The Sleepwalker

by Robert Muchamore

  Fahim looked over his shoulder and saw that his father was preparing to use the buckle end of the belt. The pain would be bad, but it was his father’s coldness rather than outright fear that brought him out in goosebumps.

  ‘Look at the wall,’ Hassam shouted, before taking a run-up and lashing Fahim’s bare back. ‘You’ll suffer like this until the day you learn some respect.’

  The metal tore a huge gash in Fahim’s flabby back. His legs buckled and his knees hit the bare boards with a thud.

  ‘Stand,’ Hassam ordered, as he loomed over his son. ‘On top of everything else you’re a weakling. If I’d made that much fuss when your grandfather whipped me, he’d have started again from scratch.’

  ‘Please,’ Fahim sobbed, holding his hands over his eyes as Hassam crouched down and punched his son between the shoulder blades, before spitting in his face.

  ‘You’ll have to be in a fit state to travel,’ Hassam grunted, as he reluctantly threaded the belt back through his trousers. ‘But you wait and see what’s in store when we get to the Emirates.’

  *

  ‘Mac,’ Lauren gasped into her phone as she squatted on the dusty warehouse floor. Rat stood with the stun gun poised while Asif bit down on a handkerchief to stop his tongue bleeding. ‘We’ve got a trace on Fahim’s location. It’s less than eight kilometres away, on a golf course off junction three of the M1.’

  Mac was at the wheel of his Peugeot. He’d finally made it out of the traffic around the supermarket and was belting along a dual carriageway. He glanced at the sat-nav screen, as Jake tapped in a postcode Lauren had texted him seconds earlier. The device took about twenty seconds to calculate a route.

  ‘If there are no jams on the motorway I can reach the safe-house in under ten minutes from here,’ Mac said. ‘But we don’t know what we’re up against and I came straight from the supermarket so I’ve got nothing except my phone and a penknife. We’ve still got no idea what Asif and Hassam are up to, but we can arrest them for what happened to the cleaning woman, so I’ll get the local cops to come in as backup.’

  ‘Do you want us to head over?’ Lauren asked.

  ‘What’s the situation with Asif?’

  ‘He’s in a daze, but he overheard more than we’d have liked and I’ve got a nasty feeling the cops are on the lookout for our wheels. It’s a dirty great Bentley. I had a bit of a prang and a couple of near misses, so someone must have called the cops.’

  ‘Right,’ Mac said, before pausing as he negotiated a busy roundabout. ‘Call the control room on campus and get them to try swatting off the cops.’

  ‘Already did,’ Lauren said.

  ‘The most important thing is that Asif doesn’t get a chance to blab about you guys. Have you got any knockout drops in your equipment pack?’

  Lauren nodded. ‘I should have a couple of phials of Ketamine. That should take him out for a few hours.’

  ‘That’s the stuff,’ Mac said cheerily. ‘Give him the jab to knock him out. We’ll send a medic across from MI5 headquarters, they can give him a psychotropic to scramble his short-term memory.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ Lauren said. ‘And while we’re waiting for MI5 I’m gonna have a rummage through Asif’s bags and see what I can find.’

  ‘No harm trying,’ Mac said. ‘I’m just pulling on to the motorway, so I’d better break off and call in the cops.’

  *

  The house was bare and Fahim had no change of clothes. He sat on the lid of a newly installed toilet, bare-chested. His face was twisted with pain and tears streaked down his face. He’d soaked his T-shirt in water and held it tight against his back to stem the bleeding. Downstairs, Hassam anxiously paced the living-room waiting to hear from Asif, while Jala and Muna continued their cheerful game of snap in the kitchen.

  Fahim groaned as he stood up and peered out of the window above the toilet cistern. The back garden had a high fence, but there was a barred gate which opened directly on the golf course. Despite less than brilliant weather, pastel-clad golfers could be seen striding the fairways behind an impressive copse of willow trees.

  He considered making a run for it, but Fahim was overweight and got out of breath quickly even when his back wasn’t in agony. His aunt Muna wouldn’t catch him in her long dress and high heels, but he reckoned he’d have to incapacitate Hassam to stand any chance of getting away. A furnished house provides an array of potential weapons from kitchen knives to china vases, but this one had white walls and bare floorboards. There wasn’t even a bar of soap to wash his hands.

  Fahim checked out the three upstairs bedrooms. He opened the fitted wardrobes and gave the tie racks and clothes rails a tug, but they were all screwed in tight. The boiler cupboard also drew a blank and he ended up going downstairs and walking into the kitchen. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but the red stuff always makes a mess and seven-year-old Jala shielded her eyes in horror.

  His aunt rose silently and inspected the wound. ‘A boy must learn to respect his father,’ Muna said, in her cautiously phrased English. ‘I have a first-aid kit in my car.’

  Hassam leaned suspiciously into the hallway as Muna walked towards the front door. ‘Where are you going?’

  Muna turned and bowed to her brother-in-law. ‘For bandages and antiseptic.’

  Fahim didn’t know whether to be sad or disgusted by the way his aunt fawned, just because Hassam was a man.

  ‘Be quick,’ Hassam ordered, as he glanced at his Rolex. ‘I’m giving Asif another five minutes. If he’s not here by then we’ve got to assume the worst and move on without him.’

  Muna looked shocked, but her tone didn’t change. ‘Isn’t he collecting the passports and money? Surely we need those.’

  ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat,’ Hassam said, although Muna didn’t understand the phrase. ‘He’ll catch up with us when he can, but we can’t risk getting caught.’

  33. GOLF

  The sat-nav announced that they’d arrived as Mac’s Peugeot turned into the street of detached houses. The signal from Hassam’s phone could only be triangulated to within a hundred metres, meaning he could be inside any of a dozen residences.

  ‘Any idea what we’re looking out for?’ Jake asked.

  ‘Not sure,’ Mac said, driving as slowly as he could without it looking suspicious. ‘Car number plates might do it. Dial up the campus control room and tell them to stand by for some vehicle checks.’

  Mac’s eyebrows shot up as Jake dialled. ‘See something?’ the boy asked.

  Mac slowed to a crawl as they passed a house with a pristine driveway and rectangular For Sale board fastened to the front wall.

  ‘Hart McFadden estate agents,’ Mac said excitably, as he speeded up again. ‘I’ve seen that name in the accounts we ripped off Hassam’s computer. Get control to check the Volvo, GK57 NNP.’

  By the time the campus control room ran the plate, Mac had pulled up three houses down, with two wheels up on the kerb of the narrow road.

  ‘Looks like you got it in one, boss,’ Jake grinned, as he moved his mobile away from his mouth. ‘It’s a company car belonging to Bin Hassam Dubai Mercantile Limited, London N7.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Mac said, pulling the tailgate release lever as he placed his foot in the road. ‘Make sure the control room lets the cops know that it’s house number sixteen.’

  Jake passed on the message before snapping his phone shut and following Mac around to the back of the Peugeot.

  ‘We’d better take a look up there,’ Mac said.

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for the cops?’ Jake asked. ‘What if they’ve got guns in there? All our equipment’s back at the apartment.’

  Mac shook his head. ‘I’ve asked for an armed response team, but they’re not gonna be here for a while and Hassam must be getting suspicious about his brother by now. He could move at any minute.’

  As Mac said this, he lifted up the tailgate, pushed half a dozen Sainsbury’s carrier bags aside and removed the piece of carpet covering the
spare wheel. A tyre-changing kit including a jack, a pressure gauge and a pair of large spanners shared the space with the new wheel.

  ‘Not ideal, but better than nothing,’ Mac said, as he took out a long metal bar with padded feet. It was designed to fit under the car to stop the paintwork getting scratched when you jacked it up, but it would also make a very effective cosh.

  ‘Grab this,’ Mac said, handing Jake a spanner. ‘Just in case.’

  Jake slipped the brand-new spanner into the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and pulled his sweatshirt over the bit sticking out as they strolled towards the house.

  ‘Stop and do the lace on your trainer when we get there,’ Mac said.

  It took twenty seconds to reach the open gravel frontage of number sixteen. While Jake undid his lace and reknotted it, Mac studied the house.

  ‘It’s got a For Sale sign,’ Mac said, as he took the tyre pressure gauge out of his coat pocket. ‘That’s a perfect excuse for wandering up and taking a look through the windows. You take this and let as much air as you can out of the Volvo’s front tyre.’

  As Jake crouched down and scuttled across the gravel towards the Volvo, Mac took on the role of an elderly house hunter, strolling up to the front of the house and brazenly staring into the front windows.

  Muna’s little Volvo was only a few months old, but the plastic cap over the tyre valve was crusted with dirt and Jake had a real job getting it loose. By the time it dropped into the gravel, Mac had spotted the back of Hassam’s head in the bare living-room. After that he strolled around the side of the house with the long metal bar swinging innocently at his side.

  Jake glanced back to make sure that nobody was watching from the street before pushing the pressure gauge into the valve on the tyre and squeezing the release button to let out a sharp hiss of air. Letting down a tyre was a basic piece of espionage that every CHERUB agent was trained to carry out. The problem is that letting enough air out of a tyre to make a car undriveable takes four or five nerve-racking minutes.

  After less than two, the front door rattled. Jake bobbed his head up and peered through the car. He ducked down as an Arab woman stepped on to the gravel driveway and pressed the remote plipper to unlock the car doors. Jake’s heart thumped as he pocketed the tyre gauge and tried to stay calm. He wasn’t sure if Muna had a gun, but he’d heard how ruthlessly Hassam and Asif had dealt with Sylvia back at the house.

  Mac also heard the front door open and he stood at the corner of the house with the metal bar poised. It had been more than a decade since Mac last found himself active on a mission and the tension gave him a peculiar feeling; as if he was an old man watching a younger version of himself from a distance.

  He kept the metal bar poised as Muna walked around to the back of the car and raised the tailgate. Hopefully Muna and Hassam were the only adults inside the house. Mac’s strategy was to let Jake deal with Muna if she discovered him, while he’d run out and ambush Hassam if she raised the alarm.

  Jake crept through the gravel and moved around to the front of the car between the headlights as Muna opened the tailgate and leaned inside. There was a rip of Velcro and she emerged a second later holding a green first-aid box. Jake and Mac both wondered why it was needed, but it was also a relief because you wouldn’t carry it into the house if you were about to leave.

  Mac ducked further into the alleyway at the side of the house as Muna turned and headed back inside. The instant the front door clicked shut, Jake crawled back around to the front of the Volvo and slotted the pressure gauge back into the valve.

  *

  Muna had a piece of gravel from the driveway trapped inside her high-heeled sandal. Fahim watched from the kitchen as his aunt stood in the hallway brushing the sole of her foot. He was getting more and more worried. The longer he waited, the less likely it seemed that anyone from CHERUB had tracked him to the safe-house. He had to make his move before his father decided to leave.

  ‘Here we are,’ Muna said sympathetically, as she rested the first-aid box on the table and flipped the plastic catches holding it shut. Jala had overcome her distaste for blood and craned her neck, intrigued by the assortment of plasters, bandages and ointments inside.

  Muna’s first step was to run a cloth under the cold tap and wipe as much blood from Fahim’s skin as she could. Streaks of cool water trickled down his back, making the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms soggy. After this, Muna opened a bottle of antiseptic and swabbed the cold liquid on to the cut.

  ‘Stings,’ Fahim gasped as the pain made him squeeze his eyes shut.

  Muna gently rested a hand on Fahim’s shoulder. Although his aunt had a very different personality to his mum, Muna was of a similar age and physique and her feminine touch evoked powerful memories.

  ‘Better than a nasty infection,’ Muna said soothingly, as Fahim found himself imagining the final desperate moments of his mother’s life.

  He studied the scissors as his aunt cut a square of bandage and stuck it on with surgical tape, but the snub-nosed blade made them useless as a weapon. His glance strayed towards the warning sticker on the side of the antiseptic bottle: severe irritant, do not swallow, do not use around eyes or mouth.

  ‘All done,’ Muna said brightly.

  Fahim’s T-shirt was wet and bloody, but the house was unheated so he slid his tracksuit top over his bare chest.

  Hassam was coming down the hallway with a chunky mobile held to his face. ‘Asif’s still not answering,’ he said anxiously, as Fahim sneakily pulled the disinfectant bottle off the table and unscrewed the childproof cap. ‘Gather your things, we’re leaving now.’

  Hassam wasn’t great with technology. He usually got his son to sort out problems with his computers and program the memories and stuff whenever he got a new mobile. Fahim hoped to use this to his advantage.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not trying to text or something instead of dialling Asif’s number?’ Fahim asked. ‘Give us a look; you know what you’re like with mobiles.’

  Hassam didn’t trust his son, but reluctantly passed over the unregistered phone.

  ‘Why can’t you get simple phones where you dial a number and speak?’ Hassam complained. ‘Instead, every phone has to be a camera, and an internet, and buttons so small you always press three at once—’

  As Fahim grabbed the phone with one hand, he thrust the disinfectant bottle forward, splashing the pale green liquid in his dad’s face. His trainer squealed on the tiled floor as he spun around and lunged towards the back door.

  *

  Mac snapped his phone shut and turned to Jake. After Jake finished letting the tyre down they’d retreated behind the front hedge of a neighbouring house, but they still had a decent view over the gravel drive in front of number sixteen.

  ‘That was the commander at the local police station,’ Mac explained. ‘Two armed response units should be here any second. Unmarked cars, two officers in each. The first unit is going to meet us here, the other pair is going to enter the golf club and cover the back gate. Plus there’s a couple of blue-and-whites filled with uniformed officers coming in as backup.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Jake nodded, as a faint clang sounded behind the houses. ‘Did you hear that, boss?’

  ‘What?’ Mac said, glancing around curiously.

  ‘I think it came from behind number sixteen, the back gate maybe.’

  ‘My hearing isn’t what it was twenty years ago,’ Mac admitted.

  ‘Shall I check it out? I can cut through the neighbour’s garden and peek through the fence.’

  Mac glanced at his watch. ‘Carefully,’ he nodded. ‘No stupid risks. I’d better wait here for the cops to show.’

  There were no signs of life inside number eighteen as Jake walked swiftly up the gravel driveway, keeping low enough not to be seen over the dividing wall. A tall wooden gate blocked access to the rear garden, but it was no problem for Jake who sprang deftly on to the wall before grabbing the top of the fence, hauling himself over and jumping do
wn on to the crazy paving inside.

  As he flew through the air, he saw Hassam running through the open back gate of the house next door.

  34. WILLOW

  ‘Traitorous shit,’ Hassam shouted, spitting furiously and rubbing his burning eyes as he charged through the gate. Number sixteen had been redeveloped with the keen golfer in mind and the gate opened directly on to a paved path which led towards the eighteenth green and an opulent clubhouse with colonial-style verandas.

  Fahim was less than twenty metres ahead, fighting for breath as he brushed aside strands of the giant willow trees overhanging the path.

  ‘Boy!’ a golfer in the queue to tee off at the first hole shouted pompously, as Fahim rushed past. ‘Boy, what do you think you’re playing at?’

  Fahim tried looking at his dad’s phone as he ran. He wanted to dial Lauren or Mac, but he couldn’t remember their numbers.

  ‘Get back here,’ Hassam shouted, as the gap closed to less than fifteen metres.

  Not for the first time in his life, Fahim regretted his bulk. He’d never outrun his father, but he recognised salvation in the golf bag resting up against a portable toilet. He swiped the first driver he could, and while he was surprised by its lightness, it was good enough to send his dad sprawling when it whacked him in the face.

  The owner of six hundred pounds’ worth of titanium driver wasn’t impressed as he emerged from the temporary toilet, doing up the fly of his cream-coloured slacks.

  ‘They’re not members,’ a woman shouted ridiculously, as the golfer snatched his club from Fahim’s grasp before clamping an arm covered in a Pringle sweater around his chest.

  ‘You’ve got to help me,’ Fahim screamed, as Hassam staggered back to his feet. ‘He’s killed my mum. Someone call the cops.’

  A trickle of bemused golfers emerged from the nearby clubhouse to watch Fahim spitting, kicking and turning bright red. Sensing his desperation, the man holding Fahim let go and tried calming him down with a friendly hand on the shoulder.