Eagle Day - Robert Muchamore Page 0,28

back. He turned and took a few backwards steps, looking at the house and clearly torn about leaving.

Paul considered dumping the sock and making another attempt at persuading PT to stay. But he had no new arguments and his idea was fuelled more by cowardice than any realistic belief in success.

As PT crunched down the gravel driveway, Paul felt himself sweating in places he barely knew he had. He found courage from somewhere, however, and when the moment came the sock belted the side of PT’s skull with a horrid thunk.

‘Shit!’ PT yelled, as the blow and the weight of his luggage pulled him over.

Stone chips spewed up as PT landed heavily in the gravel. A streak of blood broke through his hair as he rolled on to his back, but to Paul’s alarm the blow hadn’t knocked him out.

‘What are you doing, you little idiot?’

‘You know too much,’ Paul shouted back. ‘Stay down or I’ll whack you again.’

But PT reared up defiantly. Paul feared a beating if PT got back to his feet, but the sharp-edged stones had shredded his sock and as Paul swung a second time they burst out through a hole in the toe. A few hit PT but the big ones all missed.

‘Stop it,’ PT shouted. ‘Do you want me to beat you up?’

PT tried standing up again, but his head swirled and a stone chip was jammed in one eye. Paul reckoned a handful of dirt in PT’s other eye would even the odds, so he scooped up loose gravel and threw it hard.

As PT tried to shield his eyes, Paul kicked him in the gut. The shoe connected, but PT grabbed the flying ankle and twisted Paul’s foot around. Paul crashed down into the gravel, groaning with pain as he landed on his bad arm.

Blood dripped off PT’s chin as he loomed over the younger boy. Paul winced, expecting a hammering as PT’s knee pinned his thighs to the ground, but as PT’s fist bunched, Paul’s flailing hand found a large stone and he swung upwards.

The face of the rock hit PT in the temple. Paul wriggled as PT’s fist glanced off his head, but a second later PT’s shoulders drooped and he listed sideways. The churning gravel had thrown up clouds of dust. Paul coughed violently and his stomach burned with pain as he sat up – but he’d finally knocked PT out.

*

There was a warm atmosphere as the quartet rode the van back towards the pink house under late afternoon sun. Rosie was exhausted after her day at the refuge, but it was a good kind of tired: the kind you get when you feel you’ve accomplished something.

Maxine was cheerful. She made a point of driving fast over bumps because she knew Henderson was feeling the worse for half a dozen brandies. Marc sat in the rear compartment with a German mechanic’s satchel resting on his lap. It contained a reel of solder, a soldering iron and the four precious valves.

Paul was a sobbing mess as he bolted out of the pink house to meet them. He’d tried to wash up and fix the splints on his arm but hadn’t done much of a job. Henderson feared the worst and pulled his gun as he jumped out the back of the truck.

‘I tied him up,’ Paul blurted as he led Henderson through to the kitchen.

Paul wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing and feared that he’d get shouted at, so it was a huge relief when Henderson looked proudly at him.

‘You reasoned all that through by yourself?’ Henderson smiled. ‘And he’s a damn sight bigger than you.’

‘So I’m not in trouble?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Henderson replied, as they arrived in the kitchen together. ‘Sneaking away, stealing my gold. Let’s see what the little bugger’s got to say for himself.’

PT was sprawled over the terracotta floor with a bloody pillow under his head. Paul had bound his arms and legs with washing line and hauled him up the driveway in case his body was spotted by a passerby.

‘That’s Marc’s bag and the suitcase he packed,’ Paul explained, as he pointed towards the kitchen table. ‘I wanted you to see what he’d done, so I didn’t touch it.’

Henderson saw the gold ingots as Marc walked in behind. ‘Traitor,’ Marc spat, furious that PT had planned to steal his bag and his only spare shirt.

The two females were more rational. Rosie was torn between compassion for PT’s pathetic state down on the tiles and loyalty to