Authors: Robert Muchamore
‘Bit of peeled skin but you’re not too bad,’ the nurse said. ‘How do you feel?’
‘My throat,’ Marc croaked. ‘It’s hard to breathe.’
‘Drink some water,’ she urged, as she handed over a metal canteen. ‘I expect you’ve inhaled a lot of smoke.’
Marc coughed violently as he tipped up the canteen. He was shocked to see blistered skin on the back of his hands. It didn’t hurt, but only because he was in shock.
Out in the street a fire crew got their hose running and began aiming water through the second-floor windows. Marc spotted the elderly officer he’d dragged down the stairs going towards an ambulance. He was weak but he stepped into the ambulance with only minimal assistance from the firemen standing on either side of him.
The nurse stood up quickly when she sighted an ambulance crew. ‘This lad’s got small burns and smoke inhalation,’ she explained, as the ground throbbed from a bomb going off in the distance. ‘Get him on a stretcher and take him to hospital.’
‘I can walk,’ Marc said, but the nurse pushed him down as he tried to stand up. ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ she said firmly.
‘What about his parents?’ one of the ambulance women asked.
‘Charles Henderson,’ Marc said between coughs. ‘He must be around somewhere.’
Troy had a stomach full of bacon, eggs and toast as Paul led him from the farmhouse to the adjacent school building. He liked being in a place where he wasn’t scared, and the fact that Paul and McAfferty spoke fluent French. Because his English was poor, he’d not had a conversation with anyone except Mason in four months.
Mason dropped behind the older boys, then ran along the top of a low wall and jumped off, splashing down in a puddle that proved deeper than expected.
‘That’ll teach you,’ Troy laughed, before scrambling away as Mason swept his boot through the water to try and splash him.
Before the village was commandeered by the government for use as a military training zone, the two-storey schoolhouse had served pupils aged from five to fourteen in all the surrounding villages. The entrance vestibule split three ways, with the school hall directly ahead, a headmaster’s office and staffroom down a corridor on the right and four classrooms off a longer corridor to their left.
The furniture had been cleared out when the school closed but the building was immaculate, with freshly painted walls and air heavy with the tang of floor wax.
‘Mr Takada makes us keep everything down here spotless,’ Paul explained, as he led Troy and Mason up concrete steps to the first floor.
‘He’s the fitness instructor, right?’ Troy said.
‘He’s Japanese,’ Paul nodded. ‘There’s no doubt the training is making us stronger, but he’s a proper slave-driver.’
‘How long have you been training?’ Mason asked.
‘We started at a hostel north of London at the end of October. Then Superintendent McAfferty found out about this place and we moved in a few weeks later.’
By this time the three boys had reached the top of the stairs. The top floor was warm, a wireless set played big-band music and a girl of about six was belting down the corridor, shrieking and trying to hit a boy with a pillow.
Troy thought it looked OK: Paul said the training was tough, but this was clearly a place where kids were treated with respect and allowed to be themselves. There were four classrooms off the right side of the hallway. The first had been newly fitted with showers and toilets. The second classroom had
SISTERS
& JUNIORS
stencilled on the door with enamel paint. Inside were bunk beds with lines of damp washing strung between them.
‘I expect that’s where you’ll stay, Mason,’ Paul explained. ‘Sisters and little kids are in there.’
‘With girls?’ Mason complained, crinkling up his nose.
Paul pointed into a classroom filled with unused beds as they walked by. ‘That’s been assigned for training groups B and C,’ he explained. ‘Me and the five other trainees are in Group A. Troy, if you join you’ll be the third recruit for Group B. And this is my lot.
‘Evening all,’ Paul shouted, as he walked into the final classroom. ‘We’ve got new arrivals.’
The radio was turned too loud for easy conversation. There were six beds, with bodies on four of them. To create privacy the trainees had nailed sheets or old curtains to the ceiling between beds. The wall behind each semi-private den was personalised with family photos and pages torn from magazines.
The space nearest the door belonged to thirteen-year-old Luc. He wore the same shorts and striped shirt as Paul, but all comparison ended there. Where Paul was skinny, Luc hovered on the borderline between stocky and fat and his bicep swelled impressively as he gave Troy a crunching handshake.
‘Good to meet you,’ Luc said, squeezing as hard as he could.
Troy recognised the test of character and didn’t let the pain show. Mason was more easily intimidated and backed up behind his brother to avoid shaking Luc’s hand.
‘So, Paul,’ Luc said contemptuously. ‘How’s that
poor
bony little ankle of yours? How was your day playing with the spiders in the warm while we trained out guts out?’
Paul kept quiet, avoiding a reply that might have started an argument. He stepped on past a neat space with books piled under the bed and a Picasso print on the wall.
‘I’m the tidy one,’ Paul explained. ‘Marc sleeps next to me but he’s gone down to London to see the dentist. That’s Joel, over the other side. Don’t get too close because his feet stink and his farts are even worse.’
Joel threw down a comic and gave the two newcomers a wave. He was fourteen, long-limbed with a muscular torso that gave an athletic appearance. Somehow Joel had escaped the brutal haircut to which all the other boys succumbed and had scruffy blond hair sticking in all directions.
‘Lastly we have the love nest in the corner,’ Paul said, as he walked between dusty velvet curtains rescued from one of the abandoned cottages. ‘This is my sister Rosie and her Yankee lover boy PT.’
At fifteen, PT was the oldest trainee. He sat on a bed with thirteen-year-old Rosie nestled beside him. Paul’s sister bore a strong facial resemblance to him, but it ended at the neck where Rosie broadened out into heavy shoulders and eye-catching breasts.
‘Barge in, why don’t you?’ Rosie said indignantly as she shuffled away from PT. ‘Haven’t you heard of knocking?’
Paul tutted and shook his head. ‘Knock on
what
?’ he asked. ‘The curtain? And if you didn’t have the radio blaring so loud you’d have heard me introducing Troy and Mason to the other two.’
As PT got off the bed and leaned over to turn down the radio, Troy saw the huge circular scar on his upper arm.
‘Did someone shoot you?’ Troy asked.
‘I took a slug in the back while we were working undercover in France,’ PT explained.
PT’s American accent and casual phrasing made this sound absurdly macho and Rosie slapped a hand on the mattress and laughed.
‘He makes out it was
such
a big deal,’ Rosie snorted. ‘All he had was a little nick and some muscle damage.’
‘At least
he
didn’t think he was going to die when he got jam on his legs,’ Paul noted.
Mason smiled. ‘I think PT’s scar looks good. I want scars when I’m older.’
Troy and Paul both laughed.
‘If I get a chance I’ll shoot you in the head,’ Troy grinned. ‘You can have a nice scar, front and back and your brain is so small it won’t make any difference.’
‘You’re
so
funny, Troy,’ Mason said, as he noticed the striped shirt and girls’ knickers hanging from a length of washing line beside Rosie’s bed. ‘Can girls join training or not?’ he asked.
The eight-year-old had no idea how sensitive his question was.
‘Girls can’t,’ Paul said. ‘But Rosie insisted.’
‘Girls
will
be allowed,’ Rosie said firmly. ‘My training is experimental, but I’m better than the boys at most stuff. Henderson says he’ll let other girls train if I pass training and prove myself on a mission.’
Joel interrupted from the other side of the curtain. ‘It won’t prove anything,’ he shouted. ‘Rosie’s hardly a girl. She’s tougher than old boots.’
‘You know where you can stick your opinions, Joel?’ Rosie answered robustly, but Troy noticed hurt flash across her face.
‘You can come back and chat later,’ Paul told Troy, as he backed up through the curtains. ‘But we’d better sort out where you’re sleeping. I’ll find you some blankets and things and show you the Group-B bunks.’
‘I don’t want to sleep in a room with girls,’ Mason protested, as they headed back to the hallway. ‘Can’t I sleep next to Troy?’
‘You haven’t officially joined yet,’ Paul said to Troy. ‘I guess Mason can stay there, for tonight at least.’
‘I am joining,’ Troy said. ‘This is a
billion
times better than the last place we were at. I don’t mind danger or tough training, as long as people treat you decently.’
As Paul stepped into the corridor he saw Mr Takada and jolted with shock. Takada was barely taller than Troy, but his angular face and greased-back hair made him look sinister. He wore army trousers, round glasses and a white vest hugging a broad hairless chest.
Takada’s training programme was complicated by the fact that he spoke Japanese and a stilted version of English, but not a word of French, which was the native language of most trainees.
‘You are the new arrivals,’ Takada said, before giving a little bow. ‘You are welcome.’
Mason was better at English than his older brother. ‘We’re glad to be here,’ he replied.
‘I come from Japan,’ Takada said. ‘I can train you in many special techniques. My training is hard, but I accommodate you. I will be fair if you not shirk.’
Mason looked up at his brother and spoke in French. ‘Did you understand all that?’
‘I got the gist,’ Troy said, before speaking directly to Takada in English. ‘I look forward to working hard for you, sir.’
Takada smiled and bowed again, but as Paul led the boys away Takada’s tone radically altered.
‘Paul
stay
,’ Takada said firmly. ‘You two await him in classroom B.’
Paul looked warily at Takada as Troy and Mason disappeared into the classroom.
‘How is your ankle? Better I think?’
‘Not too bad,’ Paul said, as he lifted his left leg off the ground and grimaced as he flexed his foot up and down. ‘It’s improving. Hopefully I’ll be able to get back in training early next week.’
‘I see,’ Takada said. ‘Because I feel you greatly exaggerate your injury.’
‘I haven’t,’ Paul squirmed, as his voice rose several octaves. ‘Did Luc tell you that? Because you know he doesn’t like me. He’s just stirring up trouble.’
Takada tapped two fingers on his glasses. ‘With my own eyes!’ he said angrily. ‘I saw you with Mrs Henderson, racing around the garden collecting food for her spiders. You ran
very
well.’
‘Oh,’ Paul said, as his jaw dropped. ‘The thing is, I get twinges. It comes and goes.’
Takada smiled. ‘You
will
resume training tomorrow with the others and I’ll report your mischief to Superintendent McAfferty.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Paul said curtly. He didn’t dare smile, but McAfferty was a softie when it came to discipline. He reckoned he’d get away with a stiff lecture on taking responsibility and working as a team.
‘And rather than always doing your combat training with Marc, you’ll be working with Luc for tomorrow’s session.’
Paul spluttered with shock. ‘But Luc’s
enormous
, sir, and he doesn’t like me. He’ll squish me like a bug!’
Takada raised one eyebrow mischievously. ‘Trainees must not lie to me,’ he stated. ‘And what’s that English saying? Whatever doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger.’
‘Please be reasonable, sir,’ Paul begged. ‘I’ll run laps, or scrub the corridors. But I’m skinny! I mean, have you seen the size of Luc’s muscles?’
‘Oh yes,’ Takada nodded. ‘He’s very much stronger than you are. But you lied your way out of two days’ training and you’ll repay dishonour with pain and sweat!’
Marc often dreamed about the fall of France. Bombs and bodies flashed through his mind’s eye, but that night stirred fresh memories. A tyre yard had caught fire while he’d been staying in Paris six months earlier. His sore throat and the rubber seal on his oxygen mask triggered the memory of acrid smoke and he kept waking up, clutching his throat and gasping for air.
‘You need to calm down,’ the ward sister told him. ‘You’re safe here.’
But sleep kept taking Marc into the same choking dream. Eventually the sister rolled him on his stomach and injected his backside with a sedative. The next time Marc awoke sunlight blazed through a huge window and his scalded forehead and bandaged right hand seared with pain. His gums had continued to bleed, leaving hardened blood stuck to the roof of his mouth, while his throat felt like it had been rubbed with a cheese grater.
‘Christ,’ Marc croaked, touching his throat with his unbandaged hand as he blinked glueyness out of his eyes.
‘Morning, skipper,’ Henderson said, as Marc coughed. ‘Would you like some water?’
Marc took the glass uncertainly. The water helped his dry mouth, but swallowing was excruciating. He noticed that he’d been moved into a single room, presumably because his nightmares had disturbed the other patients.
‘Can you remember everything?’ Henderson asked.
Marc nodded. ‘Did the fire … I mean, the old man?’
‘The man you rescued is alive, but quite sick. He’s downstairs in a high-dependency ward. The Empire and India club bought it, I’m sorry to say. The fire crew reckoned there were paint cans and linseed oil in the loft. When the incendiary burned through the whole lot exploded.’
Marc nodded. ‘There was a big flash.’
‘We made a human chain and rescued most of the club library and the contents of the wine cellar.’
‘Did you get out OK?’
‘I’m bloody well ashamed of myself,’ Henderson admitted, as he placed a hand on his brow. ‘I was pitifully drunk and had to be helped down the stairs. I didn’t even think of you until we were all across the street in the air-raid shelter.’