The Machine Gunners

by Robert Westall

  Then Clogger said, "We do want the gun mended though. It's important." Everyone looked at Rudi solemnly. He wriggled uncomfortably. It would be wrong to give children back a gun like that. Because they were still children. But somehow, he couldn't insult them by saying that. Because, in another way, they were no longer children.

  "We wouldn't fire it, promise. Except at..." Chas paused and blushed; he had almost forgotten that Rudi was a German. "Anyway, we wouldn't fire it, just... have it. It's our... mascot."

  What could Rudi say, to save their face? He thought long.

  "I do you a deal. I need a boat. You a sailing boat get— I the gun will mend." It was, he thought, the right thing to say, adult to adult. They couldn't possibly get a boat.

  12

  "Damn this for a game of soldiers," thought Stan Liddell. He couldn't feel his feet, they were so cold. He couldn't stop the great binoculars shaking. A fortnight, off and on, he'd watched the house in the Square, the one with the green door. Often he'd seen young McGill come out, always with that wary glance round as he left the garden gate. For a fortnight no policeman had tried to shadow the boy; but he was wary by instinct now, like a wild animal.

  The binoculars had been a disappointment. Things got in their way: houses, hedges, factory chimneys. Sometimes, when the boy vanished behind them, Stan could guess which way he was going; but sooner or later, when he vanished for the third or fourth time, he vanished for good. And Stan had to hand it to him; in all the time he'd watched, he'd never seen the boy go the same way twice.

  This morning, there was a difference; there was someone following. Stan swore. Could these policemen never let well alone?

  Then he saw it wasn't a policeman, but someone quite different. Stan knew two things straight away. McGill had immediately become aware of being followed, though he didn't look round. And the someone different was up to no good. Stan suddenly felt colder than ever, and afraid. Should he rush down and interfere? But how could he hope to catch them? They were a quarter of a mile away already. Hopelessly, Stan continued to watch through his binoculars.

  Frigging fool! thought Chas. Does he think I don't know he's there. He walked extra quiet, listening to the footsteps behind. They were too light for Fatty Hardy, and that sergeant limped. But the feet wore boots with heelplates; some eager young copper perhaps.

  Chas grinned with glee. Let's see how good this one is! Let's see if he can get through a hawthorn hedge without snagging his nice serge trousers. Let's see if he can cross a glass-topped wall without tearing his backside out!

  Chas dawdled along to the hawthorn hedge. There were only two gaps in it, hidden by dead nettles. Chas walked past the first, and suddenly wriggled through the second. Once through, he ran back silently to the first. He peered through it; a pair of large black boots was just vanishing through the second. Chas scrambled back into the road, and streaked off the way he had come. By the time the copper found the second hole, he'd be a mile away.

  But a half minute later, the boots were behind him again. Chas slowed to a walk, saying good morning with great innocence to a friend of his mother's who was pushing her pram. So he was a smart copper, this one!

  Chas tried him on the glass-topped wall; but the copper was equally good at walls. So Chas gave him the water pipe that spanned the Red Burn. The Red Burn was only a foot deep, but full of a peculiar (and staining) red mud. And the water pipe was stickily tarred and only six inches wide. Chas always ran over it (you kept your balance if you ran fast enough) but coppers always lost their nerve, and tried sitting astride. Joy of joys, they often got stuck in the middle.

  But this copper crossed the pipe on his feet.

  "Must be Scotland Yard," muttered Chas, getting flustered. They would be expecting him at the Fortress; he was already half an hour late. "Right, I'll give him the Mud Flats, then." Chas had kept the Mud Flats in reserve until now; they were a vast swamp by the river below the town, covered at this season with dead white reeds four feet high, and crossed by black oozing streams that sported the unhealthy rainbows of oil patches. What paths there were, crossed the streams by sodden rotten planks. They were only used by anglers and small boys, and you had to know them well, for they were the terror of all local mothers; children had drowned there in the past.

  The Flats were only two hundred yards from the Nichol house. I'll be drinking my tea in ten minutes, thought Chas. He ran across the first bridge, ducked and sped sharp left. Crouching low, he changed direction six more times and then crouched on a dry patch under the skeleton of a wrecked fishing boat. He then realised uneasily that he'd put himself in a cul-de-sac. There was no way out from the wrecked boat except the way he'd come. Still, he must have lost the policeman pretty thoroughly by this time.

  He started to giggle, and then stifled it. Footsteps were squelching toward him, searching carefully. In another second they'd be on him. Was it a policeman at all? He realised what a lonely place he had chosen. Only fishermen ever came here, and they only came on Sundays in summer.

  Rudi wakened and looked at his watch. They had all slept in this morning. Last night the boys had been overexcited, whispering. Rudi had heard the town clock chime one, through the blackout, before he'd dropped off.

  Clogger was snoring in the top bunk, loud enough to keep the flies away. Rudi glanced at the bottom bunk, where his guard always sat, and gasped. His moment had come: the moment of weakness he had predicted; and, also as he'd predicted, it had come via the little dark boy.

  Nicky lay full length on the bottom bunk, right arm outstretched, fingers closed loosely round the Luger. The pistol lay on the rough tartan rug not two feet from Rudi's nose. Rudi slipped his wrist out of the cycle chain that should have fastened him to the bunk; he'd perfected that trick weeks ago. He leaned over and took hold of the Luger barrel with two fingers, and began to draw it gently toward him. Nicky's finger was just sliding off the trigger when he moaned and tightened his grip.

  Rudi waited; for he saw, with a slight shudder, that the foolish nervous one had the gun cocked again, and the safety catch off.

  The footsteps squelched nearer. What was it that was following him? A convict, a murderer? One of the Undead that Cem said lived in graveyards? Or one of those awful strange men his mother was constantly warning him never to speak to? Why mustn't one speak to them, or take the sweets they always offered you? His mother would never say. If he asked his father, Mr. McGill always just shuffled his Daily Express angrily and told him to shut his bloody yap.

  A head was emerging over the reeds. The sun was behind it, and he could see no more than two protruding ears. The being stopped and looked at Chas.

  In a second, all his wild imaginings flew away, and a much worse fear took their place. The being was Boddser Brown.

  Gently, Rudi tried again. This time the child didn't even moan. The German uncocked the gun, put on the safety catch and returned it to its rightful place in his holster. Both boys slept on.

  What now? Should he simply walk out? But that would mean no more food, no more tramp-disguise (for his sacks had long since been put to other use). Besides, the moment they awakened, the children would warn the Polizei and the army. They'd comb the whole area; he wouldn't get a mile.

  Silence the children? He couldn't bear to harm them, and tying them up would do no good. In an hour the others would arrive and release them. Wait till they were all here, and tie them all up? He doubted his ability to tie up six in a way that would last half an hour.

  Use the gun to take charge of the Fortress? Hold all six permanent prisoners? Water would soon run out, and besides four of them would have to return home by dark. Missing children would start a bigger hue and cry than any German airman on the run.

  The more he racked his brains, the more impossible it seemed. Besides, he realised sadly, he just didn't want to escape. His patriotism toward the Fatherland was dead. He tried to coax it back to life; thought of the Fuehrer; thought of his old father and mother and how ashamed they'd be of his c
owardice. What would the neighbours back home say? I'd be shot as a deserter if the Fuehrer knew, he mused.

  But his parents, and the neighbours and the Fuehrer would never know. At home, by now, he would be a dead hero; his photograph in uniform, draped in black, would be on his mother's mantelpiece, a source of pride.

  Meanwhile, it was drizzling steadily outside, and he wanted his breakfast. Better a live jackal than a dead lion.

  But he had the advantage of being both at once! He couldn't help laughing.

  It remained to save the little dark boy's pride. He slid the Luger back, just as carefully, between the outstretched fingers. Then he slid his wrist back through the chain, and yawned loudly. Through his lowered lashes, he watched Nicky awaken, and grab frantically at the gun.

  "I'm hungry!" announced Rudi.

  "Och, Ah could eat a horse too," said Clogger, stretching. "Ma turn to make the tea."

  Rudi smiled. Life was good.

  Chas looked round desperately, but there was no way out except the path Boddser Brown stood astride. Nor was there anything to hit Boddser with. He wrenched at a rib of the old boat, but his hand just slipped on the oozing wood. Next minute he was lying face down on the wet grass, with one arm twisted behind his back, and Boddser's knee on his neck. He twisted his head, for black water was getting into his nostrils and mouth.

  "Gerroff, you sod," he snarled; it was a gesture without hope.

  "Poor old Chassy McGill," crooned Boddser, with evil sentimentality. "Where's your brains now, Chas?" He twisted Chas's arm up tighter. "Why don't you shout for help? Go on, shout."

  Chas shouted. It couldn't do any harm.

  "Louder!" Boddser twisted Chas's arm tighter. "Louder!" He gave another twist. "Louder!"

  Nobody came.

  "Right, to business," said Boddser briskly, moving his knee from Chas's neck to the small of his back. "Where's that machine gun?"

  "Sod off," gasped Chas. He gave a vigorous squirm that half threw Boddser off, and crawled for dear life. But it only made things worse. He was now hanging face down over a little black stream. And he knew what was coming next.

  "Thank you, McGill," said Boddser. "That's saved me a lot of trouble." Chas took a deep breath and closed his mouth as his head was thrust under water. He was under a long time, while his chest swelled and swelled until it felt it would burst. Then his head was released. He breathed out. He felt Boddser's hand coming down to push him under again before he could breathe in. He moved his head quickly and Boddser's hand slipped. Chas snatched a breath before he went under again. He felt strangely calm.

  13

  After half an hour, Boddser began to get worried. Things were not turning out as usual. Usually, by this time, kids were blubbing, begging for mercy, willing to do anything; which made Boddser feel hot and good and squelchy inside, and then he'd let the kids go.

  But McGill wasn't like that. He just went on spitting out swearwords, whenever he had the breath. And once, when Boddser's hand had slipped, McGill had bitten his wrist hard and savage, like a dog. Boddser stared fascinated at the horseshoe of teethmarks in his own precious flesh. They hurt; they seeped blood into the muddy wetness of his arm. Boddser started to fret. The dirty water might turn the wound septic.

  And now McGill lay silent, motionless, breathing in a funny sort of way. Had he fainted, or had a fit? He had acted so queerly. Boddser gave his arm a twist.

  "Want some more, McGill?" There was no response. Boddser got to his feet, suddenly shaking, terrified. What had he done?

  Next minute, McGill was up and gone, running now like a small muddy rat. Boddser roared with rage and pursued. Fooled again!

  McGill crossed the first plank bridge and seemed to fall. "Got you!" roared Boddser and made to cross the plank.

  Chas twisted round, caught the end of the plank and threw it into the water. Boddser, unable to stop, went into the stream up to his waist. The coldness of the water made him gasp. By the time he'd scrambled out, McGill had crossed the next plank and thrown that in the water too. Boddser gathered himself and crossed the stream in one gigantic leap. McGill ran for his life.

  He was catching him now! In fact, he'd stopped, with his back against a fence. Why, that was the old bombed-out Nichol house behind. What was the little rat shouting? Clogger? Why was he shouting Clogger?

  "So we start again, McGill. Where's that machine gun?"

  "No, we won't. Look behind you!"

  "Think I'd fall for that trick, stupid?"

  "Perhaps ye'd better," said a new voice behind him. Boddser whirled.

  "Clogger Duncan! But you went home to Glasgow!"

  "Some people thought Ah did," said Clogger grimly. "What shall we do with him, Chas?"

  "He's been torturing me, to get me to tell about the gun."

  "Och, he has, has he?"

  "Now wait," said Boddser, backing away. "It's none of your business, Duncan. It was a fair fight, one against one."

  "When did you fight fair?" said Clogger. He turned to Chas. "It's up to you, Chas. We can't afford this lad any more. Shall I do him proper?" Chas didn't even think. He was black with hate.

  "Do him proper," he said.

  It had been a fair fight. There had even been a time when Clogger's nose had streamed red, and Chas thought, horror upon horrors, that he might lose. But Clogger cared no more for his bleeding nose than a fly. He just kept on and on, white, silent, steady as a man chopping wood. He never touched Boddser's face; always hit his body where it wouldn't show. And Boddser was much too keen not to get hurt.

  So, in the end, Boddser was lying on the ground being very sick. Chas watched fascinated as the green strings of slime trailed from his mouth.

  "Had enough?" asked Clogger. Boddser nodded silently. "Aye, ye've had enough for now. Enough till ye get home and blab to your mother that I'm still here in Garmouth, and where I'm living, and that Chas knows all about it. You know where the machine gun is now, don't you? And your precious mother'll run straight to the police."

  Boddser's eyes flickered. Clogger had read his thoughts exactly. "They'll send you away to Borstal," he managed to mumble. "All of you."

  "If you tell them."

  "Try and stop me!"

  "Ah will!" Clogger raised his boot and kicked Boddser in the ribs three times. It made a terrible noise, like a butcher chopping a leg of lamb. Then he kicked him three times more, and three times more. Boddser was much more sick now. When he looked up, his eyes had changed. He looked as if he understood something he had never understood before...

  "Ye can put me in Borstal," said Clogger, "but you can't keep me there. Ah'll get out, and when Ah do, Ah'll come looking for you, Brown. And Ah'll finish off what I started the day. Ye understand me, Brown? Ah'll kill you, if Ah swing for it."

  Boddser believed him. Chas, staring in horror, believed him too. This was a Clogger he had never known existed; a Clogger he had called out.

  They left Boddser lying, and walked back to the camp in silence. Somehow, the silence went before them. Cem, Audrey and Carrot-juice just sat and stared. Rudi, pretending to read, watched round a corner of Beano.

  "Ah'll wash ma face!" said Clogger loudly, to no one in particular. Audrey poured out hot water without a word. Clogger carefully cleaned the dark cracked blood off his mouth and chin. Then he looked up at Chas.

  "Ye didnae like that, did ye? So yell no be speaking to me any more. You've nae time for Glasgow hooligans." Chas neither looked up nor spoke. He drew, in the dust of the floor, with the toe of his Wellington boot.

  "D'you want to go running to the poliss about me as well?" Silence. "It was you who said to do him proper."

  "I didn't know what doing him proper meant."

  "Ye didnae think it meant gieing him a clout on the ear and sending him bawling to his ma? Ye didnae want the poliss round here in an hour, did ye?" Chas shook his head mutely.

  "Then what other way would ye have shut his trap?" Chas shook his head mutely again.

  "Och, you'r
e nobbut a bairn."

  "I'm not a bairn. He ducked my head under water for half an hour and I told him nothing."

  Clogger walked across to Chas and, tipping his head back by the hair, examined him closely. Chas was as white as a sheet, with great black rings around his eyes. Clogger let go his hair and ruffled it with great affection.

  "God, man, ye're half-drowned. Aye, Ah guess you're a hard man in your own way, Chassy McGill. Hard on yerself." Chas felt a hot traitor tear start in the corner of his left eye. It was the admiration in Clogger's voice he couldn't bear.

  "Oh, let's have a cup of tea," he said. "I'm O.K." He proved it by being splendidly sick for the next quarter of an hour.

  Stan Liddell knocked on Chas's front door. Mrs. McGill opened it.

  "Why hello, Mr. Liddell! Do you want Charles? You'll have to go up to the bedroom I'm afraid. He came home in a right muck last night—thick wi' mud and soaked to the skin. He can't raise his arms above his head this morning, and he looks like someone's been at his eyes wi' a blackin' brush. Expect he's been fighting again—you know what lads are."

  Half an hour later, Stan knocked on Boddser Brown's front door.

  "Mr. Liddell," said Mrs. Brown. "I was just thinking of calling the police, but you'll do as well. Bernard came home in a shocking state last night—soaked to the skin and plastered with mud from head to foot. He's been crying all the morning—I've had the doctor to him. You should see his poor little ribs—they're black and blue. He won't say a word, but a mother knows—it's those big lads been at him again—that Charles McGill. I don't know what the world's coming to, with all this hooliganism... you should just see his bruises, poor mite..." She went on for a very long time, saying the same things over and over again. Finally Stan gave her a look that stopped her dead.

  "I wouldn't advise the police, madam. I've just come from McGill's house, and he's in just the same state. What's more, your son's far bigger than McGill, and I happen to know he started the business..." Stan was amazed how sharp his voice was; he supposed it was the permanent whine in Mrs. Brown's voice, her permanent conviction that the world would always do her and hers down, the mingy look on her face...