“Please . . .” whispered Sanchez. “I’m going to be sick, really.”
Sanchez had seen a gap a few meters to his left and was pulling at Millie, pointing. The air conditioning opened up to a funnel, and from the top of the funnel ran a shaft, at least the width of his shoulders. There was a narrow ladder bolted to the side and he moved toward it. Millie squirmed after him, as the voices below got louder, arguments flaring. It took the children a few minutes only. The disk of light shrank below them; the sound finally faded. They climbed steadily, hoping for daylight. Hand over hand in darkness.
After some time, they found themselves on a narrow maintenance platform. In front of them was a deep shaft, and in the shaft a cluster of cables. Millie recognized it at once: it was a lift, and the lift car sat just a few meters below them. She went first and helped Sanchez onto its roof.
Millie spoke softly, with absolute conviction. “They were talking about Tomaz. ‘Back in bed before dawn . . . invisible marks.’ They’re talking about Tomaz!—they’ve got him, haven’t they?”
“No,” said Sanchez. “He got home.”
“He’s their prisoner! They’re going to do something—”
“No, Millie! Don’t say it.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Back at school, the headmaster hadn’t gone to bed.
He and the captain had meant to have an early night, because of the big day ahead. However, as had happened so often, the two men had got sidetracked into redesigning tiny details of the roof interior. Not a week went by without some idea occurring, and right now the two men were sitting in the office, staring at Ruskin’s model, trying to devise new supports to the hip rafters. Routon had realized that if the vertical struts of the current design were replaced with diagonals, the hips would still be supported but a lot of extra attic space would be made available. Both men were repositioning the doll furniture, excited by the versatility of the new area.
“You could put a sofa there,” said Captain Routon.
“Yes, you could. Move the table back a bit—is there room?”
“Bit of a squeeze, but it could be done.”
“What about a stove?” said the headmaster.
“Why not? A nice woodburner—we had one of them in Al-Houti, kept us warm during the coup. Imagine that in the evenings, eh? All the boys, curled up with a bit of Kipling. Just a case of ordering a flue.”
“When I was a boy, Routon, we used to have two hours’ reading every night. It was one of the few good rules. A reading club.”
“Call it the reading room, sir.”
“Excellent. Make it part of the library—you could link it with a staircase, just there. Imagine that! You could have discussions, Routon. Lectures, seminars . . . We could have visiting speakers and the boys could question them over a glass of port. It was like that at my old school, you know. We’d retire upstairs, serve a few snacks . . . What the hell was that?”
Routon had leaped to his feet. His hand had sprung to his hip for the revolver he no longer carried. An explosion had come from the very roots of the building and, as both men stood horrified, it came again and then a third time. It was the most furious knocking, as if Death had come to claim a victim.
“My goodness, Routon—it sounds like cannon fire.”
“It’s the door, sir! Someone’s at the door!”
“Whatever’s the time? It can’t be!”
“Oh my word, it’s nearly five o’clock. It must be the deliveries, that’s all it can be. They said dawn, but—”
“Lady Vyner’s not going to be happy about this. Quickly, we—”
But his voice was silenced again by another volley of thunderous knocks and the two men made for the stairs. They had to go carefully, because the moon threw long, strange shadows through the narrow windows and it was so easy to miss your step. As they descended the stairs, they ran straight into Professor Worthington, whose eyes were wide with panic.
“Headmaster, someone’s outside,” she cried. “I can’t get the door open, someone’s bolted it.”
“Oh Lord, we don’t need this!”
“Why is everything locked and bolted? Who’s doing this?”
“Miss Hazlitt.”
“Why?”
“It’s part of this wretched drive for security. She’s convinced that some of the children are getting into the grounds at night, so—”
The knocking came again and—now they were in the lower corridor—the vibrations seemed to set them stumbling. Routon knelt down and attacked one of the bolts, while Professor Worthington turned away helplessly. “I don’t like it!” she cried.
“What’s going on?” said a voice. Miss Hazlitt stood at the end of the corridor. She was leaning against the wall and she looked unsteady. They watched as she limped toward them. She was only half dressed—a disturbing combination of long skirts and a man’s dressing gown. She hadn’t had time to fix her wig properly and without makeup there was something hungry and cadaverous in her face. “Who’s been out?” she said. She was having trouble getting her breath. “Someone’s stolen my briefcase—there are children in the grounds, it’s intolerable—”
As she spoke, there were three more stone-breaking knocks. “All right!” she roared, and her voice echoed in the hallway. The volume seemed to use up the little strength she had left. She turned to the headmaster; her eyes were mad and staring, as if she hadn’t slept—as if she’d been searching the school all night. “Somebody has stolen my briefcase,” she whispered. “Some of the most confidential papers I own. There are thieves in the school, Headmaster, and they’re out of control. We’ve known that since day one, when my credit card . . .” Her cell phone bleeped, but she ignored it. She bent down awkwardly, fell to one knee, and shot the lower bolt. Routon wrestled with the top one, and at last the door was unlocked. “I’ve had just about enough,” she said, gasping for air. “My report . . . I can tell you, my report! It will be that girl, I’m positive . . .”
They heaved the door open together and, in the thin light of the approaching dawn, everyone saw—not a crane driver with a clipboard of papers to sign, nor a deliveryman of any sort. The figure staggering back from the doorway appeared—at first glance, with the moon over its shoulder—to be a small silver bear, wearing glasses. As everyone stared, the bear clutched wildly at the doorframe, and then took a big step backward.
“Ruskin,” said the headmaster.
“I got so cold,” said the bear. Then it pirouetted twice and sprawled backward, paws in the air.
*
Ruskin’s world had gone violently out of control.
He had been getting colder and more frightened. There are only so many times you can sing the school song and only so many shots of rum you can swallow. By the time Millie and Sanchez were staring at the brain of the plastic child, Ruskin had got through half the bottle and the world was beginning to swirl.
He’d taken off his glasses again and jogged on the spot to coax some feeling back into his feet. Then, when he staggered round to look for his spectacles, he couldn’t find them. This struck him as funny rather than frightening, and he laughed.
He drank more rum and felt better, so—forgetting his glasses—he decided to go for a short, brisk stroll. His vision was now doubly blurred and he noticed that he was far from steady on his feet. He set off bravely and found the night air bracing. When he tried to retrace his steps, however, everything had moved around and changed. Still, he didn’t panic. He giggled and squinted into the night. Sure enough, there was the Vyner Monument, but if he was correct, the man now had his back to him. More worryingly, there seemed to be two columns, which meant two Lord Vyners—so Ruskin made for the ground between them. He wove his way round the front, stumbling in undergrowth that was thick and wet. There was the sports bag and the line of tools, exactly as he’d left them. Ruskin found he was talking aloud, telling the tools how pleased he was to see them.
There was something else though.
Impossibly and ridic
ulously, there was a tray of food laid out just where he’d been sitting. He racked his brains. Had he brought a complete dinner-for-one with him and simply forgotten? Had his friends returned, having stopped at a restaurant? It was a silver tray and the white cloth over it was immaculate. Just beside it—as if it might serve for a seat—there was a large, furry object. It had been folded neatly and laid on a Selfridges shopping bag.
Ruskin knelt down, unsteadily, and unfolded it. It was a rich, silver-colored fur coat, and as he shook it out he was reminded how cold he was. He put it on and buttoned it up. Then he attended to the tea tray, drawing the cloth to one side. There was a slice of meat pie with roast vegetables in thick gravy. There was a half bottle of red wine, complete with a crystal glass. The food was piping hot and the smell sent saliva squirting round his mouth. It was all on fine-quality china too, and there, best of all, on a serviette, were the glasses he’d forgotten he’d lost. Some thoughtful soul had even put a coffeepot and an after-dinner chocolate next to them.
Ruskin had no answers to the questions that buzzed in his head, so he ignored them. He sat down and ate. He drank the wine and had another nip of rum. Needless to say, by the time he’d finished this, he had only the vaguest memories of his duties. They had become so muddled that places and names were merging into one. A telephone and a policeman . . . but what the message was and when it was to be delivered was all simply gone from his mind. He couldn’t even recall why he was out, alone, at night, sitting under some monument.
It was at this point that Ruskin decided to go home and see his good friend Sam. So, he set off for the bridges, amazed to see four of them swirling round in front and behind. Laughing again, he aimed for one and hauled himself along the rails. It swung madly under him and suddenly tipped him forward onto the path. He kept his balance and started for one of the schools in front of him. Now and then he fell, but he was so padded and furry that he didn’t notice. The mansions seemed to be avoiding him, so he had to keep changing direction: in the end, he reached the front door. Of course, he had no key, but luckily, there was a heavy knocker. He was giggling more and more. He was singing the first verse of the school song again, loud as he could. He grabbed the knocker and held himself upright. Oh, it was so cold to the touch, the frost was freezing . . . He hammered it down three times. The noise reverberated in his head and all at once he felt rather ill. Nobody came, so, despite the fact that the knocker now felt heavy in his hands, despite the need to sleep, he crashed it down three more times, then four. That was when the whole world tipped backward and he found himself on his back in the gravel.
Miss Hazlitt was outside first, and in seconds she was standing over him. “Ruskin . . .” she snarled. “Where are the others?”
“My goodness, this is terrible!” said the headmaster.
“Where’s he been?” said Professor Worthington. “It’s freezing! Get the boy inside!”
Miss Hazlitt was leaning over him. “Red-handed,” she said. “A thief, caught in the very act! Out of bounds, stealing about, and look at this, just look at it . . . It’s the coat. It’s the coat that I paid for, I’ll bet money on it! Get on your feet, child! I want my briefcase!”
She hauled Ruskin to his knees, and Ruskin felt the world spin under him. It was like being on a roundabout that the bigger boys had set going too fast; he was getting giddier and giddier and wishing he’d never got on. Miss Hazlitt’s face was coming closer too, and was getting huge and fat as if he was looking into a spoon. He put an arm over his face and tried to curl up. “No!” he cried. He felt hands under his arms and caught a whiff of the woman’s sweat. “Please!” he said.
“Get yourself up!” she was shouting. The words were echoing in his ears. “Where’s the girl, Ruskin? You’re in it together, aren’t you?”
“Miss Hazlitt! Please!”
The headmaster’s voice crashed in from a great distance, clashing like cymbals. The woman was ignoring it. Ruskin felt himself hauled up into a standing position, but his legs just wouldn’t work. The world was a whirlpool. He felt more hands under his arms and he knew suddenly that he was going to be sick. He looked up into the deputy headmistress’s angry, straining face. He looked around in panic and tried to warn those carrying him. Too late, the drive bucked him forward onto his elbows. He breathed deep and swallowed, but it was no good at all. It came from deep inside, a whole bucketful of rum, pie, vegetables, and red wine. Ruskin vomited noisily and the geyser emptied itself over the deputy headmistress’s sensible shoes. She danced backward, slipped in the muck, and ended on her backside. Ruskin vomited again, rolled onto his side, and was unconscious.
*
Of course, the Ruskin distraction was the piece of lifesaving luck Millie and Sanchez so desperately needed. As their lookout was weaving his way to the school gate, they were swinging down the thick, oily cables of the lift car, hoping there would be an emergency hatch. They knelt on the roof together, flashlights back in their teeth, and fumbled in the dirt. Millie scratched with her penknife and at last located some kind of channel and handle. They twisted and pulled and at last the hatchway gave. It took ten seconds to swing themselves into the lift car, and five more to negotiate the “up” button. All at once there was a surge of power and they were rising.
“Where’s it go?” said Sanchez.
“Up—that’s the main thing.”
“Sam said there was a lift. Do you remember? In the headmaster’s study. He said the policeman came that way. Stop, Millie! What if the head’s working late? What if Miss Hazlitt’s there?”
“I don’t care. I want to get out.”
“What did we see?”
“I don’t know. We’ve got to do something, though, and do it fast.”
“They can’t have Tomaz! He must have got home!”
“Sanchez, face the facts! They’re getting him ready! They’re mucking about with kids’ brains, and we’ll be next if we’re not careful.”
“There was a train down there! I don’t get it!”
“It was a research center—you knew that! During the war. We were told that. Listen. The government is paying the headmaster for all these orphans to come here. There’s a lift from his office to the lab: what does that say?”
“But he wasn’t there.”
“What was the name of the old man? The one in the white coat?”
“Jarman. Shh!”
“And the bent policeman was down there too.”
“We’re stopping.” Sanchez’s voice was a whisper. “I think we should go to the phone box and phone my father. You think this is the headmaster’s study?”
Millie inched the grille back. “Let’s get back to your dormitory. I tell you one thing, you should carry your gun. And we should all stay together.”
There was a brass catch in the woodwork and, as Millie touched it, the door sprang gently open on oiled hinges. Both children stood poised and ready to run. Early-dawn light fell through the elegant windows; there was a familiar desk, a sofa they’d sat in, and the usual snowfall of paper. It was the headmaster’s study and it was empty. Breathing quick, shallow breaths, they closed the grille and swung the paneling back into place. Millie tiptoed across the rug to the study door.
“It’ll be locked,” whispered Sanchez. He went to the window. “Oh, no—Millie! Come here.”
“What?”
“They’ve got Ruskin! And there’s people coming! Look—it’s too late!”
Millie could hear a siren wailing and ran to Sanchez. They gazed across the park and found that once again they were holding each other in fear. The drive was clear in the moonlight and swimming down it there seemed to be a whole river of revolving lights. There were amber lights, red lights, and the fierce halogen lamps of what looked like motorway maintenance vehicles. There was a police car in there somewhere, but it seemed to be moving in the opposite direction and there was a great blaring of angry horns. The vehicles were fanning out over the grass and moving in like artillery. One after another they
paused in a burst of airbrakes, and there was a flurry of door slamming. The figures in the courtyard were lit by a hundred headlights and stood shielding their eyes. Big men in gloves were leaping from cabs. There were boots on gravel and voices shouting.
“Come on,” said Millie. “Let’s get out.”
“How?”
Millie pulled Sam’s toothbrush from her pocket. “Don’t you remember?” she said. “They gave it back.”
In seconds they were standing in the corridor. They would have to go downstairs, past the front door, and up again, so Sanchez led the way, Millie keeping one eye behind. They hadn’t reached the top step before they heard urgent footsteps racing toward them and there was nowhere to hide. Someone snapped on the lights and the children were caught like rabbits in the road, wide-eyed and openmouthed.
“Millie. Where have you been?”
It was the headmaster and he was almost running.
“Nowhere,” said Millie.
“Are the orphans up?”
“I don’t know,” said Sanchez.
“We need Henry, urgently. This is all a bit of a mess, quite frankly.” He was moving past them, toward his office. “I really did not want to start the day this way. Ruskin’s chosen this night of all nights, it’s such a shame—Miss Hazlitt’s furious. He’s drunk as a sailor. Can you help me, please? I want to get everyone assembled in the courtyard so we can unload, and Captain Routon wants to get the crane into the construction area first. They’re early, which is wonderful, but we’ve been caught totally on the hop.” He was opening the door; he didn’t notice it was unlocked. “The trusses can be carried in,” he called, over his shoulder. “But tell Asilah there’s a forklift for everything else. Oh, and Millie—will you get everyone to put overalls on? I don’t want your blazers getting mucky.”