Free Henderson's Boys: The Escape by Robert Muchamore

travelling alone was nothing out of the ordinary.
    ‘Is your bike any good?’
    ‘Fine,’ Marc said.
    The young ticket officer smiled. ‘Why don’t you ride? Paris is less than sixty kilometres. If you set off now and keep a steady pace you’ll reach the outskirts by morning.’
    Marc looked uncertain. ‘I have money. Is there a place in town I could rest? Then I could set off once it gets light.’
    ‘Your choice.’ The ticket collector shrugged. ‘But the German air force is targeting the main roads. They’re less active at night and you can take cover more easily if they do come at you.’
    It was ten o’clock and Marc would normally be in bed by now, but after the craziest day of his life he reckoned he’d be unlikely to sleep even if he tried.
    ‘Is it easy?’ Marc asked. ‘I mean, I won’t get lost or anything?’
    ‘It’s Paris, for the lord’s sake,’ the ticket officer said, smirking. ‘The road leads straight there. You just ride back down towards the river and turn right. Within a few minutes you’ll come to the edge of town and a three-way fork. You take the middle road. There’s no mistaking it because it’s wider than the others. Then it’s basically a straight ride all the way to Paris.’
    ‘Great.’ Marc smiled. ‘Thanks so much for your help.’
    Marc wheeled the bike away from the ticket counter and headed back to the street. He was daunted by the prospect of such a long ride, but as he looked at the pitiful humans around the station he realised that with money, a bike and decent health on his side he was much better off than any of them.
    He was touched by pity as he pedalled away, but he also drew satisfaction from the sense that he wasn’t on the bottom of the pile. It took a painful twinge from his thigh to prick this bubble. His leg had been OK on the journey from the orphanage, but he wondered anxiously if it would stand an all-night ride.
    After clearing the station, Marc decided to buy something to drink. No shops were open this late, so he took a left and headed back towards the cafés.
    There seemed to be little difference between one café and another, so Marc stopped at the first and wheeled his bike towards the entrance. The circular tables outside were packed tight and while a couple of ladies pulled in their chairs to let him between the first set, a man sitting with his boots on the next table tutted and shooed him away with his hand.
    Marc was perturbed, but he was spotted by a waitress holding a tray of beers and she came over to ask what he wanted.
    ‘Just some water for a journey,’ he explained, as he pulled out a ten-franc note. ‘I’m cycling to Paris.’
    The waitress told him to wait and after dropping off the beers she came back holding a large mineral water bottle with a screw-on cap.
    ‘How much?’ Marc asked, as he realised that another of his weaknesses was that he had little idea of what things cost.
    ‘It’s on the house for a sweet boy like you,’ the waitress said warmly.
    As Marc took the cool bottle and smiled gratefully a great roar of laughter went up from the table beside him.
    ‘He’s a bit young for one of your toy boys, Sabine,’ a drunken man jeered.
    ‘Would you fancy a roll in the sack with her, kid?’ his companion teased, as he reached out and grabbed the attractive waitress’s bum.
    ‘Thank you, miss,’ Marc said, trying to ignore the remarks.
    ‘Leave him be,’ Sabine said, as she cuffed one of the drunks around the head. ‘You’re embarrassing the poor kid.’
    The laughter dried up as an orange flash erupted in the distance, followed by three thumps that set ripples through the glasses of beer on the table.
    ‘Bloody hell,’ the waitress said, as she looked over her shoulder towards the light. ‘Sounded more like artillery that time.’ Then she looked at Marc again. ‘You ride safe, OK? And say hello to Paris for me.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Marc said for what felt like at least the sixth time, as he pulled