CHERUB: Dark Sun

by Robert Muchamore

  Zara zoomed in and inspected the stain. ‘Make sure you soak the shirt in detergent before you take it down to the laundry.’

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ Jake nodded. Zara could be a bit random when she dished out punishments and the eleven-year-old was relieved to have received nothing more than laundry advice.

  But the chairwoman hadn’t finished with them yet. ‘Before I start, have any of you got anything you want to say?’ Zara asked.

  The eight uniformed agents looked sheepish and tried to avoid catching the chairwoman’s gaze. Lauren wanted to say that it was Jake and his three mates who’d caused all the trouble, but she was smart enough to know that it would only make things worse: Jake would throw the accusation right back at her and it would descend into a slanging match that would make Zara even madder.

  Zara adjusted the strap of her summer dress and gave a deep sigh. ‘You eight are all qualified CHERUB agents,’ she said. ‘From black shirts like Lauren to some of you younger boys who are still awaiting your first mission. But no kid gets inside CHERUB campus unless you’re from the brightest two or three per cent of the population. Then we put you through the wringer: language training, espionage training, combat training and physical training. In other words, the eight of you are amongst the most outstandingly capable people of your age anywhere in the world. And that’s why I’m so disgusted by what happened this morning.’

  Zara reached inside the electric buggy and retrieved a crumpled paper aeroplane from the passenger seat. It was made from a giant sheet of cartridge paper. It had I’m So Bored Airlines written along the side and a crudely drawn penis on the tail.

  ‘This was just one of eleven paper darts I found in that classroom. Along with hundreds of paper balls, boot-prints all over the tabletops and damage to a Venetian blind where some idiot appears to have tried to swing off it.’

  Lauren struggled not to smile: one of the few high points of her morning had been watching Jake trying to recover a paper aeroplane stuck up high between the blind slats, only to crash off the tabletop and bang his head on the window ledge while desperately grabbing at the blind to save himself.

  Zara continued, ‘What makes this worse is that you behaved like this in front of a guest speaker. I know it’s hard to concentrate when it’s as hot as today, and perhaps a ninety-minute lecture on preserving DNA evidence isn’t particularly exciting. But Mr Donaldson travelled all the way up from MI5 headquarters in London to speak with you and I assumed you were all mature enough to behave yourselves without a staff member looking over your shoulder.’

  Andy raised his hand tentatively. ‘Miss, not all of us were involved.’

  Zara’s eyes bulged. ‘I saw the size of the boot-prints on the desktops, Andy. Mr Donaldson made it clear that the four younger boys were primarily responsible, but none of you four older kids intervened. Even if you didn’t think you could control the situation yourselves, you could have walked down the hall to another classroom and brought the situation to the attention of a staff member. You’re trained CHERUB agents. How can you expect to be sent out on missions to fight terrorists and drug dealers when you haven’t even got the brainpower to deal with a couple of lads getting out of hand during a lecture?’

  Lauren was irritated by these comments. Zara had once been a CHERUB agent herself, but she’d clearly forgotten the unwritten rule that cherubs didn’t grass each other up.

  ‘You’re all getting identical punishments,’ Zara announced. ‘Seven pounds fifty pocket money deducted to pay for the damaged blind and you’re going to be spending the rest of this sunny afternoon doing physical training on the assault course with Miss Speaks.’

  The eight cherubs groaned, but only Jake was dumb enough to mouth off.

  ‘That’s bull,’ he yelled. ‘When was the last time people had to run the assault course just for messing in class? Laps of the athletic track maybe…’

  Zara swooped down so that she was looking Jake straight in the eye. ‘You mucked around in front of a campus guest, causing me personal embarassment. Outside lecturers are a vital part of your ongoing training and they won’t want to come here if you behave like that, will they?’

  ‘No, Miss,’ Jake said, adopting a surly if you say so voice.

  ‘I don’t like your tone, Jake Parker,’ Zara said, now getting really angry. ‘Seeing as you’re so keen on punishment laps, you can also run twenty a day for the next week. Your smart mouth also just cost you an extra month’s pocket money and got you grounded in your room for the next two weekends.’

  Jake’s head shrivelled between his shoulders. Lauren enjoyed seeing him suffer: it seemed like the least Jake deserved after costing her seven fifty and an afternoon of gruelling training on the assault course.

  ‘Miss Speaks is waiting,’ Zara shouted, pointing dramatically towards the wooded area beyond the lake. ‘All of you start running to the training compound before I really lose my temper.’

  3. MOVES

  ‘Move it,’ Greg shouted, grabbing George by his collar.

  ‘I can’t,’ George gasped. ‘Got a stitch.’

  They’d run down the long second-floor corridor and on to the back stairs, which were off limits to pupils unless there was a fire drill. Zhang was overweight and kept falling further behind, while the two Year Tens closed relentlessly.

  Greg gave George another pull, tugging him off the landing. ‘Through the sixth-form block and we’ll be in the canteen,’ Greg explained. ‘They won’t be able to touch us in there: it’s full of teachers.’

  The sense of hope gave George some energy and he leaned over the banister and started moving down as quickly as he could.

  ‘You’re so unfit,’ Greg moaned. ‘You should take up jogging or something.’

  Zhang had caught up by the time they’d reached the bottom of the staircase, but Thomas Moran and his mate Johno were now just a single flight of stairs behind them.

  Greg turned left towards the sixth-form annexe, but he was horrified to find the doors locked. Through the safety glass he saw the soft chairs and furniture all piled up and white sheets spread over the carpet tiles. A sign on the door spelled their doom:

  The sixth-form block is getting a lick of paint!

  Reopens September 2007

  Have a great summer!!!!

  ‘Dammit,’ Greg shouted.

  ‘We’re puppy food,’ George gasped.

  Out of options, Zhang led the trio back towards the staircase. Thomas Moran had reached the bottom, but Zhang used his bulk to plough through and start running down the short corridor that led to the sports hall.

  The floor was covered with dried-out mud trailed in from the playing fields and the air smelled like BO. The corridor ended at a T-junction, with double doors leading into the gymnasium directly ahead, a pink corridor leading left to the girls’ changing room and a blue one going towards the boys’.

  The gym was always locked at lunchtime and Zhang shoulder-charging the doors made no difference to that. The smell grew even worse as they reached the boys’ changing rooms. The air was steamy and rogue pieces of kit scattered the puddled floor. There was a communal shower at one end and a putrid-smelling toilet block at the other.

  Greg and George ran in and headed towards the showers. They’d been in here a hundred times before but they glanced around, hoping against hope that there was a fire door or some other exit they’d never noticed before.

  ‘Dead end, boys,’ Thomas Moran whooped, smashing his huge fist into his palm as Zhang slammed the door of a toilet cubicle and bolted himself in.

  ‘Be reasonable,’ George begged, holding out his hands as he backed up to the showers with Greg. ‘It was meant for my sister. If you let me off I’ll pay you twenty pounds, first day of next term. I swear on my life.’

  At the opposite end of the room, Johno’s size-ten Nike blasted the cubicle door, not only breaking the lock, but ripping off the hinges on the opposite side too. Zhang howled with pain as the door crashed down on his head.

&nb
sp; ‘Heeeeeere’s Johno!’ Johno grinned, throwing the door out of the cubicle before laying into Zhang with hard punches. ‘Guess where I’m gonna stick your head!’

  As Zhang screamed for mercy, Greg pushed George back towards the showers and faced off Thomas Moran. Greg was tough looking, but one of the youngest in his year and only just about to turn thirteen. Thomas was bigger in every direction and his cropped hair and the sweat streaking down his muscular torso made him look fearsome.

  ‘You’re a cool guy,’ Thomas sneered. ‘Why you hanging out with a fat freak and a skinny freak anyway?’

  ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ Greg said diplomatically. ‘But I’m warning you, my dad’s a kickboxing instructor. I know how to handle myself.’

  Thomas laughed so hard that he showered Greg with spit. ‘Bring it on, titch. Show us your moves!’

  In the background Zhang screamed out as Johno dunked his face into the toilet bowl and pulled the flush.

  Thomas turned back and saw Zhang on his knees, with Johno’s whole weight pressing down on his back.

  ‘Nice one, Johno,’ Thomas jeered. ‘I reckon these two could do with a hair wash as well.’

  Greg twisted back around his left shoulder and pulled his hand up tight above his wrist. As Thomas turned back Greg thrust upwards, smashing the palm of his hand against Thomas’ temple.

  Thomas Moran’s neck snapped around so fast that his eyeballs didn’t have time to follow. George recoiled in horror as he watched Thomas crash backwards into the changing-room wall with nothing but pure white in his eyeballs. Unconscious, the beefy Year Ten slid down the wall at a weird angle, ending up with his legs splayed out and his torso lying across the changing bench.

  ‘Jesus!’ George gasped. ‘What have you done?’

  Greg didn’t answer because he’d stepped over Thomas’ legs and headed confidently past the rows of hooks and into the toilet block. It was a nasty space: mud and piss all over the floor, broken sinks and a smell you didn’t even want to think about.

  It would have been difficult for Greg to pull Johno out of the cubicle. Luckily, Johno turned to see his pal Thomas slumped on the floor and charged forwards with both fists swinging. Greg ducked, then bobbed up and drove a punch hard into Johno’s nose.

  Caught off guard, Johno stumbled back as Greg launched a devastating assault. His blows hit all the weak spots: a dig in the ribs, two knees in the kidneys and a final chop behind the neck that sent Johno sprawling.

  Johno ended up on the rank floor, clutching hands over his bloody nose. Zhang staggered out of the cubicle, his shirt drenched and toilet water streaking down his face. Greg let him deliver a single kick in revenge for the bog-washing before pulling him back.

  ‘Johno’s had enough,’ Greg smiled. ‘You OK, Zhang?’

  Zhang had taken a beating and his voice trembled. ‘That toilet was nasty.’

  ‘You’ve got bus fare,’ Greg said. ‘Go home, take a shower. You’ll only miss half of first lesson and we’ll cover for you.’

  Over on the floor near the urinals, Johno was coughing and trying to find his feet.

  Greg pointed Johno’s way and snarled, ‘You stay down until we’ve left.’

  As Zhang headed out George came over from the changing area where he’d been nervously inspecting Thomas Moran.

  ‘I think he’s alive,’ George said.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Greg replied. ‘Little tap on the temple never killed anyone. He’ll have concussion and a nice headache to remember me by.’

  ‘We’d better get out of here,’ George said. ‘If someone sees this…’

  ‘Just gimme a sec,’ Greg said, grabbing a horrible grey sliver of soap stuck on the side of the only working sink and turning on the tap. ‘Can’t walk around with your blood all over my fists, can I Johno?’

  Johno had a rugby player’s build and was nearly six feet tall, but he’d propped himself against the wall and was fighting back tears.

  Greg dried his hands on his trousers as George followed him out into the corridor.

  ‘What if Johno grasses you?’ George asked anxiously.

  ‘Yeah right,’ Greg smiled. ‘They’re both twice my size. Who’s gonna believe that story?’

  ‘I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t seen with my own eyes,’ George gushed. ‘I owe you, man. I thought I was gonna get serious beats. I know you said you knew some kickboxing moves, but I never knew you were that good. Usually when people brag about being a black belt or some crap like that it’s all made up…’

  ‘My dad’s an instructor,’ Greg said. ‘I practise every day after school.’

  ‘Awesome,’ George said. ‘Nobody’s gonna give us any hassle once this story spreads around.’

  Greg smiled coyly as they rounded the bottom of the staircase, heading back to their second-floor form room. He’d lied about his dad, a man who’d really died in Australia fifteen months earlier and had never kickboxed in his life.

  Greg’s full name was Gregory Rathbone, but the other agents on CHERUB campus always called him Rat.

  4. PUNISHMENT

  The assault course on CHERUB campus was a two-kilometre circuit, complete with rat-infested tunnels, rope swings, climbing walls, jagged rocks and a fast-flowing stream. A normal twelve-year-old might complete the course in an hour, although the chances are they’d fail at least one obstacle because of some weakness – like being scared of heights, not having enough strength to swing over the hanging bars, or good enough balance to cross the narrow beams.

  But the eight kids Zara Asker sent for punishment had all completed the course hundreds of times during their basic training. Andy Lagan and Lauren Adams both had personal-best assault course times below twenty minutes. They still found running the course exhausting, but they could handle it and it certainly didn’t satisfy Instructor Speaks’ definition of a punishment.

  Miss Speaks was the kind of woman you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. Her shoulders were huge, her voice boomed like she’d swallowed a megaphone and she was particularly proud of her massive arms, which enabled her to beat everyone on campus at arm wrestling, including all of the male training instructors.

  To make the assault course tougher, Speaks gave the eight kids backpacks containing ten to fifteen kilos of lead plates, depending upon their age and height. Between the obstacles, she’d marked out exercise stations where the agents had to perform squats, crunches, jumping jacks or whatever. And as if that wasn’t enough, the assault course was fitted with traps which made the course more difficult if someone was on hand to operate them.

  The course started with a run up a fifty-metre slope. In places it was so steep that you had to use rocks as footholds and haul yourself up lengths of knotted rope. If you got this wrong you’d roll down to the bottom if you were lucky, or split your head open on a rock if you weren’t.

  The top of this hill was the highest part of the assault course, from which an instructor could survey the entire training compound. After a short run over flat ground were three long beams placed two metres apart. At ten centimetres wide, crossing them didn’t require exceptional balance, but you needed some nerve because after the first few steps the ground dropped away and you found yourself suspended above a stagnant pool surrounded by beds of stinging nettles.

  Some of the older agents on campus worked as assistants to the training instructors. Fifteen-year-old James Adams had snapped up the chance to escape double History and help Miss Speaks out, especially as he’d spent the previous evening on his PlayStation instead of writing his essay on Napoleon.

  James sat on a wooden platform suspended between two oak trees which overlooked the narrow beams. His mate Bruce Norris squatted a couple of metres away, while in between were two red punchbags, suspended from a sturdy branch in the canopy above.

  In the distance James and Bruce heard kids grunting as they hauled themselves up the slope, while Miss Speaks leaned over the edge taunting them.

  ‘Move it, brats!’ Spea
ks bellowed, as she kicked a clump of dry earth down the slope on to the trainees. ‘Grab that rope and heave… You call that heaving? You’d better put some oomph in unless you want your butts enrolled on a two-month after-school fitness programme.’

  James smirked as his sister Lauren’s head emerged over the top of the slope. The assault course was easier if you worked with a partner and Andy was just a couple of steps behind her. The pair were starting their third circuit out of four and the hot weather was doing them in.

  Lauren’s face was bright red and sweat streamed out of her tied-back hair. Andy’s grey shirt had dark sweat patches under the arms, while their trousers and bare arms were encrusted with filth after crawling through the tunnel and wading across a muddy stream basin.

  ‘Push-ups,’ Speaks screamed. ‘I want twenty-five. Don’t gawp like a pair of prunes. Move, move, move!’

  James watched as his sister and Andy hit the ground. Lauren was stocky and easily knocked off twenty-five push-ups, despite having twelve and a half kilos of lead on her back. Andy’s skinny arms were not only weaker than Lauren’s, they were gangly – meaning he had to move a lot further to complete each push-up. After fifteen his arms gave out.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Speaks demanded. ‘Call yourself a man? Your girlfriend’s tougher than you.’

  Andy tried to make a sixteenth push-up – he was in good shape and could manage forty when he hadn’t just completed two circuits of the assault course on the hottest day of the year – but his shoulders ached and his arms shuddered before collapsing back to the hot earth.

  ‘You’re so weak,’ Speaks shouted, as she planted her size-eleven boot on the back of Andy’s head. ‘You’re a mealy little worm. What are you?’

  Andy found it hard to speak because his lips were squished in the dirt. ‘Mweely lwttle worm,’ he gasped.

  ‘Wriggle like a worm then,’ Speaks shouted.

  Humiliated, Andy wriggled his hips and flailed his arms in the dirt. Lauren scowled furiously at the instructor.