Blitz Next Door by Cathy Forde Page B

air-raid siren; the pitch rising, then rising more, until the air, until the space inside Pete’s head, his thoughts, the blood running through his veins, were one almighty white-hot screech. Pete shook himself to rattle away the drilling, but the pitch and volume only rose. In his arms, Jenny was wailing too. Mouth gaping, cheeks scarlet. But her distress and terror were mute. Which made it worse somehow, because Pete could do nothing to comfort her.
    And through the wall, there was panic. Thumping, clattering, objects being flung about. Pete could only feel the vibration of this activity rather than hear anything specific, but he could almost taste a sense of urgency.
    Then he heard Beth Winters. Straining to howl over the siren. Furious. Hysterical.
    “I heard you the first time, Mummy! I want to take my box to the shelter. So stop shouting at me; not deaf.”
    Oooh. Pete actually winced. If he dared to spit his mum a mouthful like that…? Siren or no siren.
    But Beth was in some temper, kicking things about now.
    “I said I’m coming , Mummy!” Her voice was raw: “Don’t nag!”
    And on Beth’s last word, the siren stopped. Therewas silence, although Pete’s ears would still be pounding from the ghost-echo of the siren hours later. In his arms, Jenny caught her breath, her eyes cutting from Pete to the wall as if to say, “What was that all about?”
    But before he could even think straight to try and find out, all the lights in Pete’s house snapped off.

Chapter 20
    “Why didn’t you tell me you’d taken Jenny upstairs? I was terrified I’d trip over her.”
    “And why the hell did you leave my torch down in the shelter? How am I supposed to see the circuit board?”
    And what d’you think you’re playing at? Scaring the life out of me, teeny-tiny little me, letting me hear that siren through the wall? Jenny didn’t actually make it a hat-trick of pelters for Pete, but she might as well have.
    Everyone else was mad with him: Mum calling him thoughtless and Dad warning him to be a bit more of a team player, Mac.
    Now Pete was fumbling and stumbling in the dark through the unfamiliar layout of his new hallway and kitchen out into the garden. He could see the shape of the shelter silhouetted in the dusk of the evening sky. He did NOT want to go in there. But Dad wasn’t letting him off the hook:
    “I know it’s getting blooming dark out, Mac. That’s why I need my torch and you’re the only person here knows where it is. So vamoose! Do your talking as you’re walking.”
    As Pete plunged his way through the unkempt garden, chilly stalks and grasses stroked and graspedhis hands like cold fingers. He was shivering even before the air-raid shelter door scraped the ground. Inside was pitch dark.
    Pete drew in a big breath. With one giant stride he lunged into the shelter, trying to keep the door open with the heel of his other foot and trying to remember where he’d last seen Dad’s torch.
    There .
    Pete squatted. Patted the ground. Nothing. He patted further. Still nothing, and he was at full stretch now, practically doing the splits – ooyah ! – still trying to keep the door open.
    Pete’s teeth were chattering as the door scraped shut behind him, sealing him in darkness. Despite this, he closed his eyes, then swept both hands in wide circles across the floor, moving all the time towards the back of the shelter.
    The torch isn’t here . He touched the far wall. Dad’ll freak, but it’s gone . Pete was on his feet, arms outstretched as he stumbled towards the door. Just then, to the side of him, he heard something being shoved. An object dropped to the floor with a clatter and rolled until it struck Pete’s foot.
    The torch .
    Pete picked it up. Flicked the switch. Opened his eyes, even though he didn’t want to. When he saw what he saw next he definitely wished he hadn’t.
    Inches from Pete, heat pulsed from a small stove. Like that smelly one Simon’s dad brought camping. Its dim