Henderson's Boys: Grey Wolves

by Robert Muchamore

  First stop was the stables, where she swapped strong-but-stubborn Dot for a younger horse and made sure that her stand-in was feeding the animals properly.

  There were back streets with fewer checkpoints, but Germans tended to treat you with extreme suspicion if they did stop you there, so Edith took the main road through the shopping district. They faced a twenty-minute wait at a snap checkpoint, during which PT clutched the side of the cart and looked ominously like he was going to pass out. Edith jumped down and fetched a mug of cold water from a friendly greengrocer.

  ‘OT,’ the German at the checkpoint said, when he saw PT’s zone pass. ‘Shouldn’t you be working?’

  PT faked a cough and gave an answer straight out of spy school. ‘They sent me into town for a chest X-ray.’

  PT’s sickly pallor helped convince the guard that he might have a case of highly contagious tuberculosis. The guard flung back the documents and waved them on without even asking Edith for her ID card.

  ‘Nice move,’ Edith said when they were a few hundred metres past the checkpoint, ‘I’ll have to remember that one. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Mind’s a blur,’ PT said. ‘Keep talking to me. It really helps.’

  ‘Hopefully the checkpoint out of town won’t be as slow as that one. Once we’re through, maybe you can lie down in the back.’

  The cart now turned into the courtyard outside Lorient station.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ Edith said, as she looked into the middle of the square.

  A dilapidated Citroën truck had been parked by the station’s main entrance. A wooden frame was mounted on the cargo platform and two bodies dangled from it. Each man had been choked to death using piano wire, which was fine enough to cut deep into their necks.

  Their shirts were blood-soaked and they had painted signs hung around their necks. The first man was a giant, with MURDERER written on his board. He wasn’t a pretty sight, but PT drew a certain amount of pleasure from seeing the man who’d tried to kill him.

  The other man was smaller and wore a dark-blue overall. His board read INCOMPETENT and Edith felt a lump in her throat as she recognised him as the guard from the train depot.

  PT was pretty out of it, but he reacted instinctively to the tear that streaked down Edith’s face.

  ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘You feel so proud to be part of something,’ Edith said, wiping her grubby face with her even grubbier hand. ‘And then …’

  Her thought hung in the air as the cart trundled out of the square.

  *

  The Gestapo’s wine cellar cleared out as the day wore on. The drunks were the first to get kicked out, then all of the women apart from Madame Mercier and another lady who owned a restaurant. Marc’s name was called in a list of all the remaining men, again except for those who owned bars, clubs and restaurants. Most of the owners had rips in their well-made clothes and minor injuries, similar to Madame Mercier’s.

  ‘You’ll be OK,’ Marc told her, as he headed for the door. ‘I expect I’ll see you at work this evening.’

  ‘You’re a sweetheart,’ Madame Mercier said. ‘I’ll see you get a few extra francs in your wages this week.’

  ‘I didn’t do it for that,’ Marc said.

  He wound up at the back of a long queue in the courtyard, as men were given back their documents, rings and watches. An argument over a missing cane held things up but there was only one man in front when a stocky young officer tapped Marc on the arm.

  ‘Hortefeux?’ he asked. ‘Back to the cellar.’

  Marc assumed it was a mistake and his tone was sarcastic. ‘Do I look like I own a nightclub to you, boss?’

  The officer’s hand swung across, making a sharp crack as it hit Marc’s face. His chunky ring left a small cut as the boy stumbled backwards.

  ‘Insolent dog,’ the officer shouted, as he grabbed Marc by the back of his neck. Marc eyed up a backwards kick in the balls, but doubted he’d come off best if he started a fight in the Gestapo’s back yard.

  The officer sitting at the desk seemed surprised and stood up to ask what was going on.

  ‘What’s with the boy?’

  ‘Oberst Bauer telephoned. Thinks he might be useful for some reason.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Paul met the cart when it reached the dairy outside of town. Edith helped PT swing his legs around and slide into the back of the cart where he could lie down. It was a bumpy ride, but his heart had an easier time when it didn’t have to pump his limited blood supply up to his head.

  Edith rarely ventured this far out of Lorient and there was a strange feeling of isolation as the horse trotted along dirt roads, past overgrown fields and empty farmhouses. Paul had only met Edith a couple of times, but saw that she was troubled and tried to console her.

  ‘Before he died, my dad said that the only thing worse than fighting the Germans is not fighting the Germans,’ Paul said.

  Edith nodded. She understood the reality of war, but it didn’t make thinking about the railway guard any easier. She didn’t know him, but she’d imagined a wife, kids, a house. How were they all feeling with their dearly beloved attracting bluebottles in the centre of town?

  ‘I’d like to live up in a mountain or something,’ Edith said, as she looked up at the sky. ‘Hours away from everyone else. I get so sick of everything.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Paul said. ‘The war’s like a trap with no way out.’

  The last stretch of the journey was a steep hill dotted with the odd sheep. The height meant Boo and Rosie could get a good radio signal, along with a view of anyone approaching from the road below. Their home was a single-storey cottage, which had started small then sprouted two badly matched extensions and stable block converted into a garage.

  Boo and Rosie helped PT down off the cart and laid him out in the living room. Edith and Paul fetched a bucket of water and pulled up a few handfuls of long grass for the horse. Rosie found herself alone with PT and he reached out to touch her skirt.

  ‘I’m really sorry about the other day,’ PT said.

  He looked pale and weak, but Rosie felt no warmth towards him as she undid his shirt buttons and the necktie holding the makeshift dressing in place. She unfurled the vest and held it up to the light.

  ‘You’re not bleeding much, but it’s better to get some air to the wound. You’re sweating, would you like a flannel to wipe down with?’

  PT lifted his head, ‘Rosie,’ he began softly. ‘I’m—’

  She cut him dead. ‘PT, it’s not a nice time to have to say this, but I can’t leave it hanging. What you did the other day and the way you spoke to me afterwards were unacceptable.’

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ PT said. ‘I acted stupid. I should have shown you more respect.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ Rosie said. ‘But it’s over between us. I’ll look after you while you’re sick, I’ll work with you on the missions but I don’t feel I can trust you.’

  PT made a long sigh. ‘How can you be so cold? There’s something special between us. You can’t flick it off like a switch and pretend it’s not there.’

  Rosie ignored PT’s pleas and turned abruptly towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll get you the cold flannel.’

  *

  Two hours after Marc heard his name called, the roles were reversed. It was Madame Mercier’s time to leave, along with the rest of the restaurant and club owners.

  ‘Don’t get upset,’ she told Marc. ‘I have connections. There’s no good reason for them to hold you here.’

  Marc had spent long enough in the cellar to think a few chilling thoughts, but on balance he still suspected his being held back was part of some administrative cock-up. After giving Madame Mercier an arm up, he burrowed into his trouser pocket and pulled out a scrunched-up page from a Mamba Noir waiter’s pad. ‘Give that to my dad as soon as you see him,’ Marc whispered. ‘Joel has some documents he needs to collect.’

  Madame Mercier nodded as she pus
hed the paper inside her blouse. When the door of the cellar slammed, Marc found himself alone with only spots of dry blood and two overflowing buckets of urine to remind him of the former occupants.

  With the cellar silent, he overheard Madame Mercier and the other owners getting lectured in the courtyard.

  ‘All places that sell alcohol to French people will remain closed for one week. The curfew will remain at nine p.m. in the centre of town. It is the responsibility of bar and club owners to ensure that French workmen do not become violent or excessively drunk. If there are any more attacks on Germans by people under the influence, the owner of the bar where the attacker was drinking and the people who served them the alcohol will be held responsible. However, staff and owners who provide information that is useful to the Gestapo will be looked upon favourably.’

  Marc understood what this meant: none of the owners could guarantee how their customers would behave. Every waitress and bar worker in Lorient would have to start snitching for the Gestapo or risk getting locked up the next time one of their customers got into trouble.

  ‘We are all working towards peace and civility in the Lorient zone,’ the Gestapo officer concluded. ‘We shall be visiting your premises regularly to collect reports on all signs of suspicious or anti-German activity.’

  *

  It was nearly six p.m. by the time Edith had the cart back in the stable, made sure all the horses had enough food and water and walked across to Mamba Noir. They’d been allowed to open up for German customers only, but dinner service didn’t begin until seven and there wasn’t a single customer in the upstairs bar. She found Henderson and Madame Mercier clearing up the mess the Gestapo had left in the office.

  ‘Your delicate package was safely delivered,’ Edith told Henderson. ‘Did Marc get out?’

  Henderson looked crestfallen at the mention of his name. ‘I phoned Gestapo HQ to ask if I could bring him some things or visit him, but they told me to stay away. Oberst Bauer was here earlier. He more or less threatened to have Marc locked up for black market trading if I didn’t provide him with information.’

  Edith looked alarmed. ‘Do you think they know something about the trains?’

  ‘I did wonder, when Madame Mercier and Marc both ended up in custody,’ Henderson said. ‘But it seems they’re using the murder as an excuse for a general clampdown. Marc and I took jobs at Mamba Noir because it’s where we have the best chance of hearing what important people have to say. Now the Gestapo are targeting me for exactly the same reason.’

  ‘They ransacked my house and killed Persil,’ Madame Mercier said.

  It took Edith half a second to remember that Persil was Madame Mercier’s slightly scary black cat.

  ‘I haven’t been home,’ Madame Mercier continued, breaking into sobs. ‘My neighbour said he’ll find her and bury her in the garden, but I can’t face going back there.’

  Edith felt awkward as she stood in the office doorway. She’d didn’t go in to comfort Madame Mercier because even in her current state she’d probably still throw a fit if Edith put her manure-crusted boots on the antique rug. Instead, Henderson sent her to the bar to get a glass of red wine.

  When Edith got back, Madame Mercier had settled into her office chair. Henderson passed over the glass of wine and a bundle of papers to take her mind off things.

  ‘I think I’ve got them back in order, but if you’ll just check through.’

  As Henderson turned away, he saw Edith making a discreet come here gesture. He followed her out to the empty bar, where she spoke in a whisper.

  ‘I spoke with my friend who works at the laundry. She said that Germans are expected to do their own laundry in the barracks, or pay to have it done individually.’

  Henderson looked baffled. ‘Why am I talking to you about laundry?’

  ‘The itching powder,’ Edith said. ‘You saw Marc last night, scratching like crazy after he rubbed two little grains on to his skin.’

  ‘He should have gone through me before asking you to make contact with outsiders.’

  Edith looked hurt and didn’t mention that Marc had deliberately gone behind Henderson’s back because he’d been so dismissive about the itching powder.

  ‘I’ve known Natasha for ever,’ Edith said. ‘She was one of Madame Mercier’s girls until she had a bad abortion.’

  ‘Just because you know someone doesn’t necessarily mean you can trust them,’ Henderson said.

  ‘Natasha hates the Boche,’ Edith said. ‘Her husband’s a prisoner in Austria somewhere and her little boy got knocked down and killed by a drunken Kriegsmarine officer in his Mercedes. Ask Madame Mercier if you don’t believe we can trust her. And I’m not stupid you know: I may only be twelve, but I understand how important security is. I talked everything through with Marc before doing anything.’

  Henderson was impressed with Edith’s clear thinking, even if he didn’t agree with everything she said. ‘So what did this Natasha say?’

  ‘It actually looks quite easy to do. Apparently, when a U-boat comes into port they send a big load of sheets, towels, foul-weather gear and stuff like that to the laundry. After the main wash, they have to add this special green de-lousing powder that the Kriegsmarine gives them. All Natasha has to do is go into the store room and mix our itching powder in with the German powder.’

  ‘How many people have access to the store room? Could the sabotage easily be traced back to Natasha?’

  Edith looked uncertain. ‘I don’t know, but I’m sure we can work something out.’

  ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind right now,’ Henderson said. ‘But I suppose the powder did bring Marc out in one heck of a rash. Give me until tomorrow to think about it, OK?’

  *

  A Gestapo guard made Marc carry the overflowing urine buckets out of the cellar, and it was impossible not to get splashes over his boots and the bottom of his trousers. After that he got pushed into a tiny windowless cell on the first floor. He’d had nothing to eat or drink since the night before so he eagerly drank a mouthful of the watery broth they brought an hour later, only to find that it had been heavily seasoned with pepper and so much salt that it burned his lips.

  Afternoon turned to evening as he sat in the unlit cell, desperate for water, listening to boots in the corridor outside. He started feeling nervous, imagining that they’d forgotten about him. After several hours he felt like he was going to pass out and banged on the door.

  ‘Please get me a drink,’ he begged, when a woman opened a flap in his door.

  ‘Look up above your head,’ the woman said.

  For a moment Marc thought he’d missed some kind of tap. But all he saw was a pair of metal clasps.

  ‘If you bang on that door again I’ll have them come by and hook you up there by your wrists,’ the woman said, before slamming the flap.

  It was seven at night before the door finally opened. A guard took him to the same room where he’d been with Madame Mercier the night before. Oberst Bauer sat at the desk, with a clear jug of water in front of him. There were chunks of ice and an orange hue where the surface caught the sunlight. It was the most beautiful thing Marc had ever seen.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Bauer said, as he fiddled with his slim black tie. ‘I’ve only just come back on duty. But boy, isn’t it hot today? I’ve been drinking buckets!’

  Bauer slid a piece of paper across the desk.

  ‘Can you read?’

  The statement was typewritten on a single sheet of paper. There was only one paragraph:

  I, Marc Hortefeux, confess to trafficking black market produce in the Lorient Secure Zone on behalf of Brigitte Mercier, the owner of Mamba Noir and other establishments in the area.

  Signed

  Date

  ‘Sign and you shall be released,’ Bauer said, before chinking the glass jug with the end of his fountain pen. ‘And, of course, you can drink all you like.’

  ‘What will happen to Madame Mercier?’ Marc asked.

&nbs
p; Bauer raised one eyebrow. ‘You need to be a good deal more concerned about what will happen to you. Do you know what my favourite part of an interrogation is?’

  ‘What?’ Marc asked sourly.

  ‘It’s when someone is so badly broken that you have to do nothing,’ Bauer said. ‘People become so scared of you that they go down on their knees and beg. They see my face and soil themselves in pure terror. Try to imagine that, Marc. Try to imagine being so scared of me, that I just have to walk into a room to utterly humiliate you.’

  Marc was scared, but tried to think straight. The weird thing was, the Gestapo had absolute power. They didn’t hold trials, there were no appeals. If they wanted to arrest Madame Mercier, torture her, shoot her, the only thing stopping them was her connections with powerful men in other branches of the German military. A slip of paper signed by a thirteen-year-old boy didn’t change any of that.

  ‘Why do you need me to sign anything?’ Marc asked. ‘What difference does my word make?’

  Bauer shot up from the desk. ‘Do not question me,’ he shouted. ‘The only reason you ever need for a question I ask is, because I said so.’

  He effortlessly shoved Marc back against the wall, kneed him in the stomach then swung him around. After bending Marc over, Bauer squeezed his head against the desktop with one hand, pulled a thick bracelet out of his suit pocket and slid it over Marc’s wrist.

  When Bauer released a metal pin from the top of the bracelet, jagged metal jaws clamped Marc’s wrist with bone-crushing force. His fingers tensed and the excruciating pain went up to his shoulder.

  ‘Get it off,’ Marc screamed. ‘Please.’

  ‘If I leave it on until morning you’ll lose your hand,’ Bauer explained. ‘It’s a wonderful device. Made hundreds of years ago. Quite rare, but still effective, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh god,’ Marc wailed, as Bauer backed away. ‘Get it off me. Please, I’ll sign it. I’ll sign anything you want.’

  Now that Bauer had let go, Marc was free to move. He tried pulling off the clamp, but moving it just made the jaws sink deeper into his wrist.