The Prisoner

by Robert Muchamore

  Jacques was eleven now. He’d slept in a bunk below Marc from his fifth birthday when he’d been moved out of the nursery, until the day Marc ran away. He was the nearest thing Marc ever had to a little brother.

  ‘You’ve really grown,’ Marc said, as he noticed a surprising lack of familiar faces among the boys returning from school. Clearly the war had made an excellent job of creating new orphans.

  ‘You remember Victor?’ Jacques asked. ‘He got moved up to our attic dorm. We’re mates now.’

  ‘I remember trying to steal a pair of boots, and you trying to stop me with a broken arm,’ Marc said, putting the truth right out in the open and hoping Victor wasn’t holding any grudge.

  ‘Everyone thought you was dead,’ Victor said.

  ‘Nope,’ Jacques said. ‘I never believed that.’

  ‘You bullshitter,’ Victor scoffed. ‘Everyone thought Marc was dead. I mean, no other kid ever ran away for more than about two weeks.’

  ‘OK, I had my doubts,’ Jacques admitted. ‘But I always hoped you were alive. So where have you been? What have you been doing?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Marc couldn’t tell his fellow orphans the truth about the last two years of his life. Even if he had, none would believe that he’d got mixed up in plans to steal the blueprints of a miniature radio transmitter, helped destroy Nazi plans to invade Britain, then escaped across the Channel, where he’d been given espionage training by the British Secret Service, before being captured and sent to prison in Germany while on another undercover mission to sabotage U-boats.

  When Marc ran away he’d never been further than Beauvais, six kilometres south of the orphanage. He’d never been on a train, never eaten in a cafe or restaurant. That was still true for most of the kids in the orphanage, so they were easily impressed.

  After a satisfactory afternoon nap on clean orphanage sheets, Marc woke just before 6 p.m. and found a group of little kids badgering him with questions. It was all little stuff, like what the Paris Metro was like, had he seen a Panzer tank, was Paris near the sea?

  The older boys were more interested in how Marc had survived on his own for two years. He told them he’d spent the whole time in Paris, living in empty houses, making money doing odd jobs. He even jazzed the story up with a couple of hot girlfriends.

  Marc got full-on hero worship from everyone until his old nemesis Lanier returned from his job at the local bakery.

  There’s usually a pecking order with kids: tough dominates weak, clever outsmarts stupid, tall looks down on short. Marc and Lanier’s mutual hatred grew out of the fact that they were so alike. Same age, same build, both quite clever. Lanier probably had more of a nasty streak, but in the charged and occasionally brutal atmosphere of a boys’ orphanage Marc had been no angel.

  As they sat at tables behind the dilapidated orphanage eating their evening meal – the first time Marc had eaten three meals in a day for what felt like about a million years – Lanier squatted on the table’s edge in a sweat-stained baker’s overall and took every opportunity to remind the others that during Marc’s escape, he’d stolen a boy called Noel’s working boots and smashed another boy’s head through a window.

  ‘Sebastian’s got scars on his cheek,’ Lanier said. ‘He’s working in Germany now, but you’d better steer clear if he ever comes back.’

  There used to be kids of sixteen and seventeen in the orphanage, but Marc had noticed there was nobody older than fourteen now.

  ‘Are they all in Germany?’ Marc asked, depressed at the thought.

  Forced labourers got paid wages and were treated better than prisoners, but there wasn’t much in it.

  ‘Some work in factories here,’ Jacques explained.

  ‘Noel?’ Marc asked.

  ‘Director Tomas sent him to work on the wall, I think,’ Jacques said.

  ‘Wall?’ Marc asked.

  ‘Atlantic wall, dummy,’ Lanier said, delighting in Marc’s ignorance. ‘Building defences along the coast, in case the Yanks and Brits invade.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Marc said.

  He’d rarely heard the news in prison camp. When you did it was hard to separate facts from rumours, but the tide of war did appear to be turning: twenty months earlier, Marc had helped to destroy barges for a planned German invasion of Britain. Now, Hitler was building coastal defences to stop Britain and America coming in the opposite direction.

  ‘When are they expecting the invasion?’ Marc asked.

  ‘Everyone says it has to be summer to invade,’ Victor said. ‘Didn’t you see any news in Paris?’

  Marc realised he’d slipped up. If he’d really been in Paris for two years, he’d know a lot more than a bunch of kids in a remote orphanage.

  ‘I was busy looking after myself most of the time,’ Marc said unconvincingly.

  ‘I reckon they’ll invade tomorrow afternoon,’ Jacques joked. ‘Liberation by Sunday teatime.’

  Marc was torn: he liked the idea of the Nazis getting their arses kicked, but was scared by the prospect of a brutal land war. The German army had swept into France with a rapid and relatively bloodless invasion two summers earlier, but he doubted they’d surrender anything like as easily.

  ‘And did you say Director Tomas sent Noel to Germany?’ Marc asked.

  Jacques nodded, as a couple of little kids who’d grown bored peeled off to play.

  ‘Tomas loves the Nazis,’ Lanier said, for once turning his bitterness on to something other than Marc. ‘He’s in charge of the Requisition Authority.’

  ‘What’s the Requisition Authority?’ Marc asked.

  Lanier shook his head, as if Marc was stupid for not knowing. ‘If the Germans want something – cattle, food, workers, ammunition, you name it – it’s the Requisition Authority’s job to get hold of it.’

  ‘Last time he came to the orphanage, he started shouting at the nuns and left with four boys,’ Jacques explained. ‘Lanier was lucky – he was out working.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Marc said bitterly. ‘He always loved having any kind of authority.’

  ‘I’ve heard it’s not bad in Germany,’ a lad Marc didn’t know said. ‘They get paid in Reichsmarks, and I’d rather work in a factory than on Morel’s stinking farm.’

  Marc would have loved to set the kid straight, but couldn’t say anything about Germany without blowing his cover.

  All the boys looked round as the teenage sister, who was called Peter, came out into the yard clapping her hands.

  ‘Right,’ she yelled. ‘Who’s been leaving their empty pots on the tables and going off to play? You, you, you, you, get inside and help with the washing-up. Lanier, Jacques, get mops. The stairs leading up to the dormitories are a disgrace.’

  Lanier pointed at Marc, ‘What about His Majesty? I’ve been working since six this morning. What’s he done but sit on his skinny butt all day?’

  ‘Language,’ Sister Peter said firmly. She might have been cute, but she must have been strict because all the kids did what she asked without any messing. ‘Marc, Sister Raphael says you need to go across to Morel’s farm. Tell him you’re a reformed character and ask for your old job back.’

  Not all the boys knew the story about Marc tipping Morel’s daughter Jae into a slurry pit, but those that did looked aghast.

  ‘Be reasonable,’ Marc said. ‘I’m really tired. Can’t it wait ’til tomorrow?’

  To Lanier’s delight, Sister Peter pivoted on her skinny legs and threatened Marc with a slap.

  ‘No nonsense,’ she said. ‘And you haven’t got any documents yet, so stay off the roads.’

  *

  The Morel family had the grandest house in the area, three storeys high with a large stable block off to one side. The path up to the house was daunting, and a long wait in a double-height hallway, with oil paintings and a ticking grandfather clock, frayed Marc’s nerves.

  Farmer Morel was rich and influential, but there was nothing about him that would make you think him special, in his rough peasant sh
irt and wooden clogs.

  ‘Kilgour,’ Morel began, with the calm authority of a man who was used to people jumping when he told them to. ‘Was something not clear when I told you never to set foot on my land again?’

  He’d just finished his evening meal and was pulling a napkin out of his shirt. To Marc’s surprise, a glimpse into the dining room showed that he’d been eating with two Luftwaffe officers.

  ‘Sister Raphael said you were short of farm hands. I told her you wouldn’t want me, but she asked you to reconsider as a personal favour to her.’

  Morel’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Sister Raphael. ‘I do owe her a favour,’ he said grudgingly. ‘And I never found fault with your work, so be at my farm manager’s office, six sharp tomorrow morning. And be prepared to work hard.’

  ‘I’m a hard worker, sir,’ Marc said, doing a good job of hiding his disappointment. He’d have been content to doss around the orphanage for a few days while Sister Raphael tried finding him another job.

  Morel leaned forward and jabbed the ill-fitting shirt that Sister Madeline had found for Marc to wear while his clothes dried.

  ‘But here’s fair warning,’ Morel growled. ‘Don’t speak, don’t go near, don’t even look at my daughter. If you do, I’ll have a couple of my biggest farm hands strap you to a barn door, and horse whip you. Is that clear?’

  ‘Hard to see how it could be any clearer, sir,’ Marc said warily.

  ‘Right, I’m off for my dessert. Don’t be late in the morning.’

  Marc felt like he’d come full circle: back at the orphanage, back working for Morel. As he crossed the field back towards the orphanage, another piece of his past scrambled through shoulder-height corn towards him.

  Jae Morel was fourteen. Marc had had a crush on her since he was eight years old, but now Marc had hormones and Jae had tits. The mix of the two was like a kick in the gut.

  ‘Marc.’ Jae grinned. ‘It’s you! When did you get back?’

  Marc glanced about and backed up.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Jae asked, as she stepped out of the corn.

  Jae had always been a posh girl: pigtails and violin lessons. But this 1942 model Jae was different: mucky rubber farm boots, blue farmer’s smock, scarf over her hair and sweat streaking down a dirty face.

  ‘Being near you could seriously endanger my health,’ Marc said seriously. ‘I met your dad. Horse whipping was mentioned.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have run to my dad that day,’ Jae said, looking down at her boots in shame. ‘I knew exactly what Director Tomas would do to you, but I was a snotty little so-and-so back then. Look at me now though.’

  Jae held out her hands, showing dirty fingers and cracked nails.

  ‘My school closed down,’ Jae explained. ‘Most of the other rich kids went south during the invasion and never came back. My dad’s desperate for labourers, so here I am, up to my elbows in dung every day.’

  Marc smiled at Farmer Morel’s muddy little princess, but kept looking over his shoulder nervously.

  Jae scoffed. ‘You’re really that scared of my dad?’

  ‘Everyone’s scared of your dad. I was just at your house. He was eating with Nazis!’

  ‘Luftwaffe headquarters is in Beauvais,’ Jae explained. ‘We’ve got a big house, so they’ve billeted four senior officers with us.’

  ‘So he gave me a job,’ Marc said, as he kept looking around.

  ‘He’s angry about you tossing me in that manure pit.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know. And in case you don’t remember, we were arguing and you slipped into the pit by accident.’

  Jae shrugged. ‘I was sad when you ran away, Marc. I always liked you.’

  ‘I like you,’ Marc said. ‘But you’ve got to stay away from me.’

  ‘When you were in first grade you never had any shoes,’ Jae said. ‘Your feet were filthy and the teacher went mad because you sat at your desk with your foot in your mouth chewing your big toenail.’

  Marc laughed. ‘Oh my god! I’d totally forgotten that I used to be able to do that.’

  ‘Maybe you still can,’ Jae said.

  ‘I’ll give it a try,’ Marc said, laughing uncomfortably. ‘Look, Jae, I’ve got nothing against you. I’ve just got no desire to get strapped to a barn door and horse whipped.’

  ‘You’re cute when you’re scared,’ Jae said, as she stepped up to Marc and kissed him softly on the lips.

  Part Two

  August–September 1942

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Wednesday 19 August 1942

  Seven weeks after arriving at the orphanage, Marc had a modest growth of hair on his head and the nuns had fed him back to a healthy weight.

  Although Farmer Morel’s main crop was wheat, he also kept cows and chickens, bred working horses, ran a small orchard and had a twenty-acre vegetable patch where Marc had spent the morning pulling carrots out of the ground.

  Marc took his lunch of bread, cheese and freshly squeezed milk while lying in tall grass with an unbuttoned shirt exposing his chest to the hot sun.

  ‘I sneaked out a jar of honey,’ Jae said, when she sat down alongside him.

  Her boots were hurting and she pulled them off, revealing narrow sockless feet, beaded with sweat.

  ‘Did you ask your dad for new boots?’ Marc asked, as he pulled Jae’s foot into his lap and started gently massaging her toes.

  ‘They stink,’ Jae said, as she gave Marc a kiss on the cheek. ‘My dad says you can’t get farm boots anywhere. But one of the Luftwaffe officers staying at our house said he’s trying to get me a pair of flying boots.’

  ‘Is that the creepy one with glasses?’

  ‘Jealous?’ Jae laughed, as she opened a little cloth sack and unscrewed the lid from a jar of honey.

  ‘If you want to flaunt yourself to some pot-bellied Nazi that’s your lookout,’ Marc said. ‘But I bet he wouldn’t give you nice foot massages like me.’

  To make his point, Marc lifted Jae’s leg up and kissed the ball of her foot. Then he coughed.

  ‘Actually, they really stink,’ he croaked.

  Jae slumped back in the grass and stated to laugh. ‘What did you expect after six hours’ farm work, a rose garden?’

  Now Jae was flat on her back, Marc rolled over and tried to kiss her. But before he got close, Jae reached up and pushed a spoonful of honey into his mouth.

  ‘Mmm.’

  Jae ate a spoonful herself and they started kissing, with the honey gluing lips and tongues together. As she reached up to put her hand on Marc’s bum, Marc slid a hand under the strap holding up her overall and cupped her breast.

  ‘I think about you all the time,’ Marc said when he came up for air.

  ‘I looked on the work rota in the manager’s office,’ Jae said. ‘We’re both off Friday. You fancy swimming down by the lake? I’ll sneak into our kitchen after the maid goes to bed and make a picnic.’

  Jae was turning Marc on like crazy, but his face gave away his uncertainty.

  ‘Coward,’ Jae said. ‘Sneaking around is half the fun.’

  Marc laughed. ‘If we’re caught you’ll get told off by Daddy. I’ll get thrashed.’

  ‘Aren’t I worth it?’ Jae asked.

  ‘Until something better comes along,’ Marc teased.

  Jae gave Marc a dig in the ribs. As he laughed and rolled away clutching his side, he spotted the elderly farm manager coming across the field towards them.

  ‘It’s Felix,’ Marc blurted.

  Jae grabbed her boots and lunch bag, and gave Marc a quick peck on the cheek before scuttling behind the nearest barn.

  ‘See you later,’ she whispered.

  Marc stood up as Felix approached. Like any boss there were times when Felix complained about something Marc had done, or forced Marc to do something he didn’t want to, but on the whole he was decent as long as you didn’t muck about.

  ‘Dangerous game you’re playing,’ he said, half smiling as Marc got out of t
he grass.

  ‘You won’t tell Morel, will you?’ Marc asked.

  ‘She’s not my daughter,’ Felix laughed. ‘All I care about is your work, and you do that well enough. Do you think you could manage taking the delivery cart into Beauvais this afternoon?’

  ‘I’ve run a delivery cart before,’ Marc said, nodding. ‘But what about Nichol?’

  ‘His little one’s sick. All the deliveries are written up in the ledger. I’ll get a couple of the younger orphans to finish off your carrots when they get here after school.’

  *

  Rationing, poverty and the absence of men meant cafes and bars had fared badly in most small French towns, but Beauvais had become a Luftwaffe town, with combat airfields for fighter and bomber squadrons nearby, regional headquarters in a chateau on the town’s edge, and a busy cargo and passenger airport at Tille, two kilometres north-west. The air war ran day and night, so you were as likely to find a crowded bar on Beauvais’ main drag at seven in the morning as seven at night.

  While most of Occupied France was controlled by the German army and Gestapo, Beauvais and its surroundings were a special military zone, under command of the Luftwaffe. In contrast to Marc’s experiences in Paris and Lorient, the Luftwaffe police took a relaxed attitude. They usually left routine law enforcement to local gendarmes, so he was surprised to get held up in a long queue at a snap checkpoint on the edge of town.

  The Luftwaffe officer only gave Marc’s identity documents a brief glance and couldn’t have cared less about the supply of black-market food on the back of his cart.

  ‘Have you seen any sign of paratroopers?’ the young officer asked gravely.

  ‘No,’ Marc replied.

  ‘Any other unusual movements? Trucks? Men or vehicles on the back roads? Equipment drops?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Marc said.

  ‘What have you been doing today?’

  ‘I work on Morel’s farm a few kilometres north,’ Marc said. ‘I spent the morning picking carrots.’

  ‘Do you have family?’

  ‘I live in an orphanage.’

  The officer seemed pleased to hear this. ‘When you get home tonight, tell all the boys there’s a fifty franc bounty for any lad who unearths suspicious activity or Allied soldiers.’