Secret Army - Robert Muchamore Page 0,42
a tough little sod,’ Troy said admiringly, as he came out of the bushes and looked at Sam.
Sam was startled and realised there was no way to disguise his tears. ‘That game lasted for ever,’ he complained, before he saw the blood soaking through Troy’s shirt. ‘Oh shit, did I cut you badly?’
‘No worse than those punches I threw,’ Troy said, as the pair started a slow trudge towards the school. ‘I wish we were more evenly matched. It doesn’t seem fair when I have to ambush you.’
‘Yeah,’ Sam agreed, as his boots crunched on the gravel. ‘But I suppose it’s kind of the point: we’re training for real life and that’s not fair either.’
Group B’s day had started five hours earlier with a training run and, now that the adrenalin rush of the flag game had worn off, the two bleeding trainees barely had the energy to put one foot in front of another.
Two other trainees swung their legs over the wall and dropped into the school courtyard as Sam and Troy made a more conventional entrance through the back gate.
Rufus stood in the doorway shouting instructions. ‘Wash and shower. The game overran, so hurry up unless you want a cold lunch.’
Yves was all smiles when he saw Sam. ‘You did great, little man! Seven to three, we killed them.’
Sam scowled at him. ‘Fantastic.’
Yves was genuinely mystified. ‘What?’
Sam tutted and headed into the doorway where he started undoing the mud-encrusted laces of his boots.
‘You’re a decent guy, Yves,’ Troy explained. ‘But you’re thick sometimes: you should have picked Sam up and let him throw the flags.’
‘Oh!’ Yves gasped. Then he rushed over to Sam and apologised.
As Troy started undoing his boots, McAfferty came out of her office to greet him. ‘Troy,’ she said warmly, ‘I know you’ve had a busy morning, but can you go straight across to the house and feed the spiders?’
Troy looked down at his muddy clothes and boots. ‘I’ve got to have a shower, madame. Look at the state of me!’
‘Take your shoes and socks off and don’t sit on anything in the house,’ McAfferty said, sounding quite stressed. ‘The spiders have to be fed on time and I don’t want Mrs Henderson over here again shouting and hollering. I’ve already had her over once this morning, complaining about the noise from the artillery range. I mean what does the crazy woman expect me to do, walk over there and ask the army to wrap their shells in cotton wool?’
Troy was exhausted, but he liked McAfferty and managed to smile. ‘I’ll go straight over. Though goodness knows why Mrs Henderson can’t do it herself. What else does she do all day?’
‘Good lad,’ McAfferty smiled. ‘And be quick or you’ll miss your lunch.’
Troy was ticked off as he walked back outside towards the farmhouse. His arms and legs hurt and he kept reimagining the punches and the moment when he’d climbed off Sam and come within a second of delivering a brutal kick.
Troy wondered if the military-style training was turning him into a thug. Or did the fact he worried about stuff like this while other lads boasted about how they’d splattered someone’s nose in combat class mean that he lacked the ruthless instincts that he’d need to work well undercover?
The conservatory where the spiders lived was always tranquil and thirty-degree heat sent the blood back into chilled fingers and toes. The creatures fascinated Troy, but the main reason he’d volunteered to feed the spiders while Paul was up in Scotland was that it gave him twenty minutes away from everyone else.
After leaving his boots inside the conservatory’s glass door, Troy padded to the kitchen and washed his hands. If he got muddy finger marks on Joan Henderson’s feeding log his life wouldn’t be worth living.
As Troy washed up under the cold tap he heard Joan rushing down the stairs. The thumping feet didn’t belong to someone in a good mood and this was confirmed when she screamed out from the landing.
‘You’re a cheating, lying scumbag and I hate you!’
Charles Henderson came down more cautiously. ‘Darling, stop being so dramatic. All I’m saying is that in your present state, you might like to go and stay somewhere quieter for a few weeks.’
‘Dramatic!’ Joan screamed. ‘You think that’s dramatic?’
‘Sweetheart, put that down.’
‘This is dramatic, you son of a bitch!’
Troy shuddered as he heard a vase smashing against the wall.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Grey skies had descended over Braco Lodge parachute training school and drizzle swirled on gusts of wind. The