THE H-BOMB GIRL, Stephen Baxter [ereader for android txt] 📗

So, with thousands of others, he crept through streets strewn with broken glass and bullet casings to the Cavern.

He had been alone since Miss Wells and her tunnelling machine had swept in to “save” Laura and the others, and he had managed to slip away in the confusion. He had stayed in the shadows, lingering in holes in the ground, drinking from broken water pipes, eating whatever he could scavenge. For fear of being swept up by soldiers or scuffers, he hadn’t even dared go home. He was still trying to think of a way to tell his family he was safe.

It wasn’t exactly fun. But he was getting good at it, he thought, this life as a human rat.

But now there was this concert. One last huge gesture of defiance. And he decided he wasn’t about to miss that, curfew or no curfew, no matter who was after him.

When he got to Mathew Street there were no queues of shop girls and schoolkids. The night was silent save for an occasional police siren, and, far off, angry shouts and cries. But there was the Cavern entrance, a deep dark mouth, waiting.

When he thought there was nobody about, Joel took his chance and legged it over the road.

He made his way down the steep, worn steps, slick with old sweat, so familiar from the hundred or more concerts he’d been to down here.

No bouncers on the door. Nobody collecting any money, no Cilla collecting coats. It wasn’t like the Cavern’s owners to miss out on a bit of profit, but there you were.

Inside, the Cavern’s gloomy arches were lit only by candles and what looked like oil lanterns. No power on. The vaulted ceiling made the place look like an old, run-down monastery. But the walls were still coated with tatty posters for Rory Storm and the Hurricanes and Gerry and the Pacemakers.

And there were teenagers crowded in here. There must have been hundreds of them, shoved up against each other in the dark, hard to see in the dim light. They didn’t make much noise. Everybody spoke in whispers, if at all. Nobody mucked about or threw water bombs or wrestled. The faces, glowing in the candlelight, looked pinched, hungry, some a bit grubby.

But they had all come in their finery, Joel saw, the girls in their beehives and stilettos and slacks, the Teds in their frock coats, the Mods in their parkas. While the adult world went mad above ground, everybody had come down here to celebrate what they had, one last time.

“Hello, Joel.”

Joel swung around.

“Hey, take it easy. It’s just us.”

Joel found himself facing the Woodbines: Mickey Poole, Paul Gillespie, Bert Muldoon. Even Billy Waddle, skulking at the back.

Mickey said, “What are you doing breaking the curfew? Don’t you know there’s a war on?”

Bert Muldoon, in his filthy sheepskin coat, looked as out of it as ever. “What war?”

Billy Waddle, father of Bernadette’s baby, just looked shifty. He wouldn’t look Joel in the eye.

“Where have you lot been?”

“At home with my mum,” Mickey said. “What about you?”

“Hiding. Long story.”

“Where’s our lead singer?”

Bert said, “What lead singer?”

“Another long story. He took a good kicking that night, Mickey. Head injury, I think.”

“Nothing serious then,” Mickey said, but the black humour was forced. “Do you know where he is?”

“Sort of.”

Mickey looked at him. “You on your own? Well, you stick with us. You’ll be all right.”

Suddenly there was a crashing electric guitar chord, a howl of feedback. Electric light flooded, and Joel was dazzled. There must be a generator, then.

Everybody turned to the stage.

A thin, sardonic young man in a collarless jacket stood at the front of the stage, a rhythm guitar slung around his neck. Behind him, a big-eyed bass player patiently tuned his left-handed instrument. A young-looking lead guitarist winked at the girls in the crowd. A big-nosed drummer played cheesy riffs on his snare drum. They were silhouetted by the lights, wreathed in ciggie smoke. Clean, sharp, intelligent, they looked like gods, Joel thought.

The sardonic one with the rhythm guitar grabbed a mike. “Sergeant Lennon here and you’re all under arrest. Well, you lot sound happy, considering you’re all about to die…” That drew an ironic cheer, and there was a clatter of feet as everybody rushed to the stage.

Joel was swept up by the excitement. But he’d learned caution, these last few hours of hiding. In the light from the stage he took a good look around the club for the first time.

At the back there were some older men, half a dozen of them, big, beefy men in overcoats. Alarm bells rang in Joel’s head. They stood near another older man Joel had seen before. He was thin, posh-looking, maybe thirty, with a neat suit and an old-fashioned haircut. A word came into Joel’s head: dapper. Joel thought he was something to do with the group, their manager maybe.

One of the heavies produced a lighter. The dapper man leaned, elegantly, to light his cigarette. The heavy’s coat fell open. Underneath was a camouflage jacket.

Joel turned and ran.

And he collided with a pillar of a man in a blue air-force uniform. Joel bounced off his chest and went flying back. He knocked down a couple of girls. One of them belted him with her handbag. “Oi! You with the head! Watch what you’re doing!”

He ignored the girls’ squeals, and got to his feet.

Two massive hands caught his arms. He struggled, but he was held, as if by iron bars.

“Joel. It is Joel, isn’t it? Take it easy.”

“Hey.” Mickey Poole challenged the man. “Get off him, Douglas Bader.”

The big man didn’t take his eyes off Joel. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His face was grave, strong. “I’ve been looking for you. My name is Harry Mann. I’m an officer in the RAF.”

“You’re Laura’s dad.”

“Yes. And I need your help. Come on.”

Harry led Joel to the back of the Cavern.

The Woodbines followed, still suspicious.

At the back of the hall, Harry nodded