CHERUB: Mad Dogs (18 page)

‘Whenever you get stuck with your school work or you want to copy someone, it’s always me or Kerry. But I’m leaving and you’re not
exactly
on homework-copying terms with Kerry these days.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ James nodded, as he broke into a wry smile. ‘I’m basically screwed.’

Kyle crouched down and ripped a big carrier bag stuffed with exercise books and folders out of his overnight pack.

‘That’s my parting gift,’ he said, as the heavy bag bounced on James’ mattress. ‘All my revision notes, essays, cheat sheets.’

‘Sweet,’ James grinned. ‘That’s so cool. We all chipped in and got you a present, but they’re giving it to you after dinner so I guess I’ll miss it. Do you fancy coming down and having breakfast with me?’

Kyle shook his head. ‘I’d love to, but I woke up late and I want to make the rounds and say goodbye to a few people. Especially some of the junior-block staff who looked after me when I was little. Besides, you’re still gonna be tutoring me for my maths.’

James shrugged. ‘
If
I get back from my mission before your exam. It’s only six weeks away and this could be a long one.’

‘I guess it’s goodbye then,’ Kyle said as he backed up towards the door. ‘I’d say good luck with the mission, but you’re such a jammy sod that I know you won’t need it.’

Bedfordshire Halfway House (AKA the Zoo) was meant to be a refuge for troubled teens and freshly released young offenders. The reality was a dumping ground for kids who’d been failed by the care system. Eighty per cent were either permanently excluded from school or didn’t bother going. Half the boys and a quarter of the girls had already served time and plenty would be going back.

James and Bruce shared a small room with a vinyl floor, beds that smelled like other people and walls carrying a million lines of graffiti. Both boys had been inside care homes before, but neither had encountered anywhere as desperate as the Zoo.

They’d arrived late afternoon and eaten greasy chicken burgers and chips for tea. An Asian girl offered to sell them cannabis on the staircase up to the boys’ floor, where a skinny kid was being shaken down at the end of the hallway.

James and Bruce both felt delicate after Kyle’s party and they were in bed by ten. But it was impossible to sleep with all kinds of craziness occurring in the rooms and corridors around them. There were fights, chases and the dude in the next room had his music going full blast. He turned it down after James banged on his door and threatened to rip his head off, but that only exposed them to another layer of noise from the girls downstairs. Their music wasn’t as loud, but their singing made up for it.

It was midnight when James finally got to sleep with a pillow stretched over his head to shield the noise. Shortly afterwards, two huge guys burst into their room. They were both aged about seventeen and they filled the air around them with the smell of cigarettes as they kicked the end of James and Bruce’s beds.

‘Twenty pounds now or we batter you,’ a long-haired kid shouted. They’d find out later that he was called Mark.

His mate Karl flipped on the lights. ‘Wakey wakey, the taxman’s here!’

James and Bruce sprang up in their beds, but by the time their eyes had adjusted to the light they each had a giant looming over them.

‘Give us your cash,’ Karl ordered, showering James with spit as he spoke.

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ James sneered. ‘Why don’t you suck my balls?’

Karl tried swinging his knee across James’ body to pin him, but whatever he’d been smoking made him slow and James knocked him off with a double blow: one knee in the stomach and an elbow in the jaw.

As Karl stumbled, James drove him back until he clattered into a locker. Once he was trapped, James smashed a palm into his nose, and the back of his head slammed the metal door as James swept his feet from beneath him. Across the room, Bruce had gone for a more clinical approach, taking out Mark with a single punch to the side of the head.

‘You wanna tax me now?’ James shouted, as the teenager at his feet wrapped his arms over his face, fearing another punch. ‘Empty your pockets.’

While Karl handed James a mobile, lighter, cigarettes and wallet, Bruce knelt down and went through the unconscious Mark’s pockets. His haul was the same as James’, except for a small bag of cannabis resin and a plastic-handled flick-knife.

James and Bruce stripped the money from the wallets and Bruce put the knife in his locker. Other lads had heard the rumble and stood out in the hallway trying to see what was going on.

‘One Nokia, one Samsung,’ Bruce said casually, as he lobbed the phones, cigarettes and lighters into the crowd. ‘Compliments of Bruce Beckett.’

James grabbed his multitool from the jeans crumpled on the floor and held the saw-toothed blade under his opponent’s bloody nose.

‘You’d better drag your mate out of here,’ James snarled.

Karl nodded, but James’ brutal punches had torn his stomach muscles and he could barely stand straight, let alone haul his friend. In the end, James and Bruce had to drag Mark down the hallway to his room, where they dumped him on the floor between the beds.

The two agents were pumped after the fight and James stared at his bloody fist as they walked back to their room.

‘It’s all spattered over your chest as well,’ Bruce noted. ‘You’d better take a shower.’

Onlookers shrank away as James passed them in the hallway with his shower gel in hand and a towel slung over his back. He’d done nothing to be proud of, but he couldn’t help feeling big when he saw how they all backed off.

*

‘Bloody hell,’ James gasped, as he scrambled into his jeans and slid his trainers on without socks.

Bruce propped an elbow on his pillow and did a big yawn. ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s nine-forty,’ James said. ‘I’m supposed to be at the parole office already. Chloe’s gonna go bananas.’

‘Didn’t you set an alarm?’

James shook his head as he grabbed his jacket and checked his money was still in his pocket. ‘I didn’t bother, I’m usually awake by nine, but I haven’t gotten to sleep until really late the last two nights.’

‘Oh well,’ Bruce said nonchalantly. ‘Nothing I can do. I’m going back to sleep.’

‘Get off your arse and move the locker,’ James yelled, as he pulled his jacket up his arms.

There was a chance of a revenge attack after the fight with Karl and Mark. The room didn’t have a lock, so they’d barricaded the door with Bruce’s metal locker. It wouldn’t stop anyone getting in, but the metal scraping across the floor would give them plenty of warning.

As soon as there was a big enough gap for James to squeeze through, he bolted into the corridor. He’d just woken up, so he sprinted into the toilet and started to pee without realising that Mark was standing right beside him. He had two swollen eyes and a massive egg on his forehead.

‘You ain’t heard the last of this,’ Mark said menacingly.

James was tempted to smack Mark’s head against the wall to remind him who was boss, but he was in a state of panic and he didn’t even stop to wash his hands before hurtling down the four flights of stairs to the ground floor.

He charged down the main hallway and out on to the street, before crossing the road and sprinting four hundred metres to the bus stop. Luckily, he had to wait less than two minutes for the bus, but he still didn’t reach the parole office until 10:07.

The single-storey building was situated between a petrol station and a place that did car valeting. The central heating was set way too high and a bunch of teenage boys and young men sat on foam chairs. Some had newspapers or forms mounted on clipboards, but most stared into space.

‘Can I help you?’ the overweight receptionist asked politely, as James glanced around and saw no sign of Junior Moore.

‘My name’s James Beckett,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I got out of young offenders last week and they said I’ve got to register here within seven days.’

‘OK,’ the woman nodded, as she tapped something into her computer. ‘Is that Beckett with one T or two?’

‘Two,’ James said, as he wiped the sweat off his forehead on to the sleeve of his jacket.

‘I’m not getting anything under that name. Which institution were you released from?’

‘Peterwalk, near Glasgow,’ James said.

This detail of James’ background story had been devised so that he’d be unlikely to bump into anyone he was supposed to have been locked up with.

‘Scottish institutions aren’t on our computer,’ the receptionist explained as she reached around and grabbed an eight-page form and a clipboard. ‘You’ll need to fill out one of these. If you have difficulty reading and writing, I’ll get one of the support staff to help out.’

James stepped over outstretched legs until he reached an empty chair on the far side of the room. He was sweating because it was so hot and he unzipped his jacket as he sat down.

His best chance of bumping into Junior and making a connection would have been in the waiting room before his appointment, but he’d missed that opportunity by oversleeping and now he’d have to scramble after Junior as he left. If Junior was in a rush, he might leave before they got a proper chance to talk and the mission would be down the toilet – or at least severely delayed – before it had even started.

James decided to fill the form in quickly, so that he could hand it in and leave with Junior if the opportunity arose.

‘Junior Moore,’ a man shouted firmly.

James looked up at a skinny man in a brown suit who had to be Junior’s parole officer. The officer headed over towards the receptionist and after a brief conversation she put an announcement over the tannoy.

‘If Junior Moore is still in the building, please report to office D immediately. That’s Junior Moore, office D immediately.’

After a few seconds, the parole officer shook his head and began walking away from the desk, but James was startled by a crashing noise just a few metres behind him. He looked up to see Junior standing in the doorway, with his head buried inside the furry hood of a black parka.

‘Mr Ormondroyd,’ Junior shouted, as he pointed into the toilet and began stepping between the chairs and legs. ‘Sorry, mate. I was sitting on the bog and I nodded off.’

This caused a great deal of mirth amongst the other offenders, but the parole officer looked furiously at his watch. ‘I can have you back inside like that, Moore,’ the parole officer said, as he snapped his fingers. ‘In my office
now
.’

But as Junior stumbled across the room, he recognised James’ face. ‘James Beckett,’ Junior giggled, spreading his arms out wide. ‘James bloody Beckett!’

James looked up and gave Junior a smile. ‘I should have known that there couldn’t be two people of that name,’ he said, ‘but I thought they sent you off to some nobby boarding school. What the
hell
are you doing here?’

‘It’s a parole office,’ Junior said. ‘I came here to buy postage stamps, obviously.’

‘Same here.’

‘This is
so
cool,’ Junior grinned, but then he caught the angry stare from his parole officer. ‘But … I’ve got this appointment,’ he continued edgily. ‘We’ve got to catch up. Can you wait around?’

‘Sure,’ James said, trying not to sound relieved. ‘I’ve only got to fill in this form, but I can stick around till you’re out of your meeting.’

‘You got much going on?’ Junior asked when he came out. ‘There’s nobody around, so you can come over mine and catch up if you like.’

‘Whatever,’ James nodded, zipping up his coat as they headed out of the parole office into a bitterly cold wind. ‘How’d it go in there?’

Junior shrugged. ‘You know, same as always: straighten up, fly right, tuck in your shirt, go to school, be home by eight, don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t do drugs and if you do get caught
little boy
we’re locking you up again. How’s about you?’

‘I got busted up in Scotland,’ James lied. ‘I served my time and I don’t have to see the parole officer any more, but I had to register to say that I’ve moved back down here.’

‘Taxi!’ Junior shouted, waving his arm and making a battered Nissan pull up to the curve.

‘You must be loaded,’ James said, as they clambered on to the tartan seat cover in the back.

‘Buses are for peasants,’ Junior grinned. ‘You wait half an hour and it turns up full of old biddies and screaming kids.’

James shook his head as they pulled away inside the car. ‘I guess your rich daddy left you with a few bucks.’

Junior shook his head. ‘Ma gives me pocket money. But I’ve gotta duck and weave to make anything real, you know?’

‘What’s your scam?’

‘Anything I think I can get away with,’ Junior grinned. ‘Buy a bit of this, sell a bit of that and then snort the profit!’

James shook his head. ‘You still doing coke?’

‘What do you think I was up to in that toilet?’ Junior smirked. ‘There’s no way I could get through forty-five minutes with that egghead parole officer without putting a couple of lines up my sniffer.’

James noticed that the driver seemed shocked by their conversation. Junior banged on the headrest.

‘Concentrate on the road and mind your own business,’ he yelled arrogantly, before turning back to James. ‘I can’t believe I’ve caught up to you. Where have you been? What happened to your foster parents and all that?’

‘Ewart and Zara kicked me out in the end,’ James said. ‘I was bunking off and stuff. Ended up running away to Scotland with my cousin Bruce and getting nicked trying to rob a cigarette machine.’

‘Cigarette machine,’ Junior tutted. ‘That’s
so
low rent! And you’re living at the Zoo? What’s that place like?’

‘Major shithole,’ James shrugged. ‘Only got there last night and we’ve already got a war with two tossers who tried to rob us.’

‘What were they, girl guides or brownies?’ Junior snickered.

‘They were huge, as a matter of fact,’ James said. ‘So what about you? Are you still boxing?’

‘Nah. I went to this kickboxing place for a while, but then I got sent down.’

‘What about your folks? Is your dad OK in prison?’

‘I go visit every month, but he’s miserable. I mean, you’re locked up twenty-four seven so what can you expect?’