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worse.’ He looked at Walter. ‘I’m feeling generous today, Linfoot, so I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll forget about the licence, and instead of confiscating your stock I’ll give you half a crown for it. How’s that?’
    â€˜Half a
crown
?’ Walter looked stricken. ‘I’d make half a crown selling five bits, and there must be fifty in this piece. More.’
    Deadman nodded. ‘That’s about right, Linfoot. Fifty at sixpence comes to – what?’ Mental arithmetic wasn’t Dicky’s speciality. Charlie came to his rescue. ‘Twenty-five bob I make it, Dicky.’
    Deadman nodded. ‘Spot on, Charlie, I was just testing.’ He thrust a hand into his pocket. ‘Here’s your half-crown, Linfoot. Take it before I change my mind.’
    Poor Walter took the coin and surrendered the precious metal. He even had to lend Deadman the tin-snips he’d brought to cut the pieces with. None of the collectors was sympathetic. They opened a channel to let him through, then clamoured round Deadman offering cash, promises, IOUs. Nothing mattered except their collections.

TWENTY-EIGHT
A Fish in the Sahara
    I WENT NOWHERE after school that week. Norman probably thought I’d been killed. Straight after tea it was up to my room and on with the Skymaster. Mum was glad, of course. She didn’t like me to be out in the blackout, especially since Dad told that story about the boy getting shot. Personally I thought it was nothing but a rumour – there were always unkind stories about the Home Guard. I blame George Formby with that song of his.
    Anyway, by bedtime Friday I had the wings built and the whole thing covered, doped andcamouflaged. It looked absolutely super and I was dead proud of it. I held it aloft and trotted round the room making engine noises. For a few minutes I forgot I’d built the thing under orders, for a purpose that was a mystery to me.
    I had to detach the wings to get the thing down the attic stairs, which were steep and narrow. Mum, Dad and Gran were deeply impressed when I reassembled it on the kitchen table. ‘It’s splendid, Gordon,’ said Mum. ‘Isn’t it, Frank?’
    Dad smiled. ‘Yes it is, Ethel.’ He looked at me. ‘Where will you fly it, son?’
    â€˜I . . . I’m not sure, Dad.’ The question had taken me by surprise. I’d have to wait to be contacted before flying the Skymaster
anywhere
, but I could hardly say that. I shrugged. ‘The park, I expect.’
    Gran shook her head. ‘Not the
park
, sweetheart. Too small. Knock some poor tot’s head off with it. Need more space. Myra Shay’s big enough, I’d take it there if I were you.’ Myra Shay’s an expanse of rough grassland halfway between Hastley and school. I biked past it every day.
    â€˜Good idea, Mum.’ Dad nodded. ‘We could tryit out tomorrow afternoon if the rain keeps off.’
    We?
I went cold. I hadn’t a clue about the model’s role in my brother’s hush-hush work, but I was pretty sure his plans didn’t include having Dad around. ‘That’ll be nice, Dad,’ I murmured faintly, ‘if the rain keeps off.’
    I’m not one for praying, but that night I prayed for rain like a fish in the Sahara.

TWENTY-NINE
Sherlock Holmes Himself
    AND IT RAINED so hard it woke me up. Two in the morning, drumming on the skylight window of my attic bedroom. I’m not claiming it was my prayer that did it, I’m just saying what happened.
    Wet nights were popular that year. Why? Because rain falls out of clouds, and clouds hide everything from enemy bombers. When the moon shone, people spoke of it as a
bomber’s moon
. Its light fell on rivers, canals and railway lines, turning them to silver. Bomber crews would follow these gleaming trails to the townsand cities they ran through, and find moon-washed rooftops to aim