* * *
2Penal colony – a prison in the French colonies where inmates were expected to do backbreaking physical work.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mrs Mujard stood on the front steps of a five-storey apartment block, trying to get her money’s worth out of a cigarette stub. The elderly woman had been the building’s concierge for more than thirty years and could now barely move on the lattice of varicose veins that passed for her legs.
Her eyebrows shot up guiltily when she saw Mr Clarke’s Citroën swing into a parking bay across the street and she shuffled back to the chest-high reception desk as Rosie and Paul came into the lobby.
‘Hello, Madame,’ Paul said brightly. ‘Any post?’
Mrs Mujard pulled three envelopes from one of the cubby holes behind her. Paul aimed his Toblerone at her.
‘Chocolate?’ he asked brightly.
The elderly lady shuddered. ‘Sticks in my teeth.’ And then she looked up at Mr Clarke, who’d stepped into the lobby holding his briefcase. ‘I have news,’ she said gloomily.
Mujard always had news. News could be anything from a new tenant to someone overfilling their bath and damaging the flat below. Recently, all of Mujard’s news had been about tenants packing up to leave the city.
‘I’d love to catch up on the gossip,’ Mr Clarke said, ‘but we’re heading south. I want to get on the road as soon as possible.’
‘The news is about your apartment, sir.’
Mujard never came straight out with a story. People were more inclined to stay and gossip if you fed them slivers.
‘My apartment?’ Mr Clarke asked, as Paul and Rosie turned away from the foot of the staircase.
‘Yes sir,’ Mujard said, nodding grimly, but making no attempt to go further.
Mr Clarke sounded impatient. ‘What about our apartment?’
‘The police.’
This hook was enough to make Paul and Rosie walk back to the reception desk.
‘What would the police want with us?’ Rosie asked.
Mujard shrugged and Mr Clarke slammed his palm on the countertop, making her jump. Paul and Rosie were startled. Their father was a mild man, but he definitely wasn’t himself today.
‘I have two children,’ Mr Clarke said, almost begging. ‘I need to get them out of the city. Now if you have information, please tell me quickly.’
Mujard looked offended. ‘There’s no need to shout,’ she said, but she was secretly delighted by the outburst. ‘Three detectives, plain clothes. They asked where you were and came with a warrant to search your apartment.’
Mr Clarke glanced at his watch. ‘How long ago?’
‘Two or three hours. They asked where you might be. I explained that you were a salesman and said you’d either be at your office, or on the road.’
Mr Clarke glanced anxiously at his car outside, then at the children. ‘We need to leave Paris now.’
He grabbed Paul’s arm and dragged him towards the street. ‘What’s going on?’ the boy asked anxiously. ‘Why are the police looking for you?’
‘I don’t think they are,’ Mr Clarke said cryptically. ‘I’ll explain everything in the car.’
Rosie protested. ‘But we’re here now. I don’t have a change of clothes, or a toothbrush or …’
Clarke thought for a second. It was a long journey and comforts such as a change of clothes and a few personal items would make it far more tolerable.
‘I suppose,’ he said, looking at Rosie. Then he thanked Mujard for the information and began bounding up the narrow staircase to the fourth floor, taking the steps two at a time. ‘We’ve got to be out of here in five minutes,’ he continued. ‘Grab some essentials: clothes, toiletries, small personal items. I don’t want the car stuffed with toys and junk.’
The trio were breathless by the time they reached the door of apartment sixteen. Mujard had unlocked for the police officers, so the door was intact, but the apartment had been ransacked. Drawers were emptied over the floor, a tall lamp had been knocked down and one of the sofas had been tipped on its back with its bottom sliced open to see if anything was hidden inside.
Paul looked shaken as Rosie bent down and began gathering pieces of a broken Wedgwood plate that had belonged to her great-grandmother.
‘Forget that,’ Mr Clarke barked, grabbing his daughter’s arm and hoisting her up. ‘They’re not police … I’ve told you I’ll explain later. Right now we’ve got to pack up and leave.’
Mr Clarke gave Rosie a nudge towards her bedroom, then he walked into the kitchen and began opening cupboards, searching for food to take on the journey. Paul started towards his room, but he knew he’d need to pee before setting off so he cut into the bathroom and bolted the door.
Paul still missed his mother and the bathroom evoked her memory. He could remember splashing around in the bath with Rosie when they were little and his fascination with his mother’s paraphernalia of perfumes, make-up and a giant glass jar stuffed with balls of cotton wool. Her half of the bathroom shelf was now clinically empty and he tried putting this out of mind as he unbuttoned his grey shorts and tried to pee.
‘Thinking about it, you’d both better change clothes,’ Mr Clarke shouted, from the living room. ‘Your uniforms are very English. It’s best if you blend in.’
Paul hurriedly washed his hands and was pulling his shirt over his head as he stepped out of the bathroom and clattered into Rosie. She was carrying a suitcase of clothes towards the front door.
‘Watch it, bone head,’ she yelled, shoving Paul against the wall.
Stupidly, Paul hadn’t bothered undoing any of his shirt buttons and one of them popped off as he staggered blindly into his bedroom. He threw the shirt and the vest inside it on the bed and glanced around quickly, wondering which of his things he wanted to take. He decided on the alarm clock he’d had for Christmas, all of his clothes – he only had two pairs of long trousers and three shirts anyway – and as much of his painting and drawing equipment as he thought he’d be able to get away with without making his dad mad.
But before he could pack anything, Paul realised he’d need one of the cases stashed under the bed in his father’s room. He spun around quickly, but was surprised to hear his bedroom door click shut and see a man step out from behind it.
Paul dropped his jaw to scream, but within a second a hand was clamped to his face. A fingertip slipped into his mouth and he bit down hard. The man hissed with pain, but it wasn’t enough to stop him shoving Paul backwards on to the bed and pressing the barrel of a pistol against the bridge of his nose.
‘Be silent, or die,’ the man said.
His French sounded fluent, but his accent was unmistakeably German.
CHAPTER FIVE
Marc shared an attic bedroom with twenty other orphans. Their metal bunks were crammed so tight that boys who slept at the far end had to clamber over mattresses to get in or out. To make matters worse Director Tomas had ordered the only window nailed shut after a boy had tumbled out during a mass brawl, and the lack of fresh air left the room with a fragrance you’d be unlikely to find in any Paris boutique.
After Sister Madeline had patched him up, Marc had wiped his eyes and limped up four flights. He’d bloodied several noses to earn the privilege of a top bunk, but Marc’s balls and stomach were agony as he struggled to haul himself on to the mattress. Despite the heat, pain and a couple of little kids jumping between the lower bunks and making a racket, Marc was exhausted and quickly fell asleep.
No boy caned by the director was allowed to eat until the following morning and, having slept through the early evening, Marc woke at nine p.m. and was annoyed to find himself wide awake, headachey and starving, as his roommates noisily stripped for bed.
Most boys had been playing outdoors and it was too hot for pyjamas, so the room thronged with sweaty limbs clambering over mattresses and shrill voices disputing the score of a football match. Some of the tiniest boys had trained themselves to ignore the noise and were already aslee
p.
Two stinking feet rested on the edge of Marc’s mattress, centimetres from his face. He tried to sit up, intending to slap them away, but he moaned with pain as the congealed blood on his back ripped away from his sheets.
‘Look who’s awake,’ the owner of the feet sneered, and before Marc knew it bodies were clambering over squeaking bed frames towards him. Nine-year-old Jacques, who slept below, stood on the edge of his bunk and peered over Marc’s pillow. He got the first proper glance at his back.
‘Holy shit that’s bad,’ Jacques gasped.
Six others were soon either trying to get behind Marc or shouting requests for him to turn around so they could see his injuries.
‘Does that hurt?’ Jacques teased, as he pushed a finger against one of Marc’s cuts.
‘Piss off,’ Marc shouted. ‘Do that again and you’ll get a punch.’ But Marc was fond of his little bunkmate and Jacques knew it was an idle threat.
By this time someone had grabbed the heavily-stained blanket covering Marc’s legs, revealing his most dramatic injury: a deep gash where the cane’s metal tip had torn into his thigh.
‘Nasty,’ someone said as all the others backed away.
‘And Tomas’ heel mark on his belly,’ another noted. ‘He messed you up, Marc! What did you do?’
‘Leave off,’ Marc said grumpily, snatching his blanket back. But there were six lads in his face and he knew there was no way they’d give him any peace until he’d explained.
‘Is it true you were snogging Jae Morel?’ someone asked.
Marc’s head was pounding, but the pressure was on. If he looked weak the lads would rip him to shreds.
‘Sure,’ Marc said, putting on a grin. ‘She was all over me. I had my hands on her tits and everything.’
‘You dog!’ an older boy at the back of the crowd shouted.
But Marc’s nemesis, Lanier, was determined to prick his bubble. All boys had their slot in the pecking order and behaved accordingly. The trouble was, Marc and Lanier fitted the same one. They were the same age, had the same kind of stocky physique, and the result was an intense rivalry that stretched all the way back to fighting over toys as toddlers.
‘Jae Morel hasn’t even got boobs,’ Lanier snorted.
‘How would you know?’ Marc sneered. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘I spoke to Denis when he got back from Morel’s fields,’ Lanier said. ‘He told me you went psycho and threw Jae in the slurry pit.’
Lanier’s attempt to put Marc down for lying about getting off with a girl would have worked with teenagers, but Marc’s audience was younger and in their eyes throwing a girl into a slurry pit was way better than kissing her.
‘Totally worth the beating,’ Jacques said loyally. ‘Welts heal, legends live for ever!’
The rest of the crowd murmured in agreement and Lanier was furious. ‘Well, you wait, Marc,’ he said, wagging his finger. ‘The director will find you a new job now and it’ll be so much worse.’
Jacques shot Lanier a look of contempt. ‘How could it be worse than mucking out cows?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lanier said defensively, as his face reddened with anger. But he knew he was losing the argument so he dropped through the narrow gap between two mattresses and retreated between the tightly packed beds to his own on the far side of the room.
Meanwhile a scrawny fourteen year old called Gerard had stepped in and stood near the door unlacing his muddy work boots. He was the oldest boy who still slept on a lower bunk. He was jealous of Marc, but too weak to challenge him physically.
‘You’ll never believe what I saw,’ Gerard told the room, with an air of sarcasm. ‘The director had me repairing the front fence where that army truck clipped it. I came back in to put the tools away. You know that little cupboard under the stairs, opposite the sick room?’
There were a few nods and yeses as Marc realised what was coming.
‘I could hear little Marc with Sister Madeline,’ Gerard beamed. ‘He was sobbing his heart out. Oh Sister Madeline, I’m so sad. I don’t like it here. Jae was really sweet and special. Nobody loves me. I can’t stand it any more. I want to run away. Boo, hoo, hoo! ’
A few nervous laughs erupted as sets of eyeballs turned on Marc.
‘You’re so full of shit,’ Marc tutted. ‘I might have moaned a bit when she put the iodine on my cuts, but no way was I crying.’
‘You looked like you’d been crying when I passed you on the stairs earlier,’ Jacques noted.
‘I need to get out of here,’ Gerard teased. ‘I’m so worthless. I can’t stand my life any more.’
Marc could see that most of the room believed Gerard’s version of events and the pressure not to admit weakness felt like a vice crushing his head. Under normal circumstances he would have settled it by planting his fist in Gerard’s face, but right now he wasn’t even sure he could stand up straight, let alone fight.
To make matters worse, Lanier sensed that Marc was now on the back foot and moved in for the kill.
‘You’re such a girl, Kilgour,’ Lanier said, rushing back towards Marc’s bed. ‘Remember at Easter, the last time Tomas really caned into you? You were practically crying then. And you were going on with this big rant about how you were gonna get Tomas back and how you were gonna run away. But nothing happened, because you’re all mouth.’
‘I’ve thought about running,’ Marc said. ‘You never know, I just might some day.’
‘Full of crap,’ Lanier shouted. ‘Stick to crying for Sister Madeline.’
Everyone laughed except Marc and his loyal bunkmate Jacques.
‘We’ve all thought about getting out of here,’ Jacques said. ‘But there’s no point running away. Everyone gets busted and Tomas batters them and puts them on bread and water.’
‘I know that,’ Lanier said. ‘But it’s the way Marc goes on about it all the time, like he’s some Mr Big or something.’
‘You’re lucky I’m injured, Lanier,’ Marc shouted. ‘Remember when you were down in the grass begging me to stop pounding your weak arse?’
‘I’ll fight you right now,’ Lanier shouted, as he clambered over the mattresses.
A couple of jeers went up and Jacques summed up the mood. ‘I could beat Marc up, the state he’s in at the moment.’
But the other boys backed away as Lanier crawled across the mattresses. He ended up kneeling across the tiny gap between Marc’s bunk and the next with his fists bunched. Marc was in no state to fight, but Lanier clearly wasn’t in the mood to show mercy.
As Lanier wound up his first punch, Marc kicked out. His foot connected with enough force to knock Lanier off balance, while at the same moment he grabbed the frame of his bunk and threw his weight to one side with enough force to shift the metal bed off its feet and several centimetres to one side.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to dislodge Lanier and he crashed helplessly into the narrow gap between beds, his knees hitting the floorboards with a bang.
‘I’ll kill you,’ Lanier screamed, scrambling up as Jacques dived away in fright. Marc kicked out at Lanier’s head, but it was only a glancing blow and before Marc knew it Lanier had grabbed his ankle and twisted it around painfully before dragging him down on to Jacques’ bunk.
‘Now you’re mine,’ Lanier smiled, as he swung his knee over Marc’s waist.
Marc would have dodged easily if he’d been fit, but his body ached from the caning and before he knew it Lanier had his shoulder pinned to the mattress.
‘Now what you gonna do?’ Lanier gloated, as he slammed Marc’s nose with his fist.
Marc wriggled, but couldn’t break free as hard punches rained on his face and chest.
‘Leave him!’ Jacques shouted, as he bravely tried to pull Lanier off.
But suddenly everything in the attic room seemed to be vibrating and there was an increasingly loud droning sound outside. As curious boys rushed towards the window, Lanier was distracted. Marc brought up both knees and managed to fr
ee an arm.
A burst of machine-gun fire ripped across the front of the orphanage and was followed by a huge explosion out on the road.
‘Stuka dive bomber!’ someone shouted.
The building shook as Marc and Lanier rolled uneasily away from each other. The other boys were all crowded around the window looking out back.
‘It’s on fire,’ someone shouted. ‘Coming right for us!’
Marc was startled as stricken boys raced over, under and between the bunks towards the staircase, which was already crowded with kids from the other attic bedroom who’d acted faster. As the orphanage roof continued to shudder, dust wafted down from creaking joists above Marc’s head.
There were screams on the overcrowded staircase and the oil lamps in the hallway swung violently as the wooden frame of the orphanage lurched half a metre, tilting several frightened boys down the staircase.
After a few seconds in complete darkness, Marc looked down and saw that he was the last boy in the bedroom, apart from a tearful three year old who’d wandered from the next room in a state of panic.
‘Come on, mate,’ Marc said, scooping the toddler into his aching arms and edging painfully through the darkness towards the chaos on the staircase. Boys had fallen on top of one another when the building had shaken and the tangle of arms and legs on the landing was worsened by desperate boys trying to escape by scrabbling over them.
The building lurched once again and this time several windows shattered. The cracking of glass was instantly followed by a colossal bang and a wave of heat and light that sucked all the moisture out of the air. The toddler’s fingers dug into the welts on Marc’s back as the oil lamps dimmed, whilst desperate screams and a grey haze rose up the stairwell.
CHAPTER SIX
Paul nodded obediently as he moved his hands into a surrender position.
‘Good boy,’ the German said, smiling coldly. He was a slim man with small black eyes and he reeked of the tonic he used to slick down his hair. ‘How many are in the house?’