The Prisoner

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘They probably are real,’ Marc said. ‘I’d bet it’s easier to steal blank documents than fake them. Besides, your problem isn’t gonna be the quality of your documents. Those weird Canadian accents will give you away long before that.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming with us, mind,’ Joseph said suspiciously. ‘Something you’re not telling us, Marc?’

  Marc was stunned as Joseph held out identity documents and an Ausweiss with Marc’s photograph and a false name on them. The Ausweiss was needed to cross the border between German-occupied France and Vichy France.

  ‘I have no idea what that’s all about,’ Marc said. ‘A guy I’ve never seen before threw the envelope at me and rode off on his bike.’

  It was true that Marc didn’t know the envelope contained documents for his own escape, but a lie that he had no idea why it had happened.

  Maxine had naturally assumed that Marc wanted to complete his escape and return to Britain, but he was crazy about Jae and the documents were a horrible reminder that he might soon have to leave her behind.

  ‘Marc, you look like you just swallowed a dog turd,’ Noah said.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Joseph added.

  ‘Yeah,’ Marc said. He shiftily combed dirty fingers through his hair before changing the subject. ‘You’re safer now you’ve got documents and I’ve gotta get back to work.’

  *

  Marc and Jae had a regular spot where they met for lunch, close to the lake at the back of Morel’s land. She had fresh-picked strawberries, but didn’t look happy. The orphanage was a ten-minute sprint and Marc was breathless after doing a return trip.

  ‘Urgent errand for one of the nuns,’ Marc said breathlessly. ‘Really sorry. I was gonna say, but I couldn’t find you all morning.’

  Marc hadn’t told Jae about the Canadians. A kiss made up for his lateness and they mucked about, feeding one another the strawberries and trying to stuff grass down the back of each other’s shirts.

  ‘I wish we didn’t have to go back to work,’ Jae said longingly, as she stood up, arching her back and stretching into a big yawn.

  Marc was on the point of copying Jae’s yawn, but was stunned by the sight of German soldiers running across Morel’s fields and an unfamiliar truck ploughing through wheat towards his grain silo. Then he recognised a bald head and a ridiculous swastika armband worn by former orphanage director Tomas.

  ‘It’s the Requisition Authority,’ Jae said. ‘They’ve come to check on my dad’s grain stocks. I’ll run round and warn Felix and my dad they’re coming.’

  She belted off before giving Marc any chance to argue. He followed for twenty metres, but what he saw next froze him in his tracks: his life-long nemesis had emerged from the back of the Requisition Authority truck.

  Lanier hadn’t stooped to the level of Tomas with the swastika armband, but he wore the Requisition Authority’s pale brown shirt. This was peculiar because as far as Marc knew Lanier worked at a bakery in Beauvais.

  He was torn between asking Lanier what he was playing at, and following Jae. In the end, curiosity lost out to protecting his girlfriend.

  Despite being knackered after the orphanage run, Marc caught up with Jae as she ran through the main entrance gate of Morel’s farm. A gravel path led up to the Morel family home and on to the stable block and farm office beyond it.

  Jae had hoped to warn everyone about the Requisition Authority inspection, but it seemed the truck arriving at the grain silo had not been the first stage of the operation. Felix the farm manager, the Morels’ three household servants and a dozen farm labourers had already been lined up in front of the stables.

  Two elderly German soldiers guarded them in a fairly half-hearted way, while Morel himself argued furiously with the most senior German officer present. The gist of Morel’s argument was that the area around Beauvais was under Luftwaffe jurisdiction and that the soldiers had no right to interfere.

  In return, the army officer claimed he was working under the supervision of the Requisition Authority, which was a civilian organisation that didn’t need Luftwaffe permission to act.

  Jae approached her father and stood close by. He was angry, but still found a second to reassure his daughter.

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s just bureaucracy. Where on earth were you?’

  While Jae and Marc had skirted around the edge of the farm, Tomas, Lanier and a couple of other Requisition Authority officials had walked a direct route from the grain silo and were just arriving on the scene.

  ‘Oh, where was Jae?’ Lanier asked loudly, as he pointed at Marc. ‘Christ, Morel. You must be the only person around here who doesn’t know he’s been at it with your daughter down by the pond every lunchtime for the best part of two months.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Everyone was separated and questioned, while the Requisition Authority photographed Morel’s grain silo. Morel and Felix the farm manager were taken away in the back of a truck. Marc watched anxiously as soldiers ordered Jae to lead them inside the house so they could search her father’s study.

  Marc was among the last to be taken into Felix’s office for questioning. A pug-nosed Requisition Authority official scanned his identity papers.

  ‘How long have you worked for Morel?’ the official began.

  ‘Couple of months,’ Marc said.

  The official’s next statement was spoken rigidly, as if he’d already used the exact phrase many times before.

  ‘If you are aware of any black-market sales of food, or other illegal activity practised by your employer and you provide us with full and honest details, we guarantee leniency. However, any lies you tell will be regarded as anti-German activity and subject to the full force of the law. Is that clear?’

  ‘I’m just a farm boy,’ Marc said.

  He’d dealt with far scarier characters than this fellow and didn’t feel intimidated. But Marc worried that the effect on some of the other farm hands would be greater. They were simple men, who had families to protect.

  ‘Is that clear?’ the official repeated.

  Marc nodded. ‘I’ve never been involved in anything, sir. I’m the youngest on the farm, and the most junior. I do what I’m told.’

  This was true, apart from the time he’d ridden the cart of black-market food into Beauvais when the usual driver’s son had been sick.

  ‘You may be called back for further questioning. You are not to travel more than five kilometres from this area within the next fourteen days without our permission. And if you should happen to remember any of Morel’s activities that might be of interest, you’ll be treated most favourably.’

  Marc was worried about Jae, but the Requisition Authority team was swarming over Morel’s house and land and he was given no option but to head out of the farm gate.

  His head was full of questions as he walked slowly towards the orphanage. Was Morel going to prison? If he did, would he still have a job? And where would Jae go? If she stayed, would Morel let her go anywhere near him?

  *

  Marc was back at the orphanage before three and crept up to his attic bunk, in case the nuns found a job for him. Victor and Jacques offered a hunting trip, but he wanted to be around when Lanier got back from work.

  With all the bigger boys sent away for factory work, Lanier was one of the oldest left in the orphanage. Until Marc’s return Lanier had gained a dominant role in the attic dormitory, though he was more arch manipulator than outright bully: the kind of kid who’d steal your school books and blame someone else, or grass you up to your girlfriend’s father.

  Lanier was also extremely cocky, and Marc hoped he could use this to find out as much as possible about what had been going on.

  When he saw Lanier strutting through the orphanage gate, with his new Requisition Authority shirt hanging out of his trousers, Marc moved to a bunk near the door and made sure he looked as miserable as he felt.

  ‘All right, son?’ Lanier said brightly, as he strode in with his chest
puffed out. ‘Good day at the farm? Or maybe not!’

  It took a degree of self-control not to plant a fist in Lanier’s face, but Marc needed information more than revenge.

  ‘I thought you worked in the baker’s in Beauvais,’ Marc said.

  ‘I did until two days ago,’ Lanier said. ‘But those slave-drivers wanted me in at five every morning, which meant leaving here at four. The owner turned me down when I asked for a raise, then threatened to sack me and tell the nuns I was lazy. That was a big mistake, because I knew that fat bastard was getting half his flour illegally from Morel.

  ‘So I popped over to see Tomas at the Requisition Authority and offered my services, with a little information as a sweetener. I get more money, better hours and best of all it’s a government job, so they can’t send me to the factories, or ship me off to Germany when I turn fifteen in a few months’ time.’

  Marc snorted. ‘And you get to betray your country at no extra charge. Shipping everything France makes and grows off to the Nazis, while our people queue up for stale bread and mouldy cheese.’

  ‘What did my country ever do for me?’ Lanier said, then gave a don’t care shrug before cracking a big smile. ‘You’re just ticked off because I messed up your love life.’

  ‘At least I’ve got a love life,’ Marc said, as he tutted. ‘And what do you gain out of screwing me over?’

  Lanier laughed. ‘Well, the look on your and Morel’s faces was pretty good. But basically, Marc, you’ve gotta accept that there are winners and losers in the world. I’ve used my brain to get ahead. You act like some big shot, but what did you actually do? Spend two years poncing around in Paris and get dragged back by a cop, looking like you hadn’t eaten in about three months.’

  Marc wished he could have told Lanier how he’d really spent those two years. As Lanier squeezed through a narrow gap towards his bunk and started unbuttoning his shirt, he couldn’t resist having another dig.

  ‘Reckon I’ve done you a favour anyway, mate,’ Lanier said. ‘That Jae’s one stuck-up little bitch …’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Marc said.

  ‘My old job at the baker’s might be going if you want it,’ Lanier teased. ‘It’s not in my league, but it pays better than Morel’s farm.’

  Marc didn’t rise to this one, so Lanier had another go as he sat on his bed, switching his work trousers for a pair of tattered knee-length shorts.

  ‘Jae ended up at the Requisition Authority office in Beauvais, bawling alongside her stepmother. I tell you, they put on quite a pompous little duet of foot stamping!’

  Marc and Lanier had been alone in the attic bedroom, but now a couple of eight-year-olds came in. They looked all sheepish, having just been yelled at by one of the sisters for playing on the stairs.

  ‘And why are you even with a girl like that?’ Lanier continued. ‘Jae might be into you now, while they’re desperate for bodies to shovel shit on their farm, but do you really think she’ll be interested in someone like you when the war ends?’

  Marc finally took the bait and sat up sharply. ‘Lanier, shut your mouth.’

  Lanier laughed. ‘Oooh, did I touch a nerve?

  ‘Life’s about more than money,’ Marc said. ‘Now I’m telling you to shut up.’

  Lanier had to head downstairs to get his dinner. ‘Just don’t keep us all awake, crying yourself to sleep when Jae dumps you,’ he said, as he passed Marc’s bed.

  Marc’s strategy of using Lanier’s cockiness to dig out the truth had worked well, but Marc was in a state over the situation with Jae and he’d not anticipated Lanier’s taunts making him so angry.

  As Lanier swept past the bed, Marc stuck his leg out and Lanier stumbled. He kept upright, but his head glanced off the upright of the nearest bed. It didn’t hurt much, but the two eight-year-olds were highly amused.

  ‘You want a fight?’ Lanier asked, bunching his fists.

  Marc and Lanier had fought dozens of times over the years and the score was pretty even. Part of Marc’s brain was saying back down, don’t be crazy, but he was stressed out and on some primitive level he really fancied trading punches.

  ‘In the back field, right now,’ Marc said. ‘Unless you’re chicken.’

  ‘I’m not scared of you,’ Lanier said.

  Boys used the back field for fighting because it was behind the burned-out barn, well out of sight of the orphanage and convent.

  Lanier looked behind suspiciously as he led the way downstairs, half expecting a shove in the back. By the time they vaulted the wall at the back of the orphanage, word was spreading that there was going to be a big fight.

  The field had knee-high grass. The sun was dipping and the ground was covered with wood splinters and chunks of brick, where a German dive bomber had crashed into the barn two years earlier.

  Lanier threw the first blow. Marc dodged.

  As an audience of younger boys clambered over the wall, Lanier kept punching and Marc kept teasing. The onlookers thought Marc was scared, but he was tiring out an over-aggressive opponent, exactly as Instructor Takada had shown him on CHERUB campus.

  ‘Are you fighting or running?’ Lanier spat.

  His next punch was high and Marc used the opening, smashing his fist into Lanier’s nose. As the crowd gasped, Marc threw a left right combo and Lanier was flat on his back in the long grass.

  ‘Who’s brave now?’ Marc shouted, as he spat in Lanier’s face, then backed off to let him stand up.

  The instant Lanier was on his feet, Marc launched a vicious kick. His bare heel connected with Lanier’s stomach. As Lanier doubled over, Marc brought his knee up, smashing his nose for a second time.

  There were gasps from the crowd as Marc grabbed Lanier by the throat, throttling him as he drove him back several metres and slammed him hard against the charred wooden side of the barn. When Marc let Lanier’s neck go, all he could do was snort blood and hold his arms weakly over his face.

  Orphanage fights were usually accompanied by cheers and jeers, but Marc’s ruthless display of combat skills had stunned sixty boys into silence.

  Lanier was completely at Marc’s mercy and he had a menu of techniques he’d learned on CHERUB campus. He could punch Lanier unconscious, twist his arm up behind his back and break it, smash a palm under his chin and shatter his jaw, put him in a headlock and snap his neck to paralyse him for life.

  Marc hadn’t admitted it to himself upstairs, but he’d known he had the skills to win. It was Marc’s way of showing Lanier that something significant had happened in the two years since he’d run off, but he now had no desire to finish Lanier off.

  This fight was no fairer than if he’d picked on one of the eight-year-olds, and Marc suddenly hated himself. The moment when his knee crunched Lanier’s nose had felt beautiful, but that made him no better than people like Alain, Fischer and Tomas when they’d beaten him.

  Marc was confused and tearful as he backed away from Lanier. Sisters Peter and Madeline had noticed the train of boys heading into the back field and the younger lads dived for cover as the nuns ran around the side of the barn.

  ‘What in the name of God?’ Sister Madeline shouted.

  She saw Lanier propped against the barn, half unconscious, with bloody hands and face. Marc was three paces further back, sobbing because he felt like he’d turned into the kind of bully he’d always sworn he’d never become.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Sister Raphael was old school. She worked every hour keeping orphans fed, washed and orderly, but didn’t much hold with touchy feely stuff. When she saw Marc was still upset half an hour after the fight, she made an indignant grunt and told him to pull himself together.

  Boys who broke orphanage rules got extra chores, or a thrashing. Marc felt ridiculous baring his bum and bending over a desk for a chubby nun, fifteen centimetres shorter than he was. The sting of the metal-tipped cane felt like a visit from an old friend, and when he had half a dozen red welts across his buttocks, Marc got told to pull up his trousers
and stop the ridiculous snivelling.

  Marc sat on the front steps of the orphanage in moonlight. The hard stone after a thrashing was painful, but he didn’t budge because he felt he deserved it as punishment for beating up Lanier.

  Every now and then Marc heard Lanier moan as Sister Madeline treated his injuries in the medical room under the stairs. When he saw a slim figure walking a bike up the front path, Marc thought he’d started hallucinating.

  ‘Hey, you,’ Jae said softly.

  She’d changed out of her farm overalls to go into town. She looked like the Jae Marc knew before he’d left, in a summer dress, cardigan and smart leather sandals. Only the dirt packed under broken nails gave the game away.

  ‘I thought I’d have the devil’s job getting inside to speak to you,’ Jae said. ‘And here you are, right on the front step.’

  She sat next to Marc on the step and rested her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Where’s your dad?’ Marc asked.

  ‘Home,’ Jae said. ‘One of the Luftwaffe officers who lived with us got him and Felix released. They’ve emptied our grain silos, and shut the bakery in Beauvais down. Daddy will probably have to go to court. He’s brushing it off, but I can tell he’s worried.’

  ‘I beat the shit out of Lanier,’ Marc confessed.

  ‘Good,’ Jae said resolutely. ‘I hope he’s in a lot of pain.’

  Marc shook his head. ‘I laid into him and I enjoyed it. All my life bullies have thrashed me or beaten me up. I don’t ever want to act like that.’

  Jae put her arm around Marc’s back.

  ‘There’s evil in us all,’ she said. ‘When I was little, I used to play with my older brothers down at the pond. A baby duck got separated from its mum. My brother caught it in a bucket and planned to look after it, but he beat me in a board game. So I threw his duck out of the house and let my other brother take the blame for it.’

  Marc laughed uneasily. An imperfect world seemed to matter less if Jae was around.

  ‘Did your dad say anything about me?’ Marc asked. ‘If I turn up at the farm tomorrow morning, he’s not gonna come chasing after me with a shotgun or anything?’