Secret Army

by Robert Muchamore

  More interestingly, a girl sat on the bed across the room, smoking a cigarette and dressed only in a black bra and knickers. She was about the same age as the teenager they’d seen pegging up the washing earlier, and although she was unlikely to win any beauty contests she was still an illicit thrill for three lads who’d only managed a couple of snogs between them.

  ‘Come on, baby,’ Luc whispered. ‘I have the power to control your mind! You will turn around slightly and take off your bra so that we can see your sweet, sweet boobies.’

  Joel laughed, but Marc shushed him because the woman’s head was so close. A taller girl in knickers and the top half of her WAAF uniform strolled across and asked the smoker for a cigarette.

  The boys got a good view of her bum as she bent over to get a light.

  ‘I want the tall one,’ Marc smiled. ‘She’s got nice ankles.’

  ‘Ankles,’ Luc scoffed. ‘Who gives a darn about ankles?’

  As he said this, a shout came up from behind. ‘Oi! What are you playing at?’

  Marc jumped with fright, and in doing so smacked his head on the window frame.

  The woman reading the paperback looked around and screamed out, ‘Peeping bloody Tom!’

  Luc swore as he saw an RAF policeman with a huge black-and-gold Alsatian. The dog made its introduction with three huge barks.

  ‘This isn’t good,’ Joel said, as Marc started legging it across the grass.

  ‘Halt!’ the policeman shouted. ‘Stop now, or I’ll release the dog!’

  Joel had done enough training exercises to know that he could run faster than Luc. He figured that the dog would sink its teeth into whatever butt it encountered first and decided to run.

  The Alsatian panted with excitement as the policeman let it off its leash. Marc had scrambled around the hut and was running away at full pelt, but as Joel turned the corner a broom handle smashed into his knees and sent him sprawling face first into the dewy grass.

  He rolled on to his back in time to receive a second swipe from the broom. The two girls who’d been smoking loomed over him dressed in bathrobes. The shorter one brandished the broom, while the tall one stood with her hands on her hips. Marc had been right: her ankles looked even better from close up.

  ‘Grubby little urchin!’ the short one said in a Birmingham accent, as she gave Joel another whack with the broom. ‘You come round here again I’ll chop your bloody bits off.’

  The taller girl pushed her away and spoke with a Scottish accent. ‘He’s just a curious wee lad,’ she said. ‘Now get up and piss off back to your hut before she gives you another clump.’

  The grass was covered with frozen dew. Joel was soaking wet and shuddered as he stood up.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said meekly. ‘It wasn’t my idea.’

  He looked anxiously for any sign of the RAF policeman or the Alsatian before setting off back towards the hut at a jog. After ten paces he heard Luc screaming from somewhere out near the runway.

  ‘AAAAARGH, Jesus Christ. My arm! My arm! Somebody get this thing off me!’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  PT woke up before six and took a wrapped package out of the suitcase under his bed. He crept across the planked floor and set the gift on the corner of Rosie’s pillow, but her left eye opened suspiciously as he backed away.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. Then she yawned, cracked a broad smile and propped herself up on one elbow.

  ‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’ PT whispered. ‘Sorry.’

  Rosie picked the rectangular gift from her pillow and tore off the brown paper. It was a notebook bound in purple cloth. She opened the cover and saw that Paul had elaborately lettered Happy Fourteenth Birthday, and everyone from campus had written their names around it.

  ‘It’s beautiful!’ Rosie said emotionally, as she leaned forwards to give PT a kiss.

  PT shrugged modestly. ‘Paul did all the hard work, though I did find the notebook on that stall when we went into town.’

  ‘He’s so talented,’ Rosie said. ‘When I draw nothing ever looks like it’s supposed to.’

  ‘Same here,’ PT said.

  Rosie sat up straight. PT perched himself on the narrow bed and Rosie experienced an odd jumble of emotions as she gave him a kiss.

  One year earlier Rosie had been a regular Paris schoolgirl. She’d spent her thirteenth birthday in Paris. After lessons her dad had taken her to a fancy patisserie with three friends and they’d acted grown up drinking coffee and eating miniature cakes from a three-tier stand in the middle of the table.

  Rosie missed her dad and felt like her childhood had ended the day he died. She attended parachute school, instead of an English-language school in Paris. Instead of her dad waking her up to say happy birthday it was her fifteen-year-old American boyfriend. She wasn’t unhappy, but with all that was happening in the world and her own life she wondered where she’d be on her next birthday. Would she even be alive to celebrate it?

  ‘Are you OK?’ PT asked, as he pulled Rosie tighter.

  PT made her feel secure and she smiled at him. ‘I’m fine.’

  The wall clock now told the right time and when Rosie realised that they’d all have to get up in a few minutes, she decided to wake her brother. There were twelve beds and only six kids, with Paul at the opposite end near Takada’s private room.

  On her way she passed Luc, asleep. He was sprawled on top of his blankets, bare-arsed and face-down. He had scratches on his shoulder and bloody bandage wound around his arm. It looked grim, but the thought of Luc getting bitten by a dog after perving at girls had made her howl with laughter the night before and she couldn’t help smiling again as she pictured the scene in her mind.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ Paul said, as Rosie gave him a hug. His eyes were all glued up but he noticed that Rosie looked upset. ‘What are you crying for?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Rosie said, half sad, half smiling, as she squeezed her brother tighter. ‘Thanks for the drawing. It’s nice having you as a little brother.’

  Paul smiled, as Joel made a retching sound in the background.

  *

  While Takada was away with Group A, Khinde and Rufus had taken over training the six members of Group B. Rufus was a slim man with a horrible smoker’s cough, so he concentrated on setting up equipment and supervising with firearms and sabotage training. Khinde dealt with fitness and combat training, but although he looked scarier than Takada he didn’t push the trainees as hard.

  Troy had been in full training for five weeks. He wasn’t the strongest of the six trainees, but physical speed and a sharp brain had marked him out as a star pupil. It was noon and he crouched behind a moss-covered stone in the graveyard fifty metres from the school building. He was cold, dirty and short of breath, but he tried not to pant because his prey was in sight.

  Joel’s brother Sam had no idea he was being watched as he ran between the trees carrying two triangular pennants mounted on short sticks. Sam was also doing well in training, but at ten years old he was younger than the others in Group B and often had to work harder than the older lads to achieve the same result.

  The rules of the flag game were simple. Six trainees were divided into two teams and sent out to hunt thirteen flags hidden throughout the village and surrounding countryside. The first team to find seven flags and return them to the yard outside the school building won the game.

  It was designed to make the trainees operate under pressure and think as a team. It was also meant to toughen them up, so the rules allowed ambushes, traps, fighting (except blows to the head and groin) and any other devious tactic that might help you to win.

  Sam was a good kid and Troy wasn’t proud of what he was going to do, but he wanted to win and Sam had been on his team in other games when they’d acted just as ruthlessly.

  At the first squelch of Troy’s boot, Sam’s head snapped around. He saw Troy spring up from behind the headstone of Lydia June Carter 1845–1899.

  Sam gasped with shock and considered turning around. T
roy assumed Sam would turn, but instead the younger boy used his forward momentum, picking up speed and charging head first into Troy’s stomach.

  Troy hadn’t expected Sam to attack, and found his feet lifted off the ground as he was driven back and slammed hard against the gravestone.

  Sam had used the surprise move to his advantage, but he was three years younger than Troy and stood no chance in a straight fight. As Troy groaned from the pain in his lower back, Sam spun away and began to sprint with the two flags clutched to his chest.

  The cemetery was overgrown and the uneven ground was covered in puddles and boggy patches. Mud spattered Sam’s trousers as he sploshed through several centimetres of filthy water. After vaulting a cracked tombstone, he looked over his shoulder and saw that Troy had recovered and was closing from less than ten metres.

  Sam lost more ground as he fiddled with the latch on the churchyard gate. He flung the gate closed as hard as he could, hoping it would hit Troy, but Troy kicked it aside with his boot.

  The churchyard and school were separated by a stretch of gravel road. Sam only had to make this distance and throw the flags into the school courtyard for the score to count for his team. But if Troy got them there would be no time to call for back-up.

  ‘Gotcha!’ Troy yelped triumphantly as he got his hands around Sam’s thighs and brought him down with a rugby tackle.

  Stones flew and gravel crunched as Sam hit the ground hard. Thick combat-style trousers protected his legs, but his hands stung as stones ripped the skin on his palms.

  Troy grabbed the stick attached to one of the flags, but Sam had a tight grip and did all he could to shield them under his body. He couldn’t beat Troy, but the tactic would buy time.

  ‘Troy’s got me!’ Sam yelled desperately. ‘I’ve got two flags but I can’t hold ’em.’

  Troy tried putting a hand over Sam’s mouth. The teams were evenly matched and as Sam was the smallest he’d been paired with two boys who’d be harder for Troy to fight off.

  ‘Shut it,’ Troy ordered, but Sam kept yelling and there was no way Troy could snatch the flags with only one free hand. Frustrated, he bunched his fist and gave Sam two hard punches in the back.

  The younger boy’s breathing jerked and Troy felt all mixed up. He was into the flag game and wanted his team to win but it didn’t seem right punching a boy three years younger.

  As Troy hesitated, Sam grabbed a sharp-edged stone that had been digging into his chest and whacked it blindly against Troy’s side. The stone caught a patch of bare skin where Troy’s shirt had ridden up during the tussle and left a two-centimetre gash close to his belly button.

  The shot of pain killed Troy’s sympathy. He pinned Sam’s arm and threw four hard punches at Sam’s back.

  ‘Let go of the flags before I really hurt you,’ Troy ordered.

  Sam was now bright red, with wet eyes and snot bubbling out of his nose, but he wasn’t giving up. ‘Somebody help me!’ he shouted again, but this time it sounded really desperate.

  ‘You’re being stupid,’ Troy reasoned. ‘Give me the flags. I don’t want to hurt you, but you’re not giving me any choice.’

  As Troy raised his fist, he saw another boy running towards him. Fourteen-year-old Yves was the last boy recruited into Group B. He was big and, while he’d never catch up over open ground, Troy didn’t fancy his chances in a straight fight.

  ‘Run away then,’ Sam taunted, as Troy rolled off him. ‘Pussy!’

  Troy was surprised by his own rage. The cut on his belly hurt. He had blood streaking down his stomach and he was severely tempted to kick Sam in the face. It was against the rules, but he could easily say it was an accident and get away with a warning. But even in victory Sam looked pathetic with his wet eyes and by the time Troy had thought about it the red mist had passed.

  As Troy dived into the bushes, Yves arrived on the scene.

  ‘Hand me the flags,’ Yves ordered.

  Sam handed them over reluctantly, because while it was a team game he’d done all the hard work and throwing in the flags was like a goal in football: everyone wanted the glory.

  Troy watched from the bushes as Sam sat up. Sam had no idea he was still nearby, so he allowed himself a couple of unguarded sobs as he sat inspecting the grazes down his arms.

  But Sam was tough. He’d survived worse, and Yves snatching the flags away annoyed him more than his injuries.

  The flag game had been running for ninety minutes. Sam and Troy were relieved when a large gong sounded from the school courtyard. It echoed over hundreds of metres and meant that one team had delivered seven flags, ending the game.

  ‘You’re a tough little sod,’ Troy said admiringly, as he came out of the bushes and looked at Sam.

  Sam was startled and realised there was no way to disguise his tears. ‘That game lasted for ever,’ he complained, before he saw the blood soaking through Troy’s shirt. ‘Oh shit, did I cut you badly?’

  ‘No worse than those punches I threw,’ Troy said, as the pair started a slow trudge towards the school. ‘I wish we were more evenly matched. It doesn’t seem fair when I have to ambush you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sam agreed, as his boots crunched on the gravel. ‘But I suppose it’s kind of the point: we’re training for real life and that’s not fair either.’

  Group B’s day had started five hours earlier with a training run and, now that the adrenalin rush of the flag game had worn off, the two bleeding trainees barely had the energy to put one foot in front of another.

  Two other trainees swung their legs over the wall and dropped into the school courtyard as Sam and Troy made a more conventional entrance through the back gate.

  Rufus stood in the doorway shouting instructions. ‘Wash and shower. The game overran, so hurry up unless you want a cold lunch.’

  Yves was all smiles when he saw Sam. ‘You did great, little man! Seven to three, we killed them.’

  Sam scowled at him. ‘Fantastic.’

  Yves was genuinely mystified. ‘What?’

  Sam tutted and headed into the doorway where he started undoing the mud-encrusted laces of his boots.

  ‘You’re a decent guy, Yves,’ Troy explained. ‘But you’re thick sometimes: you should have picked Sam up and let him throw the flags.’

  ‘Oh!’ Yves gasped. Then he rushed over to Sam and apologised.

  As Troy started undoing his boots, McAfferty came out of her office to greet him. ‘Troy,’ she said warmly, ‘I know you’ve had a busy morning, but can you go straight across to the house and feed the spiders?’

  Troy looked down at his muddy clothes and boots. ‘I’ve got to have a shower, madame. Look at the state of me!’

  ‘Take your shoes and socks off and don’t sit on anything in the house,’ McAfferty said, sounding quite stressed. ‘The spiders have to be fed on time and I don’t want Mrs Henderson over here again shouting and hollering. I’ve already had her over once this morning, complaining about the noise from the artillery range. I mean what does the crazy woman expect me to do, walk over there and ask the army to wrap their shells in cotton wool?’

  Troy was exhausted, but he liked McAfferty and managed to smile. ‘I’ll go straight over. Though goodness knows why Mrs Henderson can’t do it herself. What else does she do all day?’

  ‘Good lad,’ McAfferty smiled. ‘And be quick or you’ll miss your lunch.’

  Troy was ticked off as he walked back outside towards the farmhouse. His arms and legs hurt and he kept reimagining the punches and the moment when he’d climbed off Sam and come within a second of delivering a brutal kick.

  Troy wondered if the military-style training was turning him into a thug. Or did the fact he worried about stuff like this while other lads boasted about how they’d splattered someone’s nose in combat class mean that he lacked the ruthless instincts that he’d need to work well undercover?

  The conservatory where the spiders lived was always tranquil and thirty-degree heat sent the blood back into chilled fingers
and toes. The creatures fascinated Troy, but the main reason he’d volunteered to feed the spiders while Paul was up in Scotland was that it gave him twenty minutes away from everyone else.

  After leaving his boots inside the conservatory’s glass door, Troy padded to the kitchen and washed his hands. If he got muddy finger marks on Joan Henderson’s feeding log his life wouldn’t be worth living.

  As Troy washed up under the cold tap he heard Joan rushing down the stairs. The thumping feet didn’t belong to someone in a good mood and this was confirmed when she screamed out from the landing.

  ‘You’re a cheating, lying scumbag and I hate you!’

  Charles Henderson came down more cautiously. ‘Darling, stop being so dramatic. All I’m saying is that in your present state, you might like to go and stay somewhere quieter for a few weeks.’

  ‘Dramatic!’ Joan screamed. ‘You think that’s dramatic?’

  ‘Sweetheart, put that down.’

  ‘This is dramatic, you son of a bitch!’

  Troy shuddered as he heard a vase smashing against the wall.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Grey skies had descended over Braco Lodge parachute training school and drizzle swirled on gusts of wind. The tethered balloon rolled from side to side as a truck filled with compressed helium transformed it from a sheet of silver cloth stretched across the runway into a thirty-metre finned rugby ball.

  Everyone on the base from the WAAFs to the Wellington pilots took part as the seven-man cage was wheeled up and hooked beneath the partially inflated blimp. This chaotic inflation process involved a dozen slipped ropes, broken clasps, one sprained wrist and many curses as the trainees squatted nervously on their parachutes. By the time the balloon was ready their nerves had been jangling for more than an hour.

  The final stage of the operation was to hook the bottom of the cage to a hydraulic winch buried alongside the runway. It was nearly two by the time the balloon was ready, and Sergeant Parris and the base commander held a conference. The wind was growing stronger and thunder rumbled in the distance.