Eagle Day - Robert Muchamore Page 0,25

about Paul being so shy. His mother made Paul go to birthday parties when he didn’t want to, while his father had enrolled him in manly activities such as the Boy Scouts and a boxing club.

Despite Rosie taunting him for being a wimp and a couple of thrashings from his father, Paul resisted with violent tantrums until both schemes were dropped and his parents came to accept him as a quiet boy who enjoyed his own company.

Having his right arm in a sling made it awkward to carry his pad, pencil tin, a slice of bread and jam wrapped in greaseproof paper and a hip flask filled with water. It was impossible for Paul to feel truly happy – with his father having recently died and his future uncertain – but as he sat by a stream just beyond the grounds of the pink house with the sun on his back he felt warm and relaxed.

A friend of Paul’s late father was a Professor of Art at a Paris university. The professor had recognised Paul’s talent and on several occasions allowed him to sit in on studio sessions with his students. Paul had been intimidated by the much older students, but loved being in a place where art was the centre of everything and having the chance to try out pastels and charcoal for the first time.

Paul used one of the techniques he’d learned from the professor and timed himself making three-minute sketches. A duck on the lake, a vista of the pink house and surrounding hills and a frustrating attempt to capture the sheen of a ladybird’s shell. Conscious that he only had twelve precious sheets left on his pad, he kept all the drawings on a single side.

After ninety minutes drawing, Paul took a break and lay back on the grass. He ate the slice of bread and drank water that had baked in the metal hip flask. He’d planned to stay out all morning, but his bowels had other ideas and he strode briskly back to the house and locked himself in the toilet.

It was still only half-past eleven, so he decided to head back out. But as he passed down the hallway he noticed Marc’s pigskin bag leaning against the wall in the hallway.

‘Marc, you back already?’ he shouted.

But Paul knew Marc hadn’t taken the bag with him: he’d seen it in the wardrobe upstairs when he fetched his pencils. Paul loosened the draw-string and saw that it contained one of Marc’s shirts and several days’ worth of food.

Paul checked the rooms downstairs, looking for PT. When he didn’t find him he headed up, stepped into their bedroom and saw that PT had packed his things.

PT was old enough to make his own way in the world, but Paul didn’t like the fact that he’d taken Marc’s bag and found it suspicious that he’d chosen to sneak out of the house when nobody else was around.

As he stepped out of the bedroom, Paul heard a thump in Henderson’s room along the hallway. He crept up to the door and saw PT leaning over the bed, going through the equipment in Henderson’s suitcase.

Paul watched as PT turned over the guns and equipment, then gasped as the older boy found the leather pouch in which Henderson kept gold ingots and currency.

‘Put it back,’ Paul blurted, charging in through the doorway and wondering if he’d done the right thing as his words echoed into the huge room.

PT jolted with fright, but was relieved to see that it was only Paul, who presented no physical threat to him.

‘I thought you were out drawing,’ PT said peevishly.

‘What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘But why leave?’ Paul asked. ‘I thought you liked it here.’

‘All I want is a quiet life,’ PT said. ‘It was nice hanging out with you guys. I liked the idea of crossing the mountains to Spain. But now Henderson’s changing it all. I mean, radio transmissions? Contacting the British Government? That’s dangerous shit and I’m staying away from it.’

‘So leave then,’ Paul said indignantly. ‘But after all Henderson and Maxine have done for you these last three weeks, how can you steal his stuff? You’ve got loads of money. Rosie saw it.’

‘I’m not taking everything,’ PT said as he pulled three gold ingots out of the pouch. ‘But in troubled times like these a lot of people prefer gold to dollars or francs.’

‘Come on, put it back,’ Paul begged.

PT pocketed the three ingots. ‘Paul, I’ve got my