CHERUB: Brigands M.C. - Robert Muchamore Page 0,90
indignantly, as he popped the fat compere in the mouth, before snatching his wrist and bending it up behind his back.
‘Let go of her hair or I’ll break your arm,’ James ordered.
The compere set the girl loose, but when James released his arm he swung at him again.
‘You’re too fat and too slow,’ James explained, as he threw three quick punches, knocking the compere off the stage, where he clattered backwards into a bunch of chairs before landing hard on his arse.
James didn’t know who the compere was, but if he ran a tent at an event like this he’d certainly have well-connected biker friends and James didn’t intend sticking around long enough to meet them.
He looked behind the stage as contestant number five searched through pom-poms, twirling sticks, a caged parrot and leather whips while swearing loudly in Spanish.
‘What was that all about?’ James asked. ‘Why did he hit you?’
‘Someone took my T-shirt,’ the girl seethed. ‘How do I get back to my caravan like this?’
James could see no sign of the T-shirt, so he pulled his own over his head. ‘It’s a bit sweaty,’ he said, as he offered it. ‘But it’s better than five thousand people seeing your tits.’
‘My hero,’ the girl said, giving James a sweet smile as she pulled the T-shirt on and slid her feet into a pair of canvas plimsolls.
James followed her as she hurried out of the tent. ‘Some people are such arseholes,’ James said indignantly as the sun hit his bare back. ‘Fancy hitting you just because you asked him to help look for your top.’
The girl’s face lit up with a mischievous smile as she peeled a roll of twenty-pound notes out of her cut-off jeans. ‘I think it had more to do with me stealing the prize money,’ she explained. ‘And I would have gotten away if that slag contestant number three hadn’t stolen my top.’
James laughed as they walked clear of the tent. Three bikers wearing vests marked Security and a first-aid team with a stretcher were running into the tent, while a couple of London Brigands stood outside using mobiles, clearly relaying what had happened to their bosses.
‘Here,’ the girl said, as she offered James forty pounds. ‘You saved my ass, you deserve a cut.’
James grinned as he took the money. ‘I love your accent. Are you Spanish?’
‘No shitting you is there, Sherlock,’ she grinned.
‘I’m James by the way.’
‘So why does a good looking boy like you hang around with creepy fat men watching a titty contest?’
James felt embarrassed. ‘I got dragged in there by a bunch of mates. I’ve never been anywhere like that before. And I was definitely gonna shout for you, you were the best looking by miles.’
‘You need to come back to my caravan with me,’ the girl smiled as she led James into the crowds on the strip.
‘I do?’ James said.
‘I’ll grab a top,’ she explained. ‘Then you can have your T-shirt back.’
32. CARAVAN
The radio-controlled Panzer tank clattered through the shabby lawn behind the Führer’s house. Its turret swung rapidly towards a Red Army T34 and an orange flash and tinny electronic boom came out of the muzzle.
‘Missed me, cock breath!’ Dante said, giving Joe the finger before staring down at his radio control unit. ‘Which one turns the turret again?’
Dante couldn’t find it and Joe was closing in with the Panzer, so he threw it into full reverse and crashed into a bird table. Joe fired and missed again.
Lauren grabbed Joe’s controller. ‘Gimme that thing.’
Dante had finally worked out where his turret control was. He advanced forward from the bird table and fired.
‘Direct hit,’ a synthesised voice announced from the controller in Lauren’s hand. ‘Damage level fifteen per cent.’
‘Fifteen per cent damage,’ Joe carped. ‘You’re on eighty per cent. One more hit on the side and you’re toast.’
To simulate the reloading of a shell in a real tank, the electronics only allowed one shot every fifteen seconds. This meant Lauren’s Panzer would be ready to fire before Dante’s T34, so Dante swerved in front of Lauren’s tank and charged through the shaggy grass at full speed before swerving into relative safety behind the skinny trunk of a plum tree.
‘Don’t go too near the pond,’ Joe said anxiously, as Lauren’s Panzer skimmed over a bump and briefly left the ground. ‘My dad’ll break my legs if we wreck ’em.’
Anna batted Dante on the arm as the four teenagers chased after the tanks. ‘My turn,’ she demanded.