Eagle Day - Robert Muchamore Page 0,57

arms. He picked out three adventure novels, but grew more excited when he found a row of books on famous painters. The trouble was, they were all huge so he picked a single leather-cased volume of works by Picasso and used it as a tray, stacking it up with a couple of smaller art books before finishing off with a pile of novels.

By the time he’d made his pick, PT had searched all four bedrooms and emerged holding a bunched cloth filled with three good quality watches, seventy francs, two sets of diamond cufflinks and the mummy.

‘Imagine how much money these people have,’ PT grinned. ‘I mean, this is just the stuff they left behind.’

Paul followed PT downstairs. Dumont was busy trashing plates in the kitchen, while Marc had found a bag of children’s clothes under the stairs and grabbed himself a change of shirt and trousers and a hardly-worn pair of boots.

‘These ones I’m walking around in are massive,’ Marc explained, as he reached into the cupboard and threw a wicker basket at Paul.

‘Oooh, I can get more now,’ Paul said, but PT grabbed him as he headed back to the stairs.

‘We’ve been here long enough,’ PT said. ‘Especially with fat boy making all that noise … Dumont, we’re outta here.’

Dumont laughed when he saw Paul with the basket of books. ‘Books,’ he snorted. ‘You are a girl!’such

Marc shook his head. ‘Just because you can’t read, Dumont.’

‘So what if I can’t read?’ Dumont yelled defensively. ‘You get someone to read it out loud, don’t you?’

Marc had meant it sarcastically and froze on the spot. ‘You mean you can’t read?’really

‘I knew you were dumb,’ PT laughed, ‘but not that dumb.’

‘Screw you,’ Dumont shouted. ‘I could still smash all of your faces in, any day of the week.’

Paul saw that Dumont was upset and looked up at him. ‘It’s not hard to read, I could show you.’

But all Paul got for his sympathy was a dig in the back. ‘You think I care?’ Dumont said. ‘I swear, if your brother and cousin weren’t here I’d take you and all your books outside and wring your neck like the skinny little chicken you are.’

‘Hey,’ PT shouted. ‘Don’t talk to Paul like that. He was being nice. We’re the ones winding you up.’

‘Whatever,’ Dumont moaned, as he realised he was the only one leaving the house empty-handed. ‘Wait up, guys. There’s wine in the kitchen, why don’t we steal some bottles and get loaded?’

Marc looked back from the patio outside the rear door. ‘I thought you said wine upsets your stomach.’

Dumont was on the defensive after the revelation that he couldn’t read. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I got sick sometimes when I was little and my mum gave me watered-down wine with dinner, but I’m sixteen now.’

‘Hurry up and get some wine then,’ PT said, ‘and a corkscrew. And Marc, wipe your fingerprints off the back door.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Paul got bored hanging out. The books were heavy and he didn’t like the taste of wine, so he carried all the loot back home. Following PT’s instructions, he hid everything in a tool store behind the cowshed, but he was excited about his books and sneaked the big Picasso volume back to the attic bedroom he shared with Rosie.

Paul had the roof hatch open so that the room streamed sunlight on to the pages. He slipped it hurriedly under his blankets as Rosie came up the ladder.

‘Where’d you get that from?’ she asked.

‘Nowhere,’ Paul said, which he immediately realised was the stupidest and guiltiest sounding answer he could have given.

Rosie snatched the book. ‘Looks expensive,’ she noted. ‘So how come I never get invited when they go out on their wrecking sprees?’

‘Because you’re a girl, I guess.’ Paul shrugged.

‘Maxine said to come down, wash your hands and have dinner. Henderson’s early; he got a ride in one of the staff cars.’

As Paul rubbed his hands, turning soap into grey foam, Henderson sat at the table while Maxine carved the rabbits. She was in a sour mood because of the boys.

‘It’s starting to get on my nerves,’ Maxine explained. ‘I mean, they’re out all hours doing god knows what. Marc is supposed to be feeding and milking the cows, but last night he rushed out to do it last thing before bed. I set them chores in the mornings, but they do everything half-arsed.’

‘I do chores,’ Paul said defensively as he shut off the tap and dried his hands on his shirt. ‘I cleaned out and