CHERUB: The General (5 page)

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.

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.

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 from the flat’s tiny kitchen, with a meal tray holding a plate of microwave macaroni and a can of Coke Zero. John budged up so that James could sit next to him.

‘Trashed!’ James said excitedly, before hissing as hot cheese sauce burned the roof of his mouth. ‘There must have been another wrecking spree after I legged it. There’s broken glass all the way down to Waterloo Bridge.’

John nodded. ‘They did a load of shops in Covent Garden as they ran off. Sixty arrested, couple of cops got a kicking and one burned by a petrol bomb, but it doesn’t look like anyone was badly hurt.’

‘Good,’ James said. ‘Wouldn’t have felt happy about not passing the information on to the cops if someone had got done in. So how is the BBC playing it?’

‘Hysterical, like you’d expect,’ John smiled. ‘The chief constable of the Met was in the studio a minute ago, getting a grilling about intelligence and why there weren’t more cops there from the start. I saw a quick flash of you in the holding pen by the tube station, but your hood was up so you won’t be recognised.’