“Always clean your teeth, that’s my motto! Now you’d better get moving—really, he should, Miss Hazlitt. This chap’s our striker, you see, and he needs an early night for tomorrow’s game.” He had the toothbrush in his hand. He popped it into Sam’s blazer pocket. “Off you go, Sam. Hurry. Run, please.”
The door was closed after him and there was an immediate flurry of furious voices—three adults all yelling and another squeal of furniture. Sam was tottering along a corridor that appeared to have no end. He felt he was falling down the long lens of a telescope and that he might disappear, or drop out of the end. The voices rose behind him, like clamoring birds. Miss Hazlitt was the loudest, but Sam couldn’t make out what she was shrieking because it seemed to go on and on, like a high-pitched drill. He reached the stairs, tripped, and clung to the banister. Taking deep breaths, he started to descend and the dreadful row faded behind him.
Ruskin was at the bottom. “You all right, Sam?” he was saying. “How did it go?”
Chapter Twenty-three
“I posted the letter to Miles,” said Millie.
Sanchez said nothing.
“I’d forgotten all about it, but it was in my blazer pocket. A bit mangled, but intact. I hope he hasn’t found somewhere else.”
“I hope he has.”
“What didn’t you like about him?”
“He was mean. Selfish. Dangerous. Foulmouthed. Destructive. Crazy.”
“Ah, this is the difference between us, Sanchez. You see the worst in people; I see the best. You see, if it was me, I’d try to work out what was troubling him.”
Millie’s hand had snaked through Sanchez’s arm. They were both cold, so they were walking briskly. The night had come down, and their flashlights bobbed ahead of them.
“I don’t think we’re going to find that ball,” said Millie.
“I know where it is,” said Sanchez. “Israel booted it onto the island, I saw it.”
They walked in silence.
Then Sanchez said: “Actually, Millie, you are totally, completely wrong. You always jump to conclusions. I really tried to help him.”
“By making speeches about rules?”
“By trying to be nice! It was me, Miles, Ruskin, Henry, and Tomaz. We got on fine, we were good friends. Except—we play a game, Miles has to win. We go swimming, Miles has to try and drown someone.”
“He had a sense of fun!”
“Yes. Conjuring spirits in a black mass. You think that’s fun, do you? You think that’s funny?”
“He was into black magic?”
Inevitably, as if on cue, an owl decided to hoot. Millie stopped. They’d come to the first humpbacked bridge, and the lapping water and the wind in the trees took on a more ominous sound.
“He was bad news, Millie. He had a death wish. He took something of mine and he scared Tomaz. He scared everyone.”
“Slow down. How? Tell me.”
She found herself hugging Sanchez’s arm closer. Sanchez let her: they were both getting colder. He spoke quietly now. “You heard about the man who was killed? Lord Vyner?”
“Yes. Suicide.”
“He was shot in the head and Caspar said he saw the ghost. This makes everyone scared. Then Miles decides he’s going to talk to him, properly. You know—talk to his spirit.”
“I heard about this. Go on.”
“We go down to the chapel, late one evening. I don’t know why I said I’d do it, but I did. Tomaz too. Miles just kept on and on—he had a way of persuading you. So Miles is in charge, and we take a couple of flashlights, and it’s very scary—the chapel’s a ruin, the monks don’t use it. He draws a big circle on the floor, with letters and symbols and all the stuff he gets from some book. And we’re sitting there, with candles all around us—there’s Ruskin, Henry, Tomaz, Caspar. All of us. We have this glass and we have our hands on the glass.”
“A Ouija board, that’s what it’s called.”
“That’s right, a Ouija board. And we start trying to raise the ghost of Lord Vyner.”
“This is amazing! I didn’t know you got up to this kind of stuff, Sanchez. I thought you were just a boring prefect. What happened?”
“Miles starts to ask questions. He does all the stuff: ‘Is there anybody there? Do you have a message for us?’—all that stuff. It’s really freaky.”
“Is the glass moving?”
“Yes.”
“So he’s getting answers? What does it say?”
“Millie, I never saw anything like it. I thought it was Miles pushing the glass, but it’s going so fast I realized it couldn’t be. It starts spelling out words, real words and sentences. I just sat there . . . I could not interrupt, or say anything. Miles keeps asking questions, ‘What do you want from us?’ Help. ‘Are you at peace?’ No I am not. So Miles starts reading the answers out—we’re all reading them, but Tomaz couldn’t read so we’re saying them out loud. Then the glass starts moving, and it spells out: one of you is in danger.”
“It said that? The glass spelled out that?”
“Yes.”
“The ghost of Lord Vyner, warning you! So who was in danger? Wait, Sanchez—stop a minute.”
“What?”
“Look up.”
They had arrived on the island and, by eerie coincidence, they were standing directly under the monument to Lord Vyner. It was silver in the moon. The statue gazed back to the house. Its eyes seemed to be fixed; it seemed hungry for something. The two children stared up, shivering.
“There’s the ball,” said Sanchez. “I’ll get it.”
“I’m coming with you. Who was in danger? Did Miles ask who it was?”
“Oh yes. I saw the name get spelled out—T.O.M.A.Z. Tomaz. The spelling was perfect. Miles told him, and Tomaz didn’t believe him for a second. Then he just went crazy—he completely flipped. He got up and he ran out the chapel. I tried to talk with him, Miles tried. But two days later, Tomaz is gone.”
“Because he thought he was in danger. He must have known it—that’s completely logical. Maybe he was being warned, Sanchez! And he ran straight into the trap—they kidnapped him!”
Sanchez grabbed Millie’s arm. “Shh!”
“What?”
They both stood absolutely still. There was a sound, but they couldn’t tell what it was or where it was coming from. They listened harder, and it seemed to rise from beneath them: it was a groaning noise.
“Holy Mother of God, Holy Mary . . .” Sanchez was crossing himself. He was backing away, poised to run, but Millie held him back.
“It’s singing!” hissed Millie. “Is it the ghost? Sanchez, he was following me underground, it must have been him! He blew his brains out and now he’s haunting the place!”
“Shhh!”
“He was cooking me food! This is so horrible!”
They listened harder than ever, rooted to the spot. The noise rose, then fell. It seemed to get closer, and both children realized at the same time: it was the chanting of monks.
“It’s inside the monument,” said Sanchez. He shone his flashlight at the stone base.
“Underneath,” said Millie. “It’s coming from underneath.”
Sanchez swung his flashlight slowly. There was a plaque, which bore a lengthy inscription in Latin. The plaque was set into a low stone archway and, looking hard, they could see how the plinth was constructed. They hadn’t been this close before because of the brambles, but now they were beside it, they could see that the monument base was a kind of cube, built as a set of arches. Long grass had grown, and a rather forlorn wire fence ran round the whole thing, as if to deter you from exploring further. But the sound, which rose now in a wave of mournful voices, was definitely rising beneath those arches.
“It’s the monks,” said Millie. “I heard them when I was down there. It’s the monks, singing.”
“I thought they were on a vow of silence.”
“Maybe singing doesn’t count.”
They approached slowly, as if the
monks might leap out at them. Sanchez stepped over the fence. He shone his flashlight down and, as Millie came up beside him, she could see a deep vertical air shaft disappearing into the dark ground.
“It’s the air vent,” she said.
“What air vent?”
“Look. You can’t fall down. There are bars. Oh wow, this is what I’ve been looking for. It’s the air vent down to the labyrinth. That’s where I was—I was standing down there, looking up!”
She moved closer and knelt. It was like looking down a chimney: the brickwork was meticulous, and a tiny disk of sand was visible at the very bottom.
“Sanchez, I walked along that tunnel. I must have been so close to an exit. How can the monks get down there? This is fantastic! When do we go down?”
“We don’t.”
“Oh yes we do. We’ll come back tomorrow, with tools. We’ve got to go down!”
“No way, Millie, this is too much.”
“Sanchez, we have the entrance point, we have the map! We need to find out what’s going on down there. You tell me Tomaz disappeared. He was warned he was in danger, so maybe that’s exactly what he was in. We have to go down! Don’t we?”
“Shut up! Yes.”
“You’ll come down with me?”
Sanchez had his hands on his head. He thought hard. “Yes,” he said.
Millie smiled. “Good. Now let’s get the wretched ball and get some food.”
*
They were both in time for supper.
“All right, Sam?” said Sanchez.
Sam seemed to be sitting in a strange, stiff position and was surrounded by the other boys. The food was a prematch carbohydrate special: shepherd’s pie with jacket potatoes. Sam had a portion on his plate, but couldn’t seem to open his mouth. Anjoli stood behind him, massaging his shoulders. Asilah had a forkful of food and was holding it close to Sam’s lips.
“What happened?” said Millie. “You haven’t seen a ghost, surely!”
Sam swiveled his eyes. His whole neck had seized up.
They sat down next to him.
“Thief,” whispered Sam.
“What?”
“I’m a thief.” Sam’s voice was high-pitched: it was a mouse, squeaking. “I’m going to prison, that’s what they said!”
Asilah patted Sam’s shoulder. “You’re not a thief, Sam. Eat your food.”
“She’s crazy, man!”—that was Sanjay, on his other side.
“What have you stolen?” said Sanchez. “What are you talking about?”
“I can’t make this out at all,” said Ruskin. “The whole thing seems jolly unfair. If I understand it correctly, Sam’s been accused of breaking into the headmaster’s office with a toothbrush. He’s just been interviewed by that policeman, and by all accounts they got pretty rough!”
Millie stared and noticed the familiar purple-and-green plastic handle sticking out of Sam’s blazer pocket.
“He thinks he’s going to be expelled,” said Ruskin. “He thinks they’re going to call his parents! He’s been sick and everything, and she made him take pills. Look at this, everyone’s got more pills—what is going on?”
“What pills?” said Millie. “What are you talking about?”
Millie and Sanchez looked about them. Beside every orphan there was a small glass dish with the child’s name taped to it. Inside lay a cluster of bright little pills and capsules, and next to that, a glass of water.
Millie sighed with frustration. “What has this got to do with Sam?” she said.
“I don’t know,” said Ruskin. “Something about a truth drug. They made Sam take a load of pills and then they were asking him questions about going underground with you and a toothbrush.”
“Sam,” said Millie. “Look at me. What exactly were they asking you?”
“They wanted to know,” sniffed Sam, “if I knew what you saw . . . when . . . If I knew what you saw when you went underground.”
“Underground? They were asking you about me?”
Sam nodded. “They think I stole a rabbit!” Tears were dripping down his cheeks.
“How do you break in,” said Ruskin, “with a toothbrush? I vote we go and see this policeman and put in a formal complaint. They have procedures, and I don’t believe they would allow Sam to be . . . terrorized like this.”
“Shut up, Ruskin.”
“No, I won’t shut up. Apparently, the headmaster came back and broke the whole thing up, otherwise goodness knows what could have happened. All over a wretched toothbrush!”
“Look,” said Sanchez. “The toothbrush is a key. Millie made it when we went looking for that map—she used Sam’s toothbrush.”
“And now they think it was him!” said Millie. She put her hands over her face for a moment, trying to conceal a smile. “Sam,” she said. “Were they seriously trying to blame you? Did they threaten to arrest you, for breaking and entering? For being part of my gang?”
Sam managed to nod and his tears plopped into his dinner.
Millie was silent for a moment and then she started to laugh. It was just a quiet chuckle, but then it took hold of her, and in seconds she was giggling with delight. The laughter rose until she was howling. “Oh my, they thought it was him!” she gurgled. “Look at him! Sanchez, look at him! As if Sam’s going to break in anywhere! What did you say?”
Sam couldn’t speak. He put his hands over his face and wept.
Millie’s laughter got louder and louder. Meanwhile, Sanchez could only stare. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He looked from Sam to Millie and back again. The orphans were all watching, totally confused. Sanchez looked at his hands and wondered if now was the time to break one of his father’s golden rules: You never hit a girl . . . Smash her!
“I don’t get this at all,” said Ruskin. “But I tell you something—it’s not right.”
Sanchez put down his knife and fork. He stood up and found that his fists were clenched. He said to Millie, quietly: “You are disgusting. How can you laugh? Look at him! You are disgusting. You are not human.”
Millie brought herself under control and looked at him through moist, laughing eyes. “Sanchez, it’s funny. This place is so weird, and they give themselves away! They’re frightened!”
“You . . . are not a girl,” said Sanchez. He picked up his plate and cutlery, very carefully. He was bright red. There was an unoccupied table and he started to walk toward it.
Millie was looking at him, smiling; she seemed bewildered. Sanchez turned on her hotly. He said, “You are . . . a maggot. I don’t want anything to do with you. I am not helping you, I don’t even want to speak with you. You go exploring by yourself and leave me alone!”
Chapter Twenty-four
The next day was the big match, which made further argument impossible. Soccer came first, and everyone accepted that.
The dining hall had been swept and dusted. The tarpaulins were stretched tighter and new planks were laid over the mud. An extra trestle table had been found, and jugs of juice were arranged on doilies. Captain Routon had been up long before dawn preparing ham, chicken, and roast beef with a number of attractive-looking salads. There was a cheese board, fruit, and various yogurts, and Professor Worthington—with the headmaster—had been up in the tower of science most of the night sculpting a sugar-and-meringue model of the school. This was, after all, the first time Ribblestrop was hosting visitors.
Over the main table hung a banner, which read: Welcome to our high school, Friends. Ruskin and Sam had designed it, but everyone had contributed to the bright border of handprints and smiling faces.
*
The visitors were staring, square-jawed and mean.
They wore emerald-green blazers. Some of the larger boys hadn’t been able to find jackets big enough and looked rather uncomfortable. A tall, lean man stood among them, noticeable partly because he was completely bald. This was Harry Cuthbertson, brother to the inspector. He was a younger, fitter man, and he had the same searching eyes, with that h
int of madness.
“. . . so welcome, warriors all!” finished the headmaster.
There was a smattering of applause from the home side. He’d been speaking for ten minutes or so, and it was clear his speech wasn’t working. He hadn’t expected whistles or cheers, but he had hoped for the occasional titter or smile. Homer’s Iliad had been his text, and he’d made a number of interesting references to the changing profile of sport in Western civilization. Sadly, his guests weren’t listening. Their eyes were locked onto the eyes of his own children: they seemed to be fixated. Ruskin was smiling, and so was Sam. The orphans never stopped. The guests, however, weren’t smiling. They had the look of boxers just before round one, when the referee has brought the contestants together.
The applause died quickly and Harry Cuthbertson shouldered his way to the front. He had a strong nasal accent and spoke quickly.
“Oh, thank you very much, thank you very much indeed, Headmaster, boys . . . Thank you. It is really very nice to be made a fuss of like this, not what we’re used to at all, is it, boys? Very kind indeed of you to lay on a lunch like this . . .”
He was immaculately dressed and his forehead was polished almost to metal. “Hope that nobody takes it amiss if we eat a very light lunch,” he went on. “Nought to do with the hospitality, needless to say, but we do like a light lunch before a game—tend to eat up a bit after, eh lads? Eh?”
“There is a hot meal planned for six o’clock,” smiled the headmaster. “And we thought we might even serve beer, if that’s permissible, and show some slides on our new projector.”
“Have to be off by four, Headmaster, we train extra on a Friday, but another time we’d make special arrangements for that, wouldn’t we, lads? Don’t say no to a glass of beer or three, do we, Darren?” There was a little ripple of amusement from the visiting team. “Do we, Darren—eh?”
Darren was a slim boy with a small slit of a mouth. His jet-black hair was greased back till it looked like a layer of tar. His lips stretched into a knife-cut of a smile; then it was gone, and he was adjusting his shoulders in his blazer. Clearly Darren liked beer.