READ ON FOR THE FIRST CHAPTER
Книга: CHERUB: The General
Robert Muchamore was born in 1972 and spent thirteen years working as a private investigator. CHERUB: The General is his tenth novel in the series.
The CHERUB series has won numerous awards, including the 2005 Red House Children’s Book Award. For more information on Robert and his work, visit www.muchamore.com.
Praise for the CHERUB series:
‘If you can’t bear to read another story about elves, princesses or spoiled rich kids who never go to the toilet, try this. You won’t regret it.’ The Ultimate Teen Book Guide
‘My sixteen-year-old son read The Recruit in one sitting, then went out the next day and got the sequel.’ Sophie Smiley, teacher and children’s author
‘So good I forced my friends to read it, and they’re glad I did!’ Helen, age 14
‘CHERUB is the first book I ever read cover to cover. It was amazing.’ Scott, age 13
‘The best book ever.’ Madeline, age 12
‘CHERUB is a must for Alex Rider lovers.’ Travis, age 14
BY ROBERT MUCHAMORE
The Henderson’s Boys series:
1.The Escape
2.Eagle Day
3.Secret Army
4.Grey Wolves
5.The Prisoner
... and coming soon:
6.One Shot Kill
The CHERUB series:
1.The Recruit
2.Class A
3.Maximum Security
4.The Killing
5.Divine Madness
6.Man vs Beast
7.The Fall
8.Mad Dogs
9.The Sleepwalker
10.The General
11.Brigands M.C.
12.Shadow Wave
CHERUB series 2:
1.People’s Republic
... and coming soon:
2.Guardian Angel
www.hodderchildrens.co.uk
Copyright © 2008 Robert Muchamore
First published in Great Britain in 2008
by Hodder Children’s Books
This eBook edition published in 2012
The right of Robert Muchamore to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means with prior permission in writing from the publishers or in the case of reprographic production in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency and may not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 444 91053 7
Hodder Children’s Books
A Division of Hachette Children’s Books
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
An Hachette UK company
www.hachette.co.uk
WHAT IS CHERUB?
CHERUB is a branch of British Intelligence. Its agents are aged between ten and seventeen years. Cherubs are mainly orphans who have been taken out of care homes and trained to work undercover. They live on CHERUB campus, a secret facility hidden in the English countryside.
WHAT USE ARE KIDS?
Quite a lot. Nobody realises kids do undercover missions, which means they can get away with all kinds of stuff that adults can’t.
WHO ARE THEY?
About three hundred children live on CHERUB campus. JAMES ADAMS is our sixteen-year-old hero. He’s a well-respected CHERUB agent with several successful missions under his belt. Australian-born Dana Smith is James’ girlfriend. His other close friends include BRUCE NORRIS, KERRY CHANG and SHAKEEL DAJANI.
James’ sister, LAUREN ADAMS, is thirteen and already regarded as an outstanding CHERUB agent. Her best friends are BETHANY PARKER and GREG ‘RAT’ RATHBONE.
CHERUB STAFF
With its large grounds, specialist training facilities and combined role as a boarding school and intelligence operation, CHERUB actually has more staff than pupils. They range from cooks and gardeners to teachers, training instructors, nurses, psychiatrists and mission specialists. CHERUB is run by its chairwoman, ZARA ASKER.
CHERUB T-SHIRTS
Cherubs are ranked according to the colour of the T-shirts they wear on campus. ORANGE is for visitors. RED is for kids who live on CHERUB campus but are too young to qualify as agents (the minimum age is ten). BLUE is for kids undergoing CHERUB’s tough one-hundred-day basic training regime. A GREY T-shirt means you’re qualified for missions. NAVY is a reward for outstanding performance on a single mission. Lauren and James wear the BLACK T-shirt, the ultimate recognition for outstanding achievement over a number of missions. When you retire, you get the WHITE T-shirt, which is also worn by some staff.
DEMO
The anarchist organisation known as Street Action Group (SAG) first came to light in summer 2003 when its leader Chris Bradford hijacked the rostrum at an anti-Iraq-war demonstration in London’s Hyde Park. Bradford urged a peaceful crowd to attack police officers, before setting light to straw-filled effigies of Prime Minister Tony Blair and US President George W. Bush.
By 2006 SAG had built a cult following and was strong enough to begin staging its own anti-government protests. These culminated in July with the Summer Mayhem March through central Birmingham. Dozens of cars were vandalised, windows were broken, more than thirty protestors were arrested and a police officer was stabbed.
In the months that followed, prison sentences were handed down to several senior SAG members involved in the rioting. Heavy police presence wherever SAG planned to appear made staging violent protests increasingly difficult.
Chris Bradford became bitter at what he called ‘state oppression’ and an MI5 agent sent to infiltrate SAG made a shocking discovery: Bradford was trying to acquire guns and bomb-making equipment in order to transform SAG into a terrorist organisation.
(Excerpt from a CHERUB mission briefing for James Adams, October 2007)
It was December 21st, the last Friday before Christmas. The sky was purple and strings of lights dangled between Victorian lampposts on the pedestrianised London street. The pubs around Covent Garden tube station were crammed and office workers huddled in doorways smoking cigarettes. Teens gawped into shops well out of their price range and The Body Shop was full of miserable-looking men buying last-minute gifts.
Shoppers and drinkers ignored a rectangular pen made from metal crowd barriers as they shuffled past, though some noted the irony that two dozen police officers in fluorescent jackets lined up to face thirteen protestors inside the barriers.
James Adams was one of the thirteen. Sixteen years old, he was dressed in a bulky army surplus jacket and twenty-four-hole Doc Marten boots. His hair was shaved down to a number one on the sides and a shaggy, green-tinted Mohican ran from his forehead down to the collar of his jacket. He banged his gloved hands together to fight the cold as cops gave him stern looks.
Chris Bradford stood three metres away. Well built, Bradford had scruffy ginger hair, a baggy hoodie worn with the fluffy lining on the outside and two cameras filming him. One was held by a cop, who walked the perimeter with a titchy camcorder. The other was a more impressive beast. It sat on the shoulder of a BBC cameraman and a lamp mounted on top shone its light in Bradford’s face.
‘So, Mr Bradford,’ BBC correspondent Simon Jett said. He had a silk scarf tucked into his overcoat and a microphone in hand. ‘Today’s turnout must be a disappointment. Many people are saying that the Street Action Group is on its last legs.’
Bradford’s green eyes bulged and his shovel-sized hands shifted towards the correspondent’s lapels. ‘Who’s been saying that?’ he growled. ‘Gimme names and addresses. It’s always certain sources, but who are they? I’ll tell you who – it’s people who are running scared of us.’
Jett was delighted. Bradford’s combo of slight menace and fruit-and-veg-seller cockney accent always made good TV.
‘So how many protestors were you expecting to see here today?’
Bradford snatched a glance at his watch and bared his teeth. ‘Trouble is, most of our crew are still in bed three o’clock in the afternoon. I guess I set the kick-off time a little too early.’
Jett nodded with fake sincerity. ‘You sound like you’re taking this lightly, but you must feel that the wind has been taken out of SAG’s sails. Especially when you compare the turnout here with the thousand-plus people on the streets of Birmingham last summer?’
Bradford batted the plastic hood over the camera lens. ‘You wait and see, Mr BBC,’ he snarled, sticking his face right up to the camera. ‘Inequality breeds hatred. There’s more poverty and inequality in Britain today than ever before. If you’re sitting at home in your nice house watching the likes of me on your thirty-two-inch LCD, you might not see the revolution rising up from the streets. But you mark my words: we’re coming to get you.’
Jett could barely contain his smile. ‘Do you have a timescale? When can we expect this revolution?’
‘Next month, next year, who knows?’ Bradford shrugged. ‘Things will change radically before the end of this decade, but if you only watch the biased rubbish the BBC churns out, the first you’ll know it is when my boys kick your front door down.’
The correspondent nodded. ‘Chris Bradford, thank you very much for talking to me.’
‘Cram it,’ Bradford sneered, as the cameraman turned off the light and moved the weight of the big camera off his shoulder.
Bradford refused Jett’s offer of a handshake and skulked towards a lonely-looking woman on the opposite side of the pen.
James overheard Jett telling his cameraman to take some footage from outside of the pen before they left. The policemen lifting up the barriers to let the BBC crew out asked when the story was likely to be on the news.
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Jett said drearily. ‘I’m down here in case something kicks off, but I told my editor before I left: SAG is yesterday’s news.’
‘Hope so,’ the policeman said. ‘That officer up in Brum lost a lot of blood. She was lucky not to be killed.’
Jett nodded sympathetically. ‘You take care of yourself, officer, and have a great Christmas.’
‘You too,’ the officer smiled.
As the cameraman filmed the barriers and lines of police, James raised the hood of his jacket and pulled the drawstring tight so that it covered most of his face. CHERUB agents are trained to keep away from the media and he gained further anonymity by taking out his mobile and staring down at the screen, typing a message to his girlfriend, Dana.
HOPE YOU’RE FEELING BETTER. TEXT ME I’M A LONELY BOY!
James pressed send and regretted it straight away. Dana hadn’t replied to his last message and I’m lonely made him sound weak. He couldn’t work out what he’d done to piss her off, but she’d been acting weird for days.
Two metal barriers were lifted away, opening up one end of the steel pen. The petite inspector in charge of crowd control bawled out, ‘It’s three-thirty, people. Time to march on Downing Street.’
The inspector knew she’d been heard, but the protestors ignored her. She grabbed a megaphone from a colleague before repeating herself.
‘This demonstration was scheduled for three-fifteen,’ she blared. ‘You’ve already been allowed an extra fifteen minutes for assembly. Anyone not leaving the assembly point now will be arrested for a breach of the peace. Now MOVE IT!’
Bradford stepped towards the officer and glanced at his watch. A lone press photographer snapped a photo as the big man faced the squat officer with her fluorescent jacket and megaphone.
‘Come on, sweetheart,’ Bradford said, turning on the charm and tapping the face of his watch. ‘We’re waiting for a few more chaps to arrive. I’ve sent my man up to the station. The underground trains must be delayed, or something.’
‘You’ve had your time,’ the inspector said, shaking her head resolutely. ‘My men want to get home. So you can march, you can disperse peacefully, or you can take a ride in the back of a police van. What you can’t do is waste any more of our time.’
Bradford spat on the pavement, before turning towards his pathetic gathering. ‘You heard the nice lady. Let’s roll, people.’
The photographer’s flash popped as thirteen protestors filed out of the pen with fluorescent police jackets surrounding them. The cops exchanged grins, amused by SAG’s pathetic showing.
Shoppers watched curiously as the march filed past and kids gawped as if it was a continuation of the street entertainment and human statues in the covered market a hundred metres away. As the police led the protestors briskly over the cobbles around Covent Garden market, James began eyeballing clumps of people in the uniform of rebellion: a mixture of punk, Goth and army surplus similar to his own. Some joined the back of the march, quickly doubling its strength, while others tracked its progress from a distance.
Bradford sidled up to the inspector as they turned out of the market and on to a side road leading downhill towards the Strand, a broad avenue of shops, theatres and hotels less than fifty metres from the north bank of the River Thames. James was near the head of the march and Bradford gave him a wink as two dozen youths dressed in sportswear emerged from a side street.
‘Looks like someone turned up after all,’ Bradford said to the inspector. ‘Someone must have written the wrong address on our invitation cards.’
The inspector didn’t give Bradford the satisfaction of an answer, but James could tell she was on edge. She grabbed her radio and ordered backup as she realised that the protestors had made a mockery of the police’s attempt to assemble all the demonstrators in one place.
‘SAG!’ Bradford shouted, punching his fist in the air as the tracksuits and trainers merged with the dreadlocks and donkey jackets of SAG activists.
‘SAG!’ the crowd of close to a hundred chanted back.
James’ heart sped as a fellow protestor caught the heel of his boot.
‘Sorry mate.’
The crowd was tight and the cops now had bodies swarming around them. SAG had assembled the same toxic combination of hardcore anarchists and local youths looking for aggro that had kicked off the riot in Birmingham seventeen months earlier.
‘Oggy, oggy, oggy,’ Bradford shouted.
‘SAG, SAG, SAG!’ the crowd shouted back.
Another fifty marchers had joined the fray by the time James stepped on to the Strand and turned right. A huge drum was booming across the street and the shaven-headed drummer was leading a crowd of protestors out of an alleyway that ran up from the riverbank.
The cop nearest to James had spit running down his back. His baton was drawn but the officers were afraid to break formation and lash out because they were heavily outnumbered.
An amplified chant went up through the police megaphone. ‘We’ve just nicked your megaphone; we’ve just nicked your megaphone, la-la-la-la.’
Everyone laughed as the drummer and his crew cut through snarled traffic and moved to the front of the march, but the next chant had a nastier edge.
‘Let’s stab all the coppers; let’s stab all the coppers, la-la-la-la.’
A vast roar blew up as James glanced around and saw that the cops had changed tactics and dropped behind the protestors. Sirens wailed in the surrounding roads as the march merged with another large group of SAG sympathisers pouring out of a bendy bus.
There were more protestors than pavement and bodies spilled into the road and mingled with the crawling traffic. Horns blared and an impatient cab driver lost his door mirror and got his side window kicked in.
A gap between the buses enabled James to see across the street where more protestors were coming up from the riverbank, as the front of the march headed for Trafalgar Square.
James had lost track of Chris Bradford and all the other SAG members he’d got to know over the last seven weeks. He felt disorientated and was surrounded by a bunch of thuggish lads not much older than himself. They cheered, chanted and egged each other on, as the BBC cameraman balanced precariously on a concrete bollard, trying to film the chanting crowd from a high vantage point.
‘Told you it was worth coming down here,’ the lad next to James grinned, swigging from a can of beer as more glass smashed in the distance.
‘Bloody ‘ell,’ his mate laughed. ‘That was a big one. Someone’s done a shop.’
His friends nodded. ‘It’s kicking off, man,’ one said, before another chant of ‘SAG, SAG, SAG!’ ripped through the crowd.
Less than five metres from James, two Goth girls – who looked like the last people on earth to start a riot – pulled the metal liner out of a litter bin and hurled it through the front window of a sandwich bar. The crowd started clapping and a shout of ‘Down with sandwiches,’ went through the stolen megaphone.
The action of the two women embarrassed several testosterone-fuelled males into action. Four more shop windows caved within seconds and a man in a flash suit was dragged out the back of a taxi and given a slap before being relieved of a wallet and a Rolex.
James couldn’t see over the crowd, but could hear hundreds of triumphant voices and the crunch of broken glass under his boot. Things were about to kick off, big time.
TWINKLE
‘Will you all stop jabbering and shut the hell up!’ Lauren Adams yelled, as the thirteen-year-old wrapped her hands over her ears.
She was in her eighth-floor room on CHERUB campus. Her bed had been tipped on its side to make space for the maps and diagrams spread across the carpet and she sat studying them with six fellow CHERUB agents: her boyfriend Rat, her best friend Bethany, Bethany’s eleven-year-old brother Jake, Rat’s best friend Andy Lagan and two eleven-year-old cherubs she barely knew called Ronan Walsh and Kevin Sumner.
‘If we’re gonna get picked to go to Las Vegas next month, we’ve got to get our plan straight and pull off this security test,’ Lauren continued firmly. ‘The ATCC is a new facility with state of the art security. We’ve got to get into the heart of the building and cause damage in the main control room.’
Kevin was the smallest kid in the room and he looked at the maps nervously. ‘Which bit is the ATCC?’
‘The whole building, doofus,’ Jake Parker sighed noisily. ‘ATCC: Air Traffic Control Centre.’
‘Oh,’ Kevin said. ‘I thought it was one of the alarm thingies.’
Bethany cuffed her brother Jake around the head. ‘Don’t bite Kevin’s head off, he’s only little.’
Jake gave his sister the finger. ‘He’s less than a year younger than me, dog breath.’
Rat sighed. ‘Don’t start fighting again you two … Christ, what’s that stink?’
They all turned towards Ronan. He was a stocky lad, mad on rugby and combat training but less keen on showering afterwards. He’d just pulled off one of his muddy boots.
‘Put it back on,’ Bethany gasped as she wafted her hand. ‘How long have you been wearing those socks?’
‘My eyes are watering,’ Andy complained.
‘Only about a week,’ Ronan said as he buried his nose between his toes and took a long sniff.
‘Don’t!’ Bethany yelled. ‘Dirty animal.’
‘It’s harmless,’ Ronan grinned, as he swung his foot towards Bethany. ‘It’s just my natural bodily juices.’
A couple of the lads laughed, but Lauren stepped over the maps and loomed above Ronan. ‘If you don’t put that boot back on, me and Bethany will drag you into the bathroom, strip you butt naked and scrub you with my toilet brush.’
‘Kinky,’ Andy laughed. ‘Stripped and scrubbed by two hot chicks …’
‘Two repugnant walruses, more like,’ Jake said.
But Lauren shot the lads evil eyes and they both shut up. Ronan reluctantly pulled his boot back on and even though it was freezing outside, Bethany got up and flung open the balcony doors to clear the air.
Lauren went back to squatting in front of the maps before speaking again. ‘I’ve got a good reputation and my black shirt,’ she said, stretching out her T-shirt to emphasise the point. ‘It won’t make much difference to me if we mess this up, but we need to pull it off if you three younger lads want a sniff of some decent missions any time soon. So you guys choose: screw around, or calm down and start taking this plan seriously.’
Kevin, Ronan and Jake didn’t like admitting that Lauren was right, but she glowered until they all nodded.
‘OK,’ Lauren said. ‘I’m the only black shirt here, so I’m making myself Chairwoman. Any objections?’
Lauren half expected a mutiny. But they all knew someone had to take charge if their plan was going to work.
Rat raised his hand and waited for Lauren’s nod before he spoke. ‘Here’s where I see the problem with our plan right now,’ he said. ‘Bethany and Lauren do their bit at the front of the air traffic control centre, but me, Andy and the three little dudes are gonna end up at the back facing six adult security guards with no weapons.’
‘We need guns,’ Jake blurted. ‘Tranquilliser darts or stun guns at the least.’
‘Why don’t you read the mission briefing?’ Lauren sighed. ‘Our job is to test the security arrangements put in place by the private company at the new ATCC. If the government wanted people with Balaclavas and machine guns, they’d have sent in the army. We’ve got to dress and act like ordinary kids on a pre-Christmas rampage. We can use our mobiles, but no walkie-talkies. We can’t take listening devices, explosives, lock guns or anything else that your average thirteen-year-old doesn’t carry in the pocket of his hoodie.’
Bethany raised her hand and waved her mission briefing in the air. ‘But Lauren, it does also say that the security guards are backed up by a team of military police.’
‘With guns,’ Jake added.
‘Read it properly,’ Lauren said. ‘It’s a rapid response team stationed on an RAF base eight kilometres away. As long as we don’t give the regular security team at the ATCC time to sound the alarm, we’ll only be up against private security guards with batons and pepper spray.’
‘If only we knew exactly who these guards are,’ Bethany said. ‘I mean, they could be anything from doddery little old men to retired Special Forces.’
Lauren shrugged. ‘When that control centre opens in the new year it’s gonna be in charge of every civilian and military flight from the Midlands right the way up to the Scottish highlands. Planes could drop out of the sky if it was blown up.’
Ronan nodded solemnly. ‘So unless the security has been set up by total idiots, we won’t be facing a team of boy scouts.’
‘Why don’t we go over to Dennis King in Mission Preparation and say that we need more information on the security team?’ Andy asked.
Lauren shook her head. ‘Security tests like this one are part mission, part training exercise. King might give us more information if we ask, but we’re supposed to devise our plan based on what they’ve given us. We’d get marked down in our assessment for sure.’
‘I know,’ Rat yelped triumphantly, as he smacked his fist into his palm. ‘Slingshots.’
‘What about them?’ Lauren asked.
‘Kids carry slingshots,’ Rat explained. ‘When I lived at the Ark in Australia I was always bored. One of the few toys I had was a slingshot. I used to fill it with rocks, pop out of a tunnel or a manhole, aim it at someone’s head and dive for cover before they knew what had hit ‘em. I caused at least a dozen concussions before Georgie caught me and had my butt paddled.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Lauren smiled, before Jake butted in.
‘I’m a good aim with a slingshot – we used to massacre squirrels with them over the back of campus.’
Lauren didn’t like Jake and as an animal lover and vegetarian she was even less impressed than usual. ‘Excuse me?’ she said ferociously. ‘What have campus squirrels ever done to you?’
‘Not recently,’ Jake squirmed. ‘I’m talking about when I was a little red shirt, camping out in tents in the summer.’
‘Boys,’ Bethany said, shaking her head. ‘They all seem to go through a stage where all they want to do is kill stuff or set fire to it.’
Rat tutted, ‘That’s completely sexist, Bethany. If I went around making generalisations like that about girls you’d—’
Ronan spoke at the same time as Rat. ‘I love setting fire to stuff—’
‘All right,’ Lauren interrupted, clapping her hands together. ‘Let’s focus on the security test, shall we? There are definitely slingshots downstairs in the weapons storeroom and if you think they’ll help our cause, go and get some by all means.’
‘It’s been a while since I fired a slingshot,’ Rat said, glancing at his watch. ‘We’ve got a couple of hours before we leave, so I wouldn’t mind getting a bit of practice in.’
Jake smirked, ‘We could shoot up the ducks on the lake.’
‘You’re not funny, Jake,’ Lauren said. ‘If I see you or anyone else hurting animals on campus I’ll pick you up and body-slam you so hard that you’ll piss blood for a month.’
‘Empty Coke cans make good targets,’ Kevin said, trying to be constructive.
Jake nodded. ‘Especially if you paint squirrels on them.’
‘All right,’ Lauren nodded, gritting her teeth and fighting the urge to jump on top of Jake and beat the crap out of him. ‘You boys can go off and play with your slingshots. But before you do, I reckon we should go through the whole plan one last time from the top. I want all of you to know your jobs off by heart. Bethany, why don’t you start?’
SURGE
After the Birmingham demo had turned violent the previous year Chris Bradford had found the police blocking every move the Street Action Group made. A hundred demonstrators would be met by two hundred cops. Bigger SAG events would be outlawed by local councils and anyone defying the ban found train stations closed, roads barricaded and lines of police eager to arrest anyone who stepped out of line.
These tough police tactics had crushed dozens of strikes and anti-government groups since they were first used during the miners’ strike in the mid-1980s. To get around them Chris Bradford had created the impression that SAG was imploding by staging ever smaller actions that drew tiny crowds and an ever smaller number of police officers to keep them in line.
Once the police guard was down, Bradford organised the most ambitious anti-government SAG demo ever and Christmas was the perfect time to pull it off. If you want mayhem on the streets you need lots of bored young men, and school and university holidays are the time to find them. The cops would be at full stretch dealing with drunken revellers, while at the same time lots of officers would be taking leave. Most importantly, the run-up to Christmas is a quiet time for newspapers and TV, so you’re guaranteed top spot on the news if you pull off something spectacular.
James Adams had successfully infiltrated SAG and he knew Bradford’s plan. He’d told his mission controller John Jones, but John chose not to pass the information to the police. James was investigating the more serious possibility of SAG turning into a terrorist group and Bradford would have suspected a mole inside his organisation if he’d emerged from Covent Garden underground station and discovered hundreds of cops waiting for him.
It’s a problem with all kinds of intelligence work: agents go undercover and get information, but you can’t make use of it without compromising their safety. James couldn’t help wondering if they’d made the right decision as hundreds of protestors steamed down the Strand towards Trafalgar Square.
The noise was deafening and although James was nervous, he got a buzz from being part of such a powerful group. Missiles flew overhead and glass was shattering on both sides of the street. Diners in festive hats screamed as a paving slab crashed through the window of a Japanese restaurant. Seconds later the leaded glass frontage of a Georgian theatre was kicked in, the box office was shattered and posters of the cast were ripped off the awnings and flung into the air.
Office workers and shoppers sheltered in doorways. Shop staff rushed to lock doors as the throbbing chant of ‘SAG, SAG, SAG!’ roared down the street.
SAG had sympathisers in some of London’s roughest neighbourhoods and James was impressed that they’d pulled together a diverse crowd of activists and troublemakers without the cops getting wind. Chris Bradford said he’d be happy with a hundred and fifty protestors, but the crowd was now three times that. They divided evenly between the pavements on opposite sides of the road, with the overflow wading between four lanes of gridlocked traffic.
Two minutes after they entered the Strand the pavements ahead of the marchers were bare. Pedestrians were either locked inside shops or had cut up one of the many side streets to avoid the chanting mob.
Most of those who didn’t get out of the way in time were ignored and a few homeless who sheltered in the area found protestors showering them with coins and wishing them Merry Christmas. It wasn’t such a good day if you were a drunken office worker, returning from a liquid lunch in a pinstripe suit and expensive watch. While the majority of the crowd was happy to chant and trash property, one especially intimidating group of youths grabbed anyone who looked like they had a bit of money and ordered them to hand it over.
‘SAG, SAG, SAG!’ James chanted, repeatedly punching the air as the crowd jostled on all sides and broken glass crunched under his boots. He had to live up to his green Mohican and his role as a young anarchist so he took an enthusiastic kick, ripping the door mirror off a chauffeur-driven Mercedes trapped in the traffic between two buses. He grabbed the mirror out of the gutter and looked around, but couldn’t find anything to throw it at.
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A second later, James found himself bundling into the person in front. The crowd behind squashed up and stopped moving. Everyone was surprised and the chanting died down as James leaned into the road to see what was going on.
Charing Cross railway station was less than fifty metres ahead and Nelson’s Column was lit up in the distance, but flashing blue lights and a line of police cars stretched across the road ahead.
‘Nazis,’ spat a bloke who was practically breathing down James’ neck. ‘How’d they get here so bloody fast?’
James didn’t speak, but he knew there was a flaw in Bradford’s plan: one of London’s largest police stations was less than fifty metres from the route of the planned march. When the superintendent in charge of the Charing Cross police station heard that the march was getting out of control, he’d ordered several vehicles to drive out of a basement garage and blockade the entire width of the Strand.
Every officer inside the station – including plenty who hadn’t been away from a desk in years – was ordered to kit up in full riot gear. More than fifty cops now stood behind the barricade with some less mobile officers jogging out clumsily to join them.
‘Please disperse immediately,’ a tannoy inside one of the police cars blurted. ‘We’re expecting more reinforcements shortly. You will be arrested and could face serious charges.’
After the announcement the cops tried to psyche the crowd out by drumming their batons on their plastic riot shields, and it seemed to work.
There was an eerie stillness as the crowd sought direction. James watched hundreds of plumes of warm breath wafting up into the darkening sky. The police lights mingled with Christmas lights and it felt like a break between hymns at an outdoor carol service. But menace hung in the air and James noticed that some of the protestors on the edge of the crowd were filtering away into the side streets.
As the number of people disappearing up the side streets grew, the mood deflated and it appeared the march was going to fizzle. But everything changed when an orange streak shot down from a third-storey window and exploded into a ball of flame between two of the parked police cars.
Beyond James’ line of sight, several activists had forced a glass door and climbed a flight of steps into an office suite above the shops. They’d opened a window and thrown out a petrol bomb.
As the crowd cheered and whistled, more bombs rained down, spewing burning petrol over the road and setting light to the police cars as the officers scrambled from their barricade in total panic.
The big drum started banging again and the whole crowd was jumping into the air and shouting at the top of its voice, ‘SAG, SAG, SAG!’
James thought he’d known everything about Bradford’s plan. But he hadn’t known about the petrol bombs, and the way they’d been expertly aimed at the police lines made it seem more like a planned operation than a spur of the moment thing.
‘SAG, SAG, SAG!’
Anyone who wasn’t shouting was whistling and it made James’ ears hurt. But even though the police officers had backed off there was no way forward through the line of flaming cars.
The man holding the stolen megaphone came to the rescue, giving the crowd their orders: ‘Trash the Savoy, trash the Savoy!’
‘Bloody good idea,’ someone shouted, as the mob turned on its heels and began heading back the way it had come, towards one of London’s largest and fanciest hotels. James was much nearer the back of the mob than the front and it was almost a minute before he was back on the move.
‘We just burned the coppers, we just burned the coppers. La-la, la-la, la-la, hey!’
Amidst the chaos and the sound of more breaking glass, James felt his phone vibrating inside his pocket. There was too much noise to hold a conversation, so he was relieved to see a text message from Dana:
HAVE YOU SEEN MY GREEN TRACKSUIT TOP?
James was pleased to hear from his girl, but disappointed that she’d ignored his message about missing her. It was a struggle tapping out the reply with bodies jostling on all sides, and one bloke almost knocked the phone from his hand.
THINK I SAW IT UNDER MY BED, he replied.
As James pocketed the phone he bumped into the person in front and looked up. The noise of the crowd had dipped again and he could hear the distinctive sound of cops whacking batons on their plastic riot shields.
With police blocking the road ahead and a flaming barricade behind, James was just one of three hundred heads that turned towards the side streets looking for a way out, but they’d all been blocked off by white cars with blue flashing lights.
*
Back on campus, Rat, Andy, Jake, Kevin and Ronan were charging down the main staircase, heading from Lauren’s eighth-floor room to the weapons storage cupboard on the ground floor.
‘Who the hell does Lauren Adams think she is?’ Jake moaned as he swung around the end of a banister. ‘Stuck up little troll…’
‘You’re talking about my girlfriend,’ Rat warned.
Andy knew they had to work as a team and tried smoothing things over. ‘Lauren might be full of it, but she knows her stuff, Jake. She’s got one of the best mission records of anyone on campus and she’s still only thirteen …’
Ronan giggled. ‘If she had massive jugs like Bethany she’d be perfect.’
Andy and Rat both laughed. ‘I swear they get bigger every time I see her,’ Rat said.
‘You’re talking about my sister,’ Jake said bitterly.
‘Give over, Jake,’ Andy said. ‘You two hate each other.’
‘Andy’s in love with Bethany,’ Rat teased, as Ronan jumped half a flight of stairs on to the sixth-floor landing, making a massive thud. ‘But he’s too much of a shitter to ask her out.’
‘You talk rubbish, Rat,’ Andy said, aghast. ‘I said I liked her one time and you’ve been going on about it ever since.’
‘Shitter,’ Rat repeated.
By this time they’d all reached the sixth-floor landing, but Kevin peeled off into the corridor.
‘Where you going?’ Rat asked. ‘We’re all supposed to be going down for slingshot practice.’
‘I don’t want to get these muddy,’ Kevin explained, as he looked down at his glowing white Nikes. ‘I’ll nip to my room and change.’
Ronan shook his head. ‘Change your trainers! How much of a girl are you, Kevin?’
‘At least I don’t stink of piss,’ Kevin yelled back.
Ronan was half-way down to the fifth floor, but he spun around and squared up to Kevin. ‘Say that again and I’ll stomp on your head.’
‘Leave it out,’ Rat sighed. He was one of the strongest thirteen-year-olds on campus so he had no problem pulling the two eleven-year-olds apart. He shoved Kevin down the hallway towards his room before grabbing Ronan by his collar. ‘We’re gonna be stuck in a minibus for two hours on the way to the ATCC. If you smell like anything other than soap or deodorant, you’re riding on the roof rack.’
‘Yeah,’ Kevin smirked as he walked backwards down the hallway towards his room. ‘Take a bath, loser.’
‘See you down in the weapons room, Kev,’ Rat said, as Andy and Jake resumed the charge downstairs.
Kevin’s room was like all the others in the main building: small sofa by the door, double bed, desk with a laptop near the window, wardrobes along the length of one wall and a bathroom off to the side. But he was surprised to see a rusted toolbox in his bathroom doorway.
Karen, the campus plumber, leaned out of the bathroom. She wore battered denim dungarees over a white CHERUB shirt and held a toilet seat in her gloved hand. ‘Hello,’ she said warmly. ‘Just fitting your new toilet.’
All the toilets on campus were being replaced with water saving units. It had been announced in morning assembly that Monday but Kevin had forgotten all about it.
‘I’ll be done in ten minutes, but if you need to go, you can christen the one I’ve just fitted across the hall.’
‘No probs,’ Kevin nodded. He sat on the edge of his bed and leaned forward to grab an old pair of trainers from underneath.
After lacing his shoes Kevin wished the plumber a merry Christmas before running back to the corridor. He reckoned it was a good idea to take a leak before heading out into the December cold to shoot slingshots, so he grabbed the handle of the door directly across the hallway and stepped into James Adams’ bedroom.
BLAG
James ducked in fright as heat from the flames popped a tyre on one of the burning cop cars. Sirens wailed in the surrounding streets, while the crowd pushed and shoved. James was tall enough to breathe, but some of those lower down were getting crushed and starting to panic.
‘Please remain calm,’ a police tannoy announced. ‘You will be dispersed in an orderly fashion.’
Eighty demonstrators had leaked up the side streets before the petrol bombs had gone off, leaving a rump of three hundred protestors trapped between the police lines.
Fifty officers blocked the crowd into place at the eastern end of the Strand and dozens more cut off side streets, but while the cops were outnumbered five to one, none of the protestors fancied their chances against shields, helmets and extendible batons.
A veteran protestor standing close to James explained police tactics to his girlfriend. ‘Bastards will keep us here for hours, letting us out two or three at a time. They’ll take all our photos and details before letting us go.’
‘SAG, SAG, SAG!’ someone shouted, but the reply from the crowd was half-hearted and people were being blinded by the spotlight on a police helicopter sweeping overhead. James suspected they were prowling for Chris Bradford and other senior SAG members, but a lot of high-profile SAG members had been imprisoned after Birmingham and those who remained on the outside had slipped away before the protest reached its peak.
A bigger explosion ripped off behind James as the fuel tank of a police car exploded. On the side of the street away from the fire, the police had rolled a couple of lightly damaged cars out of the blockade and begun marching through the gap to block the crowd from the rear. The cops drumming on their riot shields panicked the crowd into an even tighter formation and a woman standing close to James screamed out that she couldn’t breathe.
The crush wasn’t caused by a lack of space, but by the fact that none of the protestors wanted to be on the edge of the crowd when the police closed them down completely. They were huddling from police batons the same way emperor penguins huddle from the cold.
‘I’ve got to get out,’ the woman screamed. ‘Let me out of here.’
The crush seemed pointless to James and unlike the slender female, he had the muscle to make headway through the crowd. As he pushed past bodies he grabbed the panicking woman and put his arm around her back.
‘Calm down,’ James said firmly as they reached open space and found themselves in no man’s land between the protestors and a line of riot shields thirty metres away. Across the street, the eastbound traffic that had been trapped between the two police lines was being allowed out one car at a time.
As the girl – who looked like she was in her early twenties – rummaged inside her shoulder bag and grabbed an asthma inhaler, James took a bottle of water out of his backpack and offered her a drink.
‘Thank you,’ she said, speaking with a heavy French accent before pausing to down some of the water. ‘I got so scared in there.’
‘No worries,’ James smiled.
Once the traffic on one side of the road was clear, the crowd moved into the extra space and tensions eased as it dawned that the riot cops weren’t going to charge in and start whacking people.
James and his new friend backed up to a column between closed shutters in front of a jewellery store and an electrical store.
‘Smoke?’ the girl asked, as she pulled a packet of ten and a lighter out of her bag.
James shook his head and laughed. ‘Cigarettes and asthma. Nice combo!’
But his smile vanished when he glanced at his watch. He was supposed to be covering Chris Bradford’s back at a meeting on the other side of London in less than three hours’ time. It was important for the mission, but James didn’t have a hope of making it if the police were planning to disperse the protestors by releasing them two or three at a time over the space of several hours.
‘I need to be somewhere else,’ James said.
The French girl smiled. ‘If you ‘ave a plan I’m all ears.’
James studied her clothing for the first time. Her black stockings and expensive-looking striped coat didn’t fit the mould of a SAG activist or an urban yob.
‘How’d you find out about the demo?’
‘I’m studying journalism,’ the girl explained. ‘I’m working three months at the London bureaux of a Paris newspaper. I was at a party last night, I heard some guys talking about the possibility of trouble.’
‘Looking for a scoop,’ James said, before smiling absent-mindedly.
He usually paid attention to what pretty girls said, but his eyes had strayed towards the metal shutters at the front of the electrical store. Each shutter had metal clasps that were designed to be padlocked from the outside, but they’d been pulled down in a hurry and he wondered if there was any way to lock them from the inside.
‘Where are you going?’ the French girl asked, as James moved two paces to his left and peered between the slats of the roll-down shutters.
All the lights were on inside the store. There was a display area at either end of the shop’s frontage, and in between them a recessed area behind which were six glass doors, all locked.
‘There must be a way out of the back,’ James said.
He kept a wary eye on the line of policemen before squatting down, lifting the shutter quickly and ducking beneath it.
‘Where are you going?’ the French girl asked.
‘Don’t stare,’ James said anxiously.
He stood up slowly in the recessed area between the shutters and the door. It was a relief to see that everyone had left the store except the manager, who stood at the rear playing Pro Evo Soccer on an X-box.
James stepped gingerly across the tiles and pushed each of the six glass doors, but wasn’t surprised to find them locked. Cherubs are trained in lock picking using a mechanical lock gun, but it wasn’t something James carried routinely so he’d have to rely on his multitool to get inside.
A quick glance up towards the door handles provided some relief. The shop’s main security was provided by tough padlocks on the shutters. The doors also had deadlocks, but as with the shutters they were designed to be operated from the outside when the shop was closed up for the night. The two outer sets of doors were bolted from the inside, but the pair in the middle was designed to open electronically by swinging inwards. The current had been switched off, but there was no obvious physical barrier preventing them from being forced open.
James would be able to force them open as long as he could get his fingers between the two doors. The French girl blew cigarette smoke through the shutters as James crouched low and prepared to try.
‘Are you OK? Can you get inside?’
‘Don’t stare, for Christ’s sake,’ James said irritably.
There were hundreds of protestors and dozens of cops nearby and it was a minor miracle that he’d got this far without being spotted.
He pushed the toe of his boot against the bottom of one door, opening a small gap into which he hoped to wedge his fingers; but they were too chunky. To get around this James pushed the saw-toothed blade of his multitool into the gap between the two halves of the electronic door, then used it as a lever until the gap was big enough to squeeze in four fingers of his right hand.
The whole weight of the door pressed on his fingertips as he pulled and he couldn’t help making a noisy grunt. When the door had moved another centimetre he was able to get the fingers of his other hand into the gap, but it only budged when he shifted his whole bodyweight backwards.
The hydraulic pistons that usually operated the doors hissed in unison, but James’ sense of triumph only lasted for the half-second between the doors breaking open and the loud clattering sound as his fingers lost their grip and his entire body slammed the grille behind him.
As James recovered his balance and stood up, the French girl clambered under the shutter. Fellow protestors who’d heard the rattling shutters saw the whole thing.
Inside the store, the manager had dropped the X-box controller and vaulted over the cashier’s counter where he pressed the emergency alarm button.
‘Get out of my store,’ he shouted defiantly.
Unfortunately, sounding the alarm was the worst move he could have made. A couple of protestors were already following the French girl under one shutter, but everyone heard the alarm and the protestors were rejuvenated.
‘Oggy, oggy, oggy,’ someone shouted through a megaphone.
‘SAG, SAG, SAG!’ the protestors shouted back, as the remaining shutters opened and a scrum formed around the automatic doors.
Inside, James dragged the French girl by her arm and they ran together towards a door at the back of the shop.
‘It’s zee storeroom!’ she shouted, her French accent thickening as panic set in.
As James spun to exit, the manager blocked his path. If he’d known how much combat training James had done he wouldn’t have dared and James effortlessly grabbed the squat salesman by his company tie and bundled him sideways into a rack of battery chargers and mains adaptors.
‘Stay back or I’ll hurt you properly,’ James ordered, before setting off towards a fire exit sign on the opposite side of the store.
They were no longer alone. More than fifty protestors had made it through the double doors and were now fighting over access to a single fire door at the back of the store. While most wanted to escape, others couldn’t resist thousands of pounds’ worth of electrical equipment.
Dozens more alarms were set off as laptops and DVD recorders got ripped off their display stands. The youths who’d mugged several bystanders earlier on were standing behind the photography counter stuffing boxed cameras and iPods into the biggest carrier bags they could find.
Out on the Strand, the police at both ends had rushed in to stop the getaway, but this spooked some sections of the crowd who feared that the police would lash out when they got close. Others were emboldened. The formations of police drumming on riot shields had been intimidating, but the cops’ lack of numbers was plain to see once the lines were broken.
About seventy protestors made it into the electrical store before six officers with riot shields blocked it off, but none of them risked following the crazed mob inside. The remaining demonstrators divided between a charge through police lines towards the Savoy Hotel and a smaller breakaway group that forced its way past a pair of officers blocking one of the alleyways leading towards the river.
Outnumbered and out of formation, the cops made the situation worse by lashing out with batons and swooping into the crowd to randomly arrest anyone they could get their hands on.
Back inside the store James and the French girl made it through the crush around the fire door, down three steps and into a second, larger stockroom. Double doors at the back opened directly on to a narrow alleyway, but you had to fight through looters ripping off electrical goods to get there.
James wouldn’t be allowed to keep anything he stole on a mission, so he wasn’t interested. But the French girl couldn’t resist cutting between two racks of stock and grabbing a pair of small boxes.
‘Toshiba laptop!’ she beamed, as she handed one to James. ‘Très cher! Lightweight, ideal for journalist.’
They exited nervously into fresh air and a single-lane road. There were dozens of looters heading off in either direction, but it was the kind of space that could easily be blocked off by a pair of police cars, so James grabbed his companion’s skinny arm and began running at full pelt.
After a two-hundred-metre sprint they found themselves at a Y-shaped junction with two wider roads and despite there being no officers in sight, James was shocked by the distinctive blue lanterns hanging on the front of Charing Cross police station.
‘This way,’ he gasped.
‘I’m so breathless,’ the girl protested.
By some miracle a black cab hurtled around a corner and deposited a newspaper photographer on to the pavement less than twenty metres away. James harried the driver as he fiddled with some change.
‘Take us to Islington,’ James said. ‘Caledonian Road.’
‘Keep your green hair on, sonny!’ the taxi driver said. ‘I’m just writing this gentleman’s receipt.’
James’ heart leaped as he saw a police officer in riot gear staggering around a corner towards the station, but he was in no state to arrest anyone: limping badly and with a huge crack in one side of his helmet, like he’d been hit by a paving slab or something.
As the photographer made a dash towards the scene of the rioting James was horrified to see three huge looters in tracksuits and bling jewellery running towards the taxi.
‘That’s our cab, man,’ they shouted.
The one leading the way held carrier bags stuffed with cameras, while his two mates had stacked one of the electrical store’s trolleys with boxes containing PCs and laptops.
‘I said, that’s our cab,’ the big man repeated, giving James a mean look as he grabbed him by his shoulder.
James was pumped from all the action. He grabbed the hand and twisted the giant thumb until it dislocated. Meantime, the French girl had climbed into the taxi and was banging on the glass partition inside.
‘Just drive me,’ she said.
James reached for the door handle but the cab driver pulled away without him. James couldn’t believe it.
‘I saved your skinny butt,’ James yelled after her.
As he stepped back on to the kerb a clumsy fist swung towards him. He grabbed the arm out of the air and used the giant’s momentum to roll him over his back. The big man’s skeleton crunched as he landed hard in the gutter.
His two mates thought about moving in, but each held a three-wheeled trolley stacked with thousands of pounds’ worth of computer equipment and they were reluctant to let it topple into the road.
James was pissed off at the way the French girl had ditched him, but he knew he had to swallow his pride and concentrate on the mission. After giving the bag of iPods and camera stuff an almighty kick that scattered half its contents over the road he started running again with the Toshiba box swinging in his hand.
James didn’t know exactly where he was, but he’d kept his sense of direction and knew that if he headed north-west he’d reach Oxford Street within ten minutes. Once there he’d blend into the thousands of Christmas shoppers for a kilometre or so before going down the Underground and riding a train home.
FLUSH
Kevin’s pee disappeared with a slight gurgle and a whoosh of air from James’ newly installed eco-toilet. He’d been in James’ room a few times, but he’d never used the bathroom. It felt awkward being in James’ private space, but he was also curious about all his stuff.
As Kevin rinsed his hands, he reckoned that the big difference between being eleven and sixteen was the amount of stuff you needed to maintain yourself. His bathroom across the hall had shampoo, soap, toothpaste and a tub of hair gel he’d only used twice. James had around fifty bottles, ranging from shaving mousse and zit cream to expensive aftershaves and hair dye. There was also loads of Dana’s stuff around and much to Kevin’s amusement a box containing ‘48 Assorted Condoms’.
Kevin wasn’t into girls yet, but he knew that would change pretty soon and he was intrigued by the whole idea of sex and girlfriends. He’d only ever seen a condom in a picture, so after drying his hands on a grubby towel he cast a wary eye towards the unlocked bathroom door before picking one of the little foil-wrapped packets out of the box. The foil felt cold as he turned it over between his fingers and he was tempted to rip it open.
But Kevin needed to hurry downstairs to catch up with Rat and the other lads. He briefly considered pocketing the condom to examine in his room later, but he’d never stolen anything in his life and had no intention of starting.
James’ bedroom door slammed as Kevin dropped the condom back into the box. It made him jump and his thumb caught the edge of the cardboard and sent the box tumbling off the narrow shelf. Half a dozen shiny foil packets poured into the sink, while the remainder spilled across the floor.
Two people had entered the bedroom and now stood on the other side of the wall, less than three paces away. Kevin recognised the deep tone of sixteen-year-old Michael Hendry.
‘Where’d James say your tracksuit was?’
‘Under the bed,’ James’ girlfriend Dana replied.
As they spoke, Kevin moved quietly but quickly on his knees, throwing spilled condoms back into their box. His face burned red at the prospect of being discovered, because while he could act innocent and say that he’d knocked them on the floor while washing his hands it was the kind of story that might lead to all kinds of wild rumours and mickey-taking.
‘Here we go,’ Dana said, ripping her tracksuit top from under James’ bed as Kevin scooped the last of the condoms out of the sink.
Kevin looked in the mirror when he’d finished. His cheeks were flushed and he thought he looked guilty about something.
‘Where are you going now?’ Dana asked.
‘Shoulder still aches from the dojo yesterday,’ Michael replied. ‘I might go over to the pool. Half an hour in the hot tub might ease it off.’
Dana’s voice became gentler. ‘Maybe if you took your shirt off I could kiss it better,’ she teased.
Kevin was shocked. He wanted to leave, but now felt that he’d been in the bathroom too long and had heard too much to reveal his presence.
‘You sick puppy!’ Michael said, before breaking into a deep laugh. ‘You want to make out here, in your man’s bedroom?’
‘Screw James Adams,’ Dana said. ‘You think he’s never cheated on me? He’s probably bouncing around on top of some scabies-infested anarchist as I speak.’
‘You’re harsh,’ Michael laughed. ‘I can’t help feeling bad for my Gabrielle though. She ain’t done nothing but good things for me.’
‘Yeah,’ Dana said. ‘But we’re sixteen. If we can’t have some fun at our age …’
Kevin heard a couple of grunts followed by a creak of bedsprings. His heart thumped as he crept up to the bathroom door and peeked. Michael was kicking off his trainers, while Dana sat on James’ bed peeling her black CHERUB T-shirt over her head.
‘You’re bloody sexy!’ Michael said, pulling his CHERUB shirt over his head and giving Kevin an eyeful of some nasty looking acne on his back.
As the shock wore off Kevin started to see the funny side and realised that he had a great story to tell his mates. The only trouble was, nobody would believe him. He patted the front pocket of his combat trousers and was pleased to feel the bulge of his camera phone.
Kevin cycled through the menus making absolutely sure that the flash and the little shutter noise the phone made were switched off before crouching down low and poking the phone around the edge of the door frame.
Michael and Dana now sprawled over James’ bed, snogging, topless and apparently about to go much further. Kevin nervously snapped two pictures and checked the end result on the screen. They were grainy shots, but clear enough to see who they were and what was going on.
As Kevin slid the phone back into his pocket it started to ring. He gasped as he saw Rat’s name on the display and realised Rat was calling to ask where he’d got to.
‘Is that your phone?’ Dana asked, as she pulled away from Michael.
‘Sounds like it’s coming from the bathroom. It can’t be James’, it would have gone flat by now if he’d left it on.’
Michael headed towards the bathroom as Kevin backed up desperately towards the toilet. He pressed the flush with one hand while answering his phone with the other.
‘Hey, Rat,’ Kevin said, trying to sound casual as Michael came through the doorway.
‘What the hell, kid?’ Michael boomed.
Michael’s bare torso was bulked out with huge muscles, but Kevin had made it through CHERUB basic training so it wasn’t enough to faze him. He gave Michael a with you in a second wave and carried on talking into the phone.
‘… Sorry Rat. I changed my shoes, but I had to take a crap as well. I’ll meet you down by the back entrance in two minutes.’
Kevin pocketed the phone before explaining to Michael, ‘Plumber’s across the hall fitting me a new toilet.’
‘Right,’ Michael said uneasily. He was clearly worried that Kevin had heard something he shouldn’t have.
The eleven-year-old struggled to keep a straight face. ‘So what are you doing in James’ room?’
‘Oh … Yeah … Just, changing my shirt, you know? James said I could borrow one of his.’
‘Cool,’ Kevin said.
‘You should lock the door next time,’ Michael said.
Kevin shrugged. ‘James is on his mission so I didn’t expect company.’
He wanted Michael to think he’d been on the toilet the whole time, so he went to the sink and quickly rewashed his hands.
‘Anyway, I’ve gotta get downstairs for some slingshot practice with the boys.’
Kevin breezed out of the bathroom, drying wet hands on his trousers and casually saying ‘Hey’ to Dana as he walked back to the hallway. She’d pulled her T-shirt back on but her bra strap dangled out where she’d hurriedly stuffed it under James’ duvet.
JONES
Mission Controller John Jones sat on a ripped sofa with his socked feet on a coffee table and his reading glasses on a chain around his neck. The TV was on and the news cut to a live shot of the Strand, strewn with broken glass and strands of do not enter tape.
‘James, they’re showing it now,’ he shouted.
James jogged through fr