CHERUB: Brigands M.C. - Robert Muchamore Page 0,73

with that,’ he grinned. ‘You serve cold food to the Brigands and they might just stick a boot in your arse.’

‘Gotcha,’ James said.

The clubhouse wasn’t far, but it was only when James got outside that he realised he couldn’t take the trolley downstairs. He had to take a tortuous route down a long disabled ramp at the front of the building and then walk all the way around the shops before going back to the clubhouse at the rear.

Five minutes had passed by the time he’d got inside the clubhouse and crossed the deserted main hall. A few Brigands prospects, girlfriends and members of puppet gangs sat at the clustered tables where Lauren had been embarrassed by the Führer two Saturdays earlier. The full-patch members were meeting in a back room and James felt anxious as he knocked.

The door opened and the Führer roared ‘Boy!’ from his seat at the head of the table.

Cigarette smoke curled up towards the ceiling. More than twenty Brigands sat in walnut-trimmed leather chairs. It could have been a corporate boardroom, but for their clothes and the array of medieval weapons and torture implements displayed along the side wall.

The trolley wheels dug into thick green carpet as James pushed it towards the Führer. He recognised Teeth and noted the presence of Sealclubber and two other London Brigands, which almost certainly meant that they’d brought the next forty per cent instalment of the money for the weapons deal.

James was freaked as the Führer stood up, ripped a twenty-centimetre blade out of his boot and stepped up to face James off.

‘Is this everything we ordered?’ he demanded. ‘Is it piping hot?’

To James’ alarm, another Brigand stood up behind him and pulled an even bigger knife. ‘I didn’t cook it,’ James bumbled. ‘But I ran over here as fast as I could.’

He tried to rationalise that even the Brigands wouldn’t randomly stab some teenager who’d been sent to deliver their food, but it still wasn’t easy to feel comfortable being hemmed in by two crazy men holding out huge knives.

The Führer flipped open a pizza box, skewered a slice of Hawaiian with the end of his blade and took a bite off the end.

‘Tepid,’ the Führer complained, and grabbed James’ Marina Heights polo shirt.

The other Brigands all hissed. ‘Kill the delivery boy,’ one shouted, but a few were giggling which pretty much gave the game away.

The Führer held the knife at head height, right in front of James’ eyes. ‘This time I’ll show you mercy, but next time you bring my food you’d better be out of breath.’

As the Führer said this, he plunged the knife into the plaster behind James’ head and let the handle go. As James backed away from the swaying knife, the Brigand standing behind told James to cup his hands, then passed over a pile of coins and a couple of five-pound notes. James guessed it was at least twenty quid.

‘Your tip,’ the Brigand explained.

‘You didn’t handle yourself too badly either,’ the Führer laughed. ‘Remember that kid we had down on his knees, begging us not to kill him?’

Laughter rolled around the room as James quickly transferred all of the food boxes on to the table and backed towards the door with his empty trolley. When he got out of the room all the drinkers sitting at the tables were looking his way.

‘They give you a hard time?’ smiled a sweet-looking woman in a tight pink top. ‘They like having their fun when a new delivery boy comes through the door.’

James didn’t appreciate having a roomful of leather-clad nutters waving knives in his face, but his job was to make friends with as many bikers as he could and that meant he had to find their jokes funny. He nodded, smiled and acted like it was no big deal as he pushed the empty trolley towards the exit.

When he was almost at the main door a vaguely familiar face emerged from the gents in front of him. He wore an odd mix of studenty-retro clothes, including tight black cords, a long scarf and a three-quarter-length leather jacket with a Monster Bunch patch on the back. James nodded to him.

‘Are you James?’ the man asked. ‘I’m Nigel’s brother.’

James saw the resemblance as they shook hands. ‘It’s Will, right? Back from uni?’

‘Got home yesterday morning,’ Will said. ‘My brother said you were interested in running your bike up to Cambridge for the Rebel Tea Party.’

James nodded. ‘I’d love to give her a proper run, but