CHERUB: The Sleepwalker - Robert Muchamore Page 0,83

father decided to leave.

‘Here we are,’ Muna said sympathetically, as she rested the first-aid box on the table and flipped the plastic catches holding it shut. Jala had overcome her distaste for blood and craned her neck, intrigued by the assortment of plasters, bandages and ointments inside.

Muna’s first step was to run a cloth under the cold tap and wipe as much blood from Fahim’s skin as she could. Streaks of cool water trickled down his back, making the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms soggy. After this, Muna opened a bottle of antiseptic and swabbed the cold liquid on to the cut.

‘Stings,’ Fahim gasped as the pain made him squeeze his eyes shut.

Muna gently rested a hand on Fahim’s shoulder. Although his aunt had a very different personality to his mum, Muna was of a similar age and physique and her feminine touch evoked powerful memories.

‘Better than a nasty infection,’ Muna said soothingly, as Fahim found himself imagining the final desperate moments of his mother’s life.

He studied the scissors as his aunt cut a square of bandage and stuck it on with surgical tape, but the snub-nosed blade made them useless as a weapon. His glance strayed towards the warning sticker on the side of the antiseptic bottle: severe irritant, do not swallow, do not use around eyes or mouth.

‘All done,’ Muna said brightly.

Fahim’s T-shirt was wet and bloody, but the house was unheated so he slid his tracksuit top over his bare chest.

Hassam was coming down the hallway with a chunky mobile held to his face. ‘Asif’s still not answering,’ he said anxiously, as Fahim sneakily pulled the disinfectant bottle off the table and unscrewed the childproof cap. ‘Gather your things, we’re leaving now.’

Hassam wasn’t great with technology. He usually got his son to sort out problems with his computers and program the memories and stuff whenever he got a new mobile. Fahim hoped to use this to his advantage.

‘Are you sure you’re not trying to text or something instead of dialling Asif’s number?’ Fahim asked. ‘Give us a look; you know what you’re like with mobiles.’

Hassam didn’t trust his son, but reluctantly passed over the unregistered phone.

‘Why can’t you get simple phones where you dial a number and speak?’ Hassam complained. ‘Instead, every phone has to be a camera, and an internet, and buttons so small you always press three at once—’

As Fahim grabbed the phone with one hand, he thrust the disinfectant bottle forward, splashing the pale green liquid in his dad’s face. His trainer squealed on the tiled floor as he spun around and lunged towards the back door.

*

Mac snapped his phone shut and turned to Jake. After Jake finished letting the tyre down they’d retreated behind the front hedge of a neighbouring house, but they still had a decent view over the gravel drive in front of number sixteen.

‘That was the commander at the local police station,’ Mac explained. ‘Two armed response units should be here any second. Unmarked cars, two officers in each. The first unit is going to meet us here, the other pair is going to enter the golf club and cover the back gate. Plus there’s a couple of blue-and-whites filled with uniformed officers coming in as backup.’

‘Sounds good,’ Jake nodded, as a faint clang sounded behind the houses. ‘Did you hear that, boss?’

‘What?’ Mac said, glancing around curiously.

‘I think it came from behind number sixteen, the back gate maybe.’

‘My hearing isn’t what it was twenty years ago,’ Mac admitted.

‘Shall I check it out? I can cut through the neighbour’s garden and peek through the fence.’

Mac glanced at his watch. ‘Carefully,’ he nodded. ‘No stupid risks. I’d better wait here for the cops to show.’

There were no signs of life inside number eighteen as Jake walked swiftly up the gravel driveway, keeping low enough not to be seen over the dividing wall. A tall wooden gate blocked access to the rear garden, but it was no problem for Jake who sprang deftly on to the wall before grabbing the top of the fence, hauling himself over and jumping down on to the crazy paving inside.

As he flew through the air, he saw Hassam running through the open back gate of the house next door.

34. WILLOW

‘Traitorous shit,’ Hassam shouted, spitting furiously and rubbing his burning eyes as he charged through the gate. Number sixteen had been redeveloped with the keen golfer in mind and the gate opened directly on to a paved path which led towards the eighteenth green and an opulent