Henderson's Boys: Eagle Day (10 page)

In a flash of genius he remembered seeing a film about American gangsters where a prison guard had been floored using a sock stuffed with billiard balls. There were no billiard balls around, but Paul reckoned his long grey socks and the loose pebbles fringing overgrown flowerbeds would do the trick.

It wasn’t easy with one hand. His shoe and sock came off without difficulty but he had a rougher time holding the sock open with his splinted arm and dropping in rough stones that snagged on the grey wool. When the sock felt sufficiently heavy Paul gave it a couple of test swings.

He decided that the best technique was to wrap most of the sock around his wrist and flick it like a cosh, but doubts surfaced as he crouched beside a tree trunk a few paces from the house, awaiting PT’s exit. Ensuring that PT didn’t leave seemed good in theory, but the reality of his slight frame and a broken arm made Paul wonder if surprise would be enough of an advantage.

PT looked solemn as he left the pink house, a small brown suitcase in one hand and Marc’s pigskin slung over his back. He turned and took a few backwards steps, looking at the house and clearly torn about leaving.

Paul considered dumping the sock and making another attempt at persuading PT to stay. But he had no new arguments and his idea was fuelled more by cowardice than any realistic belief in success.

As PT crunched down the gravel driveway, Paul felt himself sweating in places he barely knew he had. He found courage from somewhere, however, and when the moment came the sock belted the side of PT’s skull with a horrid thunk.

‘Shit!’ PT yelled, as the blow and the weight of his luggage pulled him over.

Stone chips spewed up as PT landed heavily in the gravel. A streak of blood broke through his hair as he rolled on to his back, but to Paul’s alarm the blow hadn’t knocked him out.

‘What are you doing, you little idiot?’

‘You know too much,’ Paul shouted back. ‘Stay down or I’ll whack you again.’

But PT reared up defiantly. Paul feared a beating if PT got back to his feet, but the sharp-edged stones had shredded his sock and as Paul swung a second time they burst out through a hole in the toe. A few hit PT but the big ones all missed.

‘Stop it,’ PT shouted. ‘Do you want me to beat you up?’

PT tried standing up again, but his head swirled and a stone chip was jammed in one eye. Paul reckoned a handful of dirt in PT’s other eye would even the odds, so he scooped up loose gravel and threw it hard.

As PT tried to shield his eyes, Paul kicked him in the gut. The shoe connected, but PT grabbed the flying ankle and twisted Paul’s foot around. Paul crashed down into the gravel, groaning with pain as he landed on his bad arm.

Blood dripped off PT’s chin as he loomed over the younger boy. Paul winced, expecting a hammering as PT’s knee pinned his thighs to the ground, but as PT’s fist bunched, Paul’s flailing hand found a large stone and he swung upwards.

The face of the rock hit PT in the temple. Paul wriggled as PT’s fist glanced off his head, but a second later PT’s shoulders drooped and he listed sideways. The churning gravel had thrown up clouds of dust. Paul coughed violently and his stomach burned with pain as he sat up – but he’d finally knocked PT out.

*

There was a warm atmosphere as the quartet rode the van back towards the pink house under late afternoon sun. Rosie was exhausted after her day at the refuge, but it was a good kind of tired: the kind you get when you feel you’ve accomplished something.

Maxine was cheerful. She made a point of driving fast over bumps because she knew Henderson was feeling the worse for half a dozen brandies. Marc sat in the rear compartment with a German mechanic’s satchel resting on his lap. It contained a reel of solder, a soldering iron and the four precious valves.

Paul was a sobbing mess as he bolted out of the pink house to meet them. He’d tried to wash up and fix the splints on his arm but hadn’t done much of a job. Henderson feared the worst and pulled his gun as he jumped out the back of the truck.

‘I tied him up,’ Paul blurted as he led Henderson through to the kitchen.

Paul wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing and feared that he’d get shouted at, so it was a huge relief when Henderson looked proudly at him.

‘You reasoned all that through by yourself?’ Henderson smiled. ‘And he’s a damn sight bigger than you.’

‘So I’m not in trouble?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Henderson replied, as they arrived in the kitchen together. ‘Sneaking away, stealing my gold. Let’s see what the little bugger’s got to say for himself.’

PT was sprawled over the terracotta floor with a bloody pillow under his head. Paul had bound his arms and legs with washing line and hauled him up the driveway in case his body was spotted by a passerby.

‘That’s Marc’s bag and the suitcase he packed,’ Paul explained, as he pointed towards the kitchen table. ‘I wanted you to see what he’d done, so I didn’t touch it.’

Henderson saw the gold ingots as Marc walked in behind. ‘Traitor,’ Marc spat, furious that PT had planned to steal his bag and his only spare shirt.

The two females were more rational. Rosie was torn between compassion for PT’s pathetic state down on the tiles and loyalty to her distraught brother. Maxine took one look at Paul before rushing to light the wood-burning stove so that she could heat a pan of water to clean his arm and remake the filthy dressing.

‘Why’d you try to leave?’ Henderson bawled, as he hoisted PT off the floor and slammed him down in a dining chair. ‘Guess I was a fool trusting you, eh? Stealing my gold, eh? What were you gonna do? Walk into town and try selling us out to the Gestapo?’

PT’s head rolled forwards. Henderson thrust his chair up to the table to stop him flopping forwards.

‘You gonna tell me straight, or would you prefer me to thrash the truth out of you?’ Henderson shouted.

A string of dried blood and snot hit the wooden table as Henderson closed up behind. The other three youngsters watched nervously from the opposite end of the table.

‘I just wanted out of here,’ PT explained through a bloody mouth. ‘I thought we were going across to Spain. Then yesterday you started talking about spies and fixing radios and stuff. I’m not up for any of that. All I want is a quiet life.’

Henderson grabbed a handful of hair and slammed PT’s head against the tabletop. ‘Why should I believe you?’ he bellowed scarily.

Maxine turned sharply away from the stove. ‘For god’s sake, Charles. He’s a kid!’

‘Why did you try sneaking off?’ Henderson demanded. ‘Why did you steal my gold?’

‘The same reason that carry gold,’ PT sobbed indignantly. ‘There are some things that only gold can pay for: including the gypsy guides who help people across the mountains and into Spain.’
you

‘You’re a liar,’ Henderson snarled, keeping up the pressure even though he knew PT was right about the gypsies. ‘You were going straight to the Gestapo in town. You were going to rat on us, grab a fat reward while the Gestapo tortured your supposed friends Rosie, Paul and Marc to death.’

‘Bull crap!’ PT shouted. ‘A quiet life, that’s all I wanted.’

Henderson smiled slightly. ‘The thing is, PT, I can’t trust you any more. I can’t let you go, because you know too much, and I haven’t got any prison to lock you up in. That only leaves me with one real choice, doesn’t it?’

Henderson slipped the pistol out of his jacket and flipped off the safety. PT swivelled his eyes towards the gun in a state of complete terror.

‘You can’t kill him!’ Rosie screamed.

‘Why the hell shouldn’t I kill the little traitor?’ Henderson shouted.

Marc was torn up. He knew what Henderson was capable of and he hated that PT had betrayed them and tried to steal some of his meagre possessions, but PT had been his friend and wrestling partner for the last three weeks and that still counted for something.

‘Please, Mr Henderson,’ PT sobbed, as the muzzle pressed against his bloody temple. ‘I haven’t been into town since the sank. I don’t know where the Germans are, or if they’d pay a reward. And believe me, I wouldn’t go near the authorities. They’d be as likely to arrest me as you.’
Cardiff Bay

‘So why’s that?’ Henderson asked.

‘I didn’t win that money gambling,’ PT explained. ‘Check my notebook. It’s in the brown case with a newspaper article folded up inside. That’s who I really am. If you read it you’ll see why I’d never go near the cops, the Gestapo, or anyone else.’

Rosie was nearest the case. She quickly found the notebook and a water-damaged sheet of newspaper folded between the pages. She unfurled it and read the headline aloud, ‘
Hunt for tunnel-heist boy continues
.’

Beneath the headline was a short article, and a family picture.

‘They must have searched our apartment and found the photo,’ PT explained. ‘That’s the only picture of my family I’ve got.’

‘So you didn’t win the money gambling on board a ship?’ Henderson asked.

PT shook his head. ‘Two cops died in that robbery and the Feds issued an international arrest warrant. If they haul my ass back to the USA I’m as good as dead. I’m on the French-police wanted list, so believe me, I’m the last person on earth who’d go anywhere near the Gestapo or the cops.’

Henderson wiped the bloody muzzle of his gun on a handkerchief before putting it back into its holster. PT gasped with relief, but Henderson shocked him by banging his head against the tabletop again.

‘You’re still a liar and a thief,’ Henderson said. ‘Maybe you wouldn’t have gone to the Gestapo, but you still tried sneaking off with my gold.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ PT shouted desperately. ‘I did what I did. If you’re gonna shoot me, shoot me, you twisted old buzzard.’

‘You’re lucky you’re not a year or two older,’ Henderson snarled, as PT buried his face in his hands. ‘I’ve killed spies, traitors, soldiers and thieves, but I’ve got this little twinge of conscience telling me it’s wrong to blow a fifteen year old’s brains across this nice old table.’
damned

Marc and Rosie exchanged relieved glances. Maxine seemed angry at the way Henderson was behaving, but she concentrated on heating the water to clean up Paul’s arm.

Henderson looked at Paul. ‘Is there any more washing line about?’

Paul nodded. ‘Quite a bit.’

‘OK,’ Henderson said, crouching down so that he was speaking right into PT’s bloody earhole. ‘I’m gonna take you out to the garden shed and truss you up. I’m gonna think about your situation overnight. In the morning I’ll come out and let you know if there’s any circumstance under which I can let you live.’
possible

Something seemed to be on PT’s lips, but he didn’t say it.

‘What about food and drink?’ Rosie asked.

‘He’s getting neither,’ Henderson said as he wrenched PT up by the scruff of his shirt and shoved him towards the back door. ‘Little hunger and thirst might make him more cooperative over any questions I decide to ask come morning.’

Henderson set the broken transmitter on the dining table and unfolded a wiring diagram next to it. Paul offered to help, but Henderson was in a mood after dealing with PT and impatiently told him to clear off.

Paul spent an hour sitting in the living room reading a book about Ancient Greece while Henderson crashed about the dining room, his language getting fouler and fouler.

‘My dad was a salesman for Imperial Wireless,’ Paul said warily, as he stood in the dining-room doorway, studying Henderson’s berry-red face. ‘They had engineers, but my dad would do simple repairs himself, to keep customers happy, and I helped a few times.’

‘If you’re so smart, come look,’ Henderson sighed. ‘You can’t make any more of a hash of this than I am.’

Paul moved towards the huge table. The soldering iron was plugged into the light socket above and the smell of smoke and metal stuck to the air. Henderson had replaced two of the broken valves, but had made a horrible job joining up some damaged wiring.

‘That’s messy,’ Paul said, as he dug his thumbnail under a huge silver blob of solder and picked it away.

‘I didn’t say touch it,’ Henderson growled.

‘You won’t get a good connection if you use that much solder,’ Paul explained, picking more off the end of the loose electrical wire and leaning over to study the wiring diagram. ‘You’ve put it back on the wrong terminal anyway.’

Henderson pushed Paul aside, made a careful study of the diagram and then said, ‘Oh …’

‘You’d have blown all sorts of things if you’d powered up like that,’ Paul said, braving a tiny smile. ‘I built a transmitter two summers ago.’

‘With your dad’s help?’ Henderson asked.

‘Some,’ Paul admitted, as he pulled off another of Henderson’s mis-soldered wires. ‘My dad found a diagram for a simple radio and got me all the parts, but I did the work myself over the summer holidays. Except for a couple of fiddly bits.’
really

‘Quite impressive,’ Henderson admitted. ‘You must have only been nine back then.’

‘It’s not that difficult really. As long as you have a wiring diagram and all the right parts. It’s sort of like a jigsaw puzzle, except the end result is more useful than some stupid picture of kittens.’

Henderson watched as Paul lined up the wire with the correct terminal. ‘I’ve only got one good arm, so you hold the wire and solder together and I’ll make the new joint.’

Paul took the hot-tipped soldering iron off its stand, leaned awkwardly over Henderson and fused the wire to the circuit board by melting the end of the solder into a neat metal drip.

‘You need enough to make a strong connection, but use too much,’ Paul explained, as the dot of solder hardened into a strong joint. ‘My dad always said that having little fingers helps.’
never

‘I’m sorry I snapped at you before,’ Henderson said. ‘When you asked if you could help, I thought you’d be sitting with your elbows on the table asking me annoying questions. I’m starting to realise that children are capable of a lot more than people give them credit for.’

Paul had felt like an outsider ever since they’d arrived at the house and Henderson’s compliment meant a lot to him. ‘People think I’m stupid because I never say much,’ he explained. ‘But I was always the cleverest in my class.’