Henderson's Boys: The Escape (4 page)

‘Do you think you’re tough?’ the director said, as he stopped the thrashing to catch his breath. ‘I don’t think I’ve
ever
seen you cry.’

Marc took his hands away from his face and tried to look defiant, but he was losing his battle with a trembling bottom lip.

‘I’ve almost broken you this time, haven’t I, Kilgour?’ the director grinned. ‘Give me another few minutes and I’ll have you sobbing as hard as little Jean.’

The office door swung inwards and Sister Madeline hurried into the room with a tray of bread and soup.

‘Haven’t you heard of knocking, woman?’ Tomas bellowed.

But the young nun set the wooden tray on the desktop with a defiant clatter. ‘Sausage and vegetable soup,’ she said, as she moved towards Marc and reached out her hand.

The director was furious. ‘What are you doing, girl? Get
out
.’

The young nun pretended not to hear. ‘I’ll clean his wounds now that you’re finished.’

The director gave Sister Madeline a look that seemed to question her sanity. ‘And what makes you so sure that I’ve finished with him? I might have barely begun.’

‘Marc has had
enough
, Director,’ she said, trying to sound firm, but clearly frightened. ‘Enough.’

Marc rolled on to his bum and sat up, but the director stepped in front of him.

‘This is my office and my orphanage,’ he boomed. ‘I deal with the boys as I see fit and if you don’t get back to the kitchen this instant I’ll report you to the bishop.’

The young nun clenched her fists. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘And when I’m brought before the bishop, I’ll be sure to mention your new suits and the bicycle. I’m
sure
you’ll be able to make a proper account of all the money paid by Mr Morel.’

The director reddened as he reared up on his heels and hurtled his cane back into the umbrella stand. ‘Take the boy then,’ he growled.

‘Thank you, Director,’ the sister said, nodding obligingly as she helped Marc on to his bare feet. ‘I hope you enjoy the soup, sir.’

Marc bunched his fists and bit down on his lip, determined not to let the pain show. He knew he owed Sister Madeline, but he was too upset to speak as she led him down the hallway and into a small room with a bed and a sink that was used as a sickbay.

There were boys playing outside and the sister shut the door and pulled the curtain before they got a chance to gloat about the state he was in. Marc sat on the edge of a small bed – ironically, his bum was one of the few parts of his body that wasn’t injured – while Sister Madeline ran a face cloth under the cold tap. She smiled reassuringly as she sat down and began dabbing the blood from his cheek.

‘Thank you for …’ Marc said, but he stopped before he broke down.

‘You don’t have to be proud,’ Sister Madeline said, as streaks of pink water drizzled down Marc’s face. ‘We’re all humble before God.’

‘I didn’t mean to do anything to Jae,’ Marc said, stifling a sob. ‘She was … We had a laugh together. Now I’ll never see her again …’

Marc rested his head against the nun’s floury apron as he began to cry openly. She wanted to put an arm around his back, but he had cuts all over and she didn’t want to hurt him even more.

²
Penal colony – a prison in the French colonies where inmates were expected to do backbreaking physical work.

Mrs Mujard stood on the front steps of a five-storey apartment block, trying to get her money’s worth out of a cigarette stub. The elderly woman had been the building’s concierge for more than thirty years and could now barely move on the lattice of varicose veins that passed for her legs.

Her eyebrows shot up guiltily when she saw Mr Clarke’s Citroën swing into a parking bay across the street and she shuffled back to the chest-high reception desk as Rosie and Paul came into the lobby.

‘Hello, Madame,’ Paul said brightly. ‘Any post?’

Mrs Mujard pulled three envelopes from one of the cubby holes behind her. Paul aimed his Toblerone at her.

‘Chocolate?’ he asked brightly.

The elderly lady shuddered. ‘Sticks in my teeth.’ And then she looked up at Mr Clarke, who’d stepped into the lobby holding his briefcase. ‘I have news,’ she said gloomily.

Mujard always had news. News could be anything from a new tenant to someone overfilling their bath and damaging the flat below. Recently, all of Mujard’s news had been about tenants packing up to leave the city.

‘I’d love to catch up on the gossip,’ Mr Clarke said, ‘but we’re heading south. I want to get on the road as soon as possible.’

‘The news is about
your
apartment, sir.’

Mujard never came straight out with a story. People were more inclined to stay and gossip if you fed them slivers.

‘My apartment?’ Mr Clarke asked, as Paul and Rosie turned away from the foot of the staircase.

‘Yes sir,’ Mujard said, nodding grimly, but making no attempt to go further.

Mr Clarke sounded impatient. ‘What
about
our apartment?’

‘The police.’

This hook was enough to make Paul and Rosie walk back to the reception desk.

‘What would the police want with us?’ Rosie asked.

Mujard shrugged and Mr Clarke slammed his palm on the countertop, making her jump. Paul and Rosie were startled. Their father was a mild man, but he definitely wasn’t himself today.

‘I have two children,’ Mr Clarke said, almost begging. ‘I need to get them out of the city. Now if you have information,
please
tell me quickly.’

Mujard looked offended. ‘There’s no need to shout,’ she said, but she was secretly delighted by the outburst. ‘Three detectives, plain clothes. They asked where you were and came with a warrant to search your apartment.’

Mr Clarke glanced at his watch. ‘How long ago?’

‘Two or three hours. They asked where you might be. I explained that you were a salesman and said you’d either be at your office, or on the road.’

Mr Clarke glanced anxiously at his car outside, then at the children. ‘We need to leave Paris
now
.’

He grabbed Paul’s arm and dragged him towards the street. ‘What’s going on?’ the boy asked anxiously. ‘Why are the police looking for you?’

‘I don’t think they are,’ Mr Clarke said cryptically. ‘I’ll explain everything in the car.’

Rosie protested. ‘But we’re here now. I don’t have a change of clothes, or a toothbrush or …’

Clarke thought for a second. It
was
a long journey and comforts such as a change of clothes and a few personal items would make it far more tolerable.

‘I suppose,’ he said, looking at Rosie. Then he thanked Mujard for the information and began bounding up the narrow staircase to the fourth floor, taking the steps two at a time. ‘We’ve got to be out of here in five minutes,’ he continued. ‘Grab some essentials: clothes, toiletries, small personal items. I don’t want the car stuffed with toys and junk.’

The trio were breathless by the time they reached the door of apartment sixteen. Mujard had unlocked for the police officers, so the door was intact, but the apartment had been ransacked. Drawers were emptied over the floor, a tall lamp had been knocked down and one of the sofas had been tipped on its back with its bottom sliced open to see if anything was hidden inside.

Paul looked shaken as Rosie bent down and began gathering pieces of a broken Wedgwood plate that had belonged to her great-grandmother.

‘Forget that,’ Mr Clarke barked, grabbing his daughter’s arm and hoisting her up. ‘They’re not police … I’ve told you I’ll explain later. Right now we’ve
got
to pack up and leave.’

Mr Clarke gave Rosie a nudge towards her bedroom, then he walked into the kitchen and began opening cupboards, searching for food to take on the journey. Paul started towards his room, but he knew he’d need to pee before setting off so he cut into the bathroom and bolted the door.

Paul still missed his mother and the bathroom evoked her memory. He could remember splashing around in the bath with Rosie when they were little and his fascination with his mother’s paraphernalia of perfumes, make-up and a giant glass jar stuffed with balls of cotton wool. Her half of the bathroom shelf was now clinically empty and he tried putting this out of mind as he unbuttoned his grey shorts and tried to pee.

‘Thinking about it, you’d both better change clothes,’ Mr Clarke shouted, from the living room. ‘Your uniforms are very English. It’s best if you blend in.’

Paul hurriedly washed his hands and was pulling his shirt over his head as he stepped out of the bathroom and clattered into Rosie. She was carrying a suitcase of clothes towards the front door.

‘Watch it, bone head,’ she yelled, shoving Paul against the wall.

Stupidly, Paul hadn’t bothered undoing any of his shirt buttons and one of them popped off as he staggered blindly into his bedroom. He threw the shirt and the vest inside it on the bed and glanced around quickly, wondering which of his things he wanted to take. He decided on the alarm clock he’d had for Christmas, all of his clothes – he only had two pairs of long trousers and three shirts anyway – and as much of his painting and drawing equipment as he thought he’d be able to get away with without making his dad mad.

But before he could pack anything, Paul realised he’d need one of the cases stashed under the bed in his father’s room. He spun around quickly, but was surprised to hear his bedroom door click shut and see a man step out from behind it.

Paul dropped his jaw to scream, but within a second a hand was clamped to his face. A fingertip slipped into his mouth and he bit down hard. The man hissed with pain, but it wasn’t enough to stop him shoving Paul backwards on to the bed and pressing the barrel of a pistol against the bridge of his nose.

‘Be silent, or die,’ the man said.

His French sounded fluent, but his accent was unmistakeably German.

Marc shared an attic bedroom with twenty other orphans. Their metal bunks were crammed so tight that boys who slept at the far end had to clamber over mattresses to get in or out. To make matters worse Director Tomas had ordered the only window nailed shut after a boy had tumbled out during a mass brawl, and the lack of fresh air left the room with a fragrance you’d be unlikely to find in any Paris boutique.

After Sister Madeline had patched him up, Marc had wiped his eyes and limped up four flights. He’d bloodied several noses to earn the privilege of a top bunk, but Marc’s balls and stomach were agony as he struggled to haul himself on to the mattress. Despite the heat, pain and a couple of little kids jumping between the lower bunks and making a racket, Marc was exhausted and quickly fell asleep.

No boy caned by the director was allowed to eat until the following morning and, having slept through the early evening, Marc woke at nine p.m. and was annoyed to find himself wide awake, headachey and starving, as his roommates noisily stripped for bed.

Most boys had been playing outdoors and it was too hot for pyjamas, so the room thronged with sweaty limbs clambering over mattresses and shrill voices disputing the score of a football match. Some of the tiniest boys had trained themselves to ignore the noise and were already asleep.

Two stinking feet rested on the edge of Marc’s mattress, centimetres from his face. He tried to sit up, intending to slap them away, but he moaned with pain as the congealed blood on his back ripped away from his sheets.

‘Look who’s awake,’ the owner of the feet sneered, and before Marc knew it bodies were clambering over squeaking bed frames towards him. Nine-year-old Jacques, who slept below, stood on the edge of his bunk and peered over Marc’s pillow. He got the first proper glance at his back.

‘Holy
shit
that’s bad,’ Jacques gasped.

Six others were soon either trying to get behind Marc or shouting requests for him to turn around so they could see his injuries.

‘Does that hurt?’ Jacques teased, as he pushed a finger against one of Marc’s cuts.

‘Piss off,’ Marc shouted. ‘Do that again and you’ll get a punch.’ But Marc was fond of his little bunkmate and Jacques knew it was an idle threat.

By this time someone had grabbed the heavily-stained blanket covering Marc’s legs, revealing his most dramatic injury: a deep gash where the cane’s metal tip had torn into his thigh.

‘Nasty,’ someone said as all the others backed away.

‘And Tomas’ heel mark on his belly,’ another noted. ‘He messed you up, Marc! What did you do?’

‘Leave off,’ Marc said grumpily, snatching his blanket back. But there were six lads in his face and he knew there was no way they’d give him any peace until he’d explained.