Secret Army - Robert Muchamore Page 0,28

‘We’re gonna teach you a lesson.’

‘You can stick that idea,’ Luc said, as he moved into a boxer’s stance. ‘I’ll flatten the lot of you.’

Rosie charged forwards. She was smaller than Luc, but she’d done a lot of hand-to-hand combat training over the last three months and was naturally fast. As Luc lunged and swung a punch, Rosie ducked low, head-butted him in the stomach and drove him back against the tiled wall.

Before Luc could hit back, PT and Joel grabbed his arms.

‘You’re all dead,’ Luc screamed.

Rosie hooked her feet around Luc’s ankles and his sole skidded easily on the wet floor. He landed hard on his knees and Joel and PT threw him forwards on to his face.

‘Stick something in his trap to shut him up,’ Rosie said.

PT grabbed a flannel that had been hung to dry over a radiator. Rosie pinched Luc’s nostrils and PT crammed it in as Luc opened his mouth to breathe.

As Luc gagged on the soapy-tasting rag, Marc twisted one of the wet towels into a rope, wound it around Luc’s ankles, then bent them back towards his buttocks. PT took the loose ends of the towel and looped them expertly around Luc’s wrists before pulling them into a tight knot.

‘Who’d have thought Henderson’s tying-up-a-suspect exercise would come in handy so soon?’ Marc smiled.

Paul’s conscience twanged as he watched the bully who’d been making his life a misery shivering on the wet floor, with his mouth plugged and his ankles and wrists trussed painfully behind his back. Seeing justice dished out was satisfying, but could two wrongs really make a right?

Marc twisted another dripping towel into a rope and gave it to Paul.

‘I reckon you should go first.’

‘We could all get expelled for this,’ Paul said warily.

Joel shrugged. ‘They’re teaching us espionage: how to look after ourselves and use our initiative. Isn’t that what this is?’

Rosie didn’t share her brother’s doubts. She snatched the towel out of Paul’s hand and flicked it expertly. After a sharp crack it left a huge stinging welt on Luc’s back.

Luc screamed into his gag.

‘Ahh, doesn’t baby like it?’ Rosie grinned, as she whacked him again.

Marc grabbed another towel, and launched two hard licks on Luc’s back, then Joel and PT took the towels and had a go themselves. Joel’s long arms were perfect for delivering a thrashing and Luc made his loudest scream of the night as his first blow swiped between his shoulder blades. PT’s first blow hit the same spot, opening up a bloody welt.

Paul stepped in front of the older boys and raised his hands. ‘Six of the best,’ he said nervously. ‘I reckon that’s enough.’

‘Ten of the best if you’re counting,’ Joel laughed, as he held his towel out towards Paul. ‘Go on, make it a nice round dozen.’

Paul took the towel, but the blood pooling in the dip between Luc’s shoulder blades gave everyone a sense that they’d gone too far already.

‘Babykins is crying,’ Marc noted gleefully, as he crouched down and watched tears streaking down Luc’s face.

‘Shall we untie him?’ Rosie asked. ‘What if he goes crazy?’

PT straddled Luc and spoke fiercely. ‘As far as we’re concerned the score’s even and it’s a clean slate. But if you lay another finger on Paul, this will happen again.’

Luc cursed furiously into his gag and finally managed to spit it out.

‘I think he wants to be friends,’ Marc grinned.

‘Give him a while to mull things over,’ PT said. ‘If he’s lucky we’ll come back and untie him before bedtime.’

‘What if someone hears him?’ Paul asked.

PT thought for a couple of seconds. ‘We’ll warn the other kids, none of them likes him much. The staff never use our bathroom and you won’t hear him moaning from out in the corridor.’

‘Sounds about right,’ Marc agreed. ‘Now let’s play some poker. Are you sure you don’t fancy sitting in for a few hands, Paul?’

Paul still hurt in all the places where he’d hurt a few minutes earlier, but the way everyone had stood up for him made him feel completely different. ‘Why not?’ he smiled.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Poker took over the minds of the five young players. They forgot about war, dead parents and the aches and tiredness from a day of tough training. All they had was the luck of the cards, their wits and bragging rights over the control of a valueless mound of buttons.

A towering man dressed in army officer’s uniform snapped them out of it. ‘Cards,’ he said, in an austere voice. Then, as he