by Lesley Parr
Someone speaks. ‘He isn’t going to tell us, Evs.’
A London accent.
It’s Duff.
‘Oh, he will,’ comes Jack’s sneering voice. ‘All it takes is the right … persuasion.’
Florence looks terrified. ‘Jimmy, I think they’re bullying someone in there.’
The next voice is small but bold.
‘You can’t make me, you stinking Welsh pig!’
The swish of a stick. A cry of pain. Someone just hurt my little brother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE BUNKER
I run so fast not even Florence can keep up with me. Back along the footpath, round the corner and over the stile so quickly my foot catches at the top and I land with a thud that knocks all the breath out of my lungs. I push myself upright, take two big painful gulps of air and run on. I can feel Florence speeding along behind me. The den rushes up to meet us.
I rip the corrugated iron away and the sign flies off on to the ground. Inside, in the gloomy dark, four pairs of shocked eyes stare back at me. Jack, Duff, Gareth and Aled take a second to realise what’s happening. But then, so do I …
The shaft of light coming from the doorway shows Ronnie sitting on an upturned milk crate, shaking like a puppy in the rain. They’ve blindfolded him. It looks like they’ve torn a bit off an old shirt to do it. It’s darker where his tears have soaked through. What kind of a person does this?
‘Ronnie.’ My voice isn’t much more than a breath, and I can’t believe it but he smiles.
‘I knew you’d come, Jimmy! I knew it!’
‘I’m here too,’ says Florence, squeezing past me and gently lifting the blindfold. Her blue eyes are icy as she looks at the boys. ‘You’re twisted – the lot of you.’
She puts her arms around Ronnie and he cuddles into her, his breaths calming down.
Jack sneers. ‘Vaccies to the rescue, eh?’
Florence stands straight and tall, making Jack look even weedier. ‘Yeah, we stick together.’
I look at Duff. ‘Some of us do.’
He stares back at me, his eyes filled with spite. He turns to Florence. ‘So what are you going to do? Stink us out?’
Jack and the twins laugh stupidly. I see the shame that flashes across Florence’s face – but only for a split second.
‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.’ She nudges Ronnie towards the doorway. ‘I’ll smash your weaselly little faces in, won’t I?’ She nods at Jack. ‘I’ve done it before.’
She’s actually pushing up her sleeves and I feel this fierce pride for her. But there are four of them and three of us; the twins add up to two each, and Ronnie barely counts. No matter how much I want to hurt Jack, to grind him into the floor of this den, I know we’re outnumbered.
They’ll hammer us.
We have to get out of here. Fast. I push Ronnie a bit closer to the doorway, hoping Florence can see that our only choice is to scarper.
‘Need a girl to fight your battles for you, Jimmy?’ Jack says.
I shake my head. ‘Not for me, with me. And this isn’t over.’
Florence grins.
‘Oh, I’m so scared,’ the twin with glasses – Gareth? – says in a baby voice.
I shove Ronnie outside and step out after him, knowing Florence is behind us. I turn to my brother. ‘Ronnie, can you run?’ He nods. ‘Then get ready.’
‘Ready for what?’ he says, but before the last word is fully out of his mouth, I kick hard at the den’s wall. One. Two. Florence joins in with the third, whooping and yelling. The Bunker collapses, dragging the tarpaulin with it.
Angry shouts and filthy swears burst out of Jack Evans’s clubhouse as it all caves in on them.
‘Run!’ I shout, stamping hard on the sign for the Bunker. It splits in two. Good. We leg it across the fields and down the mountain. The path becomes a track, I’m practically dragging Ronnie’s arm out of its socket and his legs are going like heck. Florence is out in front. She makes a sudden turn and drops out of sight. We follow to find she’s dived into a ditch at the side of the track. I hurl Ronnie in on top of her. He lands with an ‘Oooph’ and I jump in too.
‘Good … thinking,’ I say, panting for breath. ‘We were … never going to … outrun them with Ro—’
‘Shh!’ Florence sticks one hand over my mouth and one over Ronnie’s. None of us moves a muscle as Jack, Duff and the twins race past. We wait a few minutes before flopping back against the soft grass of the ditch.
‘Ronnie, what happened?’ I ask.
He bites his bottom lip.
‘You can tell us,’ Florence adds.
‘Promise you won’t get cross?’ He runs his hand over the long grass.
Florence and me share a look that says This won’t be good but make the cross my heart sign over our chests.
It all rushes out of him. ‘I went up to the tree – I know I shouldn’t have gone on my own but, after the funeral, you didn’t want to and I thought I could help.’
I feel Florence’s eyes on me.
He carries on. ‘But I couldn’t make myself look in the hollow. Coming down, I saw you, and I hid in a hedge because I thought you’d tell me off.’
‘I knew it!’ Florence says.
‘Then I saw Jack and those boys and they wanted to know where I’d been. I wouldn’t tell them so they said they’d have to put me under military arrest as a traitor and they made me go with them to their clubhouse.’
‘Gits,’ Florence says.
I nod for him to carry on.
‘They … they said –’ his voice cracks, and tears come to his big eyes – ‘I wasn’t from London at all. They said I was more likely a German spy and I had to tell them everything or they’d hurt me.’
Anger bubbles and boils inside me. Ronnie keeps talking. ‘Jack hit me with a stick.’ He holds out his arms; they’re swollen with striped red marks. ‘Then it broke so they had to get another one.’
‘I’m going to kill Jack Evans,’ I mutter.
‘Not if I kill him first,’ Florence says.
‘And I didn’t mean to, Jimmy, I swear I didn’t but …’
‘Go on,’ I say slowly, worried about what might come next.
‘They were being so horrible it just came out. I said I would never tell where … where the skull is, and he said, “What skull?” I didn’t say another word, Jimmy. Honest.’
Silence. Florence and me glance at each other.
‘You promised you wouldn’t be cross,’ Ronnie whispers.
And I realise I’m not.
‘Come here.’ I pull him towards me. ‘You know what? We heard you. We heard you stick up for yourself.’ He wriggles away slightly and looks up at me. ‘So I’m not cross with you, I’m proud. All right, so something slipped out, but most people – bigger, older boys than you – would have told them everything.’
I kiss the top of his head. I don’t even care that Florence is watching.
We tear along the top streets of Llanbryn, turn right, and slam straight into a group of men on the corner. One of them is Mr Thomas. He sees it’s us and all the air rushes out of him in an odd, broken way. He crouches down in front of Ronnie. ‘Where’ve you been, boy? Oh! Look at your arms!’
‘Jack Evans and his gang,’ Florence says. ‘They kidnapped him.’
‘What?’ Mr Thomas looks at me.
‘They did.’
The men start muttering about how they aren’t surprised, that something needs to be done about that Evans boy and his band of thugs.
‘Did I hear mention of my son?’ Reverend Evans pokes his head around the little crowd.
Some of the men look embarrassed, but one of them, the man called Dai who brought Ronnie’s mattress, says, ‘Yeah. What’ve you got to say about him picking on little dwts like Alun’s lad?’
The vicar ignores him and goes over to Mr Thomas. ‘We only have the boy’s word for it, and that doesn’t count for much –’ his eyes flick towards me – ‘given who his ol
der brother is. The more likely explanation is that he’s simply been up to mischief.’
Mr Thomas stands and points at Ronnie’s arms. ‘This is all your boy’s doing, Cedwyn.’
‘Those bramble scratches?’ Reverend Evans almost smiles as he looks at Ronnie’s arms, and it’s all I can do not to kick him. ‘Been picking blackberries, have you, boy?’
‘Don’t talk to my brother,’ I mutter, pulling Ronnie close to me.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘I see your manners haven’t improved since our last conversation. Yet all’s well that ends well. The Good Lord has seen fit to deliver him back to us.’
‘Has he now then?’ Mr Thomas’s voice is hard like steel. ‘And who’s this us? I didn’t see you out searching for the little lad.’
The vicar has a look on his face that Nan would call ‘brazen’. ‘I knew he’d be around somewhere – and hasn’t he proved me right? Gallivanting all over our mountain while decent people stop their day to search for him. Look at him now, standing there with his hands in his pockets – no respect!’
Ronnie pulls out his hands. I let go of him to shove mine deep into my own.
‘Decent people, eh?’ Mr Thomas’s words come out with a laugh like a bark. ‘That explains why you didn’t help, then, Evans.’
Florence whistles long and low. The two men stare at each other, real hate in their eyes.
Reverend Evans smiles like a snake that’s caught a mouse. ‘As I said, the Lord has delivered the lost child safely to you.’ He starts to walk away, then turns back and mutters, ‘This time.’
This time? What does he mean, This time? The men shuffle their feet. Dai says something under his breath that sounds like a word you wouldn’t normally say in front of a vicar.
That dark cloud is back, the one that drifted over Mr Thomas the day Florence punched Jack. And now it’s got thunder in it. He closes his eyes and takes a really big breath, like he’s pushing down the anger, and crouches next to Ronnie again. Then he stands, lifting my brother with him as if he weighs nothing at all. Ronnie clings to his neck, not minding the coal dust, and we walk down to Heol Mabon together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TRICKS
Ronnie and me walk up from Sunday school with Florence. I didn’t listen to a word Miss Williams said, my head’s too full of how Reverend Evans and Mr Thomas were with each other. And I can’t stop wondering what the reverend meant about Ronnie being safe ‘this time’. Or why the men shuffled their feet and looked away. I don’t understand this place, these people. Everyone knows everyone else, but there are huge secrets too. Secrets they don’t want outsiders like us to know.
We turn the corner on to the Bryn and someone waves at us from across the road. It’s Duff. Duff who stood in the Bunker, letting Jack hit my brother with sticks. My fists tighten.
‘What does he want?’ Florence says, screwing up her face and grabbing Ronnie’s hand.
I step out ahead of them. ‘I don’t know but it won’t be anything good.’
When I reach the pavement, Duff smiles but it’s weak like it’s hurting his face to do it. ‘All right, Jimmy?’
I say nothing. I want to bring my fist crunching down on his double-crossing face like Florence did to Jack, but a group of women are coming along the pavement. Church people in their Sunday best.
Florence and Ronnie join us. Duff says hello to them and Florence’s answer is a rude finger sign. Ronnie goes to copy her but I grab his arm and hold it down at his side. The church ladies gasp and tut and stick their noses in the air.
‘Erm,’ Duff says, shuffling from foot to foot like he’s nervous. ‘What Jack did to Ronnie, it was bad. Look at him, he’s only a little fella.’
Duff nods towards Ronnie, who stands up straight and tall, puffing out his chest like a sergeant major on parade.
I glare at Duff. ‘You were part of it, don’t try to make out you weren’t.’
‘But Jack made me – you don’t know what it’s like living in that vicarage with him. He bullies me too, you know.’
‘You tied up and tortured a six-year-old,’ I say, breathing hard. ‘Not even living with flaming Hitler could make me do that!’
‘Yeah,’ says Florence, stepping towards him, clearly enjoying the way he flinches.
‘I’d hate me too if I was you.’ Duff shoves his hands deep into his pockets and looks at the ground. ‘I don’t want to be in his stupid gang any more. I want us to be mates again … like we used to.’
A little voice in my head starts whispering, even though I don’t want it to. What if he means it? We did used to be mates. Best mates. What if he’s telling the truth?
Duff looks right at me. ‘I’m sorry, Jimmy.’
And now I know he’s lying. Duff never says sorry for anything. Ever. Unless he’s trying to pull the wool over someone’s eyes.
I feel Florence’s and Ronnie’s stares, drilling into me, waiting for me to answer. I turn to them. ‘You go. Ronnie, tell Mrs Thomas I’ll be home for lunch.’
‘Dinner,’ Ronnie says.
I sigh. ‘All right, dinner then.’
‘What the heck, Jimmy?’ Florence’s eyes are bigger and rounder than Ronnie’s. ‘You don’t believe him, do you?’
Duff’s looking at the pavement again. I stare at her really hard. ‘Trust me,’ I mouth.
She frowns, then nods and leads Ronnie away.
‘Want to go down to the bottom field?’ I ask, watching his face closely. He’s trying to look relieved, I know he is, but he just looks smug. This could be a trap, a way to get me on my own and kick my head in. Suddenly I wish I hadn’t told Florence to go.
I don’t say much. Duff and me sit on the grass and he goes on and on about how horrible Jack is and I pretend to believe him. He starts picking at his nails; I think I’m about to find out what he’s up to.
He looks across the field and sighs. ‘So what’s this about a skull then?’
I knew it.
‘What are you talking about? What skull?’
He pulls a bit of nail off his thumb and flicks it into the grass. ‘Ronnie said he’d never tell us about the skull. Which is funny when you think about it, because that’s just what he did, didn’t he? Tell us, I mean.’
There’s a chance for me to get one over on him here, get one over on them all. If I can only think of a good story. What did Florence say the skull could be? A drunken miner, a Victorian poacher, a German spy … that’s it! A German spy.
I try to look like I’m considering telling him. I rub my chin like Dad does when he’s thinking hard. I suck the air in through my teeth. I frown a lot.
‘I don’t know, Duff.’ I stare into the distance. I have to make this look like he’s dragging it out of me. ‘This is big. Top secret, really. Classified, you could say.’
He sits bolt upright and nods his head fast. ‘Go on – you can trust me.’
I almost laugh but make my face go really serious. I speak quietly and lean nearer to him.
‘See, Duff, there was a parachute landing around here over the summer. A German spy acting for Hitler.’
He’s bouncing now, all excited.
‘Only it didn’t go according to plan and he crashed into the side of the mountain. SPLAT!’ I clap my hands together and Duff jumps. I’m starting to enjoy this. ‘They say his head flew clean off and landed in the stream.’
‘Really? Is that where it is – in the stream? Where in the stream?’
‘That’s it, isn’t it? No one knows, but it’ll be just a skull by now with all the weather and animals and things.’
‘A real skull? With eyeholes and that creepy bit where the nose used to be and its mouth all …’ He clenches his teeth and opens and closes his jaw like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
‘Err … not really.’ I say. ‘But … Ronnie was looking for it when you found him.’
‘How did he know about it?’
‘We overheard some old fellas talking. They stopped when they saw us.’
&
nbsp; Duff frowns. ‘Hold on, we – I mean Jack – accused Ronnie of being a German spy in the Bunker …’
Oh no, he’s going to know I’m making this up. But then he nods slowly and smiles as if he’s had a brilliant idea.
‘That must’ve made Ronnie think of the skull. We reminded him of the German parachutist!’
I shrug. ‘Must have.’
‘What I don’t understand, Jimmy,’ Duff says, ‘is what happened to his body and his parachute.’
Oh heck, what do I say now? I cough, trying to buy some time. Think, Jimmy, what would Florence say? Then it comes to me. ‘The army sneaked in and cleared up. That’s what they do, isn’t it? Secret missions.’
Duff puts a hand on my shoulder and pinches it really hard as he pushes himself up off the grass. ‘Thanks, Jimmy, you just saved me and the gang a whole lot of bother.’ He kicks my shin before he runs away. ‘So long, sucker!’ he shouts over his shoulder.
I rub my leg but I’m smiling. Takes one to know one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
IT’S GOT TO BE JACK
After feeding our Sunday dinner scraps to the chickens, we knock for Florence and head back up the mountain.
‘Do you know what?’ she says, jumping down off the gate and marching towards the tree. ‘After seeing that diagram, I reckon I could rebuild the bones into a proper skeleton.’
‘Don’t!’ Ronnie squeaks.
She looks back. ‘Oh, I won’t really do it,’ she says, holding out her hand. ‘I’m just saying, I think I’d be a good scientist.’
Ronnie takes her hand and they skip towards the tree.
Under its shade, I pour honey on to the bread that Florence brought and we spread it around with our fingers. No one thought to bring a knife. She passes me a pop bottle filled with water, it’s warm but it doesn’t matter. Back in London I never would’ve taken a drink from something she’d touched. I feel my face burn with shame; we used to say there were Campbell germs on everything. Duff started it one day when Florence had been on a swing in the park. He said anyone who sat on it after her would be infected. Florence waited in the bushes and threw stones at us on our way home. Duff got her into trouble for that.
