The Machine Gunners by Robert Westall Page B

shed—open to the sky now—on a nail in the wall behind the heaped coal, hung a helmet. It was thick with rust, and the twisted leather chin strap was as hard as iron. But on top was a little bobble of candlegrease. In the dugout at Caparetto, Granda had used the helmet as a candlestick. That was the original candlegrease—he had never removed it.
    At three o'clock, men came with a van for the furniture. It was going, Dad said, to the Repository. Chas thought the word had a sinister sound, like Mortuary or Infirmary, but he didn't say so.
    At ten past three, a taxi for Nana and Granda arrived at the end of the road. Nana and Granda were coming to live at the Square. Chas had lost his bedroom. He would sleep on the settee in the Front Room, with the mysteries of chiming clock, wedding photographs and mothballs. He didn't mind. He was much more interested in that helmet. If no one remembered it...
    Nana took a last look round her home.
    "Pity about the coal in the coalhouse," she said. "Some trash will steal it. Ghouls."
    "You can't put coal into a Repository, hinny," said Mr. McGill crossly. He was tired, and had night shift to look forward to. "C'mon, that taxi's costing money. Come on, Chas."
    "Can I walk home? I want to see what's happened at the church." His dad glanced at his watch. Two full hours to bomber time. He nodded.
    "See you don't go near that unexploded bomb. And be home by five."
    "Yes, Dad." The taxi drew away, leaving the house to looters and to Chas. The Union Jack still flew. He took it down, took it to the coalhouse and wrapped his new treasure in it. Then he bounced along to Bunty's Yard skipping and mouthing Granda's remembered words.
    Range three-seven-five. Cocked. Two hundred rounds expended... The Germans were about to face a new McGill, with a new machine gun.
    "You're mad," said Cem.
    "No I'm not. We got Clogger now," said Chas.
    "Even with Clogger you're mad. There's usually ten of them."
    "Och, tripe!" said Clogger. He never said much of anything except "Aye" or "No" or "Och, tripe," even to masters. He was very silent and very hard. He was the junior team scrum-half and had once played a whole match after losing two front teeth: spitting blood thoughtfully before putting the ball in the scrum, and scoring two tries.
    He was down from Scotland to stay with his auntie for the Duration, because his mum was dead and his father in the Navy. If he'd wanted to throw his weight about he could have been the boss, a terror. But he was content to trail around after Chas because he liked his stupid jokes (and had actually been seen to smile at them twice). He had ginger hair and freckles, and always spat on his hands before he started any job, even a Math exercise.
    He knew about the gun, but he was safe. He never told anybody anything, even the time from his watch.
    "Look," said Chas, "Sicky Nicky has something we need. We've got to make it worth his while."
    "Why do we have to build our camp in his garden?"
    "Because it's in the right place. And because nobody ever goes there any more. Where else do you know that's private?"
    Cem shrugged. He was beaten there.
    "Right! So what do we offer Nicky? What does he need?"
    "All right, so we walk home with him. And Boddser will kick your head in."
    "We'll see." They were packing their schoolbags to go home. Across the classroom, alone as always, Nicky was packing his neat books, expensive drawing instruments into an expensive bag, nearly new. But all scuffed, mauled.
    Nicky's time of ordeal had come. He looked pale, was already starting to pant. Outside, the wolf pack was gathering: waiting to pull his bag from his hand, strew his books over the pavement, kick him when he bent down to pick them up, pour gravel down his shirt, pull his shoes off and throw them over walls. Not till Nicky was reduced to screaming blind hysterics would he be allowed to creep home weeping.
    Every night it happened, regular as clockwork. The wolf pack never tired of it. Mornings,