CHERUB: The Sleepwalker (27 page)

‘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 down 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.

‘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.

‘Come on, son,’ he said gently. ‘It can’t be all that bad.’

‘He has emotional problems,’ Hassam explained politely, trying to sound like a decent parent despite stinging eyes and a huge welt where the club had struck his face. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

‘You’ve got to believe me,’ Fahim shouted, looking at the golfers as his father found his feet. ‘Don’t let him touch me. Someone call the cops.’

‘Fahim Bin Hassam?’ a woman shouted.

All eyes turned towards a pair of policewomen sprinting out of the clubhouse. They carried assault rifles and wore full protective gear, including Kevlar helmets and visors over their faces.

‘Over there,’ a lady golfer shouted as the magnitude of what was occurring rippled through the crowd.

Fahim felt an instant of relief, but as the crowd focused on the approaching cops, Hassam pulled a knife from inside his jacket. He grabbed Fahim by his collar and put the serrated blade to his throat.

‘Stay back,’ Hassam shouted. ‘Lower your weapons or I’ll slit him open.’

As Hassam trembled, the metal teeth nicked the skin around Fahim’s throat. The golfers were all taking refuge inside the clubhouse, leaving a stand-off between Hassam and the two armed policewomen.

‘Put the knife down,’ the taller of the two officers ordered, eyeing Hassam through her scope. ‘If you make me shoot, I guarantee I won’t miss.’

But Hassam knew the officers couldn’t risk firing while the blade was so close to his son’s throat and he started backing into the shadows beneath the willow trees.

‘It’s over, Dad,’ Fahim choked, as his father dragged him backwards. ‘Let me go.’

‘I won’t rot in prison,’ Hassam whispered coldly, backing up to a gnarled trunk. ‘If they shoot me down I’m taking you with me.’

*

Muna leaned out of the back gate of number sixteen. A wave of panic hit her as she saw the stand-off between her brother-in-law and the two armed officers less than fifty metres away.

‘What’s happening, Mummy?’ Jala asked, as the seven-year-old tried getting a look for herself.

‘Back,’ Muna said firmly. She pulled the metal gate shut and gave her daughter a shove towards the house. ‘Run inside, pick up your things. We’re leaving.’

‘But what about Daddy and Fahim and Uncle Hassam?’ the little girl asked as her mother rested a hand against her back to make her hurry.

‘We’ll all meet up later,’ Muna said impatiently. Her mind was churning. She didn’t know what to do or where to go, but she realised she had to clear out. Her main hope was that Asif would call back and arrange a place to meet.

As Muna scooped her keys and mobile off the kitchen cabinet, Jala began shuffling her card game back into its cardboard packet.

‘No time for that,’ Muna said, grabbing her daughter’s wrist.

‘But it’s my favourite,’ Jala whined as her mother dragged her towards the front door.

‘We’ll buy another one, sweetie. It’s not safe here now, we have to leave.’

Muna unlocked her Volvo with the plipper and walked around to the driver’s side as Jala opened the front passenger door and clambered through to her booster seat in the back. But Muna froze when she discovered the flattened front tyre.

She cursed in Arabic before crouching down to try and see what had caused the wheel to deflate. Jala screamed as she saw the guns coming towards them through the bushes.

‘Hands in the air,’ an armed cop shouted, straddling the low wall between the houses. His partner came out from behind a hedge on the other side. ‘Do you have any weapons?’

Muna didn’t answer but Jala screamed, ‘Don’t kill my mummy,’ from inside the car.

‘No weapons,’ Muna shouted, holding her hands out wide as the cops stopped walking a metre behind her.

‘Who else is inside the house?’

‘Nobody,’ Muna said. ‘They went out the back gate.’

As the first cop frisked Muna, the second called in a backup unit parked fifty metres down the road.

Mac ran across the gravel as a pair of uniformed officers put Muna into handcuffs and coaxed a sobbing Jala from inside the car. He overheard news about the stand-off from a police radio as one of the armed officers used Muna’s key to enter the house.

The officers pointed their guns up the stairway and one raced upstairs shouting, ‘Police, surrender,’ as his companion kicked open the doors of the living-and dining-rooms before checking the kitchen and the cupboard under the stairs.