Secret Army - Robert Muchamore Page 0,15
How was your day playing with the spiders in the warm while we trained out guts out?’
Paul kept quiet, avoiding a reply that might have started an argument. He stepped on past a neat space with books piled under the bed and a Picasso print on the wall.
‘I’m the tidy one,’ Paul explained. ‘Marc sleeps next to me but he’s gone down to London to see the dentist. That’s Joel, over the other side. Don’t get too close because his feet stink and his farts are even worse.’
Joel threw down a comic and gave the two newcomers a wave. He was fourteen, long-limbed with a muscular torso that gave an athletic appearance. Somehow Joel had escaped the brutal haircut to which all the other boys succumbed and had scruffy blond hair sticking in all directions.
‘Lastly we have the love nest in the corner,’ Paul said, as he walked between dusty velvet curtains rescued from one of the abandoned cottages. ‘This is my sister Rosie and her Yankee lover boy PT.’
At fifteen, PT was the oldest trainee. He sat on a bed with thirteen-year-old Rosie nestled beside him. Paul’s sister bore a strong facial resemblance to him, but it ended at the neck where Rosie broadened out into heavy shoulders and eye-catching breasts.
‘Barge in, why don’t you?’ Rosie said indignantly as she shuffled away from PT. ‘Haven’t you heard of knocking?’
Paul tutted and shook his head. ‘Knock on what?’ he asked. ‘The curtain? And if you didn’t have the radio blaring so loud you’d have heard me introducing Troy and Mason to the other two.’
As PT got off the bed and leaned over to turn down the radio, Troy saw the huge circular scar on his upper arm.
‘Did someone shoot you?’ Troy asked.
‘I took a slug in the back while we were working undercover in France,’ PT explained.
PT’s American accent and casual phrasing made this sound absurdly macho and Rosie slapped a hand on the mattress and laughed.
‘He makes out it was such a big deal,’ Rosie snorted. ‘All he had was a little nick and some muscle damage.’
‘At least he didn’t think he was going to die when he got jam on his legs,’ Paul noted.
Mason smiled. ‘I think PT’s scar looks good. I want scars when I’m older.’
Troy and Paul both laughed.
‘If I get a chance I’ll shoot you in the head,’ Troy grinned. ‘You can have a nice scar, front and back and your brain is so small it won’t make any difference.’
‘You’re so funny, Troy,’ Mason said, as he noticed the striped shirt and girls’ knickers hanging from a length of washing line beside Rosie’s bed. ‘Can girls join training or not?’ he asked.
The eight-year-old had no idea how sensitive his question was.
‘Girls can’t,’ Paul said. ‘But Rosie insisted.’
‘Girls will be allowed,’ Rosie said firmly. ‘My training is experimental, but I’m better than the boys at most stuff. Henderson says he’ll let other girls train if I pass training and prove myself on a mission.’
Joel interrupted from the other side of the curtain. ‘It won’t prove anything,’ he shouted. ‘Rosie’s hardly a girl. She’s tougher than old boots.’
‘You know where you can stick your opinions, Joel?’ Rosie answered robustly, but Troy noticed hurt flash across her face.
‘You can come back and chat later,’ Paul told Troy, as he backed up through the curtains. ‘But we’d better sort out where you’re sleeping. I’ll find you some blankets and things and show you the Group-B bunks.’
‘I don’t want to sleep in a room with girls,’ Mason protested, as they headed back to the hallway. ‘Can’t I sleep next to Troy?’
‘You haven’t officially joined yet,’ Paul said to Troy. ‘I guess Mason can stay there, for tonight at least.’
‘I am joining,’ Troy said. ‘This is a billion times better than the last place we were at. I don’t mind danger or tough training, as long as people treat you decently.’
As Paul stepped into the corridor he saw Mr Takada and jolted with shock. Takada was barely taller than Troy, but his angular face and greased-back hair made him look sinister. He wore army trousers, round glasses and a white vest hugging a broad hairless chest.
Takada’s training programme was complicated by the fact that he spoke Japanese and a stilted version of English, but not a word of French, which was the native language of most trainees.
‘You are the new arrivals,’ Takada said, before giving a little bow. ‘You are welcome.’
Mason was better at English than his older brother. ‘We’re glad