Free Grey Wolves by Robert Muchamore Page B

wrong?’
    ‘I thought you couldn’t concentrate with my constant interference.’
    Rosie let out a slow groan, then hesitated for a moment before flinging her door open and splashing down into the gravel road.
    ‘Do you want me to drive?’ PT asked.
    It was raining so hard that water streaked out of Rosie’s long dark hair. ‘I hate you,’ she said with a sob. ‘I don’t want anything from you or this dopey truck. Just bugger off!’
    Rosie slammed the truck door and stormed uphill. PT crossed over to the driver’s seat, then yelled after her.
    ‘You’ll catch pneumonia.’
    Rosie spun around and gave PT the finger. ‘Drop dead.’
    ‘I’m not the one getting drowned.’ PT told himself calmly, as he started the engine. He’d tried his hardest to help Rosie with her driving, but she was naturally bossy and didn’t like taking instructions. Rather than try to pick her up, he decided to teach her a lesson.
    ‘It’s about a mile past the hilltop,’ PT said, as he roared past Rosie, throwing up a sheet of spray. ‘See you down there.’
    The country lane took a few twists, passing barns and cottages, before he turned through a dark-blue gate and down a boggy path towards a dilapidated railway carriage standing on bricks.
    ‘I’m here about a pig,’ PT told the overalled farmer who came out to greet him.
    ‘Pig, eh?’ he said suspiciously. ‘Who says I’ve got pigs? Pigs are strictly controlled and licensed. You can go to prison for illegal pigs.’
    PT smiled as he jumped down from the cab. ‘I heard about you from a friend,’ he explained. ‘She tells me you like a good whisky. Does Speyside, fifteen-year-old, sound good?’
    The farmer’s craggy face lit up as PT reached into the truck and produced two bottles of Scotland’s finest.
    ‘Impossible to get hold of,’ PT said. ‘Whole supply goes to America to earn dollars for the war effort, but I can throw these in the deal if you did happen to have an unlicensed pig for sale.’
    The farmer took half a step back and glowered. ‘Don’t like people knowing my business. Who’s your friend exactly?’
    ‘Lady by the name of Pippa. She’s the cook with my unit up at the artillery range. We’re having a celebration tonight, but it might go flat if all we’ve got is tins of corned beef.’
    ‘Well, if Pippa sent you …’ the farmer said, as he took one of the whisky bottles and turned it admiringly in his hand. ‘Fifteen-year-old Speyside. I suppose there might be an animal I can spare.’
    ‘Who’d have thought it?’ PT smiled.
    *
    Charles Henderson made a dash from his cottage to CHERUB HQ, which was situated in an abandoned village school less than fifty metres away. He held a large umbrella in one hand, and clasped a tiny baby to his chest with the other. Troy’s eight-year-old brother spotted him through the frosted glass and held the door open.
    ‘Cheers, Mason,’ Henderson said gratefully. ‘Would you shake off the brolly and put it in the stand for me?’
    ‘How’s little Terence doing, sir?’ Mason asked, as he took the umbrella.
    ‘Not too badly,’ Henderson said, as he crouched in front of a small glass case. It was home to Mavis, a large hairy spider who’d been made CHERUB’s official mascot.
    ‘This is Mavis,’ Henderson told his son softly, as he stroked his tiny head. ‘She’s big and nasty, and if you’re not careful she’ll gobble you up. Very much like your mother, come to think of it.’
    Terence was much too small to understand, but Mason laughed.
    ‘I still can’t believe how tiny he is,’ Mason said. ‘He’s the smallest baby ever .’
    ‘He was born two months before he was due, but he’s got a good set of lungs and he’s up to nearly seven pounds now.’
    ‘So have you decided who’s going over to France yet?’ Mason asked.
    ‘Well you’re only eight, so we can safely rule you out.’
    Mason laughed. ‘I know that, sir. But it’s all my brother and his mates keep talking about.