She walked into the school.
After assembly, Miss Wells told her form that the pupils were going to be taught more survival skills. A batch of seeds had been shipped in from the Ministry of Agriculture, and in the afternoon everyone was going to go out and dig up the playing field and plant cabbages and sprouts and other winter vegetables.
They started that morning with basic lessons about vegetables. They had to copy out pictures of carrots and cauliflowers into their jotters, from colourful little books. “This is for those of you who think vegetables just come in plastic bags from the Co-op, ha ha,” said Miss Wells.
The books were meant for junior-school kids. In Laura’s copy, some seven-year-old had scrawled SUPERCAR across a picture of a leek.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she said.
Bernadette shuddered delicately. “Ugh,” she whispered. “Me. A farmer. With these nails?”
Joel had come to sit at the back with them. He was having trouble holding a pencil in his plastered fingers. He whispered, “They’re just keeping us busy. Distracted, while they crack down. They’ve already started. They’ve taken control of the food stocks, the petrol, the hospitals. Now they’re making sure there’s no way out of the country. They’ve grounded all the planes, BEA and BOAC. And stopped all the ferries. Roadblocks on the motorways. And they’re rounding up ‘known subversives.’ Card-carrying Communists. Union leaders. There’s a rumour they’ve arrested half the Labour Party front bench. And the telly folk. They’ve arrested David Frost! The excuse is, while we’re getting ready for war, Soviet spies will start mucking about. Sabotage. Whipping up strikes. Spreading lies. That kind of thing.”
Laura asked, “How do you know all this? It wasn’t in the news.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be,” Joel said. “I’ve got contacts. Word of mouth.”
Bernadette said, “They’ll be coming for you, H-Bomb Girl. Nothing to stop them now.”
“So what should we do?”
Joel said, “Stick with me. I’ve got a plan. At break, bring what you need. Not your satchels.”
Bernadette laughed at him. But she put her scarf around her neck.
And Laura slipped her diary into her blazer pocket.
Miss Wells glared at them, suspicious, cold, determined.
At break, the school gates were locked, and there were two scuffers standing on guard.
Nick was waiting for them outside the railings. He was hunched up in a heavy overcoat, thin and pale. His face was still swollen, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, though the day wasn’t bright. “Hello, losers.”
Bernadette sniffed. “I’m not the old man hanging round a school fence.”
“Never mind that,” Joel said. “Did you make the arrangements?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Nick said.
Laura didn’t know what arrangements they meant. “How’s the head?”
“Like a red hot poker up the nose. Getting kicked in the head isn’t like it is in the movies.”
“If you went back to the doctor, maybe—”
“Mind your own business.” That was a snarl.
“Somebody’s coming,” Joel said.
The two scuffers opened the school gate. A green army van drove through, and squaddies started jumping out even before it had stopped. Two military officers, one in green and one in blue, got out and walked towards the school. The one in blue looked like Mort. And behind him rolled a man in a motorised chair. Miss Wells walked out to meet the officers.
Laura knew who that was. “The Minuteman.”
“Who?” Nick asked.
“Nobody good.”
The Minuteman was here just for her, Laura thought. He was manipulating the British Army to come get her. His power was beyond scary.
“Time’s up for you, Laura,” said Joel. “Nothing to stop them now.”
Laura asked, “How can we get out? There are scuffers on the gate.”
Bernadette grinned. “That’s the easy bit. We’ve done it before.” She took off her long black scarf and threw it up so it looped over the spike at the top of the railings. “Give me a bunk up, Joel. And keep your hands off my bum.”
Even now, Laura hesitated before she followed.
Up to now, in all the strangeness and upset that had gone on, she had kept up the normal routines of life. Home, school, home, school, give or take a bit of burglary and hiding in cellars. If she ran off now she would be making a decisive break. And she couldn’t imagine how her life would be after that.
A bit of her wondered if she should just give up. Surrender to the Minuteman and Miss Wells, and just hand over the Key. But she didn’t know what they wanted to do with an ignition key for a Vulcan bomber. Nothing good, she imagined, given the way they’d behaved towards her.
And besides, Dad had given the Key to her. She was frightened, but she resented them trying to come between her and Dad.
Stuff them all, she thought angrily.
Miss Wells saw them and pointed.
Scuffers blew their whistles, and squaddies came running, rifles in their hands. As two puffing squaddies plodded by, one smart-alec kid shouted, “I’ll give you two to one on the fat bloke!”
Laura didn’t wait any longer.
When they were all over the railings Nick stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. With a whine like huge buzzing wasps, two bright red scooters came belting out of the car park at the back of the pub over the road. Bert Muldoon was riding one, Mickey Poole the other.
“Woodbines to the rescue!” Nick shouted.
“Vespas,” Joel said. “Cool.”
Bernadette was suspicious. “How can you lot afford Vespas?”
Nick grinned. “It’s a National Emergency.”
Laura said, “I’m impressed. You’ve planned all this.”
Nick eyed Laura. “I still don’t know what the deal is with you, darling. But we Woodbines don’t fancy living in Heathograd any more than you do. Come ‘ead, let’s leg it before the scuffers get here.”
He insisted on driving one of the scooters. So
