The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,43

picture?’

Paul scowled at his sister. ‘Because I don’t feel like making a nice picture, fatso.’

Rosie wasn’t fat, but she was sensitive about her stocky build and calling her fat was the easiest way to make her mad.

‘I can’t look at that,’ Rosie shouted, picking the pad off the floor, tearing off the page and ripping the drawing to shreds. She’d expected Paul to fight her, but he didn’t move.

‘Can you go now you’re done interfering?’ Paul said calmly.

If Paul had put up a fight Rosie would have felt OK about ripping up the drawing, but the way he sat there, staring pathetically, made her feel terrible. The drawing must have taken hours.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rosie said sheepishly, as the wind picked up squares of torn paper.

‘If you say so,’ Paul said.

Rosie felt like her brother was dead inside. She wanted to grab him and thump him until he came back to life.

‘Can’t you at least talk to me?’ Rosie begged. ‘I’m hurting too, you know. What is it you want?’

‘We should have gone south, like we agreed in the first place,’ Paul said. ‘Not stayed here with Father Doran and his sister.’

‘It’s safe here,’ Rosie groaned. ‘People were dying on the roads, Paul. Probably still are. Here we’ve got good food, clean water, somewhere decent to sleep …’

Paul shook his head. ‘Dad’s last words were Find Henderson, give him the papers. And what are we doing? Sitting on our arses, drawing pictures and playing with six year olds.’

‘Dad would have wanted us to be safe more than anything else,’ Rosie said. ‘We’ve been through his pocket book. We’ve been through every one of the documents in the briefcase, looking for a reference to Henderson, and there’s nothing. No phone number, no address, no details of who he works for.’

‘But people in England would know, Rosie. If we went south and got a boat to England we could contact someone and find Henderson’s assistant: Miss McAfferty.’

‘Probably,’ Rosie said. ‘But even if we make it to Bordeaux – two hundred kilometres on foot, and in this heat – how can we be sure that there’s a boat leaving for England? If there is a boat, you can bet your life that there are going to be thousands of refugees trying to get on board.’

Paul shrugged. ‘I didn’t say it would be easy, but I know Dad would have wanted us to try.’

‘No,’ Rosie said, shaking her head. ‘Dad was off his head when he said that. He was bleeding to death. And besides, what about Mum? I know for a fact that she would have wanted us to stay here, where it’s safe.’

Paul’s silence was as close as he’d get to admitting that Rosie was probably right.

‘I’m hungry,’ Hugo said, grabbing Rosie’s wrist and giving it a tug.

‘I’m going back to the cottage,’ Rosie said, as she looked down at Hugo. ‘Yvette should have lunch ready soon. Are you coming with us?’

‘I suppose,’ Paul said reluctantly, snapping the wooden box of ink and drawing pens shut and clambering out of the grass.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Marc had got used to the sight of French troops. Unshaven, underfed and frequently drunk; their uniforms didn’t fit and their horse-drawn artillery seemed like a relic from a different age. Germany was only a few hundred kilometres away, but their army seemed to come from another world.

The first columns entering Paris were led by motorcycles and sidecars, followed by senior staff sitting in open-topped Kübelwagens4 with swastika flags draped across the bonnet. A soothing French voice came out of a megaphone, urging citizens of Paris to stay calm and stand clear of the troops.

Then came infantry. Marching in step, immaculately dressed – from green helmets down to polished boots. Marc stood close enough to the kerb to get a whiff of the superbly groomed horses. Tank tracks left their mark in sunbaked tarmac and polluted the air with a haze of diesel fumes.

The German forces seemed to sweat raw power. It was the most impressive thing Marc had ever seen and he was completely awed. He’d often dreamed of running away to fight for France, but now France was on its knees, and he wanted to swap sides.

Marc could imagine himself in the smart Nazi uniform, commanding his own tank as it smashed buildings and slaughtered anyone stupid enough to defy him. He’d been on the losing end his whole life and this brazen display of strength intoxicated him.

He turned to face the café owner, but instead found himself staring