The Shelter (2 page)

Martin, a schoolboy of twelve, had gone out to play, and never returned. His parents had, with a growing sense of panic, called friends, then neighbours, then the police. CCTV had been installed at the shopping precinct recently (since the mine had closed there'd been an increase in robberies) and it showed Martin entering the local shop and leaving five minutes later with his quarter of lemon drops. No one knew where he'd gone after that, or who with.

It was over a month ago since Martin had vanished. Various theories were discussed at school about what might have happened to him, with the most dramatic being Simon Dillon's claim that Martin had been abducted by gypsy drug dealers to test a new drug on. This theory was scorned by the rest of the school for being unlikely, but not as much as it was admired for its inventiveness. No one quite knew what a 'gypsy' was, but the papers were always going on about them.

One thing all the theories that Alan had heard in the playground had in common was the assumption that Martin Longhurst was unlikely to be seen alive again, if at all.

***

It seemed a great day. The sky was empty, except for the occasional drone of a light aircraft from the small airfield nearby. There was little to no wind, but they were walking up the side of the field and the high hedge gave them some shelter from the sun. The crop of rapeseed on the other side of the path was already as tall as they were. A farmhouse stood on a hill on the left, and further round were the woods where the boys sometimes played. On the other side of the hedge, and visible through the breaks in it, was a field of green grass which fell away to the road, where glints of racing light indicated cars in the sun. Birds and butterflies darted away as the four boys approached, and while Alan tried to identify them in his head, he knew enough to refrain from doing so aloud.

The only annoyance as they walked were the little back insects that all seemed to have emerged at once, as they did one day every summer - small black pinpricks of bugs that were attracted to yellow and white clothes, and as a consequence were dotted all over Tom's large white t-shirt, no mattered how much he tried to brush them off. As they walked, the spiders' webs in the hedges were black with the things.

Duncan, with his passive trudge, led the way; Tom lagged behind moaning; Mark and Alan walked side by side in the middle. Mark stuck out his foot and tripped Duncan up from behind; Tom seemed to take more pleasure in the act that Mark, laughing raucously as Duncan picked himself up and brushed dust from his trousers. Duncan glared at Mark, who stared back impassively.
He wants Duncan to say something,
Alan thought,
he didn't do it to be unkind but to... what?

But despite his anger Duncan was too scared of Mark to say anything, and he turned and seemed to stoop under his height, and carried on along the path. The others followed. They continued across the fields, talking about such things as boys talked about: who had the best bike; who was the worst teacher to have a detention with; how Gordon Ross wasn't as hard as he claimed; how old you had to be to buy a drink in America; how quickly the summer was going; about a TV programme about Aztec sacrifices; and who had the nicest tits at school. Alan felt uncomfortable when they talked about girls in that way, but he had learnt enough to have an answer ready, to avoid leering laughter from the two older boys.

They came to a small stream bed, which had a wobbly plank across it as a bridge. There was no need to use the plank, as the stream was completely baked dry, but they still did. It sagged dramatically as Tom crossed it, bowing under his weight. He turned round angrily to the others (who had let him cross first) glaring, but they hid their smiles behind blank faces, and only laughed again after he had looked back round.

Behind them, if they looked, was the last view of their village before it would be out of sight. On the other side of the plank bridge, the path passed by a small farmhouse and then into a small but dark looking copse of trees. Clipston was on the other side. Unconsciously, they all paused before entering the shadows under the trees.

"Anyone got anything to drink?" Mark said absently, not looking away from the trees.

"I've got a Coke," Tom said, "but it's mine and I'm having it."

"Fat bastard," the other three mumbled in union, almost automatically. "Coke only makes you thirstier anyway," Mark said, "they put something in it. Isn't that right Alan?" he added as Tom and Duncan looked at him blankly.

"Er, yeah," Alan said. "They put something in it, so you buy more." Duncan still looked blank, but Tom just shrugged.

"I don't care, you're still not having any," he said and took a massive swig, cola dribbling down his chin and staining his t-shirt.

Let's just go back now,
Alan thought suddenly, out of the blue as if it were the thought of another. He looked over his shoulder at their village on the other side of the fields they'd crossed.
Just go back
. But he didn't move.

"God you're gross," Mark said to Tom, who belched after finishing the cola. He walked on stiffly, and after a pause the others followed as if they had no choice in the matter. He led them into the shadows under the trees, which seemed very dark after the bright sunshine. The mud path was still wet here, where the sun hadn't been able to reach it all summer. As they walked, large insects buzzed past their ears, and cobwebs brushed against their faces. Toadstools sprouted from dead wood, and Alan hated the spongy look of them, wanted to brush their pale soft flesh from the logs. He looked behind him, and all he could see were the trees crowding in, and the muddy path.

Emerging from the wood into Clipston itself, the light seemed too bright and made the village look unreal - the few houses seemed aglow in the sunlight, the single post-box and the
Please Drive Carefully
sign like mirages. There was no one around, no sound, and no sign of life other than from the encroaching countryside, which looked poised to swallow up Clipston any time it chose. The boys left muddy footprints on the roads as they walked quickly through the place, not speaking or messing around.

Why is there an air raid shelter out here?
Alan thought.
This place is tiny, is it because it overlooks the airfield? Had that been used during the war?
Maybe there
isn't
any shelter
, he thought,
and it's all some more of Gordon Ross's bullshit
, but he couldn't convince himself.

Whether deliberately or not Alan never knew, but he found himself walking at the back with Mark, while Tom and Duncan walked ahead. Mark seemed on the verge of saying something different when he eventually said,

"Exams next year for me. GCSEs"

"Bummer," Alan said.

"All the teachers think I'll do crap at them. And my parents don't give a shit. But I'll show them."

Alan kept quiet, not knowing what to say. He had the feeling that despite the fact this seemed another conversation about school, that it was in fact about something else entirely that, like beer and girls' tits, he didn't fully understand.

"I'll show them," Mark repeated, staring ahead. "Everyone thinks I'll end up same place as my brother."

"Nah," Alan said, "you're not dumb enough to get caught like him!" He was aware his answer felt forced and seemed like the wrong one, but he felt unnerved by how the conversation was going, and he was nervous enough as it was.

Mark laughed, after a pause. "You're right," he said, "
I
wouldn't get caught. Rob a bank me. What you going to do when you grow up? You want to rob it with me? You be the brains and I'll be the muscles?"

"Sure," Alan said, but Mark just laughed again.

"I had a dream about the shelter last night," he said, in the same light tone of voice, but Alan couldn't see the connection between what they had been talking about and this. "I've been dreaming about it ever since I heard Gordon Ross and that lot talking about it. I can't remember the dream, but I remember it was about the shelter, does that make sense?" He didn't let Alan answer before he continued. "That's why I said to come up here. Because I keep having the same dream - I was going to say it yesterday, and Tuesday, but I didn't. I feel kind of scared about it you see." He laughed harshly. "I'm just a pussy, huh? All those kids who are scared of me at school should see me now! But they're not
good
dreams..." He looked at his dusty trainers. "You been having dreams Alan?"

"No," said Alan, although he had, sort of. He couldn't remember what he dreamt about, but he knew he dreamt every night, and no, he didn't think they were good dreams either. But he'd had his first wet dream the other week too, and he wanted to change the subject.

"Looks like they've found it," he said, pointing ahead to where Tom and Duncan could be seen standing by a gap in the hedge, gesturing impatiently. 

***

The shelter was in the far corner of a field, and Alan vaguely wondered why it was so far away from the village itself. At least two hundred metres.

The field was full of bright green grass, but it didn't grow around the air raid shelter itself, so that it seemed to rise up out of the dry, cracked mud. What was visible above ground was a cylinder of concrete which came to about waist height, with a diameter of about a metre and a half. There was a rusted metal hatch at the top, about the size of a manhole cover. Alan walked slowly up to it, wondering how deep it went down, and how large it was underground. Was it beneath his feet right now?

Scattered around the bare mud were cigarette butts, beer cans, pages torn from magazines, chocolate wrappers, and a few stubborn clumps of nettles. The corner of the field was bordered by stunted trees, looking old and twisted. One tree seemed to be full of wasps, and there was a constant droning sound, dull but somehow malignant. A few of the wasps were crawling over the shelter, as if feeding on something on its surface.

Alan's eyes were drawn to the torn magazine pages on the ground - they were from pornographic magazines, something he had never seen before (although he'd told the others he had). He stared at one faded looking woman, her legs spread, her hands placed either side on her paper-white thighs. Alan didn't like the picture, it seemed somehow fake, and the woman wasn't very pretty looking at all. But he still looked at it. He struggled with his feelings, not understanding them, but then started guiltily and flashed an ugly shade of red when Tom caught him looking.

"Hey Alan looking at the pornos!" Tom shouted; Mark and Duncan turned to see.

"No... I, no..."

"Looking right up her pussy!" Tom laughed and turned away.

Alan's fists clenched, and he took a step forward.

He was used to feeling angry at Tom's jibes, used to feeling frustrated and annoyed with his family and life in general... but he'd never felt anything like the overwhelming rage that visited him at that moment. His vision blurred and the faint buzzing of the wasps seemed to intensify, become less somnambulant and more like the anticipatory whine of a chainsaw. And amid this din he saw, clearly and precisely, how he could come up behind Tom and smash his head down against the concrete air raid shelter...

Then as quickly as they'd come the images and the anger faded, and Alan felt himself shaking with the after effects of adrenaline, and shivered in the hot sun. He felt scared that his body and mind could be overrun with such anger so easily, in the same way that his sudden sprung lust at seeing the porno had disturbed him.

Mark had walked up to the air raid shelter, not paying any attention to the others, and he ran his hand over the shelter as if in thought. To Alan, the sun made the concrete look red beneath Mark's hand; he blinked the colour away. Mark tried to lift the metal lid up, but he couldn't get any purchase on it, nor get his fingers beneath it for leverage. Alan was glad. He still felt unaccountably uneasy at the thought of going down
into
the air raid shelter, and now he wouldn't have to, but wouldn't look a wimp to the others either.

Mark was still pulling at the rusted lid. "You just going to stand there and watch?" he snarled at the others in frustration. They gathered round half-heartedly, but none of them could get a proper hold on the metal lid. They could raise it a few millimetres but nothing more, and then it snapped back down and pinched at their fingertips. It was obviously useless to go on trying but they did so, aware of Mark's annoyance.