Eagle Day - Robert Muchamore Page 0,7

bleed to death.’

His wife produced a tumbler of warmed brandy, sweetened with syrup, and helped Paul to swallow it. The alcohol numbed Paul slightly before the retired medic put in five neat stitches with sterilised button thread and a sewing needle. The booze was some help, but PT had to clamp Paul’s knees against the table to stop him from kicking out.

After another sweetened brandy, which left Paul thoroughly drunk, the old man moved in to set his arm. Paul trembled as he sat in a dining chair, gas lamps flickering, the handle of a wooden spoon between his teeth to prevent him biting through his tongue when the pain hit.

The bony old medic made him rest the broken arm flat against the tabletop, then prodded the swelling to feel the direction of the break.

‘Been some years since I last did this,’ Gaston confessed, glugging brandy out of the bottle for courage as Rosie tightened her grip on Paul’s shoulder. PT and Gaston’s wife stood by, fingers tense and brows dripping sweat.

Paul wailed as Gaston thumped his palm downwards. After running his fingers over the arm and satisfying himself that the bone was straight, Gaston wound some bandage around the break. They had no plaster so he improvised, splinting the arm with lengths of garden cane.

The finished tangle of sticks and tightly-wound bandages was unorthodox, but would give Paul’s arm a decent chance of healing. Paul sniffed drunkenly as Rosie took him out of the kitchen and settled him on an armchair in the living room. Gaston’s wife raised his legs on to a foot stool and after a wipe of his brow with a cool flannel Paul seemed content to lean on the arm and fall asleep.

‘You’re so kind,’ Rosie said, appreciating that Paul had been lucky to receive Gaston’s swift attention. By the time Paul had settled, the old man had drained his brandy and gone to the door to see if he could help someone else.

Rosie headed outside to use the toilet and found PT standing by the back door, in a great hurry to disguise something by tucking it back under his shirt. Then PT dropped an object on the ground and the teenagers almost banged heads as they crouched simultaneously to pick it up.

Rosie felt wet paper in her hands and by the time she’d straightened up she’d realised it was currency. There wasn’t much moonlight and only a little lamplight leaked from Gaston’s kitchen, but she recognised the wad of American bills before PT snatched them out of her hands.

‘They’ll dry off, won’t they?’ was all she could think to say, after a brief but awkward silence.

Rosie was nervous because she’d clearly seen something she wasn’t supposed to. Was PT going to run off, swing at her, or what? The one thing she didn’t expect was for PT to lean forwards and kiss her on the lips.

‘You’re beautiful,’ PT said.

Rosie froze like a post. She’d never kissed a boy before and, while she didn’t kiss back, she didn’t shove him away either. When PT gave Rosie space her words came out like a flood.

‘You!’ she gasped. ‘What’s all that money? No wonder you didn’t want to give your name to that priest. What did you do, mug some refugee? Rob a bank? And don’t tell me that I’m beautiful and kiss me like that. Give me some warning or something! And what kind of name is PT? It’s not even a name, it’s just initials. Those were twenty-dollar bills. That’s almost five pounds, each one, and you’ve got stacks and stacks! I mean, who on earth are you and why are you going around kissing me?’

PT smiled. ‘Because you’re beautiful.’

‘keep saying that,’ Rosie said, though PT was tall and a couple of years older than her and probably rather elegant when he didn’t have mud in his hair, so she was actually flattered.Don’t

‘I tell you who I really am,’ PT smirked, as he drew his finger across his throat and made a choking sound. ‘But then I’d have to kill you.’could

Part Two

10 December 1938 – 14 December 1938

New York City, USA

CHAPTER THREE

He was named Philippe Tomas Bivott after his French grandfather, but everyone called him PT. He was the middle child in a family of three boys; both his parents were French, but he’d lived in America all his life. PT’s mother died when he was ten and his father Miles moved to New York, for a job in the docks fixed up by