Shrapnel (17 page)

We had the radio on, Sandy McPherson at the organ. There was a crash, the side door flying open, we thought by itself. A gust slammed into the room. Dad rose with an oath, half out of the armchair when Raymond burst in.

We didn't know him. A wind-battered figure in a sodden mac, unshaven, hair plastered to his skull. Torn trousers, broken shoes, no socks.
Escaped POW
our first thought. Until he spoke.

‘Help me, Dad, Mum,' he croaked. ‘They'll be here in a minute, you haven't seen me.' He whirled, stumbled to the stairs and up. None of us had spoken, there hadn't been time. We were in the hallway, gawping up, when the police came swarming through the kitchen. There were only seconds between Raymond's arrival and theirs – he could be heard on the landing when they barged past us. I don't know if we'd have hidden him, because we didn't get the chance. One minute he was that desperate stranger in the doorway, the next he was being bundled down the stairs and out the house by a knot of panting constables.

Sergeant Dinsdale stayed to do the commentary. ‘Sorry about that,' he gasped, looking ruffled. ‘Must've shocked you all a bit, but there wasn't time to . . . you know . . . knock.'

‘My boy,' cried Mum. ‘Where's he being taken to? What'll happen to him, Sergeant?' Her voice broke. ‘You won't let them
hurt
him, will you?'
Dad put his arms round her, shushed her, stroked her hair.

The sergeant shook his head. ‘Nobody'll hurt your son, Mrs Price. He'll be detained at police headquarters overnight and interviewed tomorrow.' He shrugged. ‘After that I don't know – depends how co-operative he is, I suppose.'

He left without wishing us a happy new year. It'd have sounded a bit hollow, I expect, after what had just happened.

IT SENT MUM
a bit doolally, which is a shame because she'd been showing signs of recovery. It was ten-past ten, but instead of going to bed she went up to Raymond's room and started pulling clothes out of his drawers, arranging them in neat piles on the bed. It was eleven before Dad and Gran persuaded her to stop.

Next morning, New Year's Day, she brought the things downstairs in a suitcase. ‘Take this to the police station, Frank,' she told Dad, ‘and give it to Raymond.'

‘Ethel, love,' he protested, ‘You can't just walk
into police HQ and demand to see someone they're holding.'

Mum glared at him. ‘Did you see the state of him last night – those wet rags he was wearing? He can't live in those for the rest of his life. Ask to see him, and if they won't let you, leave the suitcase with them. Inspector Grant's a nice enough fellow – he'll see Raymond gets it.'

Dad didn't want to go. As he'd said, he'd rather see my brother dead than a criminal. But he loved Mum, and he could see this really mattered to her.

‘I'll come with you if you like, Frank,' offered Gran, but he shook his head.

‘I'd sooner you stayed with Ethel, Mum. Gordon'll keep me company, won't you, son?'

And that's how I found myself walking with Dad through deserted Bank-Holiday streets at eight o'clock on a raw, damp morning. If there'd been anyone about, they'd have thought we were doing a flit. A flit's when you owe rent and can't pay, so you pack up and leave while your landlord's asleep in his bed. Or they might think we'd murdered someone and cut her up and put the bits in the suitcase, like Buck Ruxton a few years ago.

I hoped they wouldn't let us see Raymond. I wouldn't know what to say to him. I mean, I'd be lying if I told him I hoped they wouldn't send him to prison. I didn't hope that. I hoped they
would
send him, he deserved it. But I couldn't tell him that, could I?
Hello, Raymond, I hope you get ten years
. You can't say that to your brother, even if he
is
the king of the spivs. No, I hoped we'd drop his togs off and leave.

We were twenty yards from police HQ when I saw the Heinkel.

IT WAS COMING
in low, trailing black smoke from one engine. In the seconds before it hit, I thought I glimpsed the pilot through the perspex nose, fighting for control. If so, he fought in vain. The machine maintained its shallow dive till it struck the double doors of the police station and blew up.

The whole unbelievable event can't have occupied more than a few seconds, but it seemed to take place in slow motion. When the crash became inevitable I hit the pavement in a graceless dive, knocking the breath from my lungs. I
sensed Dad flinging himself flat just beyond my sight. The blast followed at once, slamming into my face like a hot muffler. A screechy din tore through my eardrums into my skull. Heavy lumps pattered down, making the ground jump. I flattened my face on the flags and screwed up my eyes, waiting for some falling thing to squash me.

It didn't happen. The din subsided, replaced by a crackling noise and acrid fumes that stung my nose and throat. I opened streaming eyes and saw the building on fire.

‘Raymond!' Dad plunged past, choking out my brother's name. Only then did it reach my brain that Raymond was somewhere inside, trapped by locks and bars. I got up and tottered after my father.

We didn't find him – it was impossible. The place, what was left of it, was black with smoke. Our eyes burned, we could hardly breathe let alone call his name. We knew there was a basement with cells where he'd be, but we couldn't find the stairs. Didn't recognize anything, everything was smashed. After what felt like hours, Dad found somebody alive behind a drunken counter and signalled me to help. The fellow was
in a bad way – his scalp was bloody and his head lolled when Dad got his hands under his armpits and lifted. I took the legs. The fire was taking hold, spreading. Terrific heat, suffocating fumes. We staggered past a buckled propeller, a blackened engine, the stump of a wing. The doors were a great ragged hole where light was, and air. I'll never know how we reached it. All I know was that we were standing on the pavement, looking down at the constable we'd dragged out, when firemen and wardens arrived and made us lie on stretchers.

Nothing was hurting, but I think I fell asleep.

‘
OH, SO YOU
do spend some time awake, old chap – I'd begun to think I was wasting my time.'

‘Huh?' I rolled my head on the pillow. Norman was gazing at me from a chair by the bed.

‘Hello, Norman, what're
you
doing here?'

He pulled a face. ‘Visiting
you
, you chump, what else?'

‘But how did you know I was here?'

He arched his brow. ‘
Everybody
knows, old man, you're quite famous, y'know.'

‘F . . . famous?
Me?
'

‘Yes,
you
.' He frowned. ‘Oh, I say, you haven't lost your
memory
have you? You do
remember
snatching Constable Whitfield from the jaws of death?'

‘Constable . . .? Oh yeah, but Dad did it.' Sudden fear stabbed me. ‘Where
is
my dad, is he all right?'

Norman nodded. ‘He's fine, old chap. Absolutely top hole. Men's surgical, down the corridor.' He looked solemn. ‘They . . . didn't reach your brother in time though, old chap. I'm most awfully sorry.'

I shook my head. ‘Thanks, I never expected they would.'

A nurse appeared. ‘I hope this young man isn't bothering you, Gordon?' she smiled.

‘Oh, he
is
, nurse,' I told her. ‘He kicked me, then emptied a bedpan on my head. I think you should operate, chop some bits off.'

She nodded. ‘I'll mention it to Matron.'

When the nurse had gone, Norman filled me in on a few things. He told me Dad and I had been here two days, suffering from smoke inhalation. They'd send us home soon. The constable was here too, but in the burns unit. He'd be staying
for a while. Mum was bad with her nerves: she wasn't up to visiting. Gran came to see me yesterday, but I was asleep. And we were in the local paper, Dad and me:

Father and Son in Daring Rescue.

He'd save his parents' copy for me.

He's a super chap, old Norman – best chum a fellow could wish for. He'd even brought
grapes
, for goodness' sake. When I asked how he'd managed
that
in wartime, he grinned and said, ‘Sarah found 'em somewhere.'

WE WENT HOME
next day, Dad and me. Mum was limp as a rag but Gran was her old brisk self, conjuring tasty meals out of very little. Coping.

The doctor kept me off school for a week or two. I was glad. I didn't know what sort of reception to expect there – as the brother of a heartless spiv, or the gallant rescuer of PC Whitfield.

That was the worst bit, by the way. Unless you're pretty dim, you'll have spotted that the constable had the same surname as my maths
teacher. And you're right, they were father and son. I'd no idea how Whitfield would react to having his son's rescuer sitting in front of him every Monday morning. Would he feel obliged to go easy on me, make me ink monitor or something?

I found out when I went back, and the answer was a resounding no. I suppose he was anxious not to be seen to favour me so he did the opposite, picking on me for the sake of it, whacking me with the famous cane for things like breathing, or having one eye slightly larger than the other.

We'd been home a few days when Detective Inspector Grant knocked on the front door. I thought he'd come to arrest me, but he hadn't. He'd come on behalf of the force, to thank Dad and me officially for our rescue of one of his men.

‘Oh, and it's been decided that no further action will be taken in the matter of you and your model aeroplane, Gordon,' he added. I wasn't half relieved.