Mr Nobody's Eyes. Michael Morpurgo

      

      EGMONT PRESS: ETHICAL PUBLISHING

      Egmont Press is about turning writers into successful authors and children into passionate readers – producing books that enrich and entertain. As a responsible children’s publisher, we go even further, considering the world in which our consumers are growing up.

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       Also by Michael Morpurgo

      Arthur: High King of Britain

      Escape from Shangri-La

      Friend or Foe

      The Ghost of Grania O’Malley

      Kensuke’s Kingdom

      King of the Cloud Forests

      Little Foxes

      Long Way Home

      My Friend Walter

      The Nine Lives of Montezuma

      The Sandman and the Turtles

      The Sleeping Sword

      Twist of Gold

      Waiting for Anya

      War Horse

      The War of Jenkins’ Ear

      The White Horse of Zennor

      The Wreck of Zanzibar

      Why the Whales Came

       For Younger Readers

      Conker

      Mairi’s Mermaid

      The Best Christmas Present in the World

      The Marble Crusher

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Copyright

       Dedication

       Acknowledgements

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

For Anthony, Sue, Alexander, Christopher and Nicholas.

Acknowledgements

      CHAPTER ONE

      HARRY WAS ALONE WITH HIS THOUGHTS. THERE may have been over two hundred children with him in the playground, but he was quite alone. Maybe it would be today, maybe tomorrow – unless of course something went wrong, and something still could go wrong. Harry knew it was wicked even to think of that let alone to hope for it. But he could not stop himself. He was hoping for it hard.

      ‘We need a goalie!’ Peter Barker was bellowing at him from across the playground. Harry turned away. Peter Barker sat next to him in the choir at St Cuthbert’s and swapped Turf cigarette cards with him (the ones with the big-headed footballers). Father Murphy’s sermons ran on a bit on a Sunday morning and the surreptitious exchanges between the folds of the surplices added sinful spice to the dealing: one Tom Finney for one Billy Wright it was, last Sunday.

      ‘Come on, Harry.’ Peter was waving him over. ‘We’ve got no one else.’ They were all shouting at him now. He had no choice.

      The goal he had to defend was twice the width it should have been, between the two uprights of the rusting chainlink fence with the wilderness of the bomb site behind him. It was fair enough, though, because the other goal was every bit as wide, stretching as it did between the two drainpipes on the lavatory block wall. They often chose Harry for goalkeeper – he wasn’t good for much else. He knew he wouldn’t have much to do, so he leaned back against the fence and slipped easily into his thoughts.

      ‘An evil thought is a sin in itself, Harry.’ That was what Father Murphy had told him in Confession. If that were so, and Harry believed most of what Father Murphy told him, then Harry’s heap of sins was piling up fast. He must not allow himself to think about it any more. Instead he would