The Dealer

by Robert Muchamore

  He ripped off a monster belch that echoed down the corridor. James giggled and responded with a tiny burp.

  “Pathetic,” Keith said. “Check this out.”

  Keith tipped back his head to drain his can, then rolled out the longest, loudest belch James had ever heard. An elderly American was toddling along the corridor. She had giant rectangular sunglasses and the wrinkled face of somebody who’d spent too much of her life in the sun.

  “Why don’t you mind your damn manners?” she said furiously.

  “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Keith said, giggling as he gently cuffed James around the back of the head. “I’m make sure the boy doesn’t do it again.”

  “It wasn’t me,” James gasped, struggling to keep a straight face.

  The woman shuffled a few more steps and stopped outside her room. As she rummaged through her handbag for the plastic card that unlocked her door, Keith stepped into the corridor and belched again. It wasn’t as big as the first two, but it was still loud. James couldn’t control himself and started howling with laughter. The woman scowled so hard, he half expected laser beams to shoot out of her eyes.

  “This hotel used to attract decent people,” she shouted. “Why don’t you act your age?”

  Her door slammed. James and Keith stood there laughing for about ten minutes. James got it so bad his sides started hurting.

  Keith looked at his watch. “You better get back to bed, it’s gone midnight and we’re doing another theme part tomorrow.”

  James crept back into his room, being careful not to wake up Junior. He took a quick pee before sliding between his sheets. He was tired, but his brain kept churning over as he lay away, listening to Junior’s gentle breathing.

  James wondered if Keith really was planning to do a runner. It seemed sad that a guy who’d been showing him the time of his life was facing a choice between twenty years in prison and running off and never seeing his family again. James asked himself what he’d do if he saw Keith making a run for it. Would he grab his mobile the second he realized, or give Keith time to get away?

  • • •

  They left the hotel early next morning and went to DisneyWorld, then spent the afternoon cooling off at a water park. It was getting dark by the time they left Orlando for the five-hour drive back to Miami.

  James woke up late Thursday morning on his four-poster bed in the Miami house. He was on top of his duvet, wearing the trainers and clothes he’d had on the day before. The last thing he could remember was falling asleep in the backseat of the car. He needed a shower and his mouth tasted like a sewer, but before any of that, he scrambled downstairs to see if Keith was still around.

  George, Keith, and Junior sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, wearing swimming shorts and watching a daytime talk show.

  “Here’s sleeping beauty,” Keith said.

  Junior started to laugh.

  “What?” James asked.

  “I pinched your cheek and everything,” Keith said, “but you didn’t bat an eyelid. I had to get George to carry you upstairs and dump you on your bed.”

  “All red-faced and tired-out,” Junior giggled. “You looked like a little angel.”

  “I can’t remember a thing,” James gasped. “God . . . That’s so embarrassing.”

  “It’s all those midnight phone calls,” Keith said. “You’re not getting enough sleep.”

  James had a mental jolt. He’d missed his nightly call and John Jones might be worried.

  “I better go freshen up,” James said.

  As soon as he got to his room, he found the overnight bag he’d taken to Orlando and grabbed his mobile. He tried to switch it on, but the battery was dead. He hunted around the room until he found his charger and his American socket adapter. The phone bleeped to life as soon as it was plugged in.

  “Rip Van Winkle,” John Jones said. “How you feeling?”

  “Don’t you start,” James said. “How did you know about that?”

  “When it got to one in the morning and I still hadn’t heard from you, I got worried. We got a track on your mobile phone signal and realized you were driving back from Orlando. Then your mobile stopped transmitting.”

  “It went flat,” James explained. “I forgot to take my charger with me.”

  “Pretty basic operational mistake, James,” John said, tutting. “But I guess we have to make allowances for the fact you’re thirteen years old.”

  “I’m glad you make allowances at MI5,” James laughed. “Nobody from CHERUB ever does.”

  “Anyway, I thought I’d better check you were OK, so I hid in the bushes out back and watched George carry you out of the car. You looked like you were six years old, all bundled up in his big fat arms.”

  “I’m never gonna live this down,” James said. “So, apart from me making an idiot of myself, nothing much happened yesterday. What about your end?”

  “The Yanks want to help us watch Keith, but they don’t have the manpower. We think we’ve got enough evidence to convict Keith on tax evasion and money-laundering charges, but that’s only worth a two- to five-year sentence. We wanted to wait until we could bust him on drug charges, but with no twenty-four-hour surveillance and the risk of Keith running off for good, we’ve decided to move now.”

  “Extradition?” James asked.

  “That’s right, James. Bedfordshire Police will be contacting the DEA later today, asking them to arrest Keith on money-laundering charges and send him back to Britain. We have to present evidence to an American judge before they issue an arrest warrant. It’ll take a day or so to get the paperwork together and organize the hearing.”

  “So you’re hoping Keith doesn’t leg it in the meantime.”

  “Exactly,” John said. “And one final thing. I got a message from Zara. Dr. McAfferty has decided to pull the CHERUB side of this operation whether or not Keith Moore is in jail. Tell Junior and Keith that Ewart’s been offered a better job and you’re all moving back to London.”

  Chapter 29

  NIGHT

  That night James ended up in Junior’s room watching a horror film on DVD. James got up to go back to his room when it finished.

  “That sofa pulls out,” Junior said. “You can sleep in here if you want.”

  James smiled. “Scared of being on your own? Think that guy with the bloody ax might come bursting through your window?”

  “No,” Junior said defensively. “I just thought we could talk and stuff.”

  James fetched his duvet and pillows while Junior pulled out the sofa bed. They switched the light off and lay in the dark talking. “If you could have any car in the world, what would it be? What if you could live anywhere you wanted?”

  “Would you stick your tongue up a dog’s arse for a million pounds?” Junior asked.

  James thought for a couple of seconds. “Yes.”

  Junior started rolling about laughing. “EUGHH, James. You filthy animal.”

  “It’s OK for you,” James said, laughing. “Your dad’s loaded already. But a million pounds would change my life. I’d never have to go to work. I could have a decent house and a cool car and stuff.”

  “What if you had to do it on TV and everyone knew about it?”

  “Doesn’t make any difference,” James said. “A million would set you up for life.”

  “OK,” Junior said. “What’s the least amount? Would you do it for ten thousand?”

  “No way.”

  “What then?”

  “I dunno,” James said. “Half a million, maybe . . .”

  An arc of light burst into the room and Keith’s head appeared in the doorway.

  “Come on, guys,” Keith said. “Be sensible. It’s one in the morning. We’re going out early tomorrow and you two are gonna be wasted. Calm down and go to sleep.”

  Both boys struggled to stop laughing.

  “Good night, Dad,” Junior said.

  “Get some sleep,” Keith said firmly.

  He closed the door. The
boys waited until they were fairly sure Keith was in his bedroom.

  Junior sounded sad. “You know,” he whispered, “if you’re moving back to London, I’ll probably never see you or Nicole again.”

  “I’ll miss you as well,” James said. “You’re one of the best mates I’ve ever had.”

  “Maybe we could visit each other in the holidays,” Junior said.

  “Maybe,” James said, although he knew it could never happen. “It’s only half an hour on the train to London. You know what else?”

  “What?” Junior asked.

  “I was looking forward to boxing against you.”

  Junior thought for a second. “Do you want to fight right now?”

  “Your dad will go psycho,” James said.

  “There’s gloves that go with the punchbag downstairs in the gym. We can fight on the beach in the moonlight. You can’t see from the house if you stay down near the sea.”

  “OK,” James said, sitting up on the sofa bed and smiling. “Just don’t start bawling to Daddy when I punch the snot out of you.”

  Junior sneered. “You talk pretty big for someone who’s only ever done sparring.”

  Junior flicked on the lamp beside his bed and put on his watch. Both boys slipped on shorts and trainers. They sneaked downstairs and got the gloves. James was surprised when he saw how small they were.

  “These are pro-weight,” Junior whispered. “Much less padding than for amateur boxing. You really feel a sting if you get hit with one of these.”

  “Are there head guards?” James asked.

  “We’re fighting like men,” Junior said. “No finger tape, no head guards, no gum shields, pro-gloves. Not chicken, are you?”

  James was starting to wonder if fighting was a good idea. The CHERUB staff wouldn’t be impressed if he got himself injured in an unnecessary midnight boxing match, but he was too proud to back down.

  They walked through to the living room and got a fright when George let out a loud snore. He’d fallen asleep in front of the TV. Junior quietly slid one of the French doors open and they jumped off the decking onto the beach.

  The tide was on its way out. The moon was bright and the wet sand near the sea squelched under their trainers. Junior used a stick to draw the outline of a lopsided boxing ring, before setting his watch to do a three-minute countdown.

  “Three rounds, lasting three minutes each,” Junior said. “If you go down three times you’re out of the fight.”

  James felt nervous as he pulled his second glove on with his teeth.

  “Go to your corner,” Junior said.

  When Junior’s stopwatch bleeped, the two boys charged forward and started throwing punches. With amateur gloves, even a full-force punch barely hurts, but Junior’s first barrage with the professional gloves connected hard. One punch knocked James off balance. He couldn’t catch his breath as he stumbled backwards. Junior sunk a blow below the elastic of James’s shorts, doubling him over. Junior’s next punch caught James in the side of the head. He splattered helplessly into the damp sand.

  “Low blow,” James wheezed, clutching his abdomen.

  The fight had only been going a few seconds, but it was a warm night and both boys were pouring sweat.

  “It wasn’t low,” Junior said. “That counts as my first knockdown.”

  James clambered to his feet. He usually loved the rush you got during a fight, but Junior was fast and strong. James had a nasty feeling he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

  “So we’re fighting dirty, are we?” he said, holding back a burst of anger. “That’s fine by me.”

  He threw a fast punch. Junior wasn’t ready and the thinly padded glove smashed into his nose. James’s next shot was an uppercut that snapped back Junior’s head.

  “Stop,” Junior shouted, groaning in pain as he wrapped his arms over his face. “Jesus Christ . . . You idiot.”

  “What?” James asked.

  “You’ve got sand in your gloves. It’s gone in my eye.”

  Junior tore off a glove and started rubbing his eye.

  “Sorry,” James said. “I never realized. Are you OK?”

  Junior broke into an uneasy smile as he blinked out the sand.

  “You know what?” he said. “I blame the idiot who thought up this stupid idea in the first place.”

  James laughed. “That would be you.”

  “Call it a draw, eh, James?”

  “Fair enough,” James said. “Now we know why they don’t have beach boxing.”

  “I’m going for a swim,” Junior said, kicking off his trainers. “I need to wash all this sweat off.”

  James thought he heard a banging sound as he pulled off his gloves.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What?” Junior asked.

  “I thought I heard something up in the house.”

  Junior smiled. “Maybe George woke up and fell off the sofa.”

  “Yeah,” James laughed. “Either that or they’ve set loose the ax-wielding maniac from that movie.”

  Junior waded into the sea and dived forward, turning a somersault underwater. James pushed off backwards and let a wave wash him back towards the beach.

  “You ever had a nightmare after watching a scary movie?” Junior asked.

  “You know the film Seven?” James asked as he bobbed in the surf.

  “I love that movie,” Junior said. “It’s totally sick.”

  “When my mum was alive, I showed off until she let me watch the video. I woke up in a state and climbed in her bed. My sister, Lauren, heard about it and didn’t stop ribbing me for about a week.”

  “Your sister?” Junior said, surprised.

  “I mean cousin,” James said, nervously covering his mistake. “It was the summer holidays and Lauren was staying at our house.”

  “Ringo used to tease me when I was little,” Junior said. “I’d ask him to put on my Pingu video and he’d stick on The Terminator to scare me.”

  “We better go to bed,” James said, as he picked his boxing gloves off the sand and slid his wet feet inside his trainers. “I’m looking forward to the air-boat ride tomorrow.”

  “We never usually do half the cool stuff we’ve done this week,” Junior said. “My dad really likes you for some reason.”

  James thought Keith was spoiling them because he was planning to disappear in a few days and would most likely never see Junior again. As they walked towards the house in their dripping shorts, Junior turned around and started walking backwards, staring at the moonlit sea.

  “Just think,” he said, spreading his arms out wide. “If you count the time difference between here and London, in less than three days’ time we’ll be getting up for another miserable Monday at Gray Park School.”

  “Cheer us up, why don’t you?” James said. “Is your eye OK now?”

  “Stings a bit,” Junior said. “I wish we could have had a proper fight.”

  James clambered onto the wooden decking at the back door of the house and put his foot inside the sliding door. His trainer slipped in something wet. He rested his palm on the wall to steady himself. The light was on in the kitchen and George’s body had rolled off the sofa on the floor.

  “Something’s going on,” James said edgily.

  Junior grinned. “What is it, the ax murderer?”

  “I’m serious,” James said, lifting his trainer out of the sticky liquid.

  He felt like his head was going to explode when he realized it was blood.

  “Give over, James,” Junior said. “You’re not scaring me.”

  Junior stepped through the door and noticed George on the floor.

  “He really did fall off the sofa,” Junior laughed.

  James crouched down and clicked on a table lamp. Junior saw George was dead, realized his trainers were planted in a puddle of blood, and let out a massive scream.

  Chapter 30

  BODY

  James was still haunted by the cold touch of his mother’s fin
gers the night he found her dead in front of the TV. George’s body didn’t affect him the same way, though the sight was more horrible. There was blood seeping from a bullet wound under his shirt. It was draining down a hanging arm and along the joins in the floor tiles, creating a grid of red lines leading to the pool of blood by the sliding doors.

  James felt like everything was happening in slow motion. He could feel every vibration in Junior’s screams and watch the droplets of saliva spraying out of his mouth.

  James had a theory: Keith had shot George for betraying him, then disappeared. But the theory sprang apart as he crept across the room and stared down the hallway through the half-open kitchen door. Three armed men had Keith Moore pinned on a stool at the breakfast bar. It looked like they’d roughed him up.

  “Leave the boys,” Keith shouted when he heard Junior scream. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  James knew he had only milliseconds before one of the men beating up Keith came out of the kitchen pointing a gun at him and Junior. He turned back to Junior, who stood rigid in the doorway, staring at George’s body.

  “Run!” James shouted. “Get help.”

  Junior snapped out of his panic long enough to hear the order. He jumped off the wooden decking and began sprinting down the beach. James hoped he’d have the sense to run to one of the neighboring houses and call the police.

  James planned to follow Junior, but a thuggish-looking guy emerged from the kitchen before he got the chance. James could see tattoos through the sweat-drenched vest clinging to his skin.

  “Get here, kid!” he shouted, sliding out the pistol tucked into his jeans.

  James burst through the nearest door, into the front living room where Keith kept his hi-fi and record collection.

  “Hey!” the man shouted furiously. “You wanna mess with me? I’ll kill you before you reach the door.”

  He sounded Mexican or something. James didn’t know what the men wanted from Keith, but they’d shown they were prepared to kill and he didn’t fancy being their next victim. He thought about climbing out of the window, but the room only had a long narrow window up near the ceiling. He’d never get through before the man shot him.

  There was a key inside the door. Turning the lock bought James a few seconds. He pushed an armchair against the door as the gunman rattled the handle on the outside. James desperately needed some kind of weapon.