CHERUB: Brigands M.C. - Robert Muchamore Page 0,12
the tray on the floor.
She didn’t know what Dante liked, so there was milk, juice and cola, along with two different sandwiches, packets of cookies, pieces of fruit, crisps and chocolate bars.
‘I could get anything you wanted, Dante. Fish and chips, bacon sandwich, a Happy Meal.’
The cushions above Dante shifted and the boy made a dry grunt. Kate smiled, hoping she’d finally made a breakthrough.
‘Did you say you’d like a Happy Meal? What’s your favourite, Dante? A burger? McNuggets?’
‘Will it make me happy?’ Dante said sarcastically.
Kate ached with grief as she tried to imagine what Dante had seen. Getting him to speak was a breakthrough, but she wasn’t a psychologist and had no idea what to say next.
‘I used to collect Smurfs when I was your age,’ Kate said. ‘They were little blue men with white hats. My parents got coupons when they bought petrol and you needed ten tokens to get a Smurf.’
Dante sensed Kate’s desperation. He felt cruel, making her sit there worrying about him and asking questions that he ignored, but there was darkness in his head like he’d never felt before. Everything hurt: colours hurt, sounds hurt and so did the rubbery smell from his new trainers and the itchy label in the back of his shirt. He wanted to speak, but at the same time thinking of even the tiniest movement filled him with dread.
‘Would you feel more comfortable speaking to someone else?’ Kate asked. ‘Like your teacher? Or maybe you’d prefer talking to a man instead of me? Because we don’t want to push you Dante, but you can really help by telling us what happened.’
Dante thought about his dad. He’d been let out of prison to witness Dante’s birth, before returning to serve the balance of an eighteen-month stretch for possession of drugs and assault. He’d told Dante that the cops fitted him up. He said it was better to sort your own problems. The cops were scum. Snitches and informants were lower than paedophiles.
But Dante wasn’t grown up. He’d have a long wait if he wanted to get on his Harley and settle a score with the Führer with a gun or a knife. So should he be a snitch or should he wait until he was old enough to get revenge?
Dante rolled slightly on the cushions and felt a burning pain in his bladder.
‘I need to pee,’ he blurted, aching with dread as cushions and teddies flew about. He stood up and glowered at Kate with manic eyes and knotted hair.
Kate led Dante briskly along a peeling corridor, past offices filled with desks and computers. The men’s toilets were through the last door before the fire exit at the end of the corridor.
The frosted windows had been swung open and Dante got a chill blast as he stepped up to the urinal and started pissing. After shaking off he looked at the sinks and decided to wash his hands. He didn’t usually wash if he’d only peed, but he liked the fresh air in the washroom and wanted to delay going back to the stuffy air and the pile of cushions.
Dante turned on the tap and repeatedly tugged the lever under the soap dispenser until a bright pink lake filled his palm. When he slapped his hands glistening strands flew in all directions, spattering the white tiles behind the sink.
He concentrated on the soap, finding innocent relief in swiping it up and down his hands, then rubbing them together until a lather mound pirouetted and shrank into the plughole. Dante imagined that his mum was watching him from heaven or something. She’d undoubtedly be pleased that he’d washed his hands.
She always said he should wash his hands every time he went, even if it was just to pee. Also if he came in after playing out in the fields, and before he ate dinner, and if he stroked Mr Norman’s golden retriever. If Dante had washed his hands all the times his mum wanted he’d probably have to do it thirty-seven times a day. On the other hand, Dante’s dad didn’t care about that sort of thing. He’d come inside after working on his bike, and get a filthy look as he wiped greasy hands on his jeans and picked up a sandwich.
But which one of them was right?
A flushing noise came from one of the stalls behind Dante. A big man emerged in a red tie and cheap suit. He slapped a copy of The Times on the tiled ledge