Chapter 22
Frankie found the first mushroom next to the shelter. It was still warm. A heavy lump of shining metal, with a stalk and a flattened cap. A tiny version of the real mushrooms Cook had shown him in the fields around the farm.
He found more at the edge of the park. As he stooped to pick them up, putting them in his pockets, he heard the clink of metal on concrete, and then a soft thud as something landed in the grass nearby.
The thing in the grass was a bullet. Just as shiny, and just as warm. The shape was unmistakable. The ones that bounced off the roof of the shelter were mushrooms – the impact shaping the soft metal.
Bullets – mushrooms – either way they felt valuable, so Frankie put them in his pocket.
A light was showing from the hermitage warehouse. After a year of the blackout, Frankie wasn’t used to seeing such a bright light outdoors. He took the alley past the pub, towards the warehouse. As he got closer, he could see what had happened.
The front wall had taken a direct hit. There was an electric light inside, hanging at the end of a wire.
Frankie looked up into the clouds, imagining a German pilot seeing the light. He’d turn his plane, zero in on the target. One of those Stukas, the type that screamed as it dived.
Frankie clambered over a pile of rubble – big chunks of masonry, covered with so much dust it was like fallen snow.
He couldn’t find a light switch. It must have been on the front wall. The wall that was now just so much dust.
A bomb came down in the river on the other side of the warehouse. It made a satisfying plonk, like when Frankie threw a large pebble into deep water. Then the ground shifted, and before he knew it he was up to his ankles in the dust, as if quicksand wanted to swallow him up.
Frankie hurriedly pulled his feet out of the dust, and stumbled back down onto the street.
But the light was still burning. It wouldn’t do.
He picked up a stone. A good size for throwing. Not too big, but with enough weight to fly true.
He looked around, feeling guilty. He was in the right, but it felt wrong.
He threw the stone. It went wide. Now he was glad nobody had been watching.
He hunted for more stones – stocked up with a few. But the next throw hit the target. The light went out instantly.
A car crunched on broken glass, and Frankie took cover behind the rubble, still feeling like he’d done something wrong.
It was a black car, with writing on the side. Big letters in white, like they’d been made with some kind of sticking paper.
ARP
The car door opened, and Frankie slid further behind the debris. It was Reynolds.
Frankie felt a pang of fear. He knew it was wrong to feel like that about his own father, but he couldn’t help it. He’d never actually seen his father hurt anyone, but every time he was near him it felt like something bad was going to happen.
Reynolds lifted a wooden box from the passenger seat of the car, and carried it into the warehouse. The metal sliding door screeched behind him, until it clanged shut.