Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [36]
He went over to the door, then turned around one last time.
“You’re a real hero, Alex,” he said. “I hope I made that clear from the start. There aren’t many boys your age who actually believe in their country. You’re a patriot and I respect that. I’m really privileged to have met you.” He waved a hand. “Don’t get up. I’ll show myself out.” And then he was gone.
Neither Jack nor Alex said anything until they heard the front door close. Then Jack went out to make sure the journalist had really left. Alex stayed where he was. He was in shock. He was trying to think of what it would all mean. He would become world famous. There was no doubt of that. His photograph would be in all the newspapers and magazines, and he would never be able to walk down the street again, not without being pointed out as some sort of curiosity . . . a freak. He would have to leave Brookland, of course. He might even have to leave the UK. He could say good-bye to his home, to his friends, to any chance of a normal life.
He felt a black anger welling up inside him. How could he have allowed this to happen?
Jack came back into the room. “He’s gone,” she said. She sat down at the table. The photographs were still spread out in front of her. “Why didn’t you tell me about the cemetery?” she asked.
There was no accusation in her voice, but Alex knew she was upset. “I wanted to,” he said. “But it happened so soon after Scotland that I thought you’d be worried.”
“I’d be more worried if I thought you weren’t telling me when you were in trouble.”
“I’m sorry, Jack.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Jack gathered the photographs into a pile and placed them facedown. “He wasn’t quite as clever as he thought,” she said. “He didn’t know everything about you. He’d only found out about three of your missions. And he said you trained in the Lake District. He got that wrong too.”
“He knew enough,” Alex said.
“So what are we going to do?”
“We can’t let him write this story.” Alex felt a hollow in his chest. “He doesn’t care about me. He just wants to use me. He’s going to ruin everything.”
Jack reached out and took his hand. “Don’t worry, Alex. We’ll stop him.”
“How?” Alex thought for a moment, then answered his own question. “We’re going to have to go and see Mr. Blunt.”
It was the only answer. They both knew it. There were no other options.
“I don’t like you going back there.” Jack was only saying what Alex was thinking. “Every time you set foot in that door, something bad comes out of it. I was beginning to think they’d forgotten all about you. This will just remind them . . .”
“I know. But who else is going to stop him, Jack? We need their help.”
“They’ve never helped you before, Alex.”
“This time it would be in their interest. They’re not going to want Harry Bulman writing about them.” Alex pushed his plate away. He had barely eaten, but he no longer had any appetite. “I’ll go after school tomorrow.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Thanks.”
He was going back. The decision had been made. But as Alex got up and helped clear the table, he wondered if in truth he had ever really left.
8
THE LION’S DEN
THE EVENING SEEMED TO have drawn in early on Liverpool Street. It was only half past four as Jack and Alex came out of the station, but already the streetlamps were on and the first commuters were on their way home, snatching their free newspapers without even breaking pace. There must have been a slight mist in the air, because it seemed to Alex that the offices were glowing unnaturally, the light behind the windows not quite making it to the world outside.
Punched in the chest.
Unable to breathe.
The pavement, cold and hard, rushing toward him.
This was where Alex had been shot, and he would never be able to return without experiencing it again. The flower seller that he saw now, standing across the road, the old woman coming out of the shop . . . had they been there that