CHERUB: The Sleepwalker (8 page)

‘Come on,’ James grovelled. ‘I’m sixteen in less than a month and everyone on campus thinks we’re already at it anyway.’

‘But we’re not,’ Dana said firmly as she headed for the door. ‘And I told you I’ll make it worth the wait.’

James had lost his virginity on his last mission and Dana had lost hers to an older guy on campus before she started going out with James, but they’d agreed that they weren’t going to risk what remained of their CHERUB careers by starting up a sexual relationship until they were both sixteen. Or more accurately, Dana had decided and James had been in no position to argue because at the time he’d been skating on thin ice after cheating on her.

James grinned. ‘When it’s my birthday, I’m gonna be knocking on your door at one second past midnight with a big string of drool hanging out the corner of my mouth.’

‘You’re such a romantic,’ Dana smiled, as she leaned over James and gave him a goodnight kiss.

*

It was a mild concussion and the hospital was short of beds, so Fahim was discharged at 11:15. His father pushed him through the hospital corridors in a wheelchair, but he managed to walk the few steps from the chair to the car and made his own way upstairs to his bedroom when he got home.

Despite heavy eyes and a pounding head, Fahim couldn’t sleep. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the distant drone of his father’s voice in the hallway downstairs. Hassam regularly worked beyond midnight, placing calls to employees and business acquaintances in Pakistan and Indonesia. Fahim had never nailed down exactly what his father did and whenever he enquired, Hassam always gave the same answer:
I have fingers in many different pies
.

Until he was almost ten, Fahim misunderstood the phrase and came to imagine that his father owned a factory that made frozen cakes. He was constantly disappointed that he never got to taste samples.

‘Try to sleep,’ Yasmin said, startling her son.

Fahim always heard footsteps on the wooden floor of his room, but his mum had made it to his bedside without him noticing. The after-effects of the concussion left him able to see and hear, but his brain felt sluggish and seemed to focus tightly on one thought or sound, to the exclusion of everything else.

‘Earlier …’ Fahim began, as he looked at his mother. His throat ached from the suction tube that had been forced down his neck after he’d been sick for a second time.

‘We’ll talk about schooling when you’re better,’ Yasmin said softly. ‘Now you have to rest.’

‘This morning,’ Fahim insisted. ‘I heard Dad hit you. Why were you talking about that aeroplane? What’s it got to do with you?’

‘It’s complex …’ Yasmin stuttered uncomfortably. ‘Modern lifestyles are difficult … Your father had a traditional upbringing and I’m afraid I don’t make a traditional wife. You know he has a good heart. He loves us and provides everything we need.’

Fahim despised it when his mum made it sound like it was her own fault that she got knocked around, but that wasn’t his main concern.

‘The aeroplane,’ he repeated. ‘You changed the subject.’

There was a pause, during which Fahim tried to read his mother’s face. Was she thinking up a lie, trying to protect him, or just struggling to find the right words?

‘The plane that crashed was refitted by a company that belongs to your grandfather,’ Yasmin explained. ‘Your father arranges transport for some of their supplies.’

Fahim wasn’t entirely satisfied with the explanation. ‘But you sounded so worried.’

‘I remembered that we’d done some business with Anglo-Irish Airlines, that’s all. Your father was right – it’s his business and I totally overreacted.’

‘The way you were talking earlier, I thought Dad was a terrorist,’ Fahim admitted, as he broke into a relieved smile.

Yasmin raised her eyebrows and gently stroked his shoulder. ‘You really thought that, silly boy? No wonder you worked yourself into such a state earlier.’

*

James felt pretty good as he fell asleep. The work experience thing hadn’t gone to plan, but he was clever, good-looking and still only fifteen years old. He had a comfortable room and enough money to make life pleasant, while his occasional stints helping out the training instructors and his natural ability in maths meant that he was coping with lessons – although nobody would have accused him of being top of the class. He had loads of good friends, a little sister who was basically cool and he was nuzzling a pillow that smelled like the girlfriend he loved.

Unfortunately, James Adams wasn’t the only person on CHERUB campus who’d noticed the comfortable little rut he’d drifted into.

‘Get up, you scum-sucking, pinko-loving, marigold-sniffing son of a bag of horse shit,’ said a deep voice as his bedroom door crashed open and torchlight blasted his eyeballs.

James was muscular, and at seventy-three kilos he weighed as much as many grown men. But that didn’t stop a colossal set of arms from plucking him off the mattress and driving him down against the springs with such force that two wooden bed slats cracked beneath him.

‘Jesus,’ James groaned, as a hand pressed down on his forehead.

‘Fairycake-eating, panda-shagging grease ball. I’m gonna pee in a bucket and tip it on your Weetabix.’

Another voice came from behind. It was friendly but its owner was clearly getting a rise out of seeing James suffer. ‘All right James?’

It’s hard to make sense of anything when an enormous psycho is pitching you around like a squeaky toy in the mouth of a pit bull, but after a second James realised the second voice was Dave Moss. Dave had been the senior agent on two of James’ early CHERUB missions, but he’d left to go to university and James hadn’t seen him in almost two years.

‘I see you’ve met my good pal, Jake McEwen,’ Dave said. ‘Although he prefers it if you ditch the first name.’

‘Call me Jake and I’ll rip off your testicles and feed them to your sister,’ McEwen explained.

James had never met McEwen, who’d left campus before he was recruited, but he’d heard all about him. McEwen’s name was engraved on dozens of trophies in the dojo, and legend had it that McEwen had floored the legendary training instructor Norman Large with a single Karate blow when he was thirteen years old.

‘Dave,’ James spluttered.

He could only manage one word but it meant a lot. It meant:
Hello Dave I’m surprised to see you
, it meant:
Dave I thought we were mates could you please tell me what the hell is going on?
and above all else it meant:
Dave I think this nut job McEwen is going to kill me and I wonder if you’d be kind enough to stop him
.

But before James could get any more specific, McEwen had crammed a rubber gag into his mouth, then flipped him around, pressed a colossal knee against his back and ripped a set of handcuffs from his belt. James continued to struggle by tucking one of his wrists under his body.

‘Gimme that hand, Marigold, or I’ll rip your shoulder out of its socket and stick my boot so far up your arse that you’ll taste black polish in the back of your throat.’

James realised that heroism was going to get him nowhere and he let out a huge groan, before allowing McEwen to lock on the cuffs and drag him to his feet.

‘One black T-shirt, one pair of shorts and his boots,’ McEwen said.

James stood by while Dave Moss flicked on the light and picked two items of clothing and James’ muddy boots off the floor. With the light on, James saw that Dave had let his hair grow way down his back and had a long beard to go with it. With his army boots and white CHERUB T-shirt, Dave looked like a cross between a Hell’s Angel and Jesus.

‘There’s a rumour going around campus that you’re getting soft,’ Dave explained gently. ‘So Mr Kazakov has devised a little tune-up exercise.’

‘Enough chit-chat, you lollypop-sucking flower-arranger,’ McEwen said, as he shoved James in the back. ‘Let’s get you out to the training compound where no one can hear you scream.’

Fahim was still awake half an hour later when his parents began arguing downstairs. He couldn’t hear properly from his bed so he crept closer to the doors and opened a small crack.

‘The boy needs discipline,’ Hassam said determinedly. ‘I’ll speak to my father.’

Fahim’s heart rate surged when he heard this.

‘I’ll ask them to recommend a school,’ his father continued, ‘somewhere close to my family.’

‘We’ve always agreed that our son would stay here and have a proper English education,’ Yasmin said firmly. ‘I want him here, not thousands of miles away in Abu Dhabi.’

‘I can’t bear to look at Fahim,’ Hassam shouted. ‘With his Nikes and his Playstation, growing fat on Rolos and chocolate chip cookies. He knows nothing of his own culture or people.’

Yasmin laughed. ‘And how are his Nikes and Playstation different from your Rolexes and BMWs? You pretend you’re such a good Muslim when you visit your father, but you don’t own a prayer mat, you don’t observe Ramadan and you’ve never even set foot inside a mosque in this country.’

‘You can’t speak to me like this,’ Hassam shouted again, pounding his fist into his palm and making Fahim shudder with fright. ‘Until now I’ve left the boy’s upbringing to you, but he’s turned into a westernised brat.’

‘You only want him to go to school in Abu Dhabi to curry favour with your father. Our son isn’t a pawn.’

‘If it’s
my
will, Fahim will go to school in Abu Dhabi. How can it make him worse than he is already? How much will it cost me to repair these trophies and stained-glass windows?’

Yasmin took a deep breath. ‘If you send my son away, I’ll go to the police and tell them everything I know about that aeroplane.’

Fahim gasped. His mother had lied to him – or at least not told him the whole truth. He heard a slap and his mother screamed in pain.

The violence always turned Fahim’s stomach. Tears welled as he pushed open his bedroom doors. But the cries that usually lasted half a minute at most went on far longer and grew more desperate. Each moan ripped at his soul.

Fahim wasn’t strong enough to stop his father, but he hoped his presence might shame him into stopping. He walked unsteadily out of his room and leaned on the banister as he stumbled down the curving staircase. It felt like forever, battling to stay upright, with a swaying head and eyeballs refusing to focus.

‘Leave her alone,’ Fahim shouted, when he reached the archway into the living-room.

Yasmin was down on the floor crying. The coffee table was tipped over and a slick of glossy magazines spilled across the rug.

‘Do you spy on me now?’ Hassam roared, as he saw Fahim in the doorway. He was a powerful man, well past reasoning. Sweat drizzled down his face and his hairy fists seemed eager to inflict more pain.

‘I overheard the screaming,’ Fahim blurted. ‘She’s half your size. Why can’t you leave her alone?’

‘Don’t interfere, Fahim,’ Yasmin sobbed, as her nose rained red spots on to the rug.

‘Get back to bed,’ Hassam ordered, pointing back to the staircase. ‘Do you want to feel my belt?’

‘For god’s sake, he’s sick,’ Yasmin wailed. ‘Leave him alone.’

Hassam turned around and kicked his wife in the stomach. She howled with pain as she doubled up close to the leather couch.

‘You will both learn to respect me,’ Hassam screamed, as he unbuckled and ripped his belt from his trousers. ‘This is my home. I’m the head of this household.’

Fahim turned to run but there was no power in his legs and the metal buckle caught him on the shoulder blade, tearing his skin. The pain made his head tilt back in spasm and the boy landed heavily on bare knees as the second swipe caught the back of his head.

‘There will be discipline in my house,’ Hassam boomed. ‘I can’t tolerate this behaviour.’

Fahim sobbed and shivered as he crawled on the cool marble, but his father kept swinging with the belt.

‘For god’s sake you’ll kill him,’ Yasmin shouted, as she crawled forward and wrapped her arms around her husband’s legs. ‘He’s eleven years old.’

Fahim moaned with relief as his father backed off. ‘Get up to your room,’ he ordered. ‘And stay there until I call you.’

*

A CHERUB agent’s worst nightmare is being singled out for an individual training exercise. Usually this only happens when you break the rules, or drop below the required level of physical fitness. James was in good shape and fairly sure that he hadn’t been caught breaking any rules, but it was still a relief when McEwen opened the back door of a minibus and James saw that he wasn’t alone.

‘Get in, Marigold,’ McEwen said, as he took off the handcuffs.

James stepped into the van and Dave Moss threw his boots, shorts and T-shirt after him. ‘Put ’em on,’ he said grudgingly.

The van was used exclusively by the training department, mainly for ferrying around kids in basic training. The carpet and seats were caked in mud and a hint of sweat lurked in the air. James found a cramped seat and nodded to Gabrielle and a couple of other familiar faces as he pulled his black CHERUB T-shirt over his bare chest. After his head popped through, he looked up front and saw the chief instructor, Mr Pike, in the driving seat as well as his sister, Lauren. She was smaller than anyone else. That’s when James realised what was going on.

‘We’re all black shirts,’ he said.

‘Looks like it,’ Gabrielle nodded.

James looked out the window and saw another minibus with black shirts on board and the instructor Mr Kazakov in the driving seat. Dana was one of the last to get dragged out of bed. She sat next to James as McEwen and Dave Moss climbed aboard and slammed the back doors behind them.

‘Ready to roll, Mr Pike,’ McEwen said exuberantly.

They waited a few minutes while the last black shirt was brought down and thrown in the other van, then Pike sped away with Kazakov’s van close behind. They took a right turn as they passed around the back of the main building.

Dana looked up from lacing her boot and gave James a relieved smile: a left turn would have taken them through the gardens towards the exit for an off-campus training exercise that might have lasted days. The right turn meant they were staying on campus, where exercises rarely lasted more than twenty-four hours.