Henderson's Boys: The Escape (6 page)

The German baulked when he saw his elderly victim and Rosie sensed an opening. She leaped off the sofa and jammed her father’s brass letter opener into the soft flesh just below his ribcage. The German stumbled forwards and collapsed on to the suitcase. Mr Clarke grabbed his arm and twisted the gun out of his hand.

‘Rosie, grab the briefcase,’ Mr Clarke ordered, tightening the German’s arm behind his back.

Once the case was out of the way, Mr Clarke pressed the gun into the German’s left shoulder blade and shot him. After passing through the German’s torso, the bullet hit the single column supporting the table, tearing out a chunk of wood and making it snap. As the German hit the rug, Clarke stepped back with the gun at arm’s length and fired a second shot into his temple.

‘One in the heart, one in the head,’ Clarke explained as he picked up the far corner of the rug and threw it over the German’s body. Then he looked up at Rosie and tried to smile. ‘That was fantastic, sweetheart. You saved our bacon.’

But Rosie had tears in her eyes and Paul held on to the cushion as if his life depended on it. Nothing in their lives so far had prepared them for blood, brains and two dead bodies in their living room.

‘What’s going on, Dad?’ Rosie sobbed, as she shook her head with disbelief. ‘
What
just happened?’

‘I’ll explain in the car,’ Mr Clarke said stiffly. He didn’t want to sound so harsh, but he didn’t know how else to deal with the situation. ‘You both trust me, don’t you?’ he asked. ‘You know I wouldn’t have killed a man unless I really had to?’

Rosie nodded, but Paul remained mute, his lips turning slightly blue.

‘Snap out of it, son,’ Mr Clarke said, as he snatched the cushion from Paul and shook him by the shoulders.

‘What now?’ Rosie asked, as her father dragged Madame Mujard into the apartment and shut the door.

‘We’ve got to leave,’ Clarke said. ‘If someone heard that shot they’ll fetch the police. Run into your rooms and grab your stuff. We’re leaving in
two
minutes.’

‘But I’m covered in blood,’ Rosie protested. ‘I need a wash.’

Mr Clarke groaned with frustration as he tucked the German’s gun inside his jacket and walked towards the bureau. ‘Rosie, I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy being locked in a police cell when the German artillery starts blasting the city. So give yourself a quick wipe down if you have to, but that’s it. Once you’ve got your things, there’s a paper bag with some food for the journey on the kitchen table – make sure you grab that before we leave. I’ve got my travelling bag in the car already, but I want you to go in my room and fetch my gold cufflinks and your mother’s jewellery box.’

‘Right.’ Rosie nodded loyally. But she sounded a touch put out as she rubbed her wet eyes. ‘Aren’t you going to help?

Clarke shook his head as his hand hovered over the telephone. ‘I’ve got to call a colleague. He has connections inside the Paris police and with luck he’ll be able to smooth this mess over.’

As the children rushed off to change and pack, Mr Clarke got an operator to connect him with the British Embassy.

‘Embassy main switchboard,’ said the woman on the other end.

‘I need to speak with Charles Henderson in section E,’ Mr Clarke said.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but Mr Henderson is no longer at the Embassy and I don’t believe he’ll be coming back. The only staff who haven’t been evacuated are myself, the Ambassador and two military attachés.’

‘Damn and blast,’ Mr Clarke growled. ‘What about Henderson’s secretary, Miss McAfferty? Can you get me her new number in London?’

‘I might be able to find it, but I don’t think there would be much point. All phone lines between France and Britain have been down since yesterday afternoon. We’re communicating by radio only.’

Mr Clarke was exasperated. ‘OK,’ he gasped. ‘If you do see Henderson, tell him that there’s been a spot of bother at my apartment, but that I’m going to head south as planned.’

‘I think it unlikely I’ll see him, but I’ll certainly try,’ the receptionist said. ‘Good day, sir.’

‘Keep safe,’ Mr Clarke said, as he put down the receiver and stood up. ‘Come on, kids,’ he shouted. ‘Action stations.’

A few moments later Paul emerged from his bedroom wearing a shirt and long trousers that made him look like a proper French boy. He was clutching a small suitcase and a satchel crammed with comic books and art supplies. He still looked horribly shaken and if there had been time Mr Clarke would have given him a hug.

‘We’ll get through this, champ,’ Clarke said, tousling his son’s hair, acutely aware that his gesture was inadequate.

Rosie emerged from the kitchen holding the bag of food. ‘I stuffed everyone’s clean clothes into the big case, but it’s too heavy for me to lift down the stairs. I grabbed the photo albums and your camera, too.’

‘Good thinking.’ Mr Clarke smiled, as he waved his children towards the front door before grabbing his briefcase with one hand and the large suitcase with the other.

Trying to avoid the sight of the two bloodied bodies just a metre from his feet, Paul stepped into the corridor outside.

Rosie had lived in apartment sixteen since she was five years old. She felt sad as she pulled closed the door for what was surely the last time.

Paul finally broke his silence as he chased his father and sister down the narrow staircase. ‘Dad, are you a spy or something?’

There were a few knocks, a couple of sprains and one nun with a broken arm beneath the boys piled up on the landing, but the orphanage had survived its brush with annihilation. The stricken German dive bomber had clipped the roof, shattering chimney pots and dislodging a chunk of brickwork. A great pile of rubble had clattered down the chimney, causing clouds of dust and ash to erupt from all the fireplaces on the east side of the house.

In wintertime burning embers would have blown across every floor of the house, but luckily it was summer. The fireplaces were dormant and the only blaze was caused by an oil lamp coming down from its hook and spilling across the floor. The flames were extinguished by two quick-thinking boys, who smothered them with a mattress.

Marc and his tiny companion were amongst the last to get out of the ash and dust. They both coughed as they stepped into a sunset made even more dramatic by towers of flame erupting in two directions on the horizon.

The German Stuka had been one of hundreds zigzagging across the countryside that evening, scouring the roads for convoys of French soldiers and equipment. After passing the orphanage, the stricken aeroplane had torn apart the neighbouring barn, its flaming engine setting fire to the vegetable store and the chicken coops inside. It finally crashed in the field beyond, coming to a halt in a deep furrow before the flames ignited its remaining cargo of bombs, incinerating the pilot and throwing up tonnes of earth as every building within a kilometre shuddered.

A hundred metres in the other direction, two French army trucks bombed by the Stuka were ablaze and a third had lost its rear axle when the blast threw its back end off the road and several metres into the air.

Soldiers – some badly burned – were staggering across the front lawn, whilst nuns and some of the older boys rushed their way offering help. The younger boys had divided amongst gawpers who’d run out into the field beyond the orphanage to study the crater left by the aircraft and a smaller group who’d begun rounding up chickens, which had done a remarkable job of escaping the flames.

As Marc set the toddler on the grass, he noticed Director Tomas rushing from his small cottage on the west side of the orphanage.

‘Is everyone OK?’ Tomas asked, before shielding his eyes from the low sun and glancing upwards at the damaged chimney. He then charged into the building, almost knocking down a nun who was carrying out rags and a bucket of water to attend to the burn victims.

Seeing the director reminded Marc that he was hungry. Tomas lived alone in his cottage and supplemented the basic fare served to orphans with goodies delivered from a delicatessen in Beauvais.

Marc glanced around before striding purposefully towards the cottage. The walk took less than a minute and while it seemed unlikely that the director would return home in the midst of the present crisis, his heart started to bang. As far as he knew, no boy had ever dared to enter Tomas’ cottage and two beatings in one day would be more than his body could take.

If you were the kind of person who liked dinky little cottages, you might have found the director’s home pretty. Its white exterior was immaculate – repainted every summer by two teenagers who would be thrashed if they did a poor job – and Tomas gave his garden the kind of love and attention that he unfailingly spared the orphans. But Marc was only impressed by the great ocean liners and office towers he saw in comics and magazines. The cottage was just a quaint symbol of the countryside that he was determined to leave the instant he got the chance.

The front door was ajar and Marc craned his neck inside before stepping on to the uneven stone floor. The cottage was no more than six paces in either direction and the single ground-floor room had a kitchen range, a sink and a few cabinets on one side in front of a leaded window that had cracked in the blast. There was a dining table in the centre and on the opposite side a cosy space with two armchairs and a bookcase with a radio standing on top. Stairs at the rear led to the upstairs room and they were so narrow that the director must have had to turn sideways to climb them.

All Marc’s life the director had been like a god, with the unquestionable power to withhold food and inflict pain. Yet seeing the humble cottage reminded Marc that the director of a rural orphanage was not a president or a general; not even a landowner like Morel, or a respected figure within the local area such as the priest. This realisation of Director Tomas’ insignificance was liberating and Marc felt more confident as he opened the larder cabinet, to be confronted by all manner of food.

His eyes dashed excitedly over things he’d never tasted: sardines and tinned orange segments, goose pâté, olives, a plate of chicken wings and a jar of honey. Marc didn’t want to risk getting caught inside the house so he grabbed a clean cloth from the lower shelf and laid it flat on the draining board before piling it with bread, chicken, a lump of cheese and a dollop of pâté scooped out with his finger. He was desperate to try the oranges, but he’d never opened a tin can and had no idea how to do it.

As Marc picked up the tins to see what might be underneath he came to a slightly rusted tin that had originally contained salt. As he raised it up he heard the unmistakeable jangle of coins. Curious, he unscrewed the lid and saw that amidst the coins was a thick bundle of notes, mostly the fifty- and one-hundred-franc variety.

The sight of money was intoxicating, but if Marc took it – or even
some
of it – he’d be found out the moment he walked into the village’s only shop waving a fifty-franc note. He replaced the tin, gathered up the food in the cloth and hurried outside.

He walked around to the back of the director’s home and brushed a couple of wood-pigs aside before sitting on the stump of a felled tree. It was a good vantage point from which he could easily take cover if anyone approached the cottage.

After spreading the cloth in his lap, Marc jumped with fright as a distant explosion lit up the scene. Another Stuka rose vertically out of its dive, its tiny silhouette leaving a trail in the purple sky.

Following the fright he bit greedily into the bread and the chicken wings. Then he delved into the pâté, swallowed the sardines – which he found too salty but ate anyway – and lastly gorged on the miniature cheese, which came from a local farm. The tang of its runny centre burst into his mouth when he bit through the rubbery crust.

The food was richer than Marc was used to and its illicit nature, combined with hunger and the moody setting, made it spectacular. It was almost enough to make him forget the pain in his thigh and the stinging welts down his back.

When he finished, Marc licked his fingertips and realised he was thirsty. The golden sunset of ten minutes earlier was now just a purple fringe above the tree line. As he crept back towards Tomas’ cottage he noticed the brand new bike resting against the side of the house and did some instant maths:

BIKE + MONEY = FREEDOM

Marc had lived his entire twelve years in the orphanage and had never ventured further than the nearest village and neighbouring farms, except for one five-night stay in the Beauvais infirmary, which he barely remembered because he’d been delirious with a severe case of measles.

The bike and the money were his best ever chance to escape, but running away would be the biggest decision of Marc’s life and just considering it made him breathless.

Impossibly excited, Marc looked around to make sure that he was still alone before stepping back into the cottage. He filled a glass with tap water and drained it in four huge gulps while questions bubbled in his head.

Marc was no fantasist. Running away would be hard. At twelve years old he was sure to be caught eventually and returned to Director Tomas for multiple beatings, a week on bread and water and months sleeping in the unheated barn – assuming it was rebuilt in time.