Secret Army

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘How’s my Rosie doing?’ PT asked softly.

  ‘Tired,’ she yawned. ‘My back’s hurting where that pellet hit me. I couldn’t sit still.’

  ‘So now we just have to find King’s Cross.’

  ‘I asked the ticket inspector,’ Rosie said. ‘It’s not far. A five-minute walk along Euston Road. Apparently there are even porters who’ll carry bags from one station to the other.’

  As the train cruised in to the platform, PT dived across to check that there were no police waiting for them, but all he saw was a boy who looked a lot like Marc.

  ‘Can’t be,’ he muttered.

  ‘Can’t be what?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘I’m having hallucinations,’ PT smiled, as he caught Rosie’s yawn. ‘I’m so tired.’

  But he wasn’t seeing things. They hopped off the train and Marc was standing by the guard’s van waiting to help with the trolley.

  ‘Took you long enough,’ Marc said cheerfully.

  Rosie gave him a quick hug. ‘I’m slightly baffled,’ she admitted.

  ‘I got dragged to the stationmaster’s office at Stockport, so I turned on the waterworks and started bawling about my mum being in hospital in London and that my granddad was waiting for me. He took pity and put me on a train back to Manchester. I picked up the Glasgow Flyer and went Manchester to London non-stop.’

  ‘It’s good to have you back,’ PT smiled. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Just long enough to get off the train, buy a platform ticket and come to meet you two. There’s no sign of any cops or anything.’

  The guard helped PT to unload the trolley and they began walking across the station. All the signs had been removed or painted over, so Rosie had to ask a newspaper seller for directions. After a week in the Highlands London looked drab and smelled stale. The sun was mired behind a grey blanket and the wind was perishing, but Rosie, Marc and PT were starting to believe that they’d done it.

  ‘I’m more nervous now than ever,’ Marc said, as they moved briskly along Euston Road with the bags and trolley. ‘Imagining what can go wrong.’

  PT smiled. ‘And if it did, we’d always know how close we got.’

  ‘Shut up, you fools,’ Rosie said. ‘You’ll jinx it.’

  And then they heard a huge booming crash in the distance.

  The first two platforms at King’s Cross station were used exclusively by the Royal Mail. Vanloads of post came from sorting offices all over southern England and passed through a brick archway in the side of the station.

  In the seconds after the bang, two dozen deafened postal workers who’d been loading the mail train on platform one were stunned to see a grey single-deck bus wedged through the archway at a sharp angle. The windscreen had shattered and two metres of metal roof had crumpled like a tin can. There was a huge hole above the arch and cracks in the masonry rising all the way up to the station roof.

  Wozniak had followed every instruction Luc gave him, from the outskirts of Liverpool to the centre of London. But on the final approach to King’s Cross, he’d seen Luc standing in the aisle moving the gun up towards the main door.

  The plan that came into Wozniak’s head was to brace himself, swerve up on to the narrow pavement, slam on the brakes and knock Luc flying. When the bus stopped he’d take out Luc before he was able to set fire to Lieutenant Tomaszewski, find the keys to release Tomaszewski’s cuffs and hopefully they’d be fit enough to carry the gun to the lost property office before the police reached the scene.

  But it didn’t play out that way. When the front wheel mounted the pavement, Wozniak squeezed the brake, but with one wheel off the ground the braking caused the back of the bus to swing out into the opposite lane.

  As the front of the bus grated against the station wall, the back sideswiped four cars parked across the street and for several alarming seconds teetered on two wheels, threatening to topple completely on to its side. This didn’t happen because the front of the bus reached the archway and got wedged in, like a toddler’s attempt to push a wooden cube through a circular hole only on a grander scale.

  Luc blacked out for a couple of seconds. His back had slammed into the stair rail, which was painful but a lot less serious than if he’d missed it and gone through the windscreen.

  Wozniak had smashed his nose on the steering wheel, but he was gurgling. Luc hauled himself up the side of the driver’s seat and bludgeoned him with the policeman’s truncheon.

  ‘Bastard,’ Luc cursed, collapsing back to the floor of the bus as he rubbed his aching back and stared down at ripped trousers and a bloody leg.

  Tomaszewski posed no threat. His whole bodyweight had yanked on the handcuffs during the crash, practically wrenching his arm off as his head cracked a window and knocked him cold.

  As Luc found his feet, curious postal workers inside the station were edging closer to the shattered windscreen, but looking warily at the bricks balanced precariously above the archway.

  The bus’s main door was badly buckled, but the angle it was parked at meant that Luc could exit into the street. He gave it an almighty kick. The hinges were broken and the entire door slammed down on to the pavement.

  The road alongside the station was only used by taxis and delivery vans. There had been no pedestrians around at the time of the crash, but onlookers were beginning to emerge from the side of the station.

  Luc reached into the bus and dragged the main piece of the gun out into the road. He then went deeper inside the bus and grabbed the sack containing the gun sight and magazine. By the time he came out, there were several men arriving on the scene and they all seemed concerned.

  ‘You OK, son?’

  ‘Were you on board? Are you hurt?’

  ‘I think I’m fine,’ Luc said, as he pointed inside the bus. ‘But they’re not so good.’

  As the men piled on to the bus, a group of postal workers was emerging from a small door in the side of the station. Some of the men stood back in awe but one of them approached Luc.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down on the kerb, mate?’ the man said, as he put a hand on Luc’s shoulder. ‘You look right shaken up.’

  The crash had shaken Luc up, but he still had his wits about him. It wouldn’t be long before they found that Tomaszewski was handcuffed to his seat and started asking awkward questions.

  ‘I just want my mum,’ Luc said, trying to sound meek. ‘She works in the lost property office. She just sent me out to collect this stuff.’

  The postal worker studied what was obviously the barrel of an anti-aircraft gun. ‘How the blazes did you get this?’

  Luc wasn’t sure if the postal worker had seen him drag the gun off the bus, but he was running out of excuses and he decided to chance it. ‘I’ve been helping out in the lost property. It was left on a train. I had it on a trolley but the bus clipped it.’

  The postal worker looked confused. ‘I thought you were on the bus?’

  ‘No,’ Luc said. ‘I was walking by. The bus charged up on the pavement and I dived out of the way as it hit the archway.’

  ‘Well, I expect the police will want to speak with you if you witnessed it, but we can let them know where you are.’

  ‘I just want my mum,’ Luc replied, rubbing his eye like he was going to cry. ‘But I can’t carry this lot without a trolley and she’ll give me hell if someone nicks it.’

  The postal worker smiled. ‘I should think when she sees what nearly hit you she’ll be happy enough to see that you’re alive. But I’ll get you a trolley from the post room and we can walk you over there.’

  ‘The lost property is just by platform three,’ Luc said.

  ‘Mike, Joe,’ the postal worker shouted. ‘The lad’s all shaken up and he needs to get this lot over to his mum in the lost property office.’

  As more people crowded around the damaged archway, two strapping postal workers came and picked the gun out of the road. Luc grabbed the sack, but the man he’d been talking to insisted on carrying it for him. />
  Luc followed the three men through a side door. Inside were lines of wheeled cages designed for holding mailbags inside train carriages. The men dropped the gun and sack into an empty cage and wheeled it towards the station concourse, passing the front four coaches of the Royal Mail train being loaded at platform one.

  As Luc followed the mailmen up towards the lost property counter, he sighted three familiar figures coming in the opposite direction with a tall cloth-wrapped object strapped to a two-wheeled trolley.

  Paul, Marc and Rosie weren’t exactly Luc’s friends, but they all smiled instinctively as they recognised each other.

  ‘Bugger me sideways,’ Marc grinned.

  The postman lifted the sack and the gun on to the lost property counter and disappeared with the wheeled cage. The lost property attendant was out the back, looking for yellow felt gloves which belonged to a posh lady who stood at the far end of the counter.

  ‘We thought you were stuck up a tree,’ Rosie told Luc.

  ‘I was sure you three would mess up without me, so I thought I’d better grab a gun myself,’ Luc explained.

  ‘Did you hear that big bang a few minutes ago?’ PT asked.

  ‘No,’ Luc said, trying not to smile. ‘Didn’t hear a thing.’

  The attendant came out with the yellow gloves and handed them to the posh lady.

  ‘What do you lot want?’ the woman asked cheerlessly.

  Rosie pointed to the two guns and two sacks standing on the counter. ‘Special delivery for Air Vice Marshal Walker,’ she explained.

  ‘Oh, him,’ she said with contempt, before turning and yelling behind the counter, ‘Got more of your lot out here, Walker.’

  The Air Vice Marshal’s chin dropped as he came around the counter and saw the four youngsters.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ Marc and PT said jovially.

  ‘Jolly nice to see you, old bean,’ Rosie added, mocking Walker’s crusty accent.

  ‘I see,’ Walker said weakly, before looking at his watch. ‘You have a gun then?’

  The four kids smiled as Rosie pointed at the counter. ‘Actually, sir, we somehow seem to have ended up with a pair of them.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  It was late evening by the time Group A made it back to campus. Paul was the only one who hadn’t missed a night’s sleep, so he woke up before the others and hobbled down to breakfast in the hall. The six boys in Group B had already been out on a training run and sat at a long table. They wore damp combat gear and their muddy boots were piled up by the door.

  ‘Paul!’ Sam said excitedly when he saw him. ‘Good to see you, mate. We’re all dying to know what happened. We heard that your parachute busted.’

  Paul was shy and didn’t like everyone watching him as he took slices of buttered bread, cheese and a boiled egg from the serving trolley. He’d have preferred to sit quietly on his own, but Group B shuffled chairs and made a space for him.

  ‘So, what was jump training like?’ Troy asked eagerly.

  ‘It wasn’t bad,’ Paul said, as he tapped the boiled egg on the tabletop and began peeling off the shell.

  ‘Is it true that Luc crashed a bus into King’s Cross station?’

  ‘He was on the bus when it crashed,’ Paul said. ‘He wasn’t driving.’

  ‘You all looked so bashed up when you came in last night,’ Yves said.

  Paul laughed as he thought about this. ‘It was a right scene when we were all getting into bed,’ he explained. ‘I’ve got bad legs and a broken nose, Joel has his ankle in plaster, Marc’s got a dodgy ankle and thorns stuck in his leg, Luc hurt his back when the bus crashed and my sister got hit by a shotgun pellet. PT’s the only one who didn’t get nobbled.’

  The boys all went quiet as Henderson appeared in the doorway. He usually wore his navy uniform, but today he’d put on loose-fitting slacks and a white vest with thick bandages bulging underneath.

  ‘More walking wounded,’ Troy whispered, raising a few laughs from his training partners.

  ‘I hear you did well, Paul,’ Henderson said warmly as he approached the table. ‘Can I see you in the office after breakfast?’

  ‘Of course,’ Paul said.

  Henderson then turned his attention to the Group-B boys. ‘Hadn’t you lot better go upstairs and put your PT kit on? Mr Takada won’t be happy if you keep him waiting.’

  Paul hated being the centre of attention and was relieved as Group B stood up and began scraping their plates and stacking them on a metal trolley.

  When Henderson and the others were gone, Troy came back to the table and whispered in Paul’s ear. ‘I’ve got Mavis.’

  Paul’s face lit up, though he didn’t quite believe what he’d heard. ‘The spider?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s in an old shoe box under my bed,’ Troy explained. ‘I keep her close to the radiator so she stays warm. I sneaked in and got Mrs Henderson’s notebook from the conservatory and I’ve been sticking to her feeding schedule.’

  ‘Does she seem OK?’

  Troy looked wary. ‘She gets really agitated every time I feed her. You’ve had more experience with her than me. Would you mind taking a look?’

  ‘Of course,’ Paul agreed. ‘It’s probably warm enough, but she needs light and space to move about as well. We’ll have to think of a better place to put her.’

  ‘My whole group is up there getting changed now, but once we’re down here doing combat training, you can take her out from under my bed.’

  ‘We’ll have to be careful though,’ Paul said. ‘If Henderson finds out he’ll—’

  ‘Why you still here?’ Takada interrupted, as he stood in the doorway giving Troy a menacing stare. ‘Go change. Five minutes or you get laps and push-ups.’

  ‘I’d better go,’ Troy said anxiously.

  Paul smiled reassuringly as Troy stepped away. ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll look after her together.’

  *

  McAfferty gave Paul a smile from behind her desk as he stepped into the former headmaster’s office she shared with Henderson. There was barely room for the two desks and coal burned in a fireplace that was too big for the room.

  ‘Take a seat, lad,’ Henderson said, as he aimed his hand at a wooden school chair facing towards his desk. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m still sore, but a lot better than yesterday,’ Paul said. ‘How about you, sir?’

  Henderson looked down at his bandaged chest. ‘The surgeon had to open me up three times before the internal bleeding finally stopped. The last time I suggested he put in a zipper.’

  Paul smiled. ‘But you’re OK now?’

  ‘I’ve got two dozen stitches in my belly, so I’m confined to office duties for a few weeks, at least.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll find plenty of paperwork to keep him busy,’ McAfferty added cheekily.

  ‘Anyway,’ Henderson said. ‘We’ll let the others catch up on their sleep for a couple of hours, but I thought you’d like to know that we’ve had a coded telegram this morning from Eric Mews, the Minister of Economic Warfare.’

  ‘I thought Mews was the deputy minister,’ Paul said.

  ‘He was.’ McAfferty nodded. ‘But the Prime Minister hasn’t been happy with the slow progress at the Special Operations Executive. Mews has been promoted, with a remit to shake up the entire organisation.’

  ‘Anyway, this is what Mews wrote,’ Henderson said, before pausing to clear his throat. ‘To all at CHERUB .. .’

  ‘What’s CHERUB?’ Paul interrupted.

  Henderson smiled. ‘Charles Henderson’s Espionage Research Unit B. The Post Office charges by the word for telegrams, so they shorten things whenever they can.’

  ‘Shouldn’t it be Eileen McAfferty’s Espionage Research Unit B?’ Paul asked.

  ‘I’m not proud,’ McAfferty smiled. ‘I am the senior officer, but Commander Henderson is in control of operations and most people think of this as his unit. Besides, CHERUB has a nice ring to it. EMERUB sounds like an o
intment for foot fungus.’

  Henderson finally read the full telegram. ‘To all at CHERUB. Am delighted to hear of success in training. Expect great things of your unit and urge you proceed to full operational status with all speed. Furthermore, expect command changes at SOE soon which will be to your liking.’

  Paul smiled, then paused for thought. ‘Have you any idea about the command changes?’

  Henderson nodded. ‘Nothing has been announced, but it seems likely that Air Vice Marshal Walker will be getting the boot in a matter of days.’

  ‘Just deserts,’ Paul said cheerfully.

  ‘I understand the straw that broke the camel’s back was a training exercise getting out of hand,’ McAfferty said. ‘Apparently, a bus hit an archway at King’s Cross station. The damage to the side wall and roof supports is so severe that one platform and a sorting area used by the Royal Mail will be closed for up to three weeks. The Postmaster General is fuming and all mail between London and the north is having to be rerouted.’

  ‘Will Luc get punished for that?’ Paul asked hopefully.

  ‘There will be a review of the operation,’ McAfferty said. ‘But it was the Pole who crashed the bus, not Luc.’

  ‘I’ll be having individual chats with Luc and all the others when they wake up,’ Henderson added.

  ‘So what happens to Group A now?’ Paul asked.

  ‘I want all of you to have a complete two-week rest,’ Henderson said. ‘Your group was severely handicapped by weak to non-existent driving skills during the operation, so before you go on to operations I’m going to devise extra training so that you’re able to handle vehicles, in the same way that we’ve trained you to handle guns.’

  ‘What about my parachute training?’ Paul asked.

  ‘If you’re fit, we’ll send you up to repeat the course with Group B in five weeks’ time,’ McAfferty said. ‘Because of your accident, Sergeant Parris says they’ll give you some extra leeway if you’re nervous.’