THE H-BOMB GIRL

by Stephen Baxter

  Dad called this morning.

  “It’s getting a lot harder to make these calls,” he said.

  I could hear wind and birdsong. “Where are you?”

  “In a phone box. I tiptoed out of the base. I told them I needed a packet of fags.”

  “You’re giving up smoking.”

  “They’ll see through that, then. Not much of a spy, am I? It’ll get better before it gets worse, Laura. The next few days are critical. In the crisis. Everything depends on how the Russians accept Kennedy’s blockade of their ships. And—” Beep beep beep. “Oh, damn—”

  That was it.

  Trust Dad not to have any coppers. No threepenny bit in his sock. He might win the Cold War but he’s not very smart sometimes.

  I still don’t know what to tell him about Miss Wells, and Agatha. I haven’t even spoken to him properly about Mort.

  It’s all about the Key. He gave it to me to make me feel safe, but it’s doing the opposite. A bit of me doesn’t want to tell him about any of that, doesn’t want to worry him.

  Another bit wants to sit on his knee and curl up, as if I was five years old.

  I wonder when I’ll speak to him again.

  “Morning, love!”

  The wireless was on. Vera Lynn introducing wartime favourites. Mum was singing along as she set out breakfast dishes on the dinner table in the parlour. She looked happy as a bird. War was evidently good for her.

  The newspaper was on the coffee table. But it wasn’t the Liverpool Echo as usual. It was called Britain Today: A Publication of the Central Office of Information. It was only four pages. On the front was a photograph of the Queen and her children getting on a plane for Canada. “Her Majesty’s thoughts are with us!” Another photo showed London Zoo animals being led out of their cages, to somewhere safer. And in art galleries, precious paintings and sculptures were being boxed up and put in cellars.

  There was an item on sport, which had all been cancelled, including Joel’s precious football. The whole of the back page was given over to a big full-page feature called “Dig for Victory.” It showed how you could dig up your back garden and grow your own vegetables and keep chickens, just like in the war.

  It wasn’t much of a newspaper. No entertainment news, no cartoons, not even a crossword. And there wasn’t a shred of real news about what was happening on the other side of the world, in Cuba.

  Mum said, “Oh, look what came in the post.”

  There was a stern-looking brown envelope on the coffee table. Mum drew out two bits of grey card, both stamped with serial numbers. One was from the Department of Pensions and National Insurance.

  Mum said, “It’s your identity card, dear. Just like during the war.”

  It had spaces for a small photo, a name, address, and a National Insurance number. Mum had stuck a photo in the space, and filled in Laura’s details: MANN, L. There was her birth date, 6th September 1948.

  Just as on Miss Wells’s driving licence.

  “I got the photo from your passport. And look at this.”

  The other item was a little book from the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food. RATION BOOK: If Found Please Return to Any Food Office. Laura’s name and address had been filled in on the cover. Inside was a dreary list of allowances. Thirteen ounces of meat a week, six ounces of marge, two pints of milk.

  Mum took that back. “I’ll go shopping later.” She went on with the breakfast, humming to Vera Lynn. She didn’t seem at all bothered by the idea of having to queue for hours for bits of scrag end.

  Laura tucked the identity card in her blazer breast pocket. It still smelled of gum where Mum had stuck on the photo. Then she grabbed a piece of toast and left the house, managing to avoid Mort again.

  She didn’t bother waiting for a bus. She just walked.

  In fact she only saw two buses this Wednesday morning. One had soldiers in it. The other was full of little kids, who peered out of the windows sadly. She wondered where they were being taken.

  Everything was different, even compared with the urgent mood yesterday.

  There were queues at all the shops she passed, especially the food shops, the butcher’s and baker’s and grocer’s, even the ones that weren’t open yet. Laura supposed all the old stock would soon run out, as people grabbed what they could. Panic buying.

  There were long queues at the petrol stations too. LAST PRE-RATION SUPPLIES, said a sign. FIRST COME FIRST SERVED. Another sign made her smile uneasily. It had read, LAST CHANCE TO FILL UP BEFORE THE A-ROAD. Some wag had crossed out ROAD and written in BOMB.

  There seemed to be a lot of ambulances about. But they were calling at homes and delivering people, not collecting them. Sickly little kids with tubes in their noses, old people like shapeless grey lumps in wheelchairs. Nick was right. They were clearing the hospitals, for the war casualties to come.

  There were road blocks on the main roads. Checkpoints. She saw one car being impounded, a fat salesman type complaining as two scuffers prepared to take it away.

  And, nailed to telephone posts, there were signs directing you to bomb shelters, in pub cellars, and old air-raid shelters in the parks.

  School looked as if it had been vandalised, with its windows clumsily splashed with whitewash.

  She hung around by the gate. She wondered why she had come here at all. After all, Miss Wells lurked inside. But where else could she go? And at least in there she would be surrounded by a few relatively sane people, like Mrs Sweetman, and Joel, and Bernadette. She would be as safe in there as anywhere.

  She walked into the school.

  After assembly, Miss Wells told her form that the pupils were going to be taught more survival skills. A batch of seeds had been shipped in from the Ministry of Agriculture, and in the afternoon everyone was going to go out and dig up the playing field and plant cabbages and sprouts and other winter vegetables.

  They started that morning with basic lessons about vegetables. They had to copy out pictures of carrots and cauliflowers into their jotters, from colourful little books. “This is for those of you who think vegetables just come in plastic bags from the Co-op, ha ha,” said Miss Wells.

  The books were meant for junior-school kids. In Laura’s copy, some seven-year-old had scrawled SUPERCAR across a picture of a leek.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she said.

  Bernadette shuddered delicately. “Ugh,” she whispered. “Me. A farmer. With these nails?”

  Joel had come to sit at the back with them. He was having trouble holding a pencil in his plastered fingers. He whispered, “They’re just keeping us busy. Distracted, while they crack down. They’ve already started. They’ve taken control of the food stocks, the petrol, the hospitals. Now they’re making sure there’s no way out of the country. They’ve grounded all the planes, BEA and BOAC. And stopped all the ferries. Roadblocks on the motorways. And they’re rounding up ‘known subversives.’ Card-carrying Communists. Union leaders. There’s a rumour they’ve arrested half the Labour Party front bench. And the telly folk. They’ve arrested David Frost! The excuse is, while we’re getting ready for war, Soviet spies will start mucking about. Sabotage. Whipping up strikes. Spreading lies. That kind of thing.”

  Laura asked, “How do you know all this? It wasn’t in the news.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be,” Joel said. “I’ve got contacts. Word of mouth.”

  Bernadette said, “They’ll be coming for you, H-Bomb Girl. Nothing to stop them now.”

  “So what should we do?”

  Joel said, “Stick with me. I’ve got a plan. At break, bring what you need. Not your satchels.”

  Bernadette laughed at him. But she put her scarf around her neck.

  And Laura slipped her diary into her blazer pocket.

  Miss Wells glared at them, suspicious, cold, determined.

  At break, the school gates were locked, and there were two scuffers standing on guard.

  Nick was waiting for them outside the railings
. He was hunched up in a heavy overcoat, thin and pale. His face was still swollen, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, though the day wasn’t bright. “Hello, losers.”

  Bernadette sniffed. “I’m not the old man hanging round a school fence.”

  “Never mind that,” Joel said. “Did you make the arrangements?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Nick said.

  Laura didn’t know what arrangements they meant. “How’s the head?”

  “Like a red hot poker up the nose. Getting kicked in the head isn’t like it is in the movies.”

  “If you went back to the doctor, maybe—”

  “Mind your own business.” That was a snarl.

  “Somebody’s coming,” Joel said.

  The two scuffers opened the school gate. A green army van drove through, and squaddies started jumping out even before it had stopped. Two military officers, one in green and one in blue, got out and walked towards the school. The one in blue looked like Mort. And behind him rolled a man in a motorised chair. Miss Wells walked out to meet the officers.

  Laura knew who that was. “The Minuteman.”

  “Who?” Nick asked.

  “Nobody good.”

  The Minuteman was here just for her, Laura thought. He was manipulating the British Army to come get her. His power was beyond scary.

  “Time’s up for you, Laura,” said Joel. “Nothing to stop them now.”

  Laura asked, “How can we get out? There are scuffers on the gate.”

  Bernadette grinned. “That’s the easy bit. We’ve done it before.” She took off her long black scarf and threw it up so it looped over the spike at the top of the railings. “Give me a bunk up, Joel. And keep your hands off my bum.”

  Even now, Laura hesitated before she followed.

  Up to now, in all the strangeness and upset that had gone on, she had kept up the normal routines of life. Home, school, home, school, give or take a bit of burglary and hiding in cellars. If she ran off now she would be making a decisive break. And she couldn’t imagine how her life would be after that.

  A bit of her wondered if she should just give up. Surrender to the Minuteman and Miss Wells, and just hand over the Key. But she didn’t know what they wanted to do with an ignition key for a Vulcan bomber. Nothing good, she imagined, given the way they’d behaved towards her.

  And besides, Dad had given the Key to her. She was frightened, but she resented them trying to come between her and Dad.

  Stuff them all, she thought angrily.

  Miss Wells saw them and pointed.

  Scuffers blew their whistles, and squaddies came running, rifles in their hands. As two puffing squaddies plodded by, one smart-alec kid shouted, “I’ll give you two to one on the fat bloke!”

  Laura didn’t wait any longer.

  When they were all over the railings Nick stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. With a whine like huge buzzing wasps, two bright red scooters came belting out of the car park at the back of the pub over the road. Bert Muldoon was riding one, Mickey Poole the other.

  “Woodbines to the rescue!” Nick shouted.

  “Vespas,” Joel said. “Cool.”

  Bernadette was suspicious. “How can you lot afford Vespas?”

  Nick grinned. “It’s a National Emergency.”

  Laura said, “I’m impressed. You’ve planned all this.”

  Nick eyed Laura. “I still don’t know what the deal is with you, darling. But we Woodbines don’t fancy living in Heathograd any more than you do. Come ‘ead, let’s leg it before the scuffers get here.”

  He insisted on driving one of the scooters. So Laura was jammed in between Nick and Bert, three of them on a scooter meant for two. Bernadette and Joel piled on behind Mickey Poole.

  The Vespas roared away. Laura felt a deep surge in her stomach as the acceleration cut in, and the wind whipped back her hair. She wished she had a helmet.

  “They’re following!” Bert shouted.

  Laura looked back. That green army truck had come barrelling out of the school gates, scattering kids as it went.

  Nick grinned. “Not for long!” He hauled the handlebars to the right.

  Laura was wrenched sideways, and she nearly let go of Nick. They drove over somebody’s front lawn, through an alleyway between two semis, over a back garden that was half dug up for vegetables, and then squirted through an open gate. It was terrifying. Nick didn’t slow down for a second, even though both Laura and Bert yelled. Nick’s mood had switched from miserable to manic in an instant.

  But it worked. Mickey and the others were still following, but they had lost the army truck.

  Chapter 17

  At the Jive-O-Rama they piled off, breathing hard, exhilarated by the ride.

  Bernadette fixed her hair with quick pushes from her fingers. Then she turned on Nick. “Are you crazy? They must know we hang around here. They’ll be down like a shot.”

  “With a shot,” Bert Muldoon said gloomily. “Did you see those rifles?”

  Nick lit up a ciggie and began dragging on it furiously. He walked backwards and forwards, and every so often he lifted his hand to his head. He pointed at Joel. “Don’t blame me. His idea.”

  “Come on,” Joel said. “We got our skins saved here once before. By her.” He pointed to the doorway to the cellar.

  Agatha’s face loomed out of the darkness. Laura thought she saw her lips move, silently mouthing words. Hello, Mum.

  Laura shivered. Agatha ducked out of sight.

  “She’s spooky but she helps us,” Joel said. “And, anyway, anybody got a better plan?”

  “All right,” Bernadette said. “Let’s just get inside. And hide these scooters.”

  Bert and Mickey wheeled the scooters round the back of the house.

  The others clattered through the open doorway. Joel ran his hand up and down the door frame. “What happened to the door?” It was missing. The hinges had been unscrewed and ripped out of the paint.

  At the bottom of the stairs, there was no Little Jimmy, and nobody in the cellar club. The cellar was cluttered with lumber, and mattresses were piled up against one wall. They waited, uncertain.

  Bernadette called, “Big Jimmy? You open?”

  Big Jimmy appeared out from under the heap of mattresses. He wiped his hands on a rag and came over. He grinned, but it looked forced. “How’s my best customers today?”

  Nobody replied.

  “Like that, huh? Well, I don’t think Mister Heath has impounded the last of my coffee yet. What is it, espressos all round? Agatha!”

  “We haven’t paid our door money,” Bernadette said. “Where’s Little Jimmy? Skiving off?”

  Big Jimmy said, “They took him away.” He kept smiling bravely.

  “Who?”

  “Mister Heath. Big green Corpy bus came by. Out of Service, it said. Full of kids. Out came a scuffer. Our Jimmy was on his list. Evacuated.”

  “Where to?”

  “Lake District. Had to pack him a suitcase. You should have seen him struggling with the great big thing.” His grin faltered.

  Laura asked, “Why didn’t you go with him?”

  “Scuffers wouldn’t let me. Kids only. Mums can follow later. Of course Jimmy’s mum’s dead anyway. So he’s on his own.”

  “So we’re about to go to war, and they break up families,” Bernadette said. “Brilliant.”

  “It’s what they did last time,” Laura said, thinking of Mum.

  Jimmy said, “Ten million people they’ll be moving, they told me.”

  Laura wanted to hug him for comfort, but she knew it would be the wrong thing to do.

  They sat at a table. Nick lit up another ciggie from the stub of the last one.

  Agatha brought out coffees. She leant over Laura. She smelled of washing-up liquid, bleach and coffee. But there was another scent, something milky underneath, that somehow drew Laura to her.

  “You did right,” Agatha said to Laura.

  “What?”

  “To
come here. Have you got it?”

  “Have I got what?”

  “Your diary.”

  Laura tried not to look down at the lump in her blazer, the diary in her inside pocket. “How do you know about that?”

  Agatha whispered, “I knew you’d have it. It has to be there. To close the loop.”

  “What loop?”

  “The loop in time. The loop connecting future to past.” She turned and walked away.

  Mickey said, “That woman’s scary.”

  Bert said, “You’d still give her one, though.”

  They both laughed.

  There was a warbling, like a bird. They all looked at each other.

  Bernadette swore. She dug in her handbag and pulled out the “phone.” It was flashing blue, and making that shrill sound.

  “Nice fag case,” Bert said.

  “It’s not a fag case,” Nick said.

  “Then what?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Mickey and Bert shrugged.

  Tentatively Bernadette opened the phone. The warbling stopped. Then she swivelled the phone around on the tabletop so Laura could see. “Guess who it’s for.”

  Laura peered into the tiny screen.

  Text Message

  FROM: Miss Wells

  TO: Laura

  MESSAGE: You can run but you can’t hide. Old line but true. Any time you need help press the button with the little green phone.

  Laura snapped shut the phone. It sat on the tabletop.

  They all stared at it, as if it was an unexploded bomb.

  “We ought to get rid of that thing,” Joel said. “They might be able to track it. Find us that way.”

  Bernadette said, “Let’s smash it up. Jimmy’s got a hammer.”

  “No.” Laura closed her hand over the phone and put it in her pocket. “We ought to keep it.”

  “Why?”

  “You never know. I’ll take the risk.”

  Nick turned his ravaged face to her, his eyes masked. “But if we stay together we all share the same risk. Don’t you see that much, you stupid little bint?”