youâre not one of them
looters
, eh?â Looters were people who went into bombed-out houses and pinched valuables.
I huffed indignantly. âIâm
not
a looter. I
told
you, this is our house. Everything in it belongs to me and my parents.â
âAnd what if it falls on you? What then, eh? Dâyou think it wonât squash you flat because it belongs to your dad?â
I glanced at the house. âLooks all right to me. The walls, I mean.â
He nodded. âMebbe it does to you, son, but what do you know? It hasnât been assessed yet, by experts. Blast damage doesnât always show. Iâd be on my way if I was you, before I call the rozzers. Or the Home Guard. They shoot looters, yâknow, the Home Guard.â
I was bursting to tell him I was doing work forthe Government. Secret work. But if I did it wouldnât be secret, would it? I recalled my brotherâs words:
chaps who think they know whatâs what, when actually they know nothing
. He was one, this fellow with his fists on his hips, glaring at me. Calling me a looter. I desperately wanted to tell him I was doing vital work, but I knew where my duty lay.
Walls have ears
, the posters say.
His
wall maybe â the one he and his mates were busy shoring up.
I walked away.
THIRTEEN
Spitfire Parked Outside
RAYMOND WASNâT AT Farmer Giles. Nobody was, except the woman behind the counter. It was a quarter past eleven â that dead time between elevenses and lunch. She looked up from spreading margarine on a slice of bread and scraping it off again. âLooking for someone, dear?â
âUh . . . no. Not really. Iâll try later.â You canât go in a café and tell the waitress youâre looking for Raymond Price the government agent, can you? I left, crossed the road, walked up and down.
It was cold. I wished I had the cigarette my brother offered me yesterday, so I could lurk in adoorway like a spy in a film, smoking to look casual.
He might not come
, whispered a voice inside my head.
He doesnât use the place every day.
To drown out the voice I thought about my classmates. Wednesday morning, last period. Geography with old Contour. His name was Mr Lines but everybody called him Contour. Well, not
everybody
. His wife probably didnât, or the Head. Anyway, heâd be droning on about the North American Grain Belt â picking on someone to point it out on the map, getting ready to bounce the blackboard rubber off the victimâs head when he indicated Greenland or Outer Mongolia.
Better the cold street
, I told myself,
than Contourâs musty room
.
It was twenty to twelve by the clock over the jewellerâs shop when I spotted Raymond. He was walking briskly towards the milk bar with a package under his arm. I made to cross the road, but two lorries came along. By the time theyâd lumbered past, my brother was inside Farmer Giles. Through the window I saw him hand the package to the woman. She slipped it under the counter and was drawing a cup of tea from the urn when I walked in.
âHere
again
, kiddo?â queried Raymond. âWhatâs up â Jerry hit the school last night or something?â
I shook my head. âNo, but he got our house.â
âWhat?â He stared at me. âIs everybody all right â Mum and Dad?â
âYes, we were in the shelter and weâve moved in with Gran. I thought I should let you know.â
âYou bet!â Hollywood talk again. âLook here, weâd better sit down for a bit. Tea?â
We sat over steaming cups. I remembered the package. I nodded towards the waitress. âThe lady,â I murmured, âone of us?â
âEh?â Raymond frowned, then his brow cleared. âOh, yes, one of us, but sssh!â
âSorry. It was the package. Thatâs how I knew.â
He nodded. âGood observation, Gordon, well done.â He lifted his cup, looked at
David Stuckler Sanjay Basu
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