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  3.36 p.m.

  ‘Oi, Chickenboy,’ someone shouted, as I stepped out from behind the bushes at the last minute, shot up the steps and flashed my bus pass. ‘What’s on your iPod then?’

  A sea of grinning faces swirled round towards me, and I thought I was going to puke. Eyes fixed to the floor, I shuffled down the aisle to my usual place.

  Alex was in the window seat. He jumped up the moment I sat down next to him. ‘’Scuse me.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Lex, forgotten something?’

  ‘Can you get out of my way please?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, get out of my way.’

  ‘What’s the matter with . . . ?’

  Everyone cheered as he pushed past me and found an empty seat further back. I reached instinctively for the front pocket of my rucksack, realising just in the nick of time that getting out my iPod was probably the worst thing I could do.

  Barry the Bus Driver stamped on the accelerator and we screeched out into the afternoon traffic.

  Halfway to town, my phone went off. I tried to ignore it, but it was Mission: Impossible to ignore a ring-tone like that. And then I noticed that a load of other phones seemed to be ringing too – a weird cacophony of ‘Jingle Bells’, ‘Phone, am I bovvered?’, 50 Cent, ‘Message, message, message, message!’ and the Monty Python theme all competed for attention.

  ‘Oi, Chickenboy,’ came a voice from the back. ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

  Silence broke out the moment my thumb made contact with the keypad. Glancing back, I could see a whole bunch of Year Eights staring into their mobiles. Even a couple that hadn’t got mobiles (the kid from that religious sect and the boy whose parents wouldn’t even let him in the same room as a television) were watching eagerly over their shoulders.

  It was the last thing I needed – someone had video-messaged me. Alex often sent clips of stuff, like him and his sister doing the dance off The Office or his dad’s new girlfriends being stupid, but I had a pretty good idea that this would be no laughing matter.

  I was spot on. Even though the picture quality reminded me of those anti-video-pirating adverts they show before movies, there was no mistaking the figure in the foreground, chomping on a cheese and tomato panini – it was me!

  ‘Bullseye!’ shouted a voice from the back of the bus, as the panini-chomper got splatted by a flying sachet of tomato ketchup. ‘Got him right in the face.’

  That’s when I started realising that half the kids on the bus were watching it too. My suspicions were confirmed when the panini-chomper started dabbing his chops with his school tie and a great roar of laughter almost blew the roof off.

  ‘What does Chickenboy want for Christmas?’ shouted Callum Corcoran. ‘Some mates, because he certainly hasn’t got any.’

  They brayed hysterically, like the studio audience of Friends.

  I buried the Dad Phone deep in my rucksack, folded my arms tightly across my chest and prayed that no one could see I was quivering like Mum’s natural-yoghurt maker.

  ‘What’s the matter, Chickenboy?’ called Pete Hughes. ‘Not in the mood, eh? Why don’t we cheer him up with a bit of Glenn Miller?’

  At first it was only a half-hearted duet, like when your parents try to get your mates to sing you ‘Happy Birthday’, but one by one they joined in (even Callum Corcoran, who thought singing was for girls) until the whole pack of them was roaring like a football crowd, ‘Da da da da da da da da da da da da . . .’.

  I closed my eyes and tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, drawing blood from my bottom lip in an ongoing battle not to be ‘the boy who cried’. But my heart stopped dead in its tracks when someone slipped into the seat next to me and tapped softly on my shoulder. I tightened my stomach muscles and prepared for The Emperor to declare himself.

  3.43 p.m.

  ‘You all right, Sam?’

  ‘What the . . . ?’ Relief swiftly turned to anger when I saw that it was Stephen Allbright.

  ‘Listen to them. What a bunch of buffoons. Everyone knows Glenn Miller didn’t write ‘In the Mood’.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘No,’ he said, shielding himself from the cascade of crisp packets, apple cores and terms of abuse that were raining down on us from the back of the bus. ‘It was a little-known trumpeter by the name of Wingy Malone. I thought that was common knowledge.’

  ‘How about that?’ came the voice from the back. ‘Chickenboy and Dimbo are best buddies. Ta lk about the dream team.’

  ‘Clear off, Dimbo,’ I hissed, not knowing whether to admire his courage or marvel at his stupidity. ‘You’re only making it worse.’

  ‘I thought you could do with a friend.’

  ‘Look, you’re not my friend, OK?’

  ‘Right now, I reckon you could do with all the friends you can get.’

  ‘Please, just go.’

  But he wouldn’t give up. His piercing blue eyes seemed to read me like a book.

  ‘I can help you, Sam. All you’ve got to do is say the word.’

  ‘I don’t need your help.’ There was only one thing for it. I kicked his shiny briefcase out of the way and fought my way down the aisle. ‘Stop the bus, I want to get off.’

  ‘But you don’t get off for another two stops,’ said Barry the Bus Driver.

  ‘I promised I’d get something for my granddad.’

  ‘Oh come on, old son. They’ll soon get bored, you know. ’

  ‘Please, I need to get out.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Barry the Bus Driver, pulling into a layby and opening the doors. ‘But you shouldn’t let them get to you, Sam. They’re only having a laugh.’

  ‘Why did the Chickenboy cross the road?’ called a voice from the back.

  I was down those steps so fast that I didn’t even hear the punchline. I looked up at the faces in the window – Callum Corcoran shouting what could only be obscenities, Animal making gestures to the same effect, Pete Hughes smiling coolly, and I realised that I still didn’t have a clue who The Emperor was.

  But just when it felt like everyone was against me, I spotted a solitary, sympathetic face. Abby looked almost as upset as I was when she looked up from her paperback and gave me an encouraging smile. For the second time in as many minutes, my heart stopped dead in its tracks, only this time in a good way. Granddad was right – when the chips are down, you really do find out who your friends are.

  4.18 p.m.

  Granddad’s room was at the end of a dingy corridor, next to the emergency exit. He once told me that the sight of ‘Two-and-twenty toothless wrinklies pushing their Zimmers to the car park for a fire practice’ was one of the funniest things he’d ever seen. Then again, he always did have a strange sense of humour.

  I was trying to put on my happy face for him, when out of the gloom I heard someone singing. Although I couldn’t make out the words, it was one of the saddest songs I’d ever heard. And the voice was so beautiful (deep and dark and velvety) that I couldn’t help walking towards it. Seconds later I was standing in front of a familiar door.

  I pushed it open and stepped inside. ‘Hi, Granddad, what’s the —?’

  ‘Hello, Sam,’ said Petal, looking embarrassed. ‘Come to see your granddad, have you?’

  ‘You know I have,’ I said, feeling like I’d walked in on a scene that I didn’t fully understand. ‘What’s happening?’

  Granddad was sitting by the window in his stripy pyjamas, wiping his eyes with a spotted handkerchief. His voice was high-pitched and wheezier than usual. ‘Petal and I had a bit of business to attend to. Isn’t that right, m’d ear?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she sniffed, taking Granddad’s hand and giving it a squeeze. ‘Now, why I don’t I leave you boys to get on with it?’

  ‘Thank you, Petal,’ he said, as she waddled out of the door. ‘If you do it like that it will be absolutely splendid.’

  ‘What’s the matter with her, Granddad? Why was she crying?’

  ‘She wasn’t cry
ing, m’boy – she was laughing.’ He glanced anxiously around his tiny room, as if there were spies under the bed or something. ‘Well, have you got it?’

  ‘Yes, Granddad.’

  ‘Good lad. You’ll have to open it, I’m afraid. The old arthritis is playing me up something rotten.’

  I slipped it out of the wrapper and into his clawlike hand. He held it to his nose, just like I’d seen Dad doing with a glass of wine, and then took an enormous bite. It didn’t take him long to polish off the whole Mars Bar. My stomach suddenly remembered that it had only had a piece of toast and half an egg sandwich all day.

  ‘You looked like you enjoyed that, Granddad.’

  ‘That’s because it was my last one,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘Not nearly as exciting as the first time of course, but then what is?’

  ‘You going on a diet, Granddad?’

  He shook his head. ‘My plane’s on the runway, Sam, not long to go now. ’

  ‘But you look fine,’ I said, remembering what Mum had told me about white lies sometimes being kinder than the truth. ‘Why do you think you’re going to . . . ?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve had the call and say no more about it. But I can’t get on that plane until you’ve heard my confession. Have you read it yet?’

  ‘Sorry, Granddad, it’s been so . . . busy at school. I’ve only read the bit on the train.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, picking a morsel of Mars Bar out of his teeth. ‘Old Tommy really saved my bacon, didn’t he?’

  ‘And you became best friends, right?’

  Granddad nodded. ‘It was like that in the war. You didn’t fart about with formalities because you knew that any day soon one of you might cop it. It’s funny though, considering how quickly we palled up, Tommy and I didn’t have a lot in common.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My dad was a painter and decorator and Mum took in washing. Tommy’s parents owned a sweet shop. And he was a grammar-school boy, worked in a solicitor’s office, whereas I left school at fourteen to go on the railways. That’s why I enrolled at night school after the war.’

  ‘So what did you have in common?’

  ‘Well, we were both potty about Duke Ellington for a start. And then there was confectionery of course.’ Granddad’s face erupted into an enormous smile. ‘What with parents in the trade, so to speak, Tommy certainly knew his liquorice sticks from his sherbet lemons.’

  I couldn’t help remembering how Alex and me had bonded over the Star Wars Lego.

  ‘But it was much more than that. We were just so comfortable in each other’s company, almost like we could sense what the other one was thinking. And we knew we could rely on each other in a crisis – at least, that’s what I thought.’

  I couldn’t help thinking about Alex again. I didn’t know what Granddad was thinking about, but his smile had suddenly vanished.

  ‘Anyway, m’boy, what’s all this about it being busy at school? You’ve not been getting into trouble, have you?’

  ‘Not really, Granddad, it’s just . . . ’

  It was the perfect opportunity to tell him everything. And it ought to have been so easy. He wasn’t like Dad (except physically, of course), he wouldn’t have told me to pull myself together and be a man, or something. And unlike Mum, he wouldn’t have wanted to relive every painful detail, in HD TV with digital surround sound. But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t bear for him to find out that his favourite grandson was a chicken.

  ‘What’s the matter, old lad? Something’s bothering you, isn’t it? You know what I think about secrets. Come on, Sam, why don’t you tell your old granddad all about it?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I said, trying to avoid his sad, watery eyes. ‘I kind of feel a bit . . .’ And that’s as far as I got, because suddenly the strain of making it through a whole day without crying in public was just too much. It started somewhere deep inside me, the uncontrollable sobbing that took possession of my whole body like a mutant zombie and refused to let go.

  ‘Come on, old chap,’ said Granddad, looking faintly embarrassed and reaching creakily to ruffle my hair, ‘it can’t be that bad.’

  ‘Oh yes it is, Granddad. Oh yes it is.’

  Five minutes later, I was sitting on Granddad’s bed, sucking a pineapple chunk from his ‘secret store’ and beginning to feel a bit more human.

  ‘Right,’ he said, easing himself down next to me on his two walking sticks. ‘Ta ke a deep breath and tell me all about it.’

  And I still couldn’t do it, but at least I could tell him part of the truth, the part I wasn’t ashamed about. ‘I don’t want you to die, Granddad.’

  ‘We all have to die sometime, m’boy. It’s the only unavoidable fact of life.’

  ‘What am I going to do after school?’

  I realised straightaway how selfish it sounded. Granddad just smiled and offered me another pineapple chunk. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something. Your dad’ll be back soon anyway, but a lad like you must have plenty of pals. How about the bespectacled youth who had such fun with my wheelchair at the Christmas Bazaar? What was his name again?’

  ‘Alex,’ I mumbled, taking a pineapple chunk, keen to change the subject. ‘Are you frightened, Granddad?’

  At first, he opened his mouth and no sound came out.

  When at last he did speak, he couldn’t seem to look me in the eye. ‘No, no . . . of course not.’

  ‘I wish I was brave like you.’

  ‘Read the rest of my story, Sam, then you’ll see how brave I really am.’

  ‘I already know how brave you are.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll do it,’ he said, squeezing my hand so it hurt. ‘There isn’t a great deal of time, and you have to know the truth before I —’

  ‘I promise.’ I wanted to ask him if he believed in life after death and all that stuff, but it didn’t seem like a very polite question for someone who was convinced he was dying. ‘What shall I bring you tomorrow?’

  ‘How about a nice tin of corned beef?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Granddad. See you tomorrow, yeah?’

  ‘God willing,’ he said, giving me a prickly kiss on the cheek. ‘Perhaps then you’ll be able to tell me what’s really bothering you.’

  ‘Bye then,’ I said, making for the door before he could ask me any more questions. ‘Hope The Weakest Link’s good today.’

  ‘Oh and Sam?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve tried to record everything just as I remember it, but when it comes to the naval part, I’ve had to use a bit of artistic licence.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your average sailor’s language was rather colourful, to say the least, and I was no different of course. My poor old hands are painful enough without having to type an obscenity every second word. So you’ll just have to imagine them, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s OK, Granddad, I have to do exactly the same thing when I tell Mum about school.’

  9.15 p.m.

  ‘Which reminds me,’ said Mum, managing to tear herself away from the TV for two seconds, ‘your new girlfriend keeps calling.’

  ‘Sure it wasn’t Alex?’ I said hopefully.

  ‘No, Lexie would have said something, whereas your little lady friend just keeps hanging up on me. I tried dialling 1471, but all I get is The caller withheld their number.’

  I didn’t exactly need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce the identity of the mystery caller. But how had The Emperor got hold of our phone number? Mum had gone ex-directory when her clients kept ringing up and swearing at her. ‘Perhaps it was a wrong number.’

  ‘What, eight times? I don’t think so.’ She stopped smiling and switched on her serious face. ‘Tell her I’m not an ogre, Sammy. Te ll her I’m actually a pretty cool mum.’

  I made a mental note that if I ever got a real girlfriend I’d keep her away from Mum as long as possible. ‘Yes OK, I’ll do that.’

  ‘Anyway, how was school?’

 
The worst thing I could have done was blab to her about The Emperor.Two seconds later she’d have frogmarched me into school demanding a meeting with Mrs Baxter, the head of Year Eight, and that would only have made things worse. The trouble was, she’s a brilliant interrogator, and if I’d stuck around much longer she’d have been sure to wheedle it out of me.

  ‘School was . . . all right. I went to the Homework Club.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘I might go up to bed, Mum. I promised Granddad I’d read some more of his story. ’

  ‘Why don’t you do it down here?’

  ‘It’s all about the war, sounds quite interesting.’

  ‘I suppose he’s been telling you how he defeated Adolf Hitler single-handedly. No wonder your father’s always trying to prove what a man he is.’ She slid up the sofa towards me. ‘Come on, Sammy. I’ll make you a hot chocolate with marshmallows in.’

  See what I mean about being a brilliant interrogator?

  ‘No, you’re all right, Mum. I just want to be on my own for a bit.’

  She slapped her forehead, like people do when they suddenly realise they’ve been stupid. ‘Yes, of course you do. What am I thinking of? You don’t want to be sitting down here with your old mother, do you?’

  ‘It’s not that . . .’

  ‘I understand,’ she said, sounding like a character from a terrible PSHE video. ‘You’re going to be wanting your privacy a lot more from now on. It’s something your father really should have talked to you about, but I think I’ve got a book somewhere.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I —’

  ‘Don’t be silly it’s me that should . . .’ Her bottom lip trembled as she waved me away. ‘Off you go then, Sammy. I’ll pop in and say goodnight later. But don’t worry, I promise I’ll knock first.’

  Sliding Off

  the Edge of the World

  HMS RALEIGH (NAVAL TRAINING CAMP) MAY-JUNE 1943

  Tommy and I were oppos from the start. It was the kind of friendship that only happens once in a lifetime. Perhaps you haven’t found a best pal yet, but believe me, Sam, you’ll know when you do. We were that close we could almost read each other’s minds. Me and Tommy told each other everything. (I believe I even confessed to being a little scared.) There were no secrets between us. How could there be when we knew each other so well?