CHERUB: Class A - Robert Muchamore Page 0,26

and a stained vest. His shoulders were a mat of wiry grey hair. Even though the guy was thirty years past his prime, he still didn’t look like a man you wanted to mess with.
‘I’m Ken,’ the guy growled. ‘If you’re here for the night, it’s fifty pence.’
‘Junior said it’s cheaper if I get a monthly ticket,’ James said.
‘Fifty pence for tonight,’ Ken said. ‘I don’t want to rob you. This is too much like hard work for most kids. They don’t come through that door more than once or twice. If you’re one of the ones who sticks it, I’ll take what you’ve already paid off the monthly pass.’
James nodded and dug some coins out of his shorts.
‘Go see your friend Junior and try to follow what he does,’ Ken said. ‘You’re here to train. That means you don’t stand around talking. You don’t mess around and you don’t make jokes. Any kid starts a fight without my say-so and I’ll give the nod to someone who’ll make them sorry. You got that?’
James nodded. ‘Don’t I get coaching or something?’
Ken laughed. ‘I sit here with my eyes open. Give it a week or so. Follow what the others do. When I think you’re ready, I’ll get one of the trainees to start you off with a little sparring.’
James wandered over to Junior.
‘Enjoy the lecture?’ Junior asked, grinning.
Junior, Del and a couple of other guys trained in a group. Everything was a competition: how many push-ups or crunches, how fast you could skip, how many times you could punch the hanging ball in thirty seconds. CHERUB training had made James fit. He could hold his own at everything except skipping, which he’d only ever tried in PE lessons years earlier. Everyone except James got a turn in the ring, either sparring with each other or getting coached by Kelvin and Marcus, the two brutal-looking seventeen-year-olds the club employed as apprentice coaches.
When they were all half-dead, the group piled into the locker room, showered off the sweat and put on fresh clothes. On their way out, Ken blocked James’ way with his leg.
‘You coming back?’ Ken asked.
‘I’d like to,’ James nodded, still out of breath. ‘If that’s OK.’
‘You’ve done some kind of martial arts training, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah, Karate and judo. How could you tell?’
‘You’re in good shape and you can punch,’ Ken said, ‘but a boxer needs fast feet as well. You want to be able to skip a hundred and fifty times a minute. Take this home and practise half an hour a day.’
James took hold of a frayed skipping rope. He stuck it in his carrier bag, on top of his damp kit.
Junior slapped him on the back as they went down the staircase.
‘He must think you’ve got talent, James. I kept coming here for three weeks before he said a word and my dad practically owns the joint.’
James couldn’t help smiling, though it was hardly surprising he showed promise after all the combat training he’d done at CHERUB.
‘You coming down the youth club with me and Del?’ Junior asked. ‘It’s packed out with girls, Friday night.’
The youth club was on the ground floor, under the gym. It was supposed to be a disco, but the music wasn’t very loud and nobody was dancing. James sat with Junior and Del on some slashed-up seats in a dark corner. There were plenty of boys and plenty of girls, but everyone sat in single-sex groups.
‘So,’ Junior said, ‘which babes are us three studs gonna snap up tonight?’
Del looked at his watch. ‘Not me. I’m off to work once I’ve drunk this.’
Del always had money and James thought it probably came from delivering drugs. He straightened up in his seat, sensing an opportunity to get information, but trying not to make it obvious he was prying.
‘Work?’ he asked. ‘At this time of night?’
Junior burst out laughing. ‘Ah … The voice of innocence.’
‘I work for KMG,’ Del said.
‘KM what?’ James said.
‘Keith Moore’s Gang,’ Del explained. ‘I deliver coke for Junior’s daddy.’
‘Who wants Coke at this time on a Friday?’
‘Not Coca-Cola, you wazzock,’ Junior said. ‘Cocaine.’
James acted like he was surprised. ‘Cocaine? Isn’t that seriously illegal? You told me your dad was in import export.’
‘He is,’ Junior said. ‘Imports drugs, exports cash.’
‘Hell,’ James grinned. ‘No wonder he’s loaded.’
Del went into his backpack. He pulled out a small polythene bag filled with white powder.
‘Cocaine,’ he explained.
James grinned as he took the packet and inspected it.
‘Don’t let everyone see it, you moron,’ Del gasped, knocking James’