Limbo 56 - Mike Morris (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📗

you again, Corporal.” He began to fade away.

The flying officer and the corporal sat in the small kitchen, sipping tea. The ARP warden had listened to the confused story from the pilot, and the pilot had called his base, and was awaiting transport. “It’s amazing how you traveled this far from the crash, Sir,” the warden said. “Somewhere in your subconscious, you must have stored my name. Your father must have mentioned me in his letters. I don’t know how you got here, but I’m so pleased to meet his son. He mentioned you often.”

“I feel like I’ve known you for a long time,” Jimmy said. “It’s a pity I can’t stay longer.”

“We both have to get back to our duties,” the Corporal said. “I’ve been absent from my warden duties for too long. It has been a privilege to meet a fighter pilot. This country owes a great deal to the bravery of our pilots.”

“More to our soldiers on the ground,” Jimmy said. “I’m glad you knew my dad, you certainly opened my eyes to what he went through. Oh, there’s my transport.” He straightened his uniform and they shook hands. “It was good to meet you.”

Jimmy stared out of the back of the truck at the green fields sailing by. The air was clear, and he felt liberated, free of the crushing weight of his father’s supposed cowardice. He would have to prove himself now, to measure up to a man of tremendous courage, rather than escaping from a tainted family. He could not remember the last few weeks of wandering, although he had a disturbing feeling that he had been lost in an older, grittier place than these gentle green fields. He knew that he would face many hurdles, and hoped that he could overcome them, as his father had.
The first test came sooner than he had anticipated. He stood to attention in front of the Wing Commander, willing himself not to answer back, while his Squadron Leader stood at ease behind him. “You’ve let your squadron, and its officers down,” the Wing Commander was saying. “You took off alone into the clouds, weakening the squadron. This is not the first time you have disobeyed orders. Squadron Leader Powell intervened before and saved you from being transferred to a training base. You put your fellow pilots at risk, and I don’t care how good a flyer you are, you’ll not endanger any more lives for your own glory.”

Jimmy bit his lip. “I can’t deny it sir. It took an accident like this to make me see straight. I’ve blamed everyone but myself for my faults and my unpopularity. I know that was childish and stupid, but I see things a lot more clearly now.”

“I’m sorry,” the Wing Commander began.

“Sir, it will be a couple of weeks before I’m fully evaluated for active service. Quite honestly, if I were in the squadron, I wouldn’t want to fly with me.” He took a deep breath. “If I have to train pilots for the rest of my service, I will. I’ll do the best job I’m capable of. But I’m a good fighter pilot, and I’ll be a better one from now on.” He paused again. “I realize now that I have a lot to live up to. I’m asking you to please give me one more chance.” The Wing Commander’s eyes were looking at a piece of paper on the desk and he knew that he had lost the man. Only the realization that he thoroughly deserved this reprimand stopped him from a further plea.

The Squadron Leader spoke up. “If I could have a word, Sir,” he said, and nodded for Jimmy to leave.

Outside, in the draughty corridor, Jimmy waited. The Squadron Leader had never liked him, and never had cause to like him, Jimmy admitted ruefully. However, his C.O. seemed to have decided to plead on his behalf. Finally, Squadron leader Powell stepped into the corridor, and Jimmy stood to attention. “I don’t do this lightly,” the Squadron leader said. “If any of my pilots are put in harm’s way by you again, you’ll be an airman second class, cleaning latrines for the remainder of your service.”

“Thank you,” Jimmy said.

“No, don’t thank me,” Powell told him. “Meet me in the local tonight, and buy me a drink and you’d better invite the rest of the squadron along for drinks. You have a lot of fences to mend my boy.”

“I won’t let you down, sir,” Jimmy said. “I feel like I’m back in the real world, and I have to start acting like a real man.”


 
Chapter 13 – A Chicken in every Pot
The loss of Bobby the criminal proved to be the beginning of a slow decline in the standard of living of the inhabitants of Limbo56. Contacts with what was left of the Birmingham gangs after Bobby had decimated them slowed to a trickle. Good whisky and real food became difficult to get, and the prices of ‘real stuff’ started to climb. Arthur attempted to open up the tunnel to otherworld trade, but this resulted only in a few sheep and a glut of mutton pies in the pubs. The gaol was rapidly emptying of ex-Governors, and soon, Max and the Accountant would be snatched away. Recruitment and productivity dipped, and Arthur was run ragged attempting to keep up quotas.

World War Two brought a temporary respite. Many of the newly dead were heroes, who went straight to Heaven, and many were evildoers, who went to Hell, but enough half-sinners died in the ruins of the factories and foundries, and enough soldiers, sailors and airmen died on the battlefields and in the makeshift hospitals thinking of the sooty towns where Arthur grew up. They turned up, wandering bewilderedly down half familiar streets and Arthur put them to work. For a few years he had no reason to leave his domain. A few WAAFS and WAACS arrived, and Arthur put the stronger ones to work in the foundry, where they soon became indistinguishable, under a coat of sweat and soot, from the men.

The Politician made contact with an armaments maker, and Arthur pushed his workforce to turn out weapons and war material for real goods. The armaments maker proved much greedier than the old gangs of criminals did, but a small steady supply of food and furniture, whisky, clothes and real beer continued to flow into Limbo56. It was impossible to get petrol, so the cars of the rich languished and rusted as the war continued on its murderous course. The arms dealers got fat and the war moved towards its inevitable untidy conclusion. Arthur was drinking a glass of real beer when he heard the news of victory in Europe from a draft-dodger who had the misfortune to be run over by a bus on the day it was declared. He was happy for the living.

The Tunnel Store closed shortly after the war ended, and Necessities Two followed a few months later. Necessities One finally closed for business in 1948, and its staff were disbanded. What was left of the middle class of Limbo56 hoarded what was left of the real food and booze. Vinegar and cardboard became the staples again at the pubs.

Also in 1948, Max the politician was negotiating a deal with some black-marketeers when his number came up and he was hauled before the council and dispatched to Hell. Arthur met the men in the abandoned store in an attempt to save the deal. Young, well dressed and hard-edged, they smoked Turkish cigarettes from silver cases. They were tough, flashy men who had never worked in their lives. They reminded him of the flashy Londoner. The deal fell through.

Arthur searched his workforce for a replacement. He found that, as his more dynamic subjects left, mostly for Hell, his new recruits, cast offs from a world war, had changed in character. The occasional hard-driving recruit, too ruthless to get to heaven, but with enough saving grace to escape hell, had been replaced by men and women who had drifted to a diminishing middle ground, humans who had opted out of living before they died. His new recruits apathetically worked in the foundry, apathetically drank vinegar beer in the pubs, apathetically complained about their non-life.

Arthur finally found a petty criminal who had once been a council member in an obscure Midlands town, before being convicted for some petty misdemeanour. The man was a poor foundry worker, so the Governor set him up in the deserted gaol and explained his new duties. “Geoff,” the man said. “Councilor Geoff Simmonds.” Arthur explained again. “Ah, I thought you wanted to know my name,” the man said.

For a month, Geoff sat in his new quarters, doodling on a piece of paper. Finally, Arthur, exasperated, called to drag him back to the foundry. Cornered by the Governor, Geoff backed behind his little desk. “Chickens,” he screeched when Arthur reached out to grab him. He had, he told the Governor, been mulling over the idea for a couple of weeks, but since Arthur hadn’t asked him, he’d not seen any reason to speak about the subject. “I was thinking,” he told Arthur, “that we could raise chickens.” Arthur told him about chickens. “I know,” he said. “All animals die in Limbo, and then they taste like cardboard.” He fell silent. Arthur grabbed him. “We need to find a farmer who will sell his chickens for industrial diamonds,” Geoff said hastily. Arthur told him what he thought about the chances of finding such a farmer. “I know a farmer who will sell us chickens for industrial diamonds,” Geoff said. “My uncle Fred. He’s always looking for easy money.”

Arthur had expected a trip to Lincolnshire, an exhausting time getting Uncle Fred’s attention, dismissal as a maniac for such an absurd proposal, but he was desperate. “Just pop round the corner and mail him a letter,” Geoff said. “Tell him to come to Necessities One. Tell him I said so.” It was a measure of Arthur’s desperation that he sent a letter, dictated by Geoff. They were waiting inside the abandoned store at midnight on the appointed date when they heard the rattling of the street door.

Uncle Fred was a bandy-legged, compact man. He blinked when they switched the lights on. Geoff checked the blackout curtains, left over from the war, while Arthur and Fred studied each other. “He don’t look like no Governor,” Fred said to his nephew.

“Things are different over here, uncle,” Geoff told him.

“You’re still dead, then,” Fred said, peering at the younger man.

“I want to make a deal with you,” Arthur said quickly. “Sit down.”

They discussed the details. The chicken house was to be the entire back part of the store, walled off so that the sound of squawking would not reach the outside world. Every week, Fred would deliver five hundred chickens and pick up his quota of diamonds. “Five hundred, I can do that,” Fred said confidently.

To Arthur’s amazement, everything went to plan. Chickens arrived, squawking on Sunday, and departed, plucked into the pots of the Intermediates in the back of the store. Part of the chicken population was spared to supply eggs. On the first week, Fred also delivered several sacks of chicken feed, ten sacks of potatoes, ten sacks of carrots, and a sack of salt. It was a start, Arthur thought, dreaming of turkeys, rabbits, and even a pig or two.

On the fourth week, Fred pulled up in his old lorry, and hauled out one crate of old stringy