Maxwell's Mask by M.J. Trow Page B

was all he was going to get. ‘Right, then.’
    If truth were told, Anthony was quietly shitting himself, as teenage boys will when their macho bravado has placed them in impossible positions. His hands felt like lead and his knees like water. His throat was bricky-dry and his heart was pounding an inch or two above his Adam’s apple. But he wasn’t letting George see any of this. Crouching like a hidden tiger, he suddenly sprang into the moonlight, a black shadow against the pale yellow brick of the house.
    George couldn’t see what happened next, but Bed seemed to stop, check himself as though in disbelief and turn back to his chum. ‘Fuck me!’ George heard himself whispering. The door was opening. Bed was in the fucking house. It was George’s turn to feel the thumping in his chest. This was beginning to freak him out. Bed had bragged how he could break into anywhere, take out any lock ever made. Had George seen Gone in Sixty Seconds , Bed had asked him. Well, Bed could do that to houses.
    From the darkness of the kitchen, Bed’s arm was summoning his sidekick. Too late to turn back now. Bed would think George was chicken if he didn’tcross that grass. Worse, he’d tell everybody he was. Time for some decisive action. All right, so he slipped. Fell over on the bloody gravel, didn’t he? But never mind. He was up again and running, like a fucking greyhound. He who always had a sick note signed by ‘George’s Mum’ so he couldn’t do PE up at the school. He was like a fucking greyhound.
    The greyhound skidded to a halt at the door and felt himself yanked down in the darkness.
    â€˜Give your eyes time,’ Anthony ordered through clenched teeth. ‘They’ll become clematised in a minute and you’ll be able to see stuff. All right?’
    â€˜How d’you do that, Bed?’ George couldn’t help but let his admiration show.
    â€˜Do what?’
    â€˜Open the bloody door.’
    â€˜Skill,’ Anthony shrugged. ‘Now. Are you starting to see what I am?’
    â€˜What?’ George was peering through the gloom. ‘What are you?’
    â€˜No, Nutbar. I mean, can you see what I can see?’
    â€˜It’s a kitchen.’
    â€˜Yeah, I know it’s a fucking kitchen, George. But if you and me’s gonna make a living out of this, we’ve gotta get the feel of a place. Point one,’ Anthony was holding his thumb upright, ‘No dogs. Otherwise,’ he raised his head, scenting the air, ‘we’d smell ’em. And they’d smell us.’
    â€˜I can only smell old lady,’ George sniffed.
    â€˜That’s good, George. That’s very good. Using your old factory organs now, mate. No cats either.’
    â€˜No smell?’
    Anthony tapped the door behind them with his heel. ‘No cat flap. What else?’
    â€˜Um…’
    â€˜No burglar alarm, George.’ Anthony had thought of everything. ‘Otherwise, there’d be flashing lights, ringing bells and a fucking army of Old Bill tramping all over the place.’
    â€˜Wadda we do now?’
    â€˜Now, old son,’ Anthony peered along the line of work surfaces, gleaming in the moonlight that streamed in through the window over the sink and the glass in the door behind him. ‘We see where the old girl keeps her stash.’
    â€˜What? You mean she smokes stuff?’
    â€˜Put these on,’ Anthony sighed. It was like wading through treacle.
    â€˜What are these?’
    Anthony paused for a moment. This couldn’t be happening. ‘They’re gloves, George. Like the ones you had when you was a kid. Remember? They had no fingers in ’em and your mum tied ’em together up your sleeves, in case you lost ’em. But ,’ he pressed his button nose close to his friend’s, ‘you lose ’em ’ere, mate, and you’re talking about a stretch in