The Armada Boy (20 page)

He felt in his pocket for the knife:
it was still there, reassuring. The pigs wouldn't get him ... not before he'd
found Gran. He knew they'd got Snot and Dog but they could look after themselves:
they'd only come with him to Devon for a change of scene anyhow. They had no ties.
They could head back to the smoke any time. But Rat had things to see to...
unfinished business. His aunt - that bitch - said Gran didn't live there any
more, that she was in a home, but he didn't believe her she was lying. Why did they
always lie to him? He'd got so mad that he'd pulled out the knife, but the cow
still wouldn't tell the truth.

He walked about, exercising his
limbs. He was hungry. He crossed the cold concrete floor to where he knew the
boxes of ice cream wafers were kept. He had already raided the store. He located
the opened packet and pulled out a handful of the crisp, insubstantial wafers.
As his teeth bit into them the sound of crunching echoed round the cellar. They
tasted good but failed to fill his empty belly. He took another handful, then
another.

He was tired of waiting: tired of
the tedium that was stretching seconds into minutes and minutes into hours. And
it would only be a matter of time before someone discovered the broken lock on the
cellar door and searched the place to see if anything had been
taken.

He helped himself to another handful
of ice cream wafers and padded quickly towards the door. He opened it a few
inches and listened: there was no sound in the courtyard. Emboldened, he opened
the door wider. The courtyard was deserted.

Rat stepped outside into the fresh
air. The sun felt warm on his shaved head after the chill of the darkened
cellar. He looked around, still on his guard. The last person he wanted to
encounter was his aunt, the ever-efficient dragon at the gate. Gran must be
somewhere here ... he knew it.

He scanned the upstairs windows. The
interiors of the guests' rooms were obscured by crisp net curtains. Nothing.
Then he raised his eyes to the top floor, the family's quarters, where there
were no net curtains. A few ornaments graced the windowsills; one caught his
eye. It was a long way to the second floor but Rat's eyes were
sharp. He could make out the vase. He remembered it from childhood visits -
quite distinctive with red and yellow flowers swirling dramatically around it.
His mother had said it was hideous; his aunt had agreed. But his gran had loved
that vase. It had been given her by someone special, she had told him that:
someone who was no longer with us, was how she had put it. Where the vase was,
Gran wouldn't be far away: he knew that for a fact.

Then he saw a shape flit across the
window behind the vase, a tantalising flash of snow-white hair. Gran. He looked
around the cobbled courtyard, desperate for something to throw up at the window;
some gravel that would catch her attention, just like they did in the films.
But the yard was swept clean ... there was nothing. He couldn't shout - that
would bring everyone out to investigate the commotion.

He knew it now. His aunt - that old
bitch - was lying. He had to think, had to make plans. Rat ran silently across
the courtyard and made for the sheltering
trees behind the hotel.

Snot and Dog sat on the concrete
plinth in the shadow of the restored Sherman tank above Bereton Sands. They
didn't know what had made them return there after their release from police custody
and a day's lucrative begging in Morbay. They couldn't put the decision into
words. Loyalty, perhaps... the comradeship of shared hardship. They felt it. whatever
it was, but couldn't put a name to it They were worried about Rat.

They watched the hotel. Fang sat
patiently by their side and watched with them. They looked on as people went in
and out: they seemed like Americans, old and garishly dressed. A couple passed
them and Dog asked politely for the price of a cup of tea.
A coin was tossed. Ten pence. You couldn't get a cup of anything for ten pence.

It was a sunny day but a stiff breeze
blew off the sea and set the gulls wheeling overhead. Snot stood up and leaned
against the tank, watching the hotel.

'There he is ... there's Rat.'

Dog looked up in time to see a grey
figure dashing into the trees that backed the white building. 'Are you sure?'

'Yeah. It was him.'

They left their post and ran towards
the trees. Fang following enthusiastically behind. They arrived at the trees,
bent double, breathless. Snot called Rat's name ... then again. They went further
into the trees and called again, their voices echoing in the
green dimness.

A voice answered. 'Snot... that you?'

'Yeah ... where are you?'

Rat appeared from behind a tree. 'I
thought it was the pigs ...thought you'd moved on.'

'We didn't want to leave without
you. The pigs got us.'

'What did you tell 'em?' He leaned
towards them threateningly; his hand went to his pocket. They knew he kept the
knife in that pocket.

'Nothing ... honest. We didn't tell
'cm nothing. You seen your gran yet?'

'I've seen her. She's on the top
floor ... I've seen her at the window. I knew she wasn't in a fucking home ...
that cow was fucking lying.'

'Are you going to go in and see her
then?'

'I can get in, no problem. But it
has to be night ... too many people around in the day.'

'Don't give the old girl a heart attack.
If she sees you climbing through her bleeding window ...'

'I'm her favourite grandson, ain't
I? She'll be pleased to see me,' Rat said, trying to convince himself that his
plan had no drawbacks.

'Why are you so keen to see the old
bird?' enquired Dog as he examined Fang for fleas.

Snot laughed. 'He's after getting
something in her will, ain't he.'

Rat swung round, his eyes ablaze. He
grabbed Snot by the arm and spun him until he held him fast, his arm twisted up
his back. With his spare hand Rat held a knife at Snot's throat. Snot, feeling the
hard coldness of the blade, whimpered. Dog looked on. paralysed.
 
Even Fang, sensing the tension, stayed silent
and still.

'Let him go. Rat. He ain't done
nothing.'

'Shut up, Dog. He's fucking crazy.'

The knife was pressed closer to
Snot's throat.

Snot was gaining in courage. 'We can
help you get back to the smoke. The pigs are looking for you ... we came back
to warn you. They know you did for the Yank. They'll get you if you hang around
here. Forget your gran. You can come back another time.'

The knife stayed pressed to his
throat.

'He's right... Snot's right. We
didn't have to come back. We came to tell you about the pigs. Let's get back to
the smoke, eh?'

Dog, the youngest, looked at Rat
nervously.

Rat stood, impassive, his knife held
firmly at Snot's throat. Then, slowly, he eased his grip. Snot took his chance.
He ducked under Rat's arm and ran to Dog, sheltering behind the younger boy.

'We've fucking covered up for you
... we didn't tell the pigs nothing. You're fucking mad ... you're crazy.'

'Okay, okay. I'm sorry ... I lost
it. Sorry. How about a drink, eh?'

'Who's going to let us into a
bleeding pub round here?'

'There's other ways to get a drink
... come on.'

Rat put his knife back into his
pocket. Dog and Snot still regarded him warily, but Rat grinned at them as if
all were normal between them; as if he had never held a knife to his friend's
throat and pressed the blade into the vulnerable flesh.

Snot and Dog looked at each other,
disturbed by the sudden change. They knew Rat had a temper but they had never before
been at the receiving end. The experience had frightened them.
They would be back to the smoke at the first opportunity. Let the pigs get Rat.
He had killed the Yank ... he was bad news.

They followed him through the trees
towards the village, humouring him, waiting till they could safely escape. They
hoped he wouldn't make trouble when they reached Bereton ... but they wouldn't
have liked to have laid bets on it.

Chapter Eight

The Spanish sailors were buried in
consecrated ground. The chantry chapel, disused and crumbling since its
abandonment in 1545, was an ideal place for the burials as it meant that the
invaders would not share the churchyard with the dead of the village.

The later 'invasion' of Bereton in
1944 left over seven hundred dead as a result of the tragic events that
unfolded during the final rehearsal for the D-day landings. A convoy of eight
landing ships (rather like our modern car ferries only intended to carry tanks)
which were making for Bereton Sands as part of Operation Lionheart were
attacked by German E-boats which had somehow found their way into the area. The
accounts of eye-witnesses make for disturbing reading. The sea was thick with
bodies as far as the
eye could see. The dead were washed ashore still wearing their life- preservers
and backpacks. Many bodies were never recovered from the sea; those that were
buried secretly, as a tragedy on such a scale could hardly be mourned or
acknowledged openly at such a sensitive time in the progress of the war. Death
was bad for morale. My own grandmother witnessed some of these clandestine
burials and was ordered never to talk about what she had seen.

From
A History of Bereton and Its People
by June Mallindale

Rachel rang another doorbell... the
fifteenth that day so far. PC Burrows, a middle-aged, homely officer, usually
assigned to give road safety talks to primary school children, was aiding her
in her search for the hidden teenagers of Bereton. The young of the village
seemed to have gone to ground since the investigation had begun. They had even
abandoned their usual posts at the bus shelter and the telephone box, kept in
by anxious parents who feared a murderer was at large and seeking a second
hapless victim.

Number 36 Church Street was an
unattractive grey pebbledashed cottage adjoining the village mini-market. Its windows
were new double-glazed units which destroyed any
charm the house may once have possessed. Rachel saw a shape approaching behind
the steel-framed frosted glass of the front door - another unsightly home improvement.

The door was opened slowly by a
girl, aged about sixteen. The faded jeans she wore showed off a fine pair of
pink furry slippers.
She shuffled her feet self-consciously as though she had just realised that her
footwear was ruining the image she wanted to project to the world. Her shaggy
hair was dyed an alarming shade of red and her nose and ears shone with golden
studs.

Rachel showed her identification and
asked if she could come into the house for a quick word. The girl looked
confused.

'Me mam said I wasn't to let anyone
in.'

'Where is your mother?'

'She works in the mini-market till
seven. You come about the bike?'

'What bike?'

'My mum rang your lot on Monday
morning. My dad had his bike nicked. She's not heard nothing.'

Rachel smiled sweetly. 'It's not
about your dad's bike. I'm afraid. We want to talk to some young people ... see
whether any of them hang around the old chantry. Do you know anyone who does?'

The girl snorted, unable to suppress
her giggles. 'Only one reason for going up there.'

Rachel sensed that confidences
wouldn't be forthcoming in the avuncular presence of PC Burrows. 'Would you
talk to me on our own?'

The girl looked Burrows up and down,
then made her decision. 'Okay.'

'If you'd give us a minute, thanks.
Constable,' Burrows took the hint and strolled off down the road, looking every
inch the village bobby on his well-trodden beat.

The girl, who reluctantly parted
with the information that her name was Sylvia Chard, let Rachel into the living
room. Rachel sat expectantly, waiting for Sylvia to speak.