Captain Brady on the other hand, was a picture of serenity, waiting for precisely the right moment to return their fire.
Every gun on the Thanatos opened up. It was awesome in the true sense of the word, a deafening cacophony, which quadrupled in intensity when every other ship in the convoy opened up too.
But it wasn’t enough. Undaunted by the big guns and a barrage of ack-ack fire, one of the planes was hurtling towards us at an impossible angle. I started praying as he moved in for the kill. But at the last minute, the pilot pulled out of his dive, peppering the deck with bullets and unleashing a brace of bombs, which whistled through the air and exploded in the sea with a muffled crackle.
Our sister ship, the Erebos, wasn’t so lucky. Dense clouds of yellow smoke were pouring from her funnel.
And again they came. It was many years before I could appreciate the pilot’s bravery, pulling out of his dive even later this time, risking death to deliver his bombs on target. Everyone on the bridge hit the floor as the roar of his twin engines rose above the thunder of our own five-and-a-quarter inch guns. And I realised that what I had taken for flying debris was actually the sound of machine-gun bullets ricocheting off the deck.
A brilliant white flash preceded the mother of all explosions, and I knew instantly we’d been hit. Of course I should have been focusing on the task in hand, but it was impossible to ignore the scenes of devastation. A-turret was a raging inferno. Rescue teams of stokers raced towards it, hoses at the ready, and the sick-berth tiffies began hauling out the screaming survivors.
There are some things no man should ever see. The starboard Oerlikon gunner, a Welsh lad by the name of Meredith, was slumped across the pedestal, brains oozing like raspberry ripple.
‘He’s coming back to finish us off,’ said Sharky, staring blankly into the sky. ‘What the bleedin’ hell am I doing here?’
He was the last man I’d expected to desert his post. It was a court-martial offence, and besides, if anyone was going to ‘funk it’, it would probably be me. But as the bomber prepared for another run, Sharky was nowhere to be seen.
They say that when the tiger has you in his jaws, a sense of resignation sets in. Our biggest gun was out of action, the port pompom platform was shot to bits and ferocious flames were licking the quarterdeck. As our tormentor plummeted towards us again like a turbo-charged vulture, I knew in my heart that lobster was permanently off the menu.
I didn’t recognise him at first, the small, determined figure who appeared on the quarterdeck, fighting his way through a procession of stretcher-bearers to get to the Oerlikon gun. It was only after he’d released Meredith from the waste-belt, eased himself onto the shoulder supports and grabbed hold of the trigger that I realised who he was.
No one will ever know for certain who bagged the JU88 and sent her, belching black smoke, into the clear blue sea, but I like to think it was Sharky. Though mortally wounded, he kept firing till the last, and had it not been for the ‘irregular circumstances’ they would surely have given him a medal.
By some miracle, the planes did not return. A cheer went up when Broadside Brady announced we were abandoning our mission and returning to Alexandria.
The next morning, I joined one of the hose parties, scraping gobbets of flesh from the deck with a shovel, trying to wash away the nauseating odour of dried blood that was baked into the twisted metal by the blistering sun. And to keep our spirits up we whistled the songs from Snow White.
‘Who wants a tickler?’ said a battle-hardened Leading Seaman, brandishing a bloodstained packet of cigarettes. ‘They were Meredith’s. He won’t want them now.’
That afternoon, we buried our dead; all eighteen of them, stitched into their hammocks and shrouded in the union flag. The marines fired a volley, a bugler played ‘The Last Post’, and the ship’s chaplain told us what an honour it was to die for our country. Tommy and I watched from the quarterdeck as our old friend Sharky slid slowly into the sea.
‘I suppose he got what he was looking for in the end,’ said Tommy. ‘He was always saying he wanted to see some action.’
‘We should write to his family,’ I said, secretly hoping that Tommy would volunteer for the job. ‘They’ll be so proud when they hear how brave he was.’
Tommy shook his head. ‘Sharky didn’t have any family.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Didn’t he tell you? They all copped it in the Blitz. He came from fire-watching one night and his house was just a pile of rubble. All that was left was the aspidistra. He said he couldn’t understand why God would let his three kid sisters be blown to smithereens, but save a stupid pot plant.’
It was twenty years before I tasted lobster, in a little bed and breakfast on the Dorset coast. I found it chewy and rather flavourless, and I couldn’t help thinking of poor old Sharky. But at least he died a hero. At least he’d done something to be proud of. I only wish I could say the same thing.
And so to the hard part, the part I’ve been dreading since I started. Please believe me when I tell you that it was never my intention to keep it a secret. Many’s the time I tried to share my shame with your grandmother, but whenever I came to the end of the story, I got so churned up inside that I couldn’t find the words. I like to think she would have forgiven me. I hope, Samuel, you will find it in your heart to do likewise.
6.35 p.m.
Mum stuck her head round the door and almost managed a smile. ‘How are you doing?’
To tell you the truth, I wasn’t doing that great. I’d been kind of hoping that courage ran in my genes, but I was beginning to wonder if it was ever there in the first place.
‘Are you going to be long, Mum?’
‘We’re just coming out now. ’
‘Good. I really want to get home.’
‘The thing is,’ said Mum, fiddling with the squidgy brain worry ball that she’d got from the drugs rep, ‘would you mind popping into the communal waiting room? It’s all right, there’s no one in there.’
‘What for?’
‘Just do it, Sam, there’s a good lad.’
‘But why?’
She closed the door behind her and put on her ‘professional counsellor’ voice. ‘All right, look, the child I’ve been seeing goes to your school.’
‘Who is it?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that. And I’m sure the last thing they’d want is for you to know who they are.’
‘I’ll close my eyes, OK?’
‘Come on, love. If you don’t make a fuss, we’ll pick up a Chinese on the way home.’
‘OK then.’
The communal waiting room stank of disposable nappies, damp old people and screwed-up teenagers. I gazed down on the deserted car park (all that was left were Mum’s little hatchback and a grey beast of a people-carrier), trying not to think about the next day, trying to convince myself that everything was going to be all right.
Granddad’s story was screaming at me, like a ventriloquist’s dummy: ‘Let me out, let me out!’ But I had a nasty feeling I wouldn’t get the happy ending I’d been hoping for. I still wanted to believe in Granddad the war hero.
The noticeboard above the smelly sandpit was a random reminder that other people had problems too. It was covered with helplines for addictions I’ve never even heard of and cartoons of lonely pensioners and children in wheelchairs. It ought to have made me feel better, but it didn’t.
And then it hit me. What had started as a whisper in the back of my head suddenly turned into a full-throated roar: WHAT ARE YOU, STUPID OR SOMETHING?
It was so obvious. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? Mum words were taking on a whole new meaning: ‘I’m sure the last thing they’d want is for you to know who they are.’ Of course they wouldn’t. Especially if they were The . . .
It all made perfect sense. That kid, the one Mum was having so much trouble with, the one she’d been scared might do ‘something stupid’. It just had to be – there was no other possible explanation.
Mum’s client from hell was The Emperor.
I charged to the window, crunching through a minefield of Lego and plastic fruit in a desperate attempt to get a glimpse of him. But it was too late. All I could see was the grey people-carrier pulling out of the car park.
6.50 p.m.
‘Look, for the last time,’ said Mum, trying to find her favourite DJ on the car radio, ‘I can’t tell you, Samuel, so just leave it, OK?’
‘Come on, Mum, it’s important.’
‘What, so you can spread it round the school, you mean?’
‘No, it’s not —’
‘God, I love Sting. They played this at our wedding disco.’
‘Wedding what?’
She didn’t know the words, but it didn’t stop her singing along in an embarrassing, squeaky voice.
‘Mum, please. Look, I wouldn’t tell anyone, I promise.’
‘Was that your phone, Sam? Might be your girlfriend.’
Must have been Alex returning my texts. At least something was going right.
‘Come on then, Sammy, what’s it to be: pizza or Chinese?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not hungry. ’
Mum started going into a comedy routine about me not being hungry making it onto the Ten o’Clock News, but I didn’t hear her because I was too busy staring into my mobile.
As usual, The Emperor’s message was short and to the point.
U R SO DEAD
FRIDAY
(WEEK TWO)
9.15 a.m.
Mum had an emergency meeting with the social worker, so she dropped me fifteen minutes early.
‘There’s something I really need to tell you, Mum.’
‘Sorry love, I’ve got a taxi up my bum. It’ll have to wait.’
The booming gobbledegook from the station tannoy was making me shiver. ‘I’ve got this terrible stomach ache.’
‘You’re just excited, Sammy. Trust me, you’ll be fine when you get on the train.’
‘No, Mum, I don’t —’
The taxi driver started beeping.
‘All right, all right, keep your hair on, baldy!’ Mum reached across and opened my door. ‘Hurry up, Sam. I want to leave your dad a good-luck message before his race.’
‘You don’t understand. I think they’re —’
‘Now don’t forget, when you arrive back, you’re going to walk straight to your granddad’s. So I’ll see you at the usual time, OK?’
As soon as Mum mentioned Granddad I started feeling guilty. I’d been so busy worrying about The Emperor that I still hadn’t finished his story. But at least thinking about him had given me the courage I needed to get out of the car.
‘Yes . . . fine . . . see you at the usual time.’
‘I’ve put a Capri Sun and some Cheesy Wotsits into a brown-paper bag in the front of your rucksack,’ said Mum, sticking an arm out of the window and jabbing her index finger at the sky. ‘Don’t throw the bag away, I can recycle it.’
We were supposed to meet underneath the TV screens in the ticket hall. Much to my relief, I couldn’t see any of my tormentors, just some random Year Eights free-running up the side of the photo booth, a circle of girls auditioning new ringtones, a couple of unsuspecting parent helpers and Mr Peel hiding behind a magazine called NME.
Dimbo would have made a terrible spy. His briefcase was a dead giveaway. ‘Psst! Over here, next to the newspapers.’
‘Where is everybody?’
‘You know our contemporaries, Samuel. Punctuality is hardly their strong point.’
‘Did you find anything else online?’
‘No. That Chickenboyz website has completely vanished.’
‘What would they do that for?’
Dimbo shrugged and peeled his Kit Kat. ‘Destroying the evidence perhaps? But it’s probably nothing. Just stick to the plan and you’ll be fine.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘I know the exact points on the platform where the train doors open. If you stand next to me, I’ll make sure you get on first. It’ll give you a head start.’
The unmistakable sound of Callum Corcoran’s laughter was strutting up Station Road.
‘What do I do now?’
‘Go and talk to old Peel,’ said Dimbo, gobbling down his final finger of Kit Kat. ‘Get him started on the “music business”. He’ll bore you to death, but at least you’ll be safe from The Emperor.’
‘But I don’t know anything about . . .’
They swept into the ticket hall, like the local hunt: Pete Hughes looking cool, Gaz Lulham trying to copy him, Chelsea sticking a square of Elastoplast over her nose stud, Callum and Animal kicking a dead Coke can, plus virtually half my tutor group in a state of high excitement, which rose to fever pitch the moment they spotted me.
‘There he is,’ shouted a voice from the back. ‘Hope he’s wearing swimming trunks.’
‘Let’s find out,’ said Animal, advancing menacingly.
‘Is that magazine any good, Sir?’ I said, sidling up to Mr Peel before they could get any closer.
He was wearing that leather jacket he’d worn for
Parents’ Evening. ‘Just having a squint at this year’s “cool list” – have you seen it yet?’
‘Er . . . no, not yet.’
Old Peel looked quite relieved. He smiled wistfully as my ‘classmates’ paraded around the ticket hall flapping imaginary wings and making chicken noises. ‘Look at them. The best years of their lives and they don’t even know it. God, I wish I was a kid again! Not a care in the world. Isn’t that right?’
A massive cheer went up when Mr Catchpole and Miss Stanley walked into the station side by side.
‘You been car-sharing, Miss?’ said Chelsea. ‘That’s good for the environment that is, Miss. Is he a good . . . driver, Miss?’
Mr Catchpole swatted angrily at a wasp with his timetable. ‘Yes, thank you Chelsea, I’ll do the funnies. And may I remind those of you who seem determined to turn the station into a farmyard, that all the time you are in school uniform you are representatives of the school. Now, form an orderly queue, and in a moment, we’ll proceed, quickly and quietly, onto the platform.’
During the ensuing chaos, I saw Alex slope into the ticket hall with another new rucksack over his shoulder. For a second, our eyes met, but he swiftly turned his attention to a vodka advert and my spirits sank a little further.
Things improved significantly when, a few seconds later, Abby appeared, stepping carefully through the carnage and quietly joining the end of the queue. Her hair looked good with that plastic thingy keeping it out of her face, and the smile that flickered across it when she saw me was just what the doctor ordered.
9.53 a.m.
‘The train shortly arriving at platform seven is the First Capital
Connect service for London Bridge, calling at . . .’
‘Don’t forget,’ whispered Dimbo, ‘I’ll text you if the ticket collector’s coming.’
I stared at the dot in the distance, trying to ignore the random chorus of insults from the other end of the platform, poised behind the yellow line like a sprinter waiting for the starting pistol. ‘Dimbo?’
‘What is it?’
‘Thanks.’
As the train rumbled into the station, I ran through one of those ‘creative visualisations’ that Dad did before every race, picturing myself leaping into the carriage and darting along the central aisle. I was halfway to First Class when I felt a cold hand on the back of my neck.
‘What the . . . ?’
Looking up, I realised that the front of the train was bearing down on me. Just for a nanosecond, I lost balance, teetering precariously on the wrong side of the yellow line.
‘Oh, it’s you. Thank goodness for that. I thought someone was trying to . . .’
‘I wanted to wish you luck, Sam,’ she said, blushing slightly. ‘I’ve been really worried about you.’
‘Thanks, Abby.’
‘I don’t know what they’re planning, but
I heard one of them say something about waiting for The Emperor’s signals. You will be careful, won’t you, Sam?’
The train doors were directly in front of me, just like Dimbo said they would be. ‘Got to go,’ I said, preparing to jump. ‘I’m going to sneak into First Class.’
She nodded thoughtfully.
‘Hey, Abby?’
‘Yes.’
‘You haven’t forgotten what I asked you about earlier?’
‘No,’ she said, her face pinkening. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’
‘Hurry up, you idiot,’ hissed Dimbo. ‘The doors are opening.’
‘Is it a yes or a no, Abby?’
But I didn’t have time to wait for her answer. Down at the other end of the platform, Mr Catchpole was trying to hold back the hordes.
‘One at a time, please. And no pushing.’
I jumped onto the 9.43 for London Bridge and hit the ground running.
After about twenty minutes, I started to relax. The first-class compartment was completely empty, and the toilet was just down the corridor, so I knew there was somewhere to hide in an emergency. Best of all, nobody had come looking for me.
I slipped further into my comfy seat, not counting my chickens exactly, but confident enough to rest my eyes for a second.
Whether it was the motion of the train or the fact I’d hardly slept for a week, I’m not sure. All I know is that somewhere between Gatwick Airport and East Croydon, I must have dozed off.
BIG MISTAKE.
10.16 a.m.
What made it ten times more terrifying was their silence. Not one of them uttered a single word. From the moment I awoke to discover I was blind, until it was all over, the only sounds I could make out were the rattle of the train, a few stifled giggles and a crackly mobile playing R’n’B.
Half asleep still, and longing to return to my soothing slumbers, I became dimly aware of a thin band tightening around my head. Next came the blackness. I tried to open my eyes, but they were prisoners in their own sockets. ‘Help me, please, I . . . I can’t see.’
Somebody grabbed my hand as it flew up to my face to investigate. ‘What’s happening? Get off me I . . .’
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