CHERUB: The Sleepwalker - Robert Muchamore Page 0,84

clubhouse with colonial-style verandas.

Fahim was less than twenty metres ahead, fighting for breath as he brushed aside strands of the giant willow trees overhanging the path.

‘Boy!’ a golfer in the queue to tee off at the first hole shouted pompously, as Fahim rushed past. ‘Boy, what do you think you’re playing at?’

Fahim tried looking at his dad’s phone as he ran. He wanted to dial Lauren or Mac, but he couldn’t remember their numbers.

‘Get back here,’ Hassam shouted, as the gap closed to less than fifteen metres.

Not for the first time in his life, Fahim regretted his bulk. He’d never outrun his father, but he recognised salvation in the golf bag resting up against a portable toilet. He swiped the first driver he could, and while he was surprised by its lightness, it was good enough to send his dad sprawling when it whacked him in the face.

The owner of six hundred pounds’ worth of titanium driver wasn’t impressed as he emerged from the temporary toilet, doing up the fly of his cream-coloured slacks.

‘They’re not members,’ a woman shouted ridiculously, as the golfer snatched his club from Fahim’s grasp before clamping an arm covered in a Pringle sweater around his chest.

‘You’ve got to help me,’ Fahim screamed, as Hassam staggered back to his feet. ‘He’s killed my mum. Someone call the cops.’

A trickle of bemused golfers emerged from the nearby clubhouse to watch Fahim spitting, kicking and turning bright red. Sensing his desperation, the man holding Fahim let go and tried calming him down with a friendly hand on the shoulder.

‘Come on, son,’ he said gently. ‘It can’t be all that bad.’

‘He has emotional problems,’ Hassam explained politely, trying to sound like a decent parent despite stinging eyes and a huge welt where the club had struck his face. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

‘You’ve got to believe me,’ Fahim shouted, looking at the golfers as his father found his feet. ‘Don’t let him touch me. Someone call the cops.’

‘Fahim Bin Hassam?’ a woman shouted.

All eyes turned towards a pair of policewomen sprinting out of the clubhouse. They carried assault rifles and wore full protective gear, including Kevlar helmets and visors over their faces.

‘Over there,’ a lady golfer shouted as the magnitude of what was occurring rippled through the crowd.

Fahim felt an instant of relief, but as the crowd focused on the approaching cops, Hassam pulled a knife from inside his jacket. He grabbed Fahim by his collar and put the serrated blade to his throat.

‘Stay back,’ Hassam shouted. ‘Lower your weapons or I’ll slit him open.’

As Hassam trembled, the metal teeth nicked the skin around Fahim’s throat. The golfers were all taking refuge inside the clubhouse, leaving a stand-off between Hassam and the two armed policewomen.

‘Put the knife down,’ the taller of the two officers ordered, eyeing Hassam through her scope. ‘If you make me shoot, I guarantee I won’t miss.’

But Hassam knew the officers couldn’t risk firing while the blade was so close to his son’s throat and he started backing into the shadows beneath the willow trees.

‘It’s over, Dad,’ Fahim choked, as his father dragged him backwards. ‘Let me go.’

‘I won’t rot in prison,’ Hassam whispered coldly, backing up to a gnarled trunk. ‘If they shoot me down I’m taking you with me.’

*

Muna leaned out of the back gate of number sixteen. A wave of panic hit her as she saw the stand-off between her brother-in-law and the two armed officers less than fifty metres away.

‘What’s happening, Mummy?’ Jala asked, as the seven-year-old tried getting a look for herself.

‘Back,’ Muna said firmly. She pulled the metal gate shut and gave her daughter a shove towards the house. ‘Run inside, pick up your things. We’re leaving.’

‘But what about Daddy and Fahim and Uncle Hassam?’ the little girl asked as her mother rested a hand against her back to make her hurry.

‘We’ll all meet up later,’ Muna said impatiently. Her mind was churning. She didn’t know what to do or where to go, but she realised she had to clear out. Her main hope was that Asif would call back and arrange a place to meet.

As Muna scooped her keys and mobile off the kitchen cabinet, Jala began shuffling her card game back into its cardboard packet.

‘No time for that,’ Muna said, grabbing her daughter’s wrist.

‘But it’s my favourite,’ Jala whined as her mother dragged her towards the front door.

‘We’ll buy another one, sweetie. It’s not safe here now, we have to leave.’

Muna unlocked her Volvo with the plipper and walked around