Read Online The Bombs That Brought Us Together by Brian Conaghan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brian Conaghan
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their blue, red and orange lights illuminating the walls.
Blue.
Red.
Orange.
Dark.
Blue.
Red.
Orange.
Dark.
Blue.
Red.
Orange.
Dark.
The combination of the police, ambulance and fire brigades’ sirens made a shocking crescendo of sound. Then the screams kicked in again and every sound went up a notch, from shocking to terrifying level. I squashed my face into the pillow, pulled up the sides so it fully covered myears. Blocking it all out. The noise still managed to find its way through the duvet though, through the pillow and right into my lugs. It was clear that loads of people were out of their blocks. Folk shouting, questioning and just being nosy. People were yelling for their family members who’d been out and about. Screaming for them. I don’t think anyone gave a monkey’s about the dark curfew.
‘Charlie? Charlie?’ Mum said.
‘Yes?’ I muttered. My face still deep in the pillow.
‘Are you OK, son?’
‘I’m good now,’ I said, taking my face off the pillow. My mouth and pillow were sodden with saliva. We pulled the duvet from over our heads and breathed normally again. ‘Is it over for the night, do you think?’
‘I think so,’ Mum said. ‘Do you want to sleep with Dad and me tonight?’
‘No, I’m OK here.’
So it was all fine and dandy cuddling up to Mum and Dad when I thought we were about to be blown to bits, but now that wasn’t the case, not a chance was I sleeping with them. I was almost fifteen, for God’s sake; time to unshackle the MAN.
‘OK, then,’ she said.
‘I don’t think the bombs reached us, Mum.’
‘They mostly bombed up near the station, I think,’ Mum said.
‘Does that mean there won’t be any trains coming and going from Little Town any more?’
‘It’s probably too early to tell, Charlie.’
Mum sat on the edge of my bed and stroked my hair. No doubt she was worried sick for her son’s mental safety. I was fine apart from the wet mouth, clammy hands and bumpy heart rate.
‘You should try getting some sleep, darling,’ Mum said, lifting the duvet away from the bed so I could lie down properly. This was going back to the old days of stories and kisses and songs and hugs and alphabets. Mum seemed to enjoy it. I thought it was weird but I put my head down and allowed her to tuck me in, peck me on the head and tell me how much she loved me before she left my room. Classic old-school mummying.
It was way too noisy to sleep. I was way too adrenalin-pumped. The real reason I didn’t want to sleep was that I was afraid I wouldn’t wake up again. I was scared the bombs would come back and bounce off my head. That they’d return to our part of Little Town and I wouldn’t see the light of day again because of them. Or worse, I would be stuck under an avalanche of debris and dust and left for days on end before finally perishing from dehydration and lack of vital-organ oxygen. But the amazing thing was that I did see the light of day again and I did manage to get some sleep. One minute I’m lying watching the blue, red, orange, darkspin around my room, listening to the muffled street sounds and thinking about Pav and how he and his mum and dad were coping with all this, how they were processing the fact that it was their people who’d done it, their mob’s mental politics who lobbed bombs at us, and the next minute I’m creaking my eyes open at sunlight sneaking through my window. It wasn’t as if I’d slept like a baby, but I’d slept.
The next morning was spent glued to the telly screen until something or someone came on. The news guy eventually returned with his eyes even more mangled than they had been the previous night. It was clear this man definitely hadn’t slept like a baby. He said that he was broadcasting from a secret and secure location because of circumstances outwith our control and went on to tell us about the criminal devastation Old Country had caused. You could hear a smidgen of a pin being dropped in our house
Blue.
Red.
Orange.
Dark.
Blue.
Red.
Orange.
Dark.
Blue.
Red.
Orange.
Dark.
The combination of the police, ambulance and fire brigades’ sirens made a shocking crescendo of sound. Then the screams kicked in again and every sound went up a notch, from shocking to terrifying level. I squashed my face into the pillow, pulled up the sides so it fully covered myears. Blocking it all out. The noise still managed to find its way through the duvet though, through the pillow and right into my lugs. It was clear that loads of people were out of their blocks. Folk shouting, questioning and just being nosy. People were yelling for their family members who’d been out and about. Screaming for them. I don’t think anyone gave a monkey’s about the dark curfew.
‘Charlie? Charlie?’ Mum said.
‘Yes?’ I muttered. My face still deep in the pillow.
‘Are you OK, son?’
‘I’m good now,’ I said, taking my face off the pillow. My mouth and pillow were sodden with saliva. We pulled the duvet from over our heads and breathed normally again. ‘Is it over for the night, do you think?’
‘I think so,’ Mum said. ‘Do you want to sleep with Dad and me tonight?’
‘No, I’m OK here.’
So it was all fine and dandy cuddling up to Mum and Dad when I thought we were about to be blown to bits, but now that wasn’t the case, not a chance was I sleeping with them. I was almost fifteen, for God’s sake; time to unshackle the MAN.
‘OK, then,’ she said.
‘I don’t think the bombs reached us, Mum.’
‘They mostly bombed up near the station, I think,’ Mum said.
‘Does that mean there won’t be any trains coming and going from Little Town any more?’
‘It’s probably too early to tell, Charlie.’
Mum sat on the edge of my bed and stroked my hair. No doubt she was worried sick for her son’s mental safety. I was fine apart from the wet mouth, clammy hands and bumpy heart rate.
‘You should try getting some sleep, darling,’ Mum said, lifting the duvet away from the bed so I could lie down properly. This was going back to the old days of stories and kisses and songs and hugs and alphabets. Mum seemed to enjoy it. I thought it was weird but I put my head down and allowed her to tuck me in, peck me on the head and tell me how much she loved me before she left my room. Classic old-school mummying.
It was way too noisy to sleep. I was way too adrenalin-pumped. The real reason I didn’t want to sleep was that I was afraid I wouldn’t wake up again. I was scared the bombs would come back and bounce off my head. That they’d return to our part of Little Town and I wouldn’t see the light of day again because of them. Or worse, I would be stuck under an avalanche of debris and dust and left for days on end before finally perishing from dehydration and lack of vital-organ oxygen. But the amazing thing was that I did see the light of day again and I did manage to get some sleep. One minute I’m lying watching the blue, red, orange, darkspin around my room, listening to the muffled street sounds and thinking about Pav and how he and his mum and dad were coping with all this, how they were processing the fact that it was their people who’d done it, their mob’s mental politics who lobbed bombs at us, and the next minute I’m creaking my eyes open at sunlight sneaking through my window. It wasn’t as if I’d slept like a baby, but I’d slept.
The next morning was spent glued to the telly screen until something or someone came on. The news guy eventually returned with his eyes even more mangled than they had been the previous night. It was clear this man definitely hadn’t slept like a baby. He said that he was broadcasting from a secret and secure location because of circumstances outwith our control and went on to tell us about the criminal devastation Old Country had caused. You could hear a smidgen of a pin being dropped in our house
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