CHERUB: The Sleepwalker - Robert Muchamore Page 0,37

Lauren screamed. ‘Why did you design such crappy brakes?’

James couldn’t see because Kerry was in his lap, but the golf buggy’s speedo topped out at fifty kilometres an hour and the needle had gone beyond that.

‘We’re overloaded and the brake discs must have overheated,’ James said. ‘Pump the pedal hard and keep pumping.’

The wire fencing around the tennis courts passed in a blur as they headed for the rear of the main building. Lauren kept stamping until something happened. At first she thought it was the brakes, but Dana and Gabrielle started screaming. The back axle had buckled and the rear of the cart was scraping the path, throwing up showers of orange sparks and making a grinding noise that woke up half of campus.

Then Lauren screamed as hot sparks sprayed up her bare legs. She looked down and saw a hole beneath her feet where the pedals had been. It was a dramatic failure, but the disintegrated chassis came to a halt less than five metres from the back wall of the main building and the only casualties were a selection of rose bushes.

The traumatised black shirts jumped out, straightened their goggles and grabbed their guns, except for James who stayed in the passenger seat, horrified at the disintegration of his buggy.

Dana cracked him around the head. ‘Come on, dickhead. You can mourn later.’

By the time James was out of his seat, Lauren, Gabrielle and Kerry had already run half of the fifty metres towards the nearest entrance. Dana heard the roar of a quad-bike engine. It was way off in the distance, but it still gave James a jolt and they went sprinting after the others.

A blast of warm air hit James as he stepped into a darkened hallway. Kerry and Gabrielle wore massive grins and took turns hugging Lauren. When they let go, James couldn’t help smiling at her.

‘You’re totally the best sister,’ James said, as he pulled Lauren into a tight hug.

Lauren smiled back. ‘And just you bloody well remember it next time you feel like booting a football at me.’

16. PRETEND

Fahim had barely slept, but sunlight blasted through the crack between his bedroom curtains. The huge house felt like a mausoleum. He’d heard Sylvia the cleaning lady arrive at eight and she was vacuuming downstairs, but there’d been no sign of his parents and he was afraid to leave his room.

When his bedroom door finally clicked, Fahim was delighted by the rattle of cutlery on a breakfast tray, but he was alarmed to find his father holding it. Even when he worked from home Hassam usually wore a suit, but today he was dressed in jeans and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt.

‘How’s my boy?’ Hassam said cheerily.

‘Not too bad,’ Fahim replied, as his heart started to drum. ‘Is Mum around?’

Hassam straddled the question. ‘I made you breakfast. You must eat well to recover.’

He rested the tray on the edge of the mattress and Fahim couldn’t fail to be impressed. There were two soft boiled eggs, a small fruit salad, orange juice, iced water and toast.

‘Thank you,’ he said politely.

‘All my own work,’ Hassam said. ‘I think it’s the way your mother would do it, but if something isn’t right, just tell me …’

‘I’m sure it’s fine, Dad.’

Hassam’s presence felt creepy, but his father’s outbursts were often followed by guilt-fuelled attempts at reconciliation. Over the years it had taken many forms: from expensive toys and fancy trainers through to theme parks and family weekends in Paris. When he was younger, Fahim got excited by all this. In a perverse way he’d even look forward to family rows because of the gifts and attention lavished by both parents afterwards. But at eleven years old he was past the stage where Lego compensated for watching his mother get slapped around, and there were items in his room that he never touched because they reminded him of something awful.

Hassam hovered anxiously as his son cracked the top off a boiled egg and dunked a finger of toast into the runny yolk.

‘Your mother left last night,’ Hassam said awkwardly.

Fahim was startled. He’d often urged his mum to leave or get a divorce, but he’d always assumed he’d go with her if she did.

‘Forever?’

Hassam gave an eerie smile. ‘Your mother needs time alone. She’s packed some things and booked into a spa.’

This didn’t seem so bad and Fahim nodded. ‘She deserves it,’ was all he could think to say.

‘You with the trophy cabinets and me with … with what happened last