him. ‘It's top secret. Raymond swore me to secrecy, so you've got to promise not to breathe a word to anyone. Mum too.'

Dad lowered himself into an armchair, motioned for me to take the other. He spoke quietly, with an expression on his face I couldn't read.

‘Where did you fly the plane, son?'

‘Myra Shay.'

‘Myra Shay. How many times did you fly her there?'

‘Three, including today.'

‘And what happened when you flew her – the first two times, I mean?'

‘Well, I had to send her over Manley's fence. As if it was by accident.'

‘And then?'

‘Well, then a fellow I call the watchman came and picked up the plane and wound up the engine and sent her back over.'

‘Both times?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did this man – the watchman – do anything to the plane, besides wind the engine?'

‘No.'

‘And the plane itself – was there anything different about it when you got it back?'

‘Not that I noticed.'

‘Did you examine her at all – look inside perhaps?'

‘No. My orders said not to.'

‘And then you brought the plane straight home, put her in the shed?'

‘Yes.'

‘And then what?'

I shrugged. ‘Then I waited for more orders. The last ones were on a lavatory door.'

‘A lavatory door.' He'd been fiddling with his pipe. Now he put a match to it, puffed out balls of fragrant smoke. ‘What happened today, son?'

I told him what had happened in the fog of Myra Shay. When I'd finished he sat silently smoking, gazing into the fire. Mum got up and went out to the kitchen. I sat staring at the carpet.

Mum brought tea. Dad said, ‘Odd things happen in wartime, Gordon. We don't always get to know about them, but I'm pretty sure the Government isn't recruiting schoolboys as secret agents. Somebody recruited
you
, though, so perhaps I'm wrong.' He sipped his tea, then continued, ‘Tell you what I want you to do. If any further orders arrive, even on lavatory doors, I want you to tell me before you carry them out.' I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. ‘In return, I promise that your secret will be safe with your mother and me for as long as that remains possible. All right?'

Had
to be all right, didn't it?

I HADN'T TOLD
my parents the most important bit – that Linton Barker saw someone he thought was Raymond, and I might have seen him myself. That would have set the cat among the pigeons and no mistake.

It was bad enough anyway. Mum kept giving me strange looks, and Dad hardly spoke to either of us. I wasn't sure they believed me, which was a rotten feeling. I felt awful about having spilled the beans so easily too. An agent who cracks when his dad questions him isn't likely to hold out long against the Gestapo.

One good thing though – my parents knew Raymond had been a hero. When that bomb got him, he was on his country's secret service. We could hold our heads up, like the parents of the late Michael Myers RN whose bike I now rode.

On Sunday morning I gave the bike a thorough clean and polish. It was a hero's bike, ridden by a hero's brother. When a little voice in my head whispered,
Yes, but what about
yourself? I drowned it out with whistling.

Monday morning was fogless, quite sunny for November. I was relieved nobody had come looking for the boy who'd fled Myra Shay on Saturday. The watchman couldn't split on me, of course – he didn't know me from Adam. And what we'd been doing, whatever it was, might be something and nothing anyway. Perhaps I'd hear no more about it.

I was kidding myself. Why would my brother have me build and fly that expensive model for something and nothing? And who'd take the trouble to contact me in a variety of novel ways for the sake of a prank? Dad's brooding silence ought to have told me he thought there was
something serious behind it. But as I say, I was kidding myself.

It all began to unravel that day in the middle of double maths. There was a clatter of boots on parquet and the door banged open, but it wasn't Whitfield's dreaded storm troopers. It was old Hinkley, and he had two policemen with him.

OH YES, IT
was me they'd come for.

‘The officers would like a word with you, Price,' said Hinkley. He led the way to his office and left me with them. I'd never cared for the old duffer, but I was sorry to see him go.

‘Sit down, lad.' The senior officer nodded to the hard chair in front of the Head's desk.
The dock
, we called it. A pupil who found himself sitting on that chair was nearly always in trouble, and if he found himself lying across it with his bum in the air, the trouble was a bit more serious. The officer settled himself in Hinkley's leather
swivel. His companion stood with his hands behind his back and his back to the window.

‘I'm Detective Inspector Grant, and this is Detective Sergeant Dinsdale. And you are Gordon Price, is that right?'

I nodded. ‘Yes, sir.'

‘All right if we call you Gordon?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good. Well, Gordon, you know why we're here, don't you?'

‘No, sir.'

‘I think you
do
, lad. It's about your model aeroplane.'

‘Which one?' I asked. ‘I collect them.'

Grant shook his head. ‘We're not concerned with your solids, Gordon. It's the Skymaster we're interested in. The flying model.'

‘
Flying
model, sir?' I put on a puzzled face.

‘That's what I said.'

‘But I haven't
got
a flying model.' It wasn't a lie.

The detective sighed. ‘We've checked with Carter's, lad. You bought a Skymaster from them last month – the only one they had in stock.'

‘I lost it.'

He nodded. ‘We
know
you lost it, Gordon,
because we found it, in a manner of speaking.'

‘You
found
it?' I faked a happy smile. ‘I'll get it back then, will I?'

‘I don't think so, lad. It was carrying a cargo. A very valuable cargo. We suspect it had carried similar loads before.'

I didn't need to act flabbergasted – I was. ‘Wh . . . what sort of cargo, sir?' I stammered.

Grant looked me in the eye. ‘Don't you know?'

‘No, sir, and if I
did
I couldn't tell you.'

‘Why not, Gordon?
Why
couldn't you tell us?'

‘Because it's a secret, sir. A state secret. I can't answer any more questions, I'm under orders.'

‘Under orders?' Grant sighed again, leaned back in the chair and glanced across at his sergeant. ‘I think we'd better have the parents in, Sergeant Dinsdale – down at the Station.' He looked at me. ‘We'd like you to come with us, Gordon – we'll clear it with the headmaster. We need to ask you about these orders you've received, and it might be less . . . er . . . 
unsettling
for you if your dad and mum are there.' He stood up. ‘Shall we go?'

IT WAS MY
first time in a police car. Sergeant Dinsdale drove. Inspector Grant sat in the back with me. I was trying to be brave.
I won't tell you anything
, I thought.
Not even if you torture me
. Deep down though, I knew I would. I suppose I was pretty sure they wouldn't torture me anyway, especially with my parents there.

I was taken into a small room with no window. Mum and Dad were there, sitting on hard chairs in front of a wooden table. They looked awful. Mum had been crying. There was an empty chair.

‘Sit down please, Gordon,' said the inspector. We were in a line: Mum then Dad then me. The two policemen sat behind the table.

Dad touched my sleeve. ‘What's been going
on
, son?' he asked. ‘This aeroplane business . . .'

‘
We
'll ask the questions, sir, if you wouldn't mind.' Dad sighed and sat back. Grant looked at me. ‘Now, Gordon, there's nothing to be afraid of, we're not the Gestapo.'

‘I know,' I said, ‘and I'm not afraid.'

‘Good.' He looked me in the eye. ‘So – these orders you mentioned – who do they come from?'

‘I don't know, sir.'

‘You don't
know
?' He frowned. ‘Then who told you to build the plane?'

I shook my head. ‘I can't tell you, it's top secret.'

‘Gordon.' Dad spoke sharply. ‘It
isn't
top secret – it was Raymond.' He looked at Grant. ‘His brother gave him money to buy the plane, Inspector.'

‘
Dad!
' I gazed at him. ‘You said it was safe with you, my secret. You
promised
. Now you're betraying Raymond. Betraying his
trust
.'

‘Gordon?' The Inspector was looking at me.
‘What secret did your brother trust to you?'

I looked at the floor. ‘Do I
have
to answer, sir?'

He nodded. ‘I'm afraid you
do
, laddie. Crimes have been committed. Serious in peacetime, more so because of the war. What did your brother tell you, exactly?'