Shrapnel by Robert Swindells Page A

house where they have a butler who stays calm whatever happens. One day a crippled Hurricane made a wheels-up landing in the grounds of thehouse, ploughed across their massive lawn at a rate of knots, crashed into the conservatory in a blizzard of splintered glass and came to a stop. The pilot clambered out unhurt, and the butler went to his master and said, ‘There’s a young man to see you, sir – he’s in the conservatory.’
    I loved it. Wished I was that butler.
    â€˜Price?’ I jerked back to reality. Lines was looking at me. ‘Are you all right, lad?’
    â€˜Y – yes, I was just thinking, sir.’
    â€˜You look a bit rocky – perhaps a breath of fresh air, eh? Splash of cold water?’ He’s all right, old Contour. Almost human.
    I nodded. ‘Yes, thank you, sir, I’ll just . . .’ I got out of my seat. I was tired, not ill at all, but a break is a break.
    Lines turned to Linton. ‘Go with him, Barker.’
    We crossed the yard to the toilets. I dashed a handful of water onto my face, then nodded towards a cubicle. ‘I’ll sit down in there for a bit, if you don’t mind hanging on?’
    He grinned. ‘’Course I don’t. Fag?’ He held out the Woodbine packet.
    â€˜No thanks, but have one yourself. I won’t be long.’
    I pushed the door to, sat on the seat. I felt perfectly well, but I was in no rush to get back to Argentina and corned beef. I could hear Linton shuffling about outside, hawking and coughing. I thought some more about the unflappable butler, but doesn’t time crawl when you want it to pass?
    For something to do I started reading the graffiti that covered the door so densely you could hardly see the cream paint. It was vulgar stuff mostly, but some bits were quite funny.
    I like grils was crossed out and corrected – I like girls . Under this in a different hand was, What about us grils?
    I chuckled, then noticed a line in eye-catching green that read:
    Sat same t. same p. same drill
    I shook my head, but there was no mistaking the style. I’d been contacted again.
    â€˜All right now?’ asked Linton when I emerged. I nodded. He dropped his tab-end, ground it under a heel. ‘Good-o, it’s nearly lunch time. Come on.’
    I could have done with that Woodbine now, but it was too late.

FORTY-EIGHT
Linton Barker’s Lungs
    SATURDAY DAWNED AND I was still unshot. This didn’t make me unflappable, but I
had
simmered down a bit which was just as well, since it was time to carry out my third assignment.
    In stories, agents never receive their instructions on lavatory doors. It felt disrespectful, and I wondered whether the chaps who don’t mess around had chosen this way of showing their displeasure at my blabbing all over Farmer Giles. If so, I suppose I got off lightly.
    It was a foggy morning, and I’m not talkingabout mist. Everywhere was clotted with thick yellow stuff you could nearly gather by the armful and pile into a barrow. It was like cotton wool some giant had cleaned his filthy ears out with. I had to bike at about four miles a fortnight all the way to Myra Shay. It’s a good job I’m familiar with the route, or I’d never have found the place at all.
    When I did, the grass was cold and sodden. When I stretched out my arm my hand was invisible. If anybody else was barmy enough to be here, I didn’t see ’em. In fact, Hitler could’ve landed three airborne divisions on Myra Shay that morning and nobody would’ve been any the wiser.
    I groped my way to Manley’s fence and peered through dripping mesh. I couldn’t see the building, or even the cement path. If I sent the Skymaster over in this, the security man wouldn’t see me do it, wouldn’t know where to look.
    What was I supposed to do? The chap couldn’t know, when he scribbled on that lavatory door, that there’d be a peasouper on Saturday.