Soccer dominated. The high school had confirmed the game in writing, and Ribblestrop Towers had been formally entered into the league. The captain did not find it easy to discipline his side, because—as in Miss Hazlitt’s classes—wild enthusiasm was getting in the way. The frenzied kicking had to be tamed. He hated to see some of the boys’ looks of boredom, but with one ball, he felt he had to concentrate on simple passing. True, the orphans no longer handled the ball, but they seemed to hate the idea of sides: it was so much more fun to tackle anyone and everyone.
*
It was Wednesday night, six weeks into term: sunset. Captain Routon had split the group into two teams and watched in despair as the game flowed off the pitch, down to the lake. The ball was soon in the water, but as the orphans were all excellent swimmers, water polo seemed to come very naturally.
By dusk, not a child was dry. Heads bobbed way out into the lake and somewhere in the reeds a rowing boat was found. The ball was booted onto the island and forgotten: the two teams fought for control of the vessel. Shrieks and splashes were trilling over the lake. There seemed to be a diving contest taking place.
When Captain Routon blew the final whistle, nobody heard. He had to blow it several times before the boat turned and nosed back toward the bank. Ruskin and Asilah were at the oars, and the children were singing. Laced with weed, slimy with mud, the boat moved gently to the bank, the mariners singing their hearts out:
“Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, precious unto me;
This is what I dream about and where I want to be.
Early in the morning, finally at night,
Ribblestrop I’ll die for thee, carrying the light.”
Millie and Sanchez were dispatched with flashlights to find the ball, while everyone else trooped home for showers.
Dr. Norcross-Webb had managed to hold on to a corner of his office, much to Miss Hazlitt’s irritation. The rest of the children were passing under his window and he smiled as he heard them singing. Asilah was leading, his strong treble voice calling, and the rest of the boys chanting a lilting, lyrical response. They had moved on from the songs he’d taught them; this time they were singing one of their own. It was a sort of lullaby the Himalayan nomads sang when they were thanking the Creator for the mountains, and the headmaster had heard it years ago on a climbing expedition. It was the sweetest of songs, with a simple refrain that he now started to hum. Laughter was drifting up over the singing.
It was interrupted by the sound of a window clattering open. Then a voice: “Sam Tack!”
The song stopped. Miss Hazlitt, who had returned to Ribblestrop that very day, was leaning over the windowsill, her bandaged hand a claw over her chest. The headmaster had forgotten she’d been working at the big desk, and he stood up, wondering what could be wrong.
“Yes, you!” she shouted. “Tack!” The voice ricocheted off the courtyard and walls: it surrounded Sam like the voice of a vengeful God. He couldn’t see where it was coming from; it was all around him.
“Hello?” he said.
“Yes, sir, is what you say!”
“Yes, sir? I mean, miss—can I help you?”
The team clustered around Sam, looking up. All were dripping; all tried to make out who could be leaning out under the gargoyles, screaming.
“I want to see you in my office!” boomed the voice. “Immediately. In full school uniform: is that clear?”
“Er, yes, miss. Ah . . .”
“What’s the problem?”
Sam’s heart sank. He had never mentioned it. He had tried to forget it. Nobody had ever said anything to him despite the fact that every orphan had one and wore it with pride. The loss of his cap had always been there, nagging at his mind. Even Millie had one, though hers was nailed to the outside of her shed as a toilet-roll holder. He braced himself for fury and decided to deal with the matter then and there.
“Miss, do you mean with my cap?”
“Are you trying to be clever, Tack?”
“No, miss. It’s just that when I was getting on the train—you know, before we got off it again and got in the helicopter—”
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“I had a fall. My father was going to send it on, but he couldn’t get down from the platform.”
“They’re not really part of the uniform, are they?” said Ruskin. “Aren’t they optional?”
“Don’t interrupt!” howled Miss Hazlitt. “I’ve had quite enough of your irrelevant nonsense, I’m not putting up with any more. I am talking to Tack, and I want him up here in five minutes! In my office.”
She slammed the window so hard a pane of glass fell and shattered at Sam’s feet.
“Is everything all right, Miss Hazlitt?” said the headmaster.
“We’ve got him,” she said. She turned, and there was a curious gleam in her eyes. She wore just the same black, funeral skirt and jacket, shiny with age. Her hair was drawn back, and her face looked dangerously sharp in profile. In her working hand, she held a toothbrush. “I’ve got him,” she whispered. “I’m going to get to the bottom of it now, once and for all—it’s been Tack all along.”
“Bottom of what? I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Aren’t you? That surprises me, Headmaster, a man like you, with such a firm grip. I’ve been doing a little investigating. I put a camera in the boys’ bathroom, since they chose not to answer my questions. I thought a little surveillance would do them good, and I’m pretty close to a breakthrough.”
“Miss Hazlitt, I don’t follow—”
“They think they can get away with anything, that’s the problem with this school. They all think it’s forgotten and that’s why they get confident. It’s a war, and they think they’re winning.” She laughed. “This toothbrush—you don’t know what it is, do you? It was in the door, but you never stopped to think. I’ll tell you: it’s a key. I had it examined by a locksmith in London, and it belongs to Sam Tack. He was using it to pick the lock to this office. I’ve filmed them cleaning their teeth and he’s the only boy without a toothbrush! What do you make of that?”
“You filmed the boys in their bathroom?”
“I’ll shake the truth out of them yet. I’ll find out what they’re up to . . . You know the map’s gone missing?”
“What map?”
“For goodness’ sake, the map to the cellars—the one you left in the photocopier! I told you, somebody must have broken in and removed it.”
“But we photocopied it, we must have copies . . .”
Miss Hazlitt covered her eyes.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” said the headmaster. “I need to chat with Routon about the roof trusses, the deliveries are going to be very tricky. But, you know, I can’t imagine Sam stealing anything—he’s just not that kind of boy.”
*
Sam was shaking. He was a brave, resilient child, but he had a horror of being in trouble. He was racking his brains for some crime he’d committed, and the cap seemed the only one. He had the fastest shower he could decently have and emerged in his towel.
“Ruskin, do you have a cap?”
“I do, but I don’t know where it is.”
“I wonder if Sanchez has one. I can’t just go through his things . . . Where is he?”
“They went back to the island, him and Millie.”
“What shall I do?”
“Sam, get dressed and see what she wants. It’s probably something nice, like a food parcel.”
Sam knocked so timidly on the headmaster’s door that Miss Hazlitt didn’t hear him. He stood there, sweating, too nervous to knock again in case she was deliberately ignoring him. Fifteen minutes passed, and Miss Hazlitt decided to storm the boys’ dormitory. She ripped open the door, and there was Sam, shrinking in the blast of sweaty perfume. She nearly fell over him, but grabbed the doorframe with her injured hand. “Where have you been?” she hissed. The pain brought the usual beads of sweat to her brow and her face changed color.
&n
bsp; “Here,” said Sam.
“Where?”
“Here. I knocked, but—”
“Don’t lie. Don’t lie to me, you’re in quite enough trouble as it is!”
“What?”
“And don’t say what, say pardon. Pardon, miss. How does it take a boy twenty-five minutes to come from outside there to here?”
“I had to take a shower.”
“Why?”
“I, er . . . We . . . We were in the lake, and—”
“What on earth were you doing in the lake? Out of bounds! Seriously dangerous: do you know what would happen if one of you drowned in that lake? We’d be closed, just as we’re getting somewhere. You don’t think, do you? Get inside!”
Sam had been rocked onto his heels. His mouth could barely close. The noise, the sheer volume, was aching in his ears. He entered the headmaster’s office. There was no headmaster, and Sam’s heart fluttered with fear. He watched with alarm as the woman slid out her cell phone and turned it off. On the desk was a glass of water and a selection of brightly colored pills.
“Stand up straight,” she said. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
The voice had softened. It was now more unpleasant. It reminded Sam of his dentist back at home: an elderly man who didn’t believe in anesthetic. When he said, “Open wide, Samuel,” it had just the same, soft menace as Miss Hazlitt.
“Straighten your tie, please, Sam. I want you to take these pills.”
Sam looked at the desk again and felt his mouth go dry. Off to his left, he heard a soft, metallic purring, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the dish and the multicolored sweets.
“Miss. What are they?”
“What are they? You want the chemical formula? Why?” Miss Hazlitt was behind him now, and it was even more unsettling than when she’d been in front. She was fiddling with something at the wall, and he could hear some kind of lock mechanism.
“I don’t know, I was told never to take sweets from . . . from . . .”
“Be a good boy, Sam, and swallow them. Everything’s going to be easy if you cooperate. Here we are, Inspector: you’ve arrived at just the right time. Samuel here is being very helpful and I’m quite sure we’ll get to the bottom of everything. I’m sure he has nothing to conceal. In fact, I think he’s covering for someone and will feel better when he’s got it all off his chest.”
She was still behind him. Sam could hear heavy footsteps and the sound of a door squealing on unoiled hinges. Then a deep, northern voice, slightly breathless: “This is Sam, is it?”
Sam managed to turn, just his head. For a moment he couldn’t get his bearings; one of the walls seemed to have shifted. Part of the paneling had swung open, and there was a metal grille, like a tiny prison cell. In front of it was the police inspector—the one from the car, huge in a capelike raincoat. Miss Hazlitt was at his side, folding the paneling back as he watched. It closed with the softest of clicks and Sam realized he had glimpsed a lift, and that’s what the purring had been. A lift to where, though? To the police station? He felt his knees beginning to tremble.
“Inspector Cuthbertson’s here,” said Miss Hazlitt, “because things are getting a little bit serious. Luckily, there’s still time to straighten everything out, but only if you’re ready to tell us the truth and help us. Now what I want you to do is swallow your medicine, like a good boy. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perfectly harmless, son,” said the inspector. “We use them all the time—they help people relax and tell the truth.”
Sam felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Miss Hazlitt’s. The glass of water was in front of his nose suddenly, and he had no choice but to take it. One by one, he swallowed the pills. They immediately lodged in his throat and he was retching; the glass was at his lips, and he was gulping it until it ran down his chin and his shirt.
“Stand up straight,” said Miss Hazlitt. “Hands by your sides.”
She was perched on the desk, her good hand holding her chin. Sam adjusted his uniform, put his arms down by his sides, and stood to attention. He was breathing heavily and he knew the policeman was behind him. He closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer, clinging to the fact that he had nothing to hide. Honesty, he thought: always the best policy, and the railway authority was looking for the cap, his father had told him as much in a recent letter and would be bringing it down personally the moment it was found. Tell the truth, Sam—his father, his mother, the Sunday school woman, they had all said the same thing. In any case, there were truth drugs in his system now and he had nothing to hide. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It went under the train.”
“What did? What train?” It was the inspector.
“It’s why I’m not wearing it.”
“The train in the tunnel? What went under it?”
“My cap.”
Miss Hazlitt stood up. She moved in and put her face closer and closer to Sam’s. Sam could see the makeup. He could see the little hairs you normally don’t notice. The pores. The blood vessels. She’d been eating peppermints, but he could smell the meat she’d had for lunch. Why was the makeup so thick? You could pick it with your fingernail and lift the whole thing off like a mask. Sam took a step back, but the policeman was right there, with a hand on his shoulder, gripping his blazer.
“Listen to me, Sam,” said Miss Hazlitt.
“Stand up, son,” said the inspector. “Stand up straight.”
“We’ve had experience with your sort. The inspector sees people like you every day—in the cells, in the courts, and finally in prison. So, listen.” She shouted suddenly, like a dog barking: “Nobody is interested in your wretched cap!”
Sam was so shocked by the noise that he put his hands over his face. He tried to turn but his arms were gripped and then, before he could flinch, they were twisted up behind him and he was forced back to attention, the tendons straining. Miss Hazlitt was still close enough to bite him and he knew he would be sick. The policeman was horribly strong, and Sam was on his toes.
“When did you last clean your teeth?” she said. There was a hand on his neck. She sounded even more like his dentist! He couldn’t speak: he had no oxygen.
“Answer the question,” said the policeman, squeezing the boy’s arms higher.
“Answer the question, Tack, answer a simple question!”
Sam managed to squeak, but no words came. “All right! All right!” said Miss Hazlitt. Now he could feel her spit on his face. “Put him over the desk! Where. Is. Your. Toothbrush?”
“I don’t know, miss!” he squeaked. The policeman had bent him in half, he was jackknifed over the desk. He cried out, “Ow! Stop!”—but who was there to hear him?
“Whose toothbrush are you using when you do clean them?”
“I don’t know! Please! I lost it, I lost it!”
“You lost it, did you?” said the inspector. “I’m not sure that’s the truth!” The voice was a whisper, but right in Sam’s ear; he could feel the air and smell the sourness of the man’s breath. “I think you’ve been picking locks and stealing. Did she make you do it? Shall we beat it out of him?”
“You want to take all the blame, Sam?” said Miss Hazlitt. “We’re getting to the bottom of this tonight! Did you lend it to her?” She took hold of the boy’s tie and wrapped it round her fist. “Or are you in it together?”
“Where’s the rabbit, Tack! Where did you put him?”
“I don’t know!”
“Oh yes you do, and what we really want to know is how much you know!”
Sam could only endure. He’d been on the summit of Mount Snowdon with his father, in a hurricane as fierce as this. True, he’d had his father’s arms round him: but he could survive this, he had to. The hands on his wrists felt like iron and his arms were being dislocated. Miss Hazlitt was yelling, but the words had become inaudible to Sam. He waited for the thunder to roll past and, as it did, magically a green-and-purple toothbrush appeared by his nose. The policeman
had leaned in from behind and was holding it between finger and thumb. He was jerked upward, onto his toes again. “I’ve had enough,” the policeman was saying. “If this one thinks he’s going to wreck years of planning with a wretched toothbrush, he’s wrong. Now where’s the map?”
“I d . . . d . . . don’t know! Please!”
He was spun round and there was a hand under his chin. All he could see, in monstrous monochrome, were the inspector’s nostrils and one of his eyes. “I’m going to ask you one more time.” His feet weren’t touching the floor and the policeman held the toothbrush like a knife. Sam squeaked and tried to kick. The words cracked him over his skull. “Where. Is. The. Map?”
“Sam!” said a voice. “Good Lord . . . Inspector! What on earth is going on?”
There was a flurry of footsteps and Sam was falling. His throat was free and he was on his knees, gasping. There was a flurry of scraping furniture and more footsteps. Voices competed, braying against each other, and Miss Hazlitt appeared to be grunting and stumbling. The policeman’s voice was repeating the same line: “Steady on, sir—just a moment, just a moment!”
“Mind my hand!” cried Miss Hazlitt, and she cried out.
Then Sam was lifted, and the study floor was moving under him. There was a voice speaking over him and the voice was kind. “. . . not sensible, Sam . . . playing games with something so important, eh? Miss Hazlitt is quite right to bring it up, but here we go, now . . . on your way, and let’s hope that’s the end of it!”
“Headmaster!” The woman was turning and her voice was a low crackle of hatred. Sam had never seen a face look more angry. The skin was raw, the eyes were bulging. Her hair was lopsided on her head. Sam noticed his own hands were both on the headmaster’s, holding it firmly, clutching it as if it could pull him from the sea. He was being led to the door, and the inspector was backing away, red-faced, breathing heavily, a billy club in his hand.