“No!” Max yelled, unable to keep the shout of denial in his head.
Was it the hot water or the tears that stung his eyes? He slid down the shower wall and sat huddled, arms round his knees.
Max had endured a lot of violence when he’d tried to save his father in Africa. Now the tormented whisperings of his mind-that his dad, whom he loved so much, might have betrayed them both by lying to him and abandoning his mother to die-was a poison eating away his insides.
Max stayed hunched until the racking sobs and tears ended; then he washed the snot from his face and turned off the shower.
The open window allowed steam to escape. Cold air prickled his skin. He didn’t mind. He felt better now. Cleansed of the moor’s grime. Emptied of self-pity. Stronger.
He needed food and sleep.
Then to find out if his dad had really lied to him.
And why Danny Maguire had been killed.
3
Max fell asleep at the long, scrubbed table in the school’s kitchen before he’d finished his meal. Fergus Jackson left him where he sprawled, threw an old multicolored blanket from his study over the boy and let him be.
He’d been relieved when Max had volunteered to take part in the Dartmoor exercise when an older boy could not compete due to an injury, because Max Gordon had started behaving erratically. His temper was short, his attitude often sullen. Jackson knew teenagers got like that: all part of “growing into your skin” is what he told them. But this was something different. Max was carrying a burden, and he wasn’t sharing it. It was probably something to do with his injured father.
Sayid Khalif and Max were as thick as thieves, but Jackson’s questioning of Sayid had yielded nothing to explain Max’s recent behavior. And Jackson suspected that Max Gordon had not shared whatever was bothering him with even his best friend.
“Get your elbows off the table, bog rat!” A boot kicked the chair and Max tumbled onto the floor. He rolled instinctively, protecting his head, and quickly found his balance.
Baskins!
The older boy grinned-it was what he would have done to his best mate, Hoggart, if he’d been there instead of Max. But Hoggart’s parents had dragged away their protesting son to spend time together on a stupid holiday, on a beach somewhere abroad where there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to do. Baskins had managed to avert a similar fate with his family and had opted to spend the half-term at Dartmoor High, where at least there were enough boys remaining for seven-a-side.
“Don’t bog rats’ mothers teach them table manners?” Baskins teased as he raided the fridge, foraging for breakfast.
Sometimes when you open your mouth and say something, the warning bells don’t ring loudly or quickly enough. Baskins just about managed a look of regret before Max’s lunge took the heavier boy rolling across the kitchen floor. Pans clattered. The big milk jug on the table couldn’t resist gravity and shattered on the stone floor. A chair splintered.
Max straddled Baskins’s chest, twisting his rugby shirt in a double grip that threatened to choke him. Baskins was stronger than Max, but he couldn’t kick free. Giddying splodges of light blurred his vision. He was starting to black out. Spittle rattled in his throat; his eyes were bulging. He hit Max on the side of the head with his fist. It made no impression.
Max Gordon was going to kill him!
Fergus Jackson burst in, grabbing one of Max’s arms as Mr. Roberts, the sports master, held the other.
“Max! Enough! Let go, Max!” Jackson shouted. For a moment, they could not loosen his grip, and Max shot a look at him, which sent a shudder through Jackson. Something other than rage and intent glinted in Max’s eyes-it was as if a wild animal had been snared and was about to fight for its life.
Then Max eased his grip slightly, Jackson’s commands breaking through his blinding haze of anger. Between them, Jackson and Roberts hauled Max off the gasping boy.
Max crouched, ready to attack. Jackson was scared. He had never seen Max behave in such an uncontrolled, aggressive manner. No one moved; then Roberts put himself between Max and Baskins, a warning hand raised.
“Enough!” Roberts shouted.
“Max,” Jackson said more quietly. “Max, it’s all right, boy. It’s all right.” They could see Max physically relax and come out of whatever zone he’d been in. He nodded.
“Sorry, Baskins,” he said dutifully, but the look he gave Baskins as he left the room allowed no doubt in anyone’s mind that the fight had been stopped just in time.
“What did you say to him?” Jackson asked.
“Nothing, sir. Well, I just gave him a poke to wake him up and asked if his mother hadn’t taught him any manners.” He pulled a face. “I forgot about his mum.”
Max walked down the corridor with Mr. Jackson. He really hadn’t wanted to apologize, but his parents’ influence and his own sense of shame pushed those feelings aside. His dad had always told him that only unthinking thugs attacked without provocation. Baskins mentioning his mum seemed perfect justification to Max, though he knew it wasn’t. Besides, he hadn’t wanted to let Mr. Jackson down.
“Apology accepted,” Mr. Jackson said. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“All right. Well, you know you can whenever you wish.”
Max nodded.
Mr. Jackson pulled a coat from a long row of hooks. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”
Max grabbed his jacket and followed Mr. Jackson, who had already pulled open the side door to the cobbled yards at the back of the school. It was ear-nippingly cold, but the various outbuildings broke the wind’s direct assault.
“I want to tell you something, Max, and I don’t want to be interrupted while I do so.”
Max waited. Jackson looked as though he was about to break bad news. “One of our ex-pupils died a few days ago. His name was Danny Maguire.”
Max had to fake it: “Sorry to hear that, sir.” He listened as Jackson recounted the visit by the MI5 impostors. Was Max in trouble? Was there any connection between Maguire, these men and Max? Did he know anything about drug smuggling? Max denied all knowledge of anything Jackson asked him. Telling the truth might hinder his investigation into what had really happened to his mother-and why Maguire had died.
“And you have received nothing in the post from Maguire?”
“Like what, sir?” Max said, hoping Jackson might know something more.
“I don’t know. Anyway, I shall be speaking to the police about this matter, so think hard and long about whether there is anything that might tell us who those men were. I’m not at all sure what’s going on. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but I want you to stay in school for a couple of weeks.”
“Like a prisoner, sir?”
“Only until I have some answers. I appreciate that your life is not how you would like it to be, but you have good friends here, and I hope you know that all the staff, myself included, hold you in the highest regard.”
Max nodded. There was no denying that Dartmoor High had become his home. There was nowhere else for him to be.
Mr. Jackson put a fatherly arm on the boy’s shoulder. “If I can arrange it, would you like to speak to your
