This morning had been a near thing when Duncan told him he’d have to go to work—it made him flush just thinking about the way his eyes had filled and his voice had quavered. But things hadn’t turned out as badly as he’d expected. He had liked the Major, rather to his surprise, because the old man hadn’t fussed over him—hadn’t patted him or said “poor boy” or looked at him in that pitying adult way. An adventure, the Major had called it as they set off on the tube to Wimbledon, and Kit had done his best to master his disappointment. But even though the tennis had been glorious, it hadn’t been the same without Duncan. It just wasn’t bloody fair.
Since the Major had left him here and gone down to his own flat, Kit had poked about at his leisure, examining books and CDs and the photos on the walls. He’d tried the telly remote control, zapping through the channels, but there was no Sky TV and he flicked it off in disgust. For a while he’d stood on the balcony, looking down into the bright blooms of the Major’s garden, but he’d come in again when the emptiness of it began to make him feel queer.
His face felt stretched and hot from sunburn and he realized suddenly that he was thirsty. Wandering into the kitchen, he opened the fridge and stared at the contents. A carton of orange juice, a pint of milk past its sell-by date, a cola, and two cans of lager. For a moment Kit was tempted—he was nearly twelve, after all, and he ought to take advantage of being on his own to do something grown-up—but there were only two beers and Duncan was sure to notice if one went missing. With a shrug he chose the cola, popping the top and tossing the ring into the rubbish bin. He rummaged idly through the kitchen drawers as he drank, thinking that if he found a fag he’d try that instead, but then he remembered he’d never seen Duncan smoke.
Why hadn’t Duncan rung him like he’d promised? Where was he now? It must be a murder—that’s what he did, after all, even though he didn’t like to talk about it. Kit tried to imagine a body, riddled with bullets like the ones in the videos he liked, but he couldn’t erase the one image he didn’t want to see—his mum lying so still on the kitchen floor in their cottage.
Throwing the empty cola can into the bin, he glanced at the clock—almost seven. He’d refused the Major’s invitation to come down to his basement flat for baked beans on toast and a game of cards, but he supposed he could change his mind. Anything was better than staying here on his own.
THE COACHES THAT WOULD TAKE THE children to the railway station waited at the curb in front of Cubitt Town School. Parents clustered round them, straining for a last glimpse of sons and daughters as the children were marshaled into untidy queues by the teachers. Many of the mothers were weeping, and the sight of his mum’s tear-streaked face caused Lewis almost as much embarrassment as the paper name tag pinned to the breast of his jumper. He felt like a bloody parcel, and a parcel without a destination at that, for they hadn’t been told where they were going. Many of the children had been bundled into winter coats and stank of sweat and damp wool; some of the smaller ones had already been sick from the heat and excitement.
The queue shifted suddenly as the children in the front began boarding the first bus, and a gasping moan rose from all the parents at once. Little Simon Goss’s mum burst into sobs, arms outstretched as she begged them not to take her baby. As Lewis turned away in mortification, he glimpsed his father at the back of the crowd. Their eyes met: he saw that his father’s were filled with tears.
Swallowing hard, Lewis lifted his hand in a wave; then the momentum of the queue overtook him, carrying him along until he was pushed and shoved up the steps of the bus. He clambered over bodies until he managed to secure a seat at the nearside window, and from there he watched as the remainder of the children were loaded. Finally they were ready, and he lifted his hand once more to his parents as the bus rumbled into life.
Then they were moving, and he felt excitement fizz in his chest—in spite of the uncertainty, in spite of the fact that his suitcase lacked many of the items on the required list, in spite of the humiliating name tag and the gas mask in its cardboard box banging against his chest. Yet as the bus began its lumbering turn into Manchester Road, he twisted round in his seat for one last look at the life he was leaving behind.
At first, as the coach rumbled and belched its way down the Commercial Road and then over the Tower Bridge, he thought they might be going to Waterloo. At home, he had a worn and treasured map of London, and if he closed his eyes he could see the placement of the great railway stations as easily as if he held it in front of him. Paddington, King’s Cross, Euston, Marylebone, Victoria, St. Pancras, Waterloo. The trains left each station in a different direction, so that when he learned their point of departure, he’d have some idea of their final destination.
But as they continued south into Lambeth, he knew they’d left Waterloo behind, and soon they were crossing the Thames again over the Lambeth Bridge. Victoria. They were going to Victoria, then, and from there—south.…
Giddily, he stared up into the station’s vaulted arches as he was herded across the concourse to join the queues of strangely silent children snaking down the platforms. Steam hissed and swirled round the trains; the only sounds were the shouts of the porters and conductors and the echoing of whistles in the cavernous space.
In spite of the teachers’ efforts at order, the boarding of the train entailed much pushing and shoving as the children scrambled for seats next to windows and friends. Lewis’s carriage was packed with several classes, but still he managed to secure a window seat, and taking pity on little Simon Goss, he squeezed the boy in beside him. There was a wait, then a great roar from the children as a guard waved a green flag and the train began to move.
As they chugged out into the sunlight, sandwiches were pulled from paper wrappers and chocolate bars were opened. The silent apprehension of the queues gave way to holiday chatter and absently Lewis ate the bread and drippings his mother had given him, his face pressed to the glass. The suburbs seemed to go on forever—Clapham … Wandsworth … Balham.… Splotches of green began to spring up between the clusters of buildings. Then the splotches spread together until it was the clumps of houses that stood out, dark patches against the green of the rising hills.
The children grew quiet again, absorbing the strangeness of the countryside, and the temperature continued to rise. When the train ground to a halt, a moan of tension ran through the car and Lewis felt a wave of nausea. They waited, whispering, but soon the train began to move again.
As the heat grew and the children became more anxious, the special treats eaten by many inevitably came back up. To make matters worse, it was soon discovered that the train had no toilets. Lewis tried pinching his nose to block the stench, but it only made his thirst worse. Simon Goss had gone to sleep, slumped against Lewis’s numb shoulder. The younger children who weren’t sleeping grizzled for their mothers, a continuous keening of misery.
The train slowed once more. Lewis opened eyes he had squeezed shut against the glare. His eyelids felt sticky. Licking his parched lips, he squinted at the station sign as the train squealed and shuddered to a stop. Dorking. Wherever that was. He closed his eyes again and leaned his head against the window, wondering if he’d dozed and dreamed that they were doomed to stay on this train forever.