Henderson's Boys: The Escape (5 page)

‘Is it true you were snogging Jae Morel?’ someone asked.

Marc’s head was pounding, but the pressure was on. If he looked weak the lads would rip him to shreds.

‘Sure,’ Marc said, putting on a grin. ‘She was all over me. I had my hands on her tits and everything.’

‘You dog!’ an older boy at the back of the crowd shouted.

But Marc’s nemesis, Lanier, was determined to prick his bubble. All boys had their slot in the pecking order and behaved accordingly. The trouble was, Marc and Lanier fitted the same one. They were the same age, had the same kind of stocky physique, and the result was an intense rivalry that stretched all the way back to fighting over toys as toddlers.

‘Jae Morel hasn’t even got boobs,’ Lanier snorted.

‘How would you know?’ Marc sneered. ‘When did you last see her?’

‘I spoke to Denis when he got back from Morel’s fields,’ Lanier said. ‘He told me you went psycho and threw Jae in the slurry pit.’

Lanier’s attempt to put Marc down for lying about getting off with a girl would have worked with teenagers, but Marc’s audience was younger and in their eyes throwing a girl into a slurry pit was way better than kissing her.

‘Totally worth the beating,’ Jacques said loyally. ‘Welts heal, legends live for ever!’

The rest of the crowd murmured in agreement and Lanier was furious. ‘Well, you wait, Marc,’ he said, wagging his finger. ‘The director will find you a new job now and it’ll be so much worse.’

Jacques shot Lanier a look of contempt. ‘How could it be worse than mucking out cows?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lanier said defensively, as his face reddened with anger. But he knew he was losing the argument so he dropped through the narrow gap between two mattresses and retreated between the tightly packed beds to his own on the far side of the room.

Meanwhile a scrawny fourteen year old called Gerard had stepped in and stood near the door unlacing his muddy work boots. He was the oldest boy who still slept on a lower bunk. He was jealous of Marc, but too weak to challenge him physically.

‘You’ll never
believe
what I saw,’ Gerard told the room, with an air of sarcasm. ‘The director had me repairing the front fence where that army truck clipped it. I came back in to put the tools away. You know that little cupboard under the stairs, opposite the sick room?’

There were a few nods and yeses as Marc realised what was coming.

‘I could hear
little
Marc with Sister Madeline,’ Gerard beamed. ‘He was sobbing his heart out.
Oh Sister Madeline, I’m so sad. I don’t like it here. Jae was really sweet and special. Nobody loves me. I can’t stand it any more. I want to run away. Boo, hoo, hoo!
’

A few nervous laughs erupted as sets of eyeballs turned on Marc.

‘You’re so full of shit,’ Marc tutted. ‘I might have moaned a bit when she put the iodine on my cuts, but no way was I crying.’

‘You looked like you’d been crying when I passed you on the stairs earlier,’ Jacques noted.

‘
I need to get out of here
,’ Gerard teased. ‘
I’m so worthless. I can’t stand my life any more
.’

Marc could see that most of the room believed Gerard’s version of events and the pressure not to admit weakness felt like a vice crushing his head. Under normal circumstances he would have settled it by planting his fist in Gerard’s face, but right now he wasn’t even sure he could stand up straight, let alone fight.

To make matters worse, Lanier sensed that Marc was now on the back foot and moved in for the kill.

‘You’re such a girl, Kilgour,’ Lanier said, rushing back towards Marc’s bed. ‘Remember at Easter, the last time Tomas really caned into you? You were practically crying then. And you were going on with this big rant about how you were gonna get Tomas back and how you were gonna run away. But nothing happened, because you’re all mouth.’

‘I’ve thought about running,’ Marc said. ‘You never know, I just might some day.’

‘Full of crap,’ Lanier shouted. ‘Stick to crying for Sister Madeline.’

Everyone laughed except Marc and his loyal bunkmate Jacques.

‘We’ve all thought about getting out of here,’ Jacques said. ‘But there’s no point running away. Everyone gets busted and Tomas batters them and puts them on bread and water.’

‘I know that,’ Lanier said. ‘But it’s the way Marc goes on about it all the time, like he’s some Mr Big or something.’

‘You’re lucky I’m injured, Lanier,’ Marc shouted. ‘Remember when you were down in the grass begging me to stop pounding your weak arse?’

‘I’ll fight you right now,’ Lanier shouted, as he clambered over the mattresses.

A couple of jeers went up and Jacques summed up the mood. ‘
I
could beat Marc up, the state he’s in at the moment.’

But the other boys backed away as Lanier crawled across the mattresses. He ended up kneeling across the tiny gap between Marc’s bunk and the next with his fists bunched. Marc was in no state to fight, but Lanier clearly wasn’t in the mood to show mercy.

As Lanier wound up his first punch, Marc kicked out. His foot connected with enough force to knock Lanier off balance, while at the same moment he grabbed the frame of his bunk and threw his weight to one side with enough force to shift the metal bed off its feet and several centimetres to one side.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to dislodge Lanier and he crashed helplessly into the narrow gap between beds, his knees hitting the floorboards with a bang.

‘I’ll kill you,’ Lanier screamed, scrambling up as Jacques dived away in fright. Marc kicked out at Lanier’s head, but it was only a glancing blow and before Marc knew it Lanier had grabbed his ankle and twisted it around painfully before dragging him down on to Jacques’ bunk.

‘Now you’re mine,’ Lanier smiled, as he swung his knee over Marc’s waist.

Marc would have dodged easily if he’d been fit, but his body ached from the caning and before he knew it Lanier had his shoulder pinned to the mattress.

‘Now what you gonna do?’ Lanier gloated, as he slammed Marc’s nose with his fist.

Marc wriggled, but couldn’t break free as hard punches rained on his face and chest.

‘Leave him!’ Jacques shouted, as he bravely tried to pull Lanier off.

But suddenly everything in the attic room seemed to be vibrating and there was an increasingly loud droning sound outside. As curious boys rushed towards the window, Lanier was distracted. Marc brought up both knees and managed to free an arm.

A burst of machine-gun fire ripped across the front of the orphanage and was followed by a huge explosion out on the road.

‘Stuka dive bomber!’ someone shouted.

The building shook as Marc and Lanier rolled uneasily away from each other. The other boys were all crowded around the window looking out back.

‘It’s on fire,’ someone shouted. ‘Coming right for us!’

Marc was startled as stricken boys raced over, under and between the bunks towards the staircase, which was already crowded with kids from the other attic bedroom who’d acted faster. As the orphanage roof continued to shudder, dust wafted down from creaking joists above Marc’s head.

There were screams on the overcrowded staircase and the oil lamps in the hallway swung violently as the wooden frame of the orphanage lurched half a metre, tilting several frightened boys down the staircase.

After a few seconds in complete darkness, Marc looked down and saw that he was the last boy in the bedroom, apart from a tearful three year old who’d wandered from the next room in a state of panic.

‘Come on, mate,’ Marc said, scooping the toddler into his aching arms and edging painfully through the darkness towards the chaos on the staircase. Boys had fallen on top of one another when the building had shaken and the tangle of arms and legs on the landing was worsened by desperate boys trying to escape by scrabbling over them.

The building lurched once again and this time several windows shattered. The cracking of glass was instantly followed by a colossal bang and a wave of heat and light that sucked all the moisture out of the air. The toddler’s fingers dug into the welts on Marc’s back as the oil lamps dimmed, whilst desperate screams and a grey haze rose up the stairwell.

Paul nodded obediently as he moved his hands into a surrender position.

‘Good boy,’ the German said, smiling coldly. He was a slim man with small black eyes and he reeked of the tonic he used to slick down his hair. ‘How many are in the house?’

‘Three,’ Paul mumbled.

‘Who are the others?’

‘My dad and my sister.’

‘And your father is Digby Clarke?’

Paul nodded as the German let him up off the bed, but kept the gun in his face.

‘Call your father in here. Try anything and I’ll stick a bullet in your head.’

‘Dad!’

The shout didn’t appear to have any effect and the German narrowed his eyes. ‘Again.’

‘
Dad!
’ Paul shouted, close to tears. ‘I need you right now.’

But Rosie came in first. ‘Dad’s busy. What’s the matter, squirt?’

Then she saw the German and the gun and screamed.

‘
Silence!
’ the German snarled.

‘Will you two stop fighting,’ Mr Clarke shouted impatiently as he moved down the hallway. ‘I’m sick of—’

‘Don’t come in,’ Rosie shouted, causing the German to turn his aim on her. But it was only a short walk from the kitchen and Mr Clarke had entered the doorway almost before the words were out. His anger turned to shock.

‘Digby, old bean, what a delight,’ the German smiled, switching from accented French to fairly dreadful English. ‘I believe we met once before, in Monsieur Mannstein’s office.’

‘Briefly.’ Clarke nodded, trying to create an impression of confidence to reassure his children.

‘Where are the documents you stole from the German government?’

Mr Clarke shrugged innocently. ‘I believe you’re mistaking me for someone else.’

‘Oh, do you think so?’ the German said sarcastically, as he pointed the gun down towards Paul’s shoe. ‘Perhaps your memory will function better
after
your son has a hole in his foot?’

Paul wasn’t the bravest kid in the world and his stomach felt like someone was using it to churn butter.

‘I just brought the papers in with me,’ Mr Clarke said. ‘They’re in my briefcase.’

‘Very good. Show them to me,’ the German smiled, ‘but keep your hands where I can see them.’

Mr Clarke backed into the hallway and began walking towards the living room.

‘Follow your father,’ the German ordered, gesturing towards the door with the end of his gun.

Paul felt horribly small as he stepped through to the living room. Mr Clarke picked his briefcase up from the rug and rested it atop a small table to open it. Rosie stepped up to a long sofa and the German nodded that it was OK for her to sit down. Paul sat at the opposite end.

Meanwhile, Mr Clarke had sprung the catches on his briefcase.

‘Don’t open it,’ the German barked nervously. ‘Turn the case towards me, then place one hand on your head.’

Paul noticed Rosie’s hand creep towards the open front of her father’s bureau. He worried she’d get shot and wished she’d just sit still and do what she was told for once.

‘Now,’ the German said, addressing Mr Clarke, ‘with your free hand, open the case.
Slowly
.’

Mr Clarke raised the lid and the German smiled slightly as he stepped up. Paul saw that the case was full of manila folders, similar to the ones he’d stacked up in the back of the car.

The German kept the gun on Mr Clarke as he moved closer to the case. But his expression wilted as he flipped through the folders.

‘There are no blueprints here,’ the German said. ‘Where are the rest of the papers?’

Mr Clarke acted mystified. ‘This is all I have. I don’t know of any blueprints.’

The German swung the gun around and shouted, ‘Which one of your children would you like me to kill first?’

Paul stared at his knees with a cushion clutched tightly to his side, but Rosie eyeballed the German defiantly.

‘Maybe after I’ve killed you and your son, my colleagues and I can have some fun with your daughter,’ the German smiled. ‘She’s feisty!’

Mr Clarke didn’t rise to the twisted threat and tried to sound sincere. ‘Sir, I truly don’t know of any other papers.’

‘Liar,’ the German shouted, as the main door of the apartment – which had been left ajar – moved with a slight kick.

A frail voice came from behind it. ‘Monsieur Clarke? I heard shouting …’

The gun fired and Paul hollered as the bullet smashed into Madame Mujard’s face. The impact killed the frail concierge instantly and the bullet exited the back of her skull, hitting the hallway wall with chunks of brain and skull for company.