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chapter 9

                                                   NINE

                                                 Digging up the Past

Brian Sampson was usually a sound sleeper. He had to be with all the noise and commotion that would go on either inside the flat or outside on the estate. It never really stopped. If it wasn’t his two older brothers arguing with their mum it would be shady characters doing shady deals out on the street while slamming car doors – which was their way of announcing to those indoors to stay exactly where they were if they didn’t want trouble. But Brian’s difficulty in getting to sleep on this particular evening had little if anything to do with the noises going on around him. The reason was simply this: tomorrow would be Wednesday - the day that all three of them were going to kidnap Roy, demand some kind of ransom and get their faces pasted all over the newspapers, and possibly even the television news.

    And to think all this was his doing. If he hadn’t suggested kidnapping Roy in the first place, they’d probably be planning something really boring, like painting graffiti onto the garage doors of posh houses in Buttercup Drive, or nicking the badges off smart cars.

    But, more importantly, for once in his life, Brian was feeling valued by someone. Admittedly, that someone was only Harry Hodges. But that didn’t matter. It was still something special. Well, no one usually valued a single word he’d say - not that he ever said very much. His parents certainly hadn’t ever taken him seriously. All they ever did was tell him to do chores or ‘stay out of their hair’. And as for his teachers, they were no better. All they ever did was tell him to stop doing stuff. Stuff like ‘being a disruptive influence in the classroom’ or ‘chewing gum’ or ‘day dreaming.’

    Brian closed his eyes. But it was no good. There was no way he was going to get to sleep.

    Half a mile away from Brian Sampson’s bedroom that sat high up on the sixth floor of the council block, was another small boy who couldn’t get to sleep. His bedroom though wasn’t as high up since it was only on the upper floor of a 1930s suburban house. And this particular household wasn’t at all noisy and neither was the neighbourhood.

    Through the boy’s window, you could just discern the intricate network of black branches thrown out by the mighty oak against a full moon. Roy never liked to close his curtains at night because he felt closer to nature, and that was something that always comforted him. And tonight of all nights, he certainly needed comforting.

    It had been a perfectly acceptable day at school. He hadn’t been so much as scowled at by his tormentors. In fact, Colin Harmsworth had actually sidled up to him in the corridor that morning and said in a conspiratorial whisper that Harry wanted to give him his blue binoculars back, and suggested that Roy meet Harry behind the caretaker’s hut the following day at one o’clock. Then as an aside, he had told Roy to take a few quid with him. “Five should do it. Just to keep Harry sweet,” were the words he had used.

    Then Miss Allen had marked his essay with an A* and had read its contents to the whole class. Roy had enjoyed writing the piece. It was all about the old man who used to do the gardening for his parents. His name was Albert and he was the oldest man Roy had ever known. Poor old Albert could never quite stand straight due to some terrible bone condition and found walking difficult without the support of his bicycle, which looked as old and weather- beaten as he did. But the extraordinary thing was that he was as strong as an ox, despite his condition and mature years. And he could do the garden as well as any man - if not better. Sometimes, when Roy took him tea and a jam sandwich that his mum had prepared, Albert would lean on his garden fork and regale Roy with real and vivid stories about the war.

    During the war, Albert hadn’t been fit enough to be a soldier, so instead he had helped the fire brigade and ambulance crews rescue people from houses that had been bombed and set ablaze by German airplanes. His proper title was Air Raid Precaution Warden and he must have been incredibly brave because he never thought twice about going inside burning buildings during an air raid to rescue survivors. And it was one of these stories that had now worked its way onto paper and became Roy’s very own.

    The story had been firmly planted in Roy’s mind. It certainly wasn’t a story you could have made up. It took place sometime during the height of the London Blitz when the German bombers were bombing the city relentlessly night after night. Albert had returned home from his day job at the bank where he was a clerk and had been called out after a particularly heavy bombing raid in the Whitechapel area, close to where he lived.

    On arriving at the scene of devastation with his mates, Albert made his way to a large, blackened shell of a building that was engulfed in flames and smoke. But before strapping on his metal helmet and diving fearlessly into the burning wreck, he had been drawn by an innocent looking china doll in a tatty red dress lying on the ground among the rubble. Its face was smeared with dirt and grime, yet its bright blue, innocent eyes gazed, wide-eyed and oblivious to their surroundings. For some unaccountable reason Albert had stood transfixed by the object and had then started frantically removing rubble from where he was standing.

    The entire street had been littered with the debris and dust that had once formed solid brick walls, wooden window frames and front doors.

    While his colleagues ran ahead, yelling at each other, and the thick plumes of smoke were made even thicker by the huge cascades of water pumped by the firemen, Albert focused on the mound of rubble at his feet.

    With his bare hands, he pulled at boulder after boulder. Within minutes, his frantic efforts were beginning to take their toll on his poor hands, which were now becoming caked in blood and dust. But this did not deter him and his efforts, if anything, became even more frenzied. And then, as if by some miracle, Albert’s bloodstained hands encountered something soft to the touch - fabric.

    Now he worked even more vigorously to reveal a large swathe of red velvet and then a small leg: the leg of a child. Before he knew it, he had quite literally unearthed a small girl, perhaps four or five years of age. Like the china doll, her dress was red and her delicate face was also smeared with filth. But unlike the china doll, this larger version didn’t have her eyes wide open. Albert felt the little girl’s blackened wrist and prayed. The world around him stood still. The commotion and turmoil faded away as all Albert’s concentration now centred on that little limp wrist. And then he sensed it. There was no denying it. It may have been faint and distant, but his grubby fingers, though sore and aching with pain, had detected that constant and unmistakable pulse. The girl was alive. And Albert had screamed like he had never screamed before.

    Saving the little girl was one story that Albert loved to tell. And he told it so well, with so many intricate details, that it didn’t matter how many times you had heard it before. Like an old film you knew the ending to, it would never fail to capture your imagination and draw you in. And now that Albert had sadly died, there was no one left in the world to tell his story. So Roy had sat down in his bedroom and had summoned all his energies in an attempt to pour into the piece as much emotion and detail as Albert would have done while leaning on his fork.

    His spelling may have left a great deal to be desired, but his written piece had clearly worked. As Miss Allen uttered the final words of Roy’s story, she removed her delicate designer spectacles and wiped her right eye with the sleeve of her cardigan. The class sat speechless and then, one by one, the children began to clap instinctively. It was the first time anyone had ever been clapped in the classroom by the other children. And it was the first time Roy had ever received an A*.

    So, all in all, Tuesday had been a remarkably good day. Until, that is, he returned home from school.

    The sight of those bare trees, stripped of their carefully crafted bird boxes came as a sharp blow to Roy and the thought of fewer birds in the garden made his heart sink.

    His mother’s callous actions and complete lack of understanding didn’t help matters. Nor, of course, did Roy’s obvious and rarely expressed anger. So it wasn’t long before that piercing voice of Angela Nuttersley’s would sing out, that the rafters would shake, and that poor Roy would be sent to his room without supper. And it was here that Roy now turned on his pillow, which was still damp from his tears.

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