They were at the top of the steps when the first bomb hit the allotments.

They were jumping behind the wall when the second and third bombs hit the pickle factory.

They were landing on the grass as the bombs marched up the street and filled the air with a noise so loud it couldn't be heard and a light so white it came right through the eyelids, and then the roar picked up the ground and shook it like a blanket.

That was the worst part, Wobbler said later. And it was hard to find the worst part because all the others were so bad. But the ground should be the ground, there, solid, dependably under you. It shouldn't drop away and then come back up and hit you so hard.

Then there was a sound like a swarm of angry bees.

And then there was just the clink of collapsing brickwork and the crackle of fires.

Wobbler raised his head, very slowly.

"Ugh," he said.

There were no leaves on the trees behind them. And the trunks sparkled.

He got up very slowly, and reached out.

It was glass. Bits of glass studded the whole trunk of the tree. There were no leaves any more. Just glass.

Beside him, Bigmac got to his feet like someone in a dream.

A flying pan had hit the church door so hard that it had been driven in halfway, like a very domesticated martial arts weapon. A stone doorstep had smashed a chunk out of the brickwork.

And everywhere there was glass, crunching underfoot like permanent hail. It glittered on the walls, reflecting the fires in the ruins. There seemed far too much to be from just a few house windows.

And then it began to rain.

First it rained vinegar.

And then it rained pickles.

There was red liquid all over Bigmac. He licked a finger and then held it up.

"Tomato sauce!"

A gherkin bounced off Wobbler's head.

Bigmac started to laugh. People can start laughing for all sorts of reasons. But sometimes they laugh because, against all expectations, They're still alive and have a mouth left to laugh with.

"You-" he tried to say, "You- you- you want fries with that?"

It was the funniest thing Wobbler had ever heard. Right now it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said anywhere. He laughed until the tears ran down his face and mingled with the mustard pickle.

From somewhere in the shadows by the wall a small voice said, "Ere, did anyone get any shrapnel?"

Bigmac started to laugh on top of the laugh he was already laughing, which caused a sound like a boiler trying not to burst.

"What, what, what's shrapnel anyway?" he managed to say.

"It's ... It's ... It's bits of bomb!"

"You want fries with that?" said Bigmac, and almost collapsed with laughing.

The siren sang out again. But this time it wasn't the rising and falling wail but one long tone, which eventually died away.

"They're coming back!" said Wobbler. The laughter drained out of him as though a trapdoor had been opened.

"Nah, that's the All Clear," said the voice by the wall. "Don't you know nuffin'?"

Wobbler's grandfather stood up and looked down the length of what had once been Paradise Street.

"Cor!" he said, obviously impressed.

There wasn't a whole house left standing. Roofs had gone, windows had blown out. Half of the buildings had simply vanished into rubble, which spilled across the street.

Bells rang in the distance. Two fire engines skidded to a halt right outside the church. An ambulance pulled up behind them.

"You want-" Bigmac began.

"Shut up, will you?" said Wobbler.

There were fires everywhere. Big fires, little fires. The pickle factory was well alight and smelled like the biggest fish and chip shop in the world.

People were running from every direction. Some of them were pulling at the rubble. There was a lot of shouting.

"I suppose everyone ... would've got out, right?" said Wobbler. "They would have got out, wouldn't they?"

The siren's wail slowed to a growl and then a clicking noise, and then stopped.

Johnny felt as though his feet weren't exactly on the ground. If he were any lighter he'd float away.

"They must have got out. They had nearly a whole minute," he said.

The sergeant had already headed toward Paradise Street. The three of them had been left with Tom and the captain, who was watching Johnny thoughtfully.

Things pattered onto the roof of the police station and bounced down into the street. Yoless picked one up.

"Pickled onions?" he said.

They could see the flames over the rooftops.

"So ... " said the captain. "You were right. A bit of an adventure, yes? And this is where I say "Well done, chums", isn't it ... "

He walked to the yard door and shut it. Then he turned.

"I can't let you go," he said. "You must know that. You were with that other boy, weren't you. The one with the strange devices."

There seemed no point in denying it.

"Yes," said Johnny.

"I think you might know a lot of things. Things that we need. And we certainly need them. Perhaps you know that?" He sighed. "I don't like this. You may have saved some lives tonight. But It's possible that you could save a lot more. Do you understand?"

"We won't tell you anything," said Kirsty.

"Just name, rank and serial number, eh?" said the captain.

"Supposing we ... did know things," said Johnny. "It wouldn't do you any good. And those things won't help, either. They won't make the war better; They'll just make it different. Everything happens somewhere."

"Right now, I think we'd settle for different. We've got some very clever men," said the captain.

"Please, captain." It was Tom.

"Yes?"

"They didn't have to do all this, sir. I mean, they came and told us about the bombing, didn't they? And ... I don't know how they got me down here, sir, but they did. "S not right to put them in prison, sir."

"Oh, not prison," said the captain. "A country house somewhere. Three square meals a day. And lots of people who'll want to talk to them."

Kirsty burst into tears.

"Now, no-one's going to hurt you, little girl," said the captain. He moved over and put his arm around her shaking shoulders.

Johnny and Yoless looked at one another, and took a few steps backwards.

"It's all right," said the captain. "We just need to know some things, that's all. Things that may be going to happen."

"Well, one thing... " sobbed Kirsty, "one thing ... one thing that's going to happen is ... one thing is ..."

"Yes?" said the captain.

Kirsty reached out and took his hand. Then her leg shot out and she pivoted, hauling on the man's arm. He somersaulted over her shoulder and landed on his back on the cobbles. Even as he tried to struggle upright she was spinning around again, and caught him full in the chest with a foot. He slumped backwards.

Kirsty straightened her hat and nodded at the others.

"Chauvinist. Honestly, It's like being back with the dinosaurs. Shall we go?" she said.

Tom backed away.

"Where do girls learn to do that?" he said.

"At school," said Johnny. "You'd be amazed."

Kirsty reached down and took the captain's pistol.

"Oh, no," said Yoless. "Not guns! You can get into real trouble with guns!"

"I happen to be the under-18 county champion," said Kirsty, unloading the gun. "But I'm not intending to use it. I just don't want him to get excited." She threw the pistol behind some dustbins. "Now, are we going, or what?"

Johnny looked around at Tom.

"Sorry about this," he said. "Can you, er, explain things to him when he wakes up?"

"I wouldn't know how to start! I don't know what happened myself!"

"Good," said Kirsty firmly.

"I mean, did I run down here or not?" said Tom. "I thought I saw the bombing but - I must've imagined it, because it didn't happen until after we got here!"

"It was probably the excitement," said Yoless.

"The mind plays strange tricks," said Kirsty.

They both glared at Johnny.

"Don't look at me," he said. "I don't know anything about anything."

Up Another Leg

What Bigmac said afterwards was that he'd never intended to help. It had been like watching a film until he'd seen people scrabbling at the wreckage. Then he'd stepped through the screen.

Fireman were pouring water on the flames. People were pulling at fallen timbers, or moving gingerly through each stricken house, calling out names - in a strange, polite way, in the circumstances.

"Yoo-hoo, Mr Johnson?"

"Excuse me, Mrs Density, are you there?"

"Mrs Williams? Anyone?"

And Wobbler said afterwards that he could remember three things. One was the strange metallic clinking sound bricks make as piles of them slide around. One was the smell of wet burnt wood. And one was the bed. The blast had taken off the roof and half the walls of a house but there was a double bed hanging out over the road. It even still had the sheets on it. It creaked up and down in the wind.

The two boys scrambled over the sliding rubble until they reached a back garden. Glass and bricks covered everything.

An elderly man wearing a nightshirt tucked into his trousers was standing and staring at the wreckage on his garden.

"Well, that's my potatoes gone," he said. "It was late frost last year, and now this."

"Still," said Bigmac, in a mad cheerful voice, "you've got a nice crop of pickled cucumbers."

"Can't abide 'em. Pickles give me wind."

Fences had been laid flat. Sheds had been lifted up and dealt like cards across the gardens.

And, as though the All Clear had been the Last Trump, people were rising out of the ground.

"I just hope the others are still there," said Kirsty, as they ran through the streets.

"What do you think?" said Yoless.

"Sorry?"

"I mean, maybe They're sitting quietly waiting for us or They've got into some kind of trouble. Bets?"

Kirsty slowed down.

"Hang on a minute," she said. "There's something I've got to know. Johnny?"

"Yes?" he said. He'd been dreading this moment. Kirsty asked such penetrating questions.