THE H-BOMB GIRL by Stephen Baxter (beach books txt) 📕

hard stare. But his face crumpled, as the pain in his head returned.

Chapter 15

That afternoon they sat through normal lessons. With its windows whitewashed the classroom was dim.

Nobody was let out for games. They were being kept in the school building.

And, one by one, they were called out of class. You were escorted away by a teacher, and brought back. The boys had to report to Mister Britten, and the girls to Mrs Sweetman or Miss Wells. The rumour quickly spread that you would be stripped and searched.

That sent Laura into a panic. The Key was around her neck. What was she going to do now? She longed to talk to Bernadette.

But there was no chance to say anything before Madame Minet came to the door and, following a strict alphabetical order, called Laura out.

She was marched down the corridors. Helmeted scuffers stood at the corners, in case some rogue kid made a run for it. The school was more like a prison, this afternoon.

Minnie Mouse was as kind as ever. “All to do with the emergency, you know. Not to worry.”

But Laura had absolutely no doubt that all of this was happening, not because of the emergency, but because of her.

Laura wasn’t surprised to find Miss Wells sitting in the staffroom, waiting for her. A screen had been set up, like a doctor’s surgery. There was also a lady in a white coat with scientific-looking equipment, anonymous white boxes, and a female police officer. The white-coat had arrived in the Jag with the American flag.

Miss Wells said, “This is Doctor Smythe, and WPC Bryant. They’re not here to hurt you. They’re here to help you. We all are.”

“How does a strip-search help me?”

The WPC said gravely, “The Emergency Powers Act has been passed by Parliament this morning. Part of the police’s job is to screen out subversives.”

“Oh, yes, the fourth year is full of subversives.”

“Don’t be mouthy, Miss Mann,” Miss Wells said sharply. “Is there anything you want to tell us yourself? Anything you’ve seen or heard that strikes you as strange? Anything you have in your possession that you shouldn’t?”

“Don’t you remember?” Laura snapped.

Miss Wells glared. The WPC and the lady doctor exchanged glances, then shrugged. A nutty kid.

Miss Wells said, “Go behind the screen. Pass out your clothes for the WPC to inspect. The doctor will come behind the screen to examine you.”

“Have you got our parents’ consent?”

“We don’t need it,” said the policewoman. Her voice was hard now. “It’s a national emergency. Please don’t make trouble, miss.” And somehow, without moving, she drew Laura’s attention to the gun at her waist.

Laura didn’t have a choice. She went behind the screen and begin to strip off. When she handed out her blazer to the WPC she heard a clicking noise. She peeked over the screen. The scuffer was passing a kind of plastic wand over her blazer. It was connected to a box with a dial.

“What’s that?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” said Miss Wells.

“I’ve seen James Bond. That’s a Geiger counter. Why are you worried about radioactivity, Miss Wells?”

The WPC said evenly, “Get back behind the screen please, miss.”

She didn’t see any way out. There was nowhere to hide the Key, which would be exposed when she took her blouse off. Laura played for time, messing about with her school tie, hoping that something would turn up. Nothing did.

She unbuttoned her blouse. The Key wasn’t there.

When she thought it over she knew exactly what had happened.

She submitted to the rest of the examination with a grin of triumph. The WPC searched every scrap of her clothing. The doctor briskly searched her too, even looking inside her mouth, and she passed peculiar-looking instruments over her skin. She found nothing.

By the end of it, Miss Wells’s face was like thunder.

When she got back to class, Laura whispered to Bernadette, “How did you do it?”

“What?”

“Get the Key off me, without me even noticing?”

“That would be telling.”

“Where have you put it?”

“You’ll only blab. We’ll fetch it at the end of the day. And Miss Wells’s phone. One-nil to us, our kid.”

“They’re getting tougher, Bern. That policewoman had a gun, and banged on about national emergencies. We won’t get away with it much longer.”

Bernadette shrugged. “We’ll just have to deal with that when it happens. Now get on with your irregular verbs. Or whatever it is we’re doing. I’m a bit lost myself.”

“Bern?”

“What?”

“Thanks.”

Bernadette sighed. “Where would you be without me?”

At home, Dad hadn’t phoned.

That night Mum cooked a roast dinner, a chicken with stuffing, roast potatoes, sprouts, carrots, gravy. She could cook well, when she stuck to simple things. She served wine for herself and Mort, lemonade for Laura.

The three of them sat around the small dinner table, Mort, Mum and Laura. Mort was in his uniform, with his jacket on and his tie done up. He’d made an effort. Mum was dolled up too, with bright make-up and her hair in a bun.

They ate in silence, except for the tapping of the cutlery on the plates, and the brisk crunching noise Mort made as he chewed. Under her fear of him, Laura had developed the kind of dislike for Mort that was so intense that everything he did, even the way he ate, irritated her.

Mort’s big new rental telly was on in the background, in case of any more news about the emergency. A film called Mrs Miniver was being shown, made during the Second World War, a kind of propaganda thing about a woman being brave. Normal programmes had been scrapped, except for morale-boosting stuff like this, and the news, and even that was mostly government announcements.

“Great chow, Veronica,” Mort said at length, wiping his mouth. “Traditional English fare, right? My compliments to the chef.”

Mum blushed. “Well, we may as well eat everything up before it spoils. We won’t have this on rations, you know.”

“Rations?” Laura asked. “Who said anything about rations?”

“Oh, it’s the first thing they’ll bring back, you’ll see. I wonder if they’ll give us new cards.”

“Don’t