The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,42

into the surrounding countryside for all signs of war to vanish. Rosie and Paul had found refuge in a small farmhouse belonging to a retired priest and his spinster sister. At this moment, Rosie was running at full pelt across a meadow, gaining ground on Hugo, who wore a headdress made from a piece of knotted rag and chicken feathers.

‘Can’t get me!’ Hugo shouted. But he shrieked as he looked behind and saw that Rosie was almost within touching distance.

‘Gotcha, monster,’ Rosie growled, as she grabbed the small boy around the waist and hoisted him high into the air with his legs kicking frantically.

Hugo was grinning and breathless as she put him down. ‘Again?’ he asked.

Rosie liked playing with Hugo because it gave her a chance to act stupid and forget about all the bad stuff. The trouble was, he never wanted to stop.

‘OK,’ Rosie said, putting her hands over her eyes. ‘One last time.’

‘Three more times,’ Hugo demanded.

‘Once more, or not at all. I’ve played with you for nearly an hour.’

‘OK …’ the boy huffed, before spinning around and darting off into the long grass.

‘One, two, three …’ Rosie counted, but gave up the pretence once Hugo was out of earshot. It was too hot for all this running around and she was getting a stitch down her side.

She looked across the meadow and immediately noticed Hugo’s head peeking over the top of the ditch. But she knew if she found Hugo too quickly he’d insist on playing again, so she looked mystified for a few moments before starting to stroll towards the ditch.

Hugo sprang up and protested when Rosie got close. ‘You peeked!’

‘So what?’ Rosie teased. ‘What are you gonna do about it, titch?’

‘You’re ugly!’ Hugo shouted, before scrambling up the side of the ditch. ‘And you smell like horse bum.’

Rosie growled dramatically. ‘Oh, you’re gonna get it now.’

Hugo shrieked with delight as he pushed through a hedge and began running up a dirt track. When Rosie got through the hedge – a task far more difficult for a burly thirteen year old than for a boy of six – she was alarmed to see Hugo’s little legs running at full pelt up a steep path covered with rocks.

‘You be careful,’ Rosie said. ‘Come back and play on the grass.’

‘Can’t get me,’ was Hugo’s response.

Rosie didn’t fancy bashing her knee on a rock, so she kept her pace down to a brisk walk. Hugo stopped running and looked back with his hands on his hips.

‘Come on, Rosie, you’re not playing properly.’

Hugo cut off the path and dived behind a clump of bushes. A second later he screamed out, ‘OWWWWW!’

Rosie envisaged grazed skin and streaks of blood and ran desperately towards Hugo. But by the time she’d made ten metres she heard Hugo say, ‘What are you hiding up here for?’ in a voice that showed no sign of distress.

Rosie rounded the bushes and saw that Hugo had turned the corner and tripped over her brother’s outstretched legs. Paul was sitting against the trunk of a small tree, with his sketchbook and the wooden case containing his drawing pens and inks on the grass at his side.

‘Are you OK?’ Rosie asked brightly, when she saw her brother. ‘What are you doing?’

Paul wiggled his sketchpad. ‘Flower arranging,’ he tutted.

Rosie wouldn’t usually have stood any lip from her brother, but he’d taken their father’s death hard and had been even quieter than usual in the week since.

‘What are you drawing?’ Hugo asked.

‘Nothing,’ Paul said.

Hugo stepped closer to Paul. ‘Please show me,’ he begged.

Paul clutched the pad close to his chest, but Hugo made a grab and Paul shoved him away angrily. ‘It’s private.’

Hugo tumbled back three steps before falling hard on his bum.

‘Careful, moron,’ Rosie yelled. ‘He’s only six.’

Hugo stood up with his bottom lip rolled out like he was going to cry.

‘I didn’t ask you to come barging over here,’ Paul said indignantly. ‘I just want to be on my own.’

‘I just asked to see your picture,’ Hugo said.

Paul grabbed a corner of his pad with his inky fingers and flung it into the dirt. Hugo stared at it, unable to grasp what it was, but Rosie instantly recognised her father’s face. One side was an almost perfect drawing, but the other appeared twisted, with the eyeball sunk into the skull and a gaping wound filled with maggots in his cheek.

‘You little sicko,’ Rosie shouted. ‘Why have you got to draw him like that? Why can’t you do a nice