Secret Army - Robert Muchamore Page 0,41

the pain in his lower back, Sam spun away and began to sprint with the two flags clutched to his chest.

The cemetery was overgrown and the uneven ground was covered in puddles and boggy patches. Mud spattered Sam’s trousers as he sploshed through several centimetres of filthy water. After vaulting a cracked tombstone, he looked over his shoulder and saw that Troy had recovered and was closing from less than ten metres.

Sam lost more ground as he fiddled with the latch on the churchyard gate. He flung the gate closed as hard as he could, hoping it would hit Troy, but Troy kicked it aside with his boot.

The churchyard and school were separated by a stretch of gravel road. Sam only had to make this distance and throw the flags into the school courtyard for the score to count for his team. But if Troy got them there would be no time to call for back-up.

‘Gotcha!’ Troy yelped triumphantly as he got his hands around Sam’s thighs and brought him down with a rugby tackle.

Stones flew and gravel crunched as Sam hit the ground hard. Thick combat-style trousers protected his legs, but his hands stung as stones ripped the skin on his palms.

Troy grabbed the stick attached to one of the flags, but Sam had a tight grip and did all he could to shield them under his body. He couldn’t beat Troy, but the tactic would buy time.

‘Troy’s got me!’ Sam yelled desperately. ‘I’ve got two flags but I can’t hold ’em.’

Troy tried putting a hand over Sam’s mouth. The teams were evenly matched and as Sam was the smallest he’d been paired with two boys who’d be harder for Troy to fight off.

‘Shut it,’ Troy ordered, but Sam kept yelling and there was no way Troy could snatch the flags with only one free hand. Frustrated, he bunched his fist and gave Sam two hard punches in the back.

The younger boy’s breathing jerked and Troy felt all mixed up. He was into the flag game and wanted his team to win but it didn’t seem right punching a boy three years younger.

As Troy hesitated, Sam grabbed a sharp-edged stone that had been digging into his chest and whacked it blindly against Troy’s side. The stone caught a patch of bare skin where Troy’s shirt had ridden up during the tussle and left a two-centimetre gash close to his belly button.

The shot of pain killed Troy’s sympathy. He pinned Sam’s arm and threw four hard punches at Sam’s back.

‘Let go of the flags before I really hurt you,’ Troy ordered.

Sam was now bright red, with wet eyes and snot bubbling out of his nose, but he wasn’t giving up. ‘Somebody help me!’ he shouted again, but this time it sounded really desperate.

‘You’re being stupid,’ Troy reasoned. ‘Give me the flags. I don’t want to hurt you, but you’re not giving me any choice.’

As Troy raised his fist, he saw another boy running towards him. Fourteen-year-old Yves was the last boy recruited into Group B. He was big and, while he’d never catch up over open ground, Troy didn’t fancy his chances in a straight fight.

‘Run away then,’ Sam taunted, as Troy rolled off him. ‘Pussy!’

Troy was surprised by his own rage. The cut on his belly hurt. He had blood streaking down his stomach and he was severely tempted to kick Sam in the face. It was against the rules, but he could easily say it was an accident and get away with a warning. But even in victory Sam looked pathetic with his wet eyes and by the time Troy had thought about it the red mist had passed.

As Troy dived into the bushes, Yves arrived on the scene.

‘Hand me the flags,’ Yves ordered.

Sam handed them over reluctantly, because while it was a team game he’d done all the hard work and throwing in the flags was like a goal in football: everyone wanted the glory.

Troy watched from the bushes as Sam sat up. Sam had no idea he was still nearby, so he allowed himself a couple of unguarded sobs as he sat inspecting the grazes down his arms.

But Sam was tough. He’d survived worse, and Yves snatching the flags away annoyed him more than his injuries.

The flag game had been running for ninety minutes. Sam and Troy were relieved when a large gong sounded from the school courtyard. It echoed over hundreds of metres and meant that one team had delivered seven flags, ending the game.

‘You’re