Secret Army (17 page)

A few of the onlookers cheered, as Yves whooped noisily and shouted, ‘Bring out the next lot.’

Troy could barely contain his anger as he tried to get the facts straight. He looked at Sam. ‘So Henderson must be conscious if he gave the order to kill the spiders?’

‘Apparently,’ Sam nodded. ‘He’s conscious, but he’s in a bad way and he’s livid at his wife. McAfferty agrees that the spiders are too dangerous and brought in the army boys to help wipe ’em out.’

‘Didn’t Mrs Henderson have something to say about that?’

‘The MPs
²
took her off in their van,’ Sam explained. ‘Everyone reckons she’s a headcase and it sounds like they’re gonna lock her in the loony bin.’

‘Reckons!’ Yves scoffed. ‘Is there any doubt about it?’

Troy winced as the small cage containing the Mexican firelegs was lifted out. They’d been sick when he’d first arrived with Mason, but the firelegs had recovered after Mrs Henderson altered their diet and built a ventilation bellows that blew in warm dry air, replicating their natural desert habitat.

Paul had been helping to look after the spiders for six months. He was the only person who got along with Mrs Henderson and Troy knew he’d be upset when he got back from parachute training and found that all the spiders were dead.

He thought about finding McAfferty and begging her to stop, but there were only two cages left inside and by the time he found her they’d be incinerated too.

‘I’m going in,’ Troy told Sam. ‘I’m half frozen.’

Yves turned towards him. ‘I told you it was a waste of time searching for Mavis in the dark.’

‘Clever dick then, aren’t you?’ Troy answered.

There was another flash as Troy entered the school building. He was completely exhausted: after Henderson was stabbed he’d helped administer first aid until the ambulance arrived, then he’d been questioned by the military police and joined in the hunt for Mavis. He’d been wearing the same kit all day and was even filthier than when he’d finished the flag exercise three hours earlier.

Most kids were outside watching the cages burn and Troy found the Group-B dorm empty. Like Group A before them, the six trainees had made private zones for themselves by hanging sheets and curtains from the ceiling.

Troy crouched in the space between his bed and the curtain and slid out the cigar box. He opened up a tiny crack and was alarmed to see two hairy legs shoot through the gap towards him.

‘No, don’t!’ he whispered desperately. Someone could walk in at any second and he couldn’t close the box without crushing her legs. ‘Back up, back up.’

Eventually he tilted the box on to its side and gave it a sharp tap against the floor, making Mavis drop down to the bottom. Troy sighed as the lid snapped shut and he looked through one of the air holes that Joan had drilled in the box to keep the dormice alive.

‘Where the hell am I supposed to hide you?’ he asked himself.

*

The cage felt different as Paul and Marc rose up in the darkness. Parris stood by the gate and the four burly French soldiers spread themselves out, leaving Paul and Marc squashed at the back. Thick clouds blotted out the moon and even the giant balloon hovering above the cage was barely visible. But the airfield below was ablaze, lit by a pair of searchlights aimed out of the hangar doors.

Paul didn’t know exactly what the Frenchmen were training for, but they’d clearly been picked for special operations on the basis of strength and fitness. If any of them were scared, they weren’t about to show it in front of their comrades. Their humour was black, but jokes about broken necks didn’t help Marc to feel any better.

‘Ignore it,’ Paul said soothingly, as Marc’s fingers clutched the cage’s wire rungs tightly.

‘Sergeant Parris,’ one of the Frenchmen shouted in bad English, ‘has anyone ever been killed jumping off this thing?’

Parris smiled. ‘I can say with
complete
honesty that nobody has ever come back to complain about the training I’ve given them.’

The soldiers laughed, but Marc dry heaved.

‘Try not to think about it,’ Paul said quietly. ‘Try and imagine something good. Like eating a massive spoonful of jam, or sneaking up to Luc while he’s asleep and doing a big shit on his face.’

Marc laughed. ‘Eww! You’re sick.’

Paul wanted Marc to focus on anything apart from the jump. ‘Or imagine my sister naked. I know how badly you fancy her.’

‘I don’t,’ Marc said defensively. ‘Well, maybe a bit, but girls like older guys so I’ve got no chance while PT’s around.’

‘So who’s your dream girl?’ Paul asked. ‘Movie star, singer, or whatever?’

Marc paused for thought, but before he could answer the balloon stopped rising and the metal gate slammed open.

‘Remember your training, people,’ Parris shouted, as he looked down at the officer on the ground, waiting for the all-clear. ‘Gaston, hook up. Jump on my mark.’

The huge soldier screamed, ‘I love you, Maman!’ as he flung himself off the platform to cheers from his comrades.

There was more space in the cage after the second man jumped and Marc didn’t look as nervous. Paul’s attempt to embarrass him about fancying Rosie seemed to have worked.

‘You’re gonna do it because Luc’s standing down there waiting to see you fail,’ Paul said.

‘I can,’ Marc said, smiling through gritted teeth. ‘I feel different from last time.’

‘All right,’ Paul said cheerfully. ‘And if you make it I’ll put in a good word with my sister.’

The last soldier turned his ankle on landing and there was a minute’s delay as he got stretchered off the field.

‘Kilgour, hook up,’ Sergeant Parris shouted. ‘How you doing there, kid?’

‘Perfect, sir,’ Marc said nervously, as he reached up and hooked his static line to the pole. ‘I thought too much last time.’

‘Good lad,’ Parris said, as he gave Marc a friendly slap on the back.

Paul looked tense as Marc stood on the edge of the platform. Marc appeared confident, but Paul wouldn’t be happy until he saw his friend fly.

‘On my mark,’ Parris said.

As Marc threw himself off the platform Paul jumped in the air and clapped. Down below, PT, Joel and Rosie all screamed encouragement.

Paul watched over the side as Marc made a faultless touchdown. Within seconds he’d gathered up his chute and ran towards the others where Rosie gave him a hug.

‘OK, Paul,’ Parris said. ‘Last man, hook up.’

Paul didn’t need to jump again, but he’d enjoyed his first drop and it gave him a greater feeling of solidarity with Marc, knowing that they were both going up to do the same thing.

‘Quick word of advice,’ Parris said, as Paul stood on the platform edge awaiting the all-clear signal from the ground. ‘Remember what you’ve learned. More people get injured on their second jump than their first, because they get cocky and forget their training. Now, on my mark … and mark.’

Paul felt proud as he jumped. Ever since Espionage Research Unit B was formed he’d relied on Marc to help him get through physical training. It felt good returning the favour.

Paul felt a reassuring tug on his shoulders as the static line opened his chute. But he didn’t get the same sense of slowing down as he had the first time. Something got shouted through the megaphone as he looked up.

Instead of the reassuring silk canopy he’d seen the first time, Paul saw a small triangle of cloth fluttering noisily with a twisted trail of silk hanging off one side. It was every parachutist’s nightmare: a tiny percentage of chutes didn’t open because they weren’t properly packed at the factory. Paul had done nothing wrong, it was just terrible luck.

‘Tug your lines,’ the megaphone shouted.

Paul yanked the lines attaching him to the parachute, hoping it would make the tangled silk unfurl. The ground was closing fast. Paul thought he was going to die as he looked down, then the noisy fluttering of the silk stopped.

He flicked his head up and saw a miracle: air had worked its way inside the twisted silk and the canopy was unravelling. His rate of descent began to slow, but he was only seventy metres up and it wasn’t enough to land safely.

An excruciating pain shot through both legs as Paul landed hard on frosty grass. The force made his legs buckle and his kneecaps smashed into his face. Blood exploded from Paul’s nose as the billowing silk wafted down over his body.

‘Paul,’ Rosie screamed, as she raced away from the hangar towards her brother with PT chasing behind.

By the time Rosie arrived two of the training instructors had removed Paul’s chute and were rolling him on to a stretcher. He was unconscious and the lower portion of his face glistened with blood.

‘Bring me that chute now,’ the base commander shouted. ‘Find out who packed it and remove every other chute with her name on the tag.’

‘Is he dead?’ Rosie asked desperately.

‘I can’t see anything that a hospital can’t fix,’ Corporal Tweed said reassuringly, as two of his colleagues picked up the stretcher and began jogging towards a waiting truck. ‘But he won’t be jumping again this week.’

²
 
MP – Military Police.

Paul smiled as the petite nurse kissed him on the cheek. ‘Now you go careful,’ she said, in her thick Scottish accent. ‘No rough and tumble, or that nose will never go back straight.’

Paul nodded. He’d spent three days in the men’s ward of a tiny rural hospital, although he’d been unconscious for the first twenty-four hours.

His legs were painful as he walked across the floor tiles. The hard landing had left him with swollen ankles and ligament damage in both knees. His nose was protected by a cardboard splint, held in place with long strips of sticking plaster. The operation to set it straight had been successful, but his sinuses were clogged with blood and he could only breathe through his mouth.

‘I drew a little picture,’ Paul told the nurse, as he took a thin sheet of paper from his trouser pocket. ‘It’s not very good.’

The nurse smiled as she saw the pencil drawing of herself. ‘Not very good!’ she laughed. ‘It’s bloody brilliant. You’re so sweet. Nobody’s ever drawn me before.’

Paul blushed as the nurse kissed him again. He then said goodbye to the four other patients and headed into the hospital lobby. A couple of emergency cases waited in armchairs, and Takada stood in the lobby.

‘Do you have everything?’ Takada asked.

The nurse put Paul’s small suitcase down at Takada’s feet. ‘Don’t let him carry it,’ she told him. ‘He’s got to take things
very
gently.’

‘Very good,’ Takada nodded, before looking at Paul. ‘All set?’

Paul had seen snow falling through the window at the end of his ward, but he was unprepared for the scene that greeted him on the doorstep. The whole world was white, with two-metre-deep snowdrifts against the hospital walls and dazzling snow caps on every tree branch and rooftop.

The cold was a shock after the dry heat of the ward and Paul buried his hands in the pockets of a grey duffle coat as they walked towards a badly rusted Morris which Takada had borrowed from the parachute school.

Paul got in the passenger seat as Takada walked around the front and cranked a starter handle. It took three attempts before the engine clattered to life, and Takada yelled at Paul to pull the choke lever before it cut out.

‘So how’s the training going?’ Paul asked, as Takada got in.

‘Good, I think,’ Takada answered, as he let out the handbrake.

‘Marc’s not had any more trouble?’

Takada shook his head. ‘All good,’ he said. ‘He made two jumps from the Wellington yesterday, no trouble. Norwegian lady broke leg.’

Paul nodded. ‘I thought I recognised her when they brought her in.’

The elderly car turned out of the hospital gate and misfired. Frightened birds shot into the sky as it pulled on to a road covered with black ice.

‘This morning is ground training,’ Takada explained. ‘They let me out to fetch you. This afternoon, we make two drops. If they perfect we get our parachute wings.’

‘It’s a pity I missed out,’ Paul said. ‘Is there any news on Walker’s final exercise?’

The answer was delayed because Takada had taken a bend fast and the back wheels skidded out into the opposite lane. He was a skilful driver and he threw the steering wheel into the direction of the skid and applied extra power to pull the car back into a straight line.

‘It’s horrible driving in this,’ Takada said. ‘I believe all four units will go into the final exercise if we pass training. Walker is due to arrive later.’

‘Will you take part?’ Paul asked.

‘No,’ Takada said. ‘Trainee agents, not instructors.’

‘And has anyone heard about Henderson?’

‘I spoke to McAfferty on telephone last night. He’s been moved to a hospital nearer London. He needs a minor operation to stop bleeding.’

‘And Joan?’ Paul asked.

‘Gone,’ Takada said. ‘No police charges, but she’s been committed to an institution.’

‘Oh,’ Paul said, shocked. ‘I hope Troy’s coping OK with the spiders.’

Takada shook his head. ‘They incinerate,’ he said, before he remembered that McAfferty had asked him not to tell Paul this. She’d wanted to sit down and talk it through properly.

‘What?’ Paul gasped, his blocked nose making his voice nasal as it grew loud.

‘I’m sorry,’ Takada said. ‘But there’s a war on, you know? More important than spiders, I think.’

Paul was upset and furious at the same time. ‘They never hurt anyone,’ he cried angrily.

*

The atmosphere in the parachute school had changed over the three days that Paul had been away. He arrived to find the trainees taking their morning tea in the classroom. The rules on fraternisation had gone out of the window and all four groups were on friendly terms.

PT was the centre of attention. He sat at the lecturer’s desk, with three upside-down teacups in front of him. He was entertaining the Frenchmen and Poles by sliding them around the tabletop and making them guess which one had a table-tennis ball inside. But he’d fleeced most of them at poker over the past two nights and none could be persuaded to bet money on the outcome.