Tim was less fortunate. He had jumped a few seconds after me, allowing the boat to travel a few feet farther forward. I heard the glass shatter as he went feetfirst through the glass roof. There were more screams and the music stopped. I pulled myself up and gazed groggily through a window. Tim had landed on one of the tables and was lying there, sprawled out, surrounded by broken plates and glasses and with what looked like a whole roast duck in his lap.

“Que fais-tu? Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

A man in a blue uniform had appeared on the deck. He was staring at me in horror. It was the captain of the Bateau Mouche. There were a couple of waiters with him. I didn’t even struggle as the three of them grabbed hold of me. I wondered if they were going to lock me up or throw me over the side. Certainly it didn’t look as if they were going to invite me in for a dance and something to eat.

I twisted around and took one last look back at the bridge. Bastille and Lavache were leaning over the side, watching, and as I was dragged inside they vanished, swallowed up in the gathering gloom.

DOWN-AND-OUT

You won’t meet many thirteen-year-olds who have been locked up in prisons on both sides of the Channel, but I’m one of them. I did time in Strangeday Hall, sharing a cell with Johnny Powers, England’s public enemy number one,* and here I was in prison in Paris, this time with Tim. It was half past nine in the evening. We’d been given dinner—bread and water—but the fact that it was French bread and Perrier didn’t make it taste any better.

Miraculously, neither Tim nor I had been hurt jumping from the bridge. The captain had locked us both up in the kitchen on board the ship, and by the time we docked, the police were already waiting. I suppose he must have radioed on ahead. I hadn’t tried to argue as we were thrown into the back of a van and driven at high speed through the streets of Paris. Nobody spoke English and even if they had they wouldn’t have believed us. I assumed they’d call the British consul or someone. I would leave the explanations until then.

Neither of us had said anything for a while but at last Tim broke the silence. “That’s the last time I buy a Bestlé yogurt,” he muttered.

“It wasn’t their fault, Tim,” I said, although I knew how he felt. We hadn’t even been in Paris one day and we’d witnessed one murder, been chased by two killers, and were now locked up ourselves. It was probably just as well that we weren’t planning to stay a whole week. “I just wish I knew what it was all about,” I added.