Eagle Day - Robert Muchamore Page 0,20
Clere provided it. The half-English daughter of a Bordeaux property developer, Maxine let Henderson and the four youngsters move into a house she’d inherited from a great-aunt. It was a grand affair, but its location on hilly ground several kilometres out of the city made it unlikely the Germans would pay much attention.
The exterior was pink. A balcony ran the length of the first floor and the interior was richly decorated with antique furniture and a spooky array of animal skins and native artefacts that Maxine’s great-uncle had brought home from France’s African colonies. But while the house remained impressive, the substantial grounds were shabby, because the gardener had been conscripted into the army.
On a sunny day you could sit out on the overgrown lawn, listen to nothing but birdsong and bake in the height of summer. At least you could until PT and Marc decided on a bout of tag wrestling and all hell broke loose.
Barefoot and bare-chested, the pair squared off with one arm behind their backs and handkerchiefs tucked into their back pockets. The game’s object was to snatch your opponent’s hanky and, despite three years in age and a huge difference in height, the pair were a surprisingly even match.
Marc was like a bull. With broad shoulders and solid limbs, he tended to stand his ground while his opponent danced about. PT loomed over him, circling on fast feet, swooping in all directions and hurling abuse. Sometimes PT managed to grab Marc’s tag, but mostly Marc would evade PT until he tired. He’d then use his strength to charge forwards and knock PT on his back.
Today was no different. Paul and Rosie watched from garden loungers a few metres away as PT crashed backwards on to the shaggy lawn. Rosie enjoyed having the two testosterone-fuelled boys riling the place up, and they both flattered her with their attention.
PT was brazen about his attraction, though Rosie hadn’t let him near enough for a second kiss. Marc’s interest was more innocent, but she often caught him glancing at her chest or staring jealously when she was deep in conversation with PT.
Paul was less comfortable with Marc and PT. He was a quiet boy who’d sooner draw than wrestle and he didn’t like sharing the attention of his big sister. It was nineteen days since the sank, but he still couldn’t close his eyes to sleep without his imagination sucking him underwater. His broken arm ached relentlessly and his swollen face gave him regular headaches.Cardiff Bay
‘Hah!’ PT yelled triumphantly as his long arm zipped the handkerchief out of Marc’s shorts. ‘Thirty-five–twenty-eight to me.’
They’d been keeping score since day one and the running tally was hotly debated.
‘Thirty-three–thirty-five to ,’ Marc yelled back.me
PT gasped theatrically. ‘You can’t count those stupid bouts up in the bedroom. I was half asleep and there was no room to move about!’
‘Aww, crap,’ Marc scoffed. ‘The only reason you don’t count them is that I pinned you five times running.’
‘Get stuffed,’ PT said. ‘You couldn’t pin a sheet of newspaper to a horse’s arse.’
‘Wanna bet?’ Marc jeered as the two squared off again, this time without tags or any pretence of rules.
Rosie smiled and sat up so that she could see better. Paul sighed and stood up. ‘I’m going indoors for a rest.’
Rosie looked concerned. ‘You OK? You want me to get you an aspirin, or a drink?’
As Paul headed inside, PT and Marc slammed into each other.
‘Lying son of a whore!’ Marc shouted.
‘Box baby!’ PT shouted back.
PT got his long arms around Marc and slapped his bare back hard. Marc ploughed forwards and shoved PT on the grass beneath him, then pinned one shoulder beneath his knee.
‘Fifteen years old and you’re such a weed!’ Marc grinned, as sweat trickled down his brow. ‘If we were the same age I’d crush you.’
But PT knocked him off and they somehow ended up fighting head to toe, this time with PT on top. He got his knee across Marc’s chest and squashed him, but PT’s foot was right in Marc’s face and the younger boy opened his mouth wide.
‘AAAARGH!’ PT shouted, springing into the air and hopping on one leg. ‘Toe-biter! What kind of wrestling is that? Christ almighty, it’s bleeding.’
‘Victory is mine!’ Marc shouted, thumping his chest before picking his shirt off the lawn and using it to wipe PT’s blood from his front teeth.
Rosie found the whole performance hilarious, but as she laughed she turned and saw that Paul had come back out on to the