There was a burst of urgent crackling.
“Yes, I am alone at the scene. I’m going to attempt rescue and first aid, I’m going in.”
“Inspector, this is control—please await support!”
“Negative, control—lives to be saved. Over and out.”
Within fifteen minutes, a police helicopter was hanging low over the school, its searchlight trained on the disaster. Luckily for Inspector Cuthbertson, there was a pregnant woman in carriage four, and when she went into early labor, he was able to assist with the safe delivery of her child.
He was quite a hero.
As for Jarman, four hundred and seventy tons of speeding train had shoveled his Land Cruiser back down the line at eighty-three miles per hour. The driver had brought the wreckage to a halt in less than a mile. But could the old man be identified? He hadn’t been to a dentist for years, so there were no dental records. In any case, only three teeth were ever found.
Epilogue
I
The next few days were spent among swarms of police, detectives, TV camera crews, security guards, men in suits, and sightseers. The train smash was big news. Helicopters came and went, and the driveway was jammed with vehicles. Tents were erected over the site and teams of engineers spent days in the tunnels with cutting equipment. The school car park was roped off, and the children watched as bits of door and lift were brought up and laid on the lawn. They waited to see bits of the laboratory and the big black chair, which Anjoli had claimed for the orphans’ dormitory. It never appeared. Nor did the robots, which Sam wanted. They’d have to be content with George, the only survivor.
Anjoli and Millie went to the ventilation shaft, hoping to get down to take a look, hoping to get involved. The area was cordoned off. A truck and a JCB were at work, filling the hole with rock and concrete. They had better luck through Neptune, but when they got close to the lab, they found a brick wall had been constructed from the floor to the ceiling. Government Property, read a notice. Strictly Private.
One of the saddest things was the removal of the red phone box and the filling of the shaft under that. Millie watched them take it away, thinking how it had saved her life. Lady Vyner was furious and put in a massive claim for compensation. This claim was honored within twenty-four hours and she stopped complaining.
*
The headmaster hardly left his office. The phone rang incessantly and there were so many visitors. He assumed he would be sacked, but wondered who was going to sack him. Ribblestrop had no board of governors. He couldn’t be fired, except (he assumed) by the government department that Miss Hazlitt had worked for. He looked through the contract he’d signed and was amazed again at how many powers he’d accidentally given away. But when he phoned the department he’d once dealt with, whoever answered found it hard to recall the school’s existence or find any previous correspondence. He was assured that no government department had ever officially been interested in or involved with Ribblestrop Towers; no application for a license had been made, because his school was exempt from the legislation that department handled . . . and he was asked to stop calling.
Then he reminded himself that the Hazlitt “woman”—or the man, this Jarman—had been imposed on him. He phoned again, determined to speak to a manager. But the office he’d once dealt with had suddenly had its phones disconnected. In a strange way, it was as if she or he or whatever it was had never existed.
He waited to be arrested.
He waited for Inspector Cuthbertson. Inspector Cuthbertson appeared only once at Ribblestrop Towers, and then very briefly for a photo shoot. He had appeared in national newspapers, the hero of the train disaster. It turned out that the pregnant woman had been a minor celebrity, and there were photos of him carrying her to safety. His grinning face even appeared next to the newborn baby’s, and it was predicted that he would be a godfather. The children didn’t see him again and there was a rumor he was taking a few weeks’ leave.
Everyone got used to big black cars and important-looking people, but one Friday morning a little convoy arrived. A man in a soft trilby, pulled low over his eyebrows, slid quietly into the headmaster’s office. He wore a thick mustache and a heavy overcoat. He brought two secretaries, a bodyguard, and a special dog. A great deal of time was spent setting up some kind of satellite telephone, and then a video screen so that a man in a gray suit could be part of the conference. The first man didn’t explain exactly who he was and his business card had only a number. He was quietly spoken and had immaculate manners; he seemed to enjoy listening rather than speaking. But after some time and a great deal of nodding, he leaned forward and presented the headmaster with a check.
“This is a little gesture, old boy,” he said. “Call it an investment in your infrastructure. We feel . . . the powers-that-be feel, that you have been pretty badly inconvenienced. It’s important we anticipate and go beyond any claim for damages, were you to make one—you’ll find the settlement is more than generous. Were you to sue for compensation, old chap . . .” The man leaned forward, and smiled. “You would find that we were obliged to find legal representation; the case would be vigorously contested through a counter prosecution, and all monies would be frozen pending the outcome of the case. The case would be lengthy, I’d say. Lengthy. Do you understand?”
“Not entirely,” said the headmaster.
Both secretaries were tapping furiously into their laptops and paused when he said that. A miniature printer squealed and papers uncoiled.
The man in gray on the screen said, “What did he say?”
The headmaster said, “I understand.”
The man with the check said, “I am also empowered to issue Ribblestrop Towers with a license to continue trading . . .” Another sheet of paper was laid on the desk, stamped and signed. “This is valid for a year; I just need you to sign here and here. The press has been briefed, so you’ll find certain events are likely to be dealt with sensitively . . . all the lurid material about doctors under the ground . . . ha!” There was a thin smile under the mustache. “The media have been encouraged to focus on the railway incident, where there’s a bit more human interest. Oh, and I should just draw your attention to paragraph 14C—just there—clause two. We’re urging you to confine any press statements to simple expressions of relief.”
“Certainly,” said the headmaster. “I am relieved. What about Miss Hazlitt, though?”
“I don’t understand your question, sir?”
“Miss Hazlitt. Mr. Jarman. Would I be right in assuming that—”
“Questions about deceased persons heretofore employed would require notice. You would have to make formal application for any response to any such question. These matters are being investigated and it would be . . . unhelpful for me to comment in a forum such as this.”
“What about Cuthbertson?”
“He’s in good shape, I believe. The Caribbean, in fact. Soaking up a bit of sun.”
“What’s happened to him, though? It seems he was part of a . . . well, a conspiracy, though I hate to use the word.”
“No, no, no. Ohhhh, no. Undercover. Different thing entirely. Friend Cuthbertson has been commended. His work was exemplary and many lives were saved. He dealt with events in the most professional way and his work underground, as I understand it, was bold. Foolhardy, some would say—but that’s what good policing is all about: a duty of care, the preservation of life must come first. He’ll be honored in due course, sir.” The gentleman paused. His eyes hadn’t left the headmaster’s and his voice had remained firm yet polite. “Friend,” he said. “I have to trouble you to make a decision. If I could have your signature there and there?”
The headmaster looked at the size of the check. It was enough to pay off every debt he had ever incurred. He could put down another term’s rent in advance. He could furnish the school, pay for at least two more teachers, and throw a Christmas party. He sat quietly for a few seconds, looked at the eyes looking at him, and decided he had no mor
e questions.
“Can I borrow your pen?”
The man’s smile got broader. “We have a recording of this conversation,” he said. “And you have accepted the Crown’s settlement. So that is your copy of my copy, and I think we’re just about done. You will brief the children, won’t you? Discourage anything lurid.”
*
Lessons had stopped, of course.
While the headmaster dealt with officialdom, the children got into the habit of visiting Tomaz, via Neptune. Needless to say, his house astonished everyone. He cooked huge meals and nobody ever wanted to leave. A small dormitory had to be excavated and furnished. It was the only way to accommodate so many guests, and the work took several days. By the time the children were aboveground again, the press and the police had gone.
Captain Routon returned after two weeks to a huge party. He was wheeled in, bandaged like a mummy. The children had pinned a black-and-gold banner to the mansion doors, which said, simply: Welcome Home Our Hero. It was an emotional reunion. They ate and drank and danced and sang, and when Caspar crept in wearing specially padded shorts and sat down to join them, nobody teased him.
Tomaz, in fact, now did most of the cooking. There was an emotional scene between him and the headmaster, but emotional scenes were happening several times a day. The boy was readmitted as a pupil, but with the special privilege of maintaining his own, private accommodation.
*
The return game with the high school was looming. When the big day arrived, the children were throbbing with excitement.
Captain Routon was wheeled to the headmaster’s car. It was currently the only Ribblestrop vehicle.
The children changed in their dormitories. As they had no actual uniforms, it didn’t take long. They threaded the black-and-gold tie of Ribblestrop through the belt loops of the gray shorts. They pulled their gray socks nice and high so that the cardboard shin pads were secure, and they rolled their shirt-sleeves to the elbow. They had voted to forget lunch, because they were too excited. And anyway, they needed speed and adrenaline.
They set off early.
As the headmaster maneuvered his car carefully onto the drive, a rather smart people carrier approached the other way. Everyone was used to sightseers by now, so nobody cared; as the headmaster inched round it, the singing started. The man at the wheel of the people carrier, however, seemed to want a conversation. He was elderly and nervous, and he wore a large surgical collar. So did his passenger. He was trying to wind the window down and his hand fluttered anxiously at the headmaster. After some time he found the switch of the electric window.
“This is Ribblestrop Towers, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes, it is. How can I help?”
“I don’t know if you can, but I hope you can. This is the school, isn’t it? Ribblestrop?”
“Yes.”
“It’s our first visit, you see. Our son attends this school, in the first year . . .”
“Dad!” yelled Sam.
Sam was curled up on the parcel shelf above the car trunk. He had his face pressed to the side window and, though it was steamy, he could just see out. He’d also heard that distinctive voice.
“It’s my dad!” he shouted.
Mr. Tack didn’t hear. “It’s all a bit of a long story,” said the man. “We’ve been recuperating after a car accident and the last thing we wanted was to worry the boy. Thing is, though, we haven’t seen him for a while, and just wondered . . .”
Sam had now crawled over Ruskin’s head and the shoulders of four orphans. He managed to get his nose through the window over the headmaster’s arm. “Dad!” he cried. “I’m here!”
“Hello, Sam!”
“You’re just in time!”
“Time for what?”
“You’re just in time for soccer. How did you know?”
“We thought we’d missed it . . .”
“Hello, darling!” said Mrs. Tack. She had leaned across her husband and she found her voice was wobbling. She couldn’t see all of him, but it was definitely her Sam. She had promised herself all day that on no account would she cry or embarrass her son, but here he was and her eyes were swimming in tears, because he looked just the same. A rather unorthodox haircut, but fashions were forever changing. It was, however, the same little lad she’d waved off from Paddington Station all those weeks ago, and he was radiant with happiness.
“Mum, can you take the team?”
“What do you mean? Take them where?”
“What happened to your neck?”
“Oh, Lord, that’s a long story. You know me and your mum, if it’s not one thing it’s another. We had a bump on the motorway, and—”
“This is so lucky! Can you get us all in?”
“Where are we going?”
“Millie has directions. Millie—get in the front! Can we talk a bit later?”
Within seconds, the headmaster’s car was abandoned, and the Tacks’ vehicle was brimming with Ribblestrop players. Mr. Tack executed a nine-point turn on the drive, and it was full steam ahead for the high school sports center.
II
The High School for Boys was just outside the sleepy town of Ribblestrop. It had been built on an expanse of wasteland and, as you approached, it looked rather like a nuclear power station set in three acres of crumbling army barracks. A high wire fence surrounded it and a man on the gate waved them through, radioing ahead.
The Tacks had got lost, partly due to Millie’s erratic directions, so it was lucky they’d set off so early. The Ribblestrop team rolled in just before kickoff.
Another security officer pointed out the road toward “recreational facilities,” and radioed ahead. The vehicles trundled round a bend and you could see the pitches laid out below.
The floodlights were on already, it being a dull afternoon. A vast crowd had gathered, surrounding the grass and turning it into an arena. Two thousand? Three thousand perhaps. You could hear their singing, but as the van appeared it rose into an ecstasy of whistling. The High School for Boys had invited the High School for Girls, and they were all corralled together behind high, chainlink fences. Teachers patrolled the touchline nervously as the whistling turned to a monstrous baying.
“Don’t be intimidated,” said Ruskin.
“We are the better side,” said Millie.
An official with an Alsatian beckoned the Ribblestrop vehicles onto the pitch and advised the drivers where to park for a quick exit. The children piled out with their one soccer ball and spread out toward the farthest goal. The noise of the crowd made conversation difficult. The children kept their heads down, aware that green banners were being unfurled, and they were marooned in a sea of green scarves and painted faces. The pitch was rock hard. A million cleats had worn it to brown dust. It was more suited to Christians and lions than to soccer.
“I want a clean game,” said Harry Cuthbertson. The two captains looked at him. “This is not to be a grudge match, all right?”
“Tails,” said Millie.
“Remember, Darren. We’ve got a man from Highbury coming down next term, that’s the only reason we’re keeping this fixture. Fitness training, this is.” He said to Millie, “This lad’ll turn pro when he leaves us.”
“How’s your brother?” said Millie.
“Good. He’s looking forward to seeing you. Unfinished business, apparently.”
“Tell him I’ll be waiting.”
“You know he’s Deputy Chief Constable, do you? It was announced yesterday.”
“Yes, I heard,” said Millie. “What I really want to know is, who’s more bent? You as a ref, or him as a copper?”
Harry Cuthbertson went so red and stiff he couldn’t toss the coin. He gave kickoff to the high school and blew his whistle hard and long. Darren clipped the ball forward and there was a tumultuous roar from the crowd that seemed to lift the very dust; it was like playing in a gale. The Ribblestrop players stared at one another in fear. All around the ground, the metal fence was being pi
cked up and shaken. It was the sound of chains rattling.
The high school were on the offensive fast, and their tactics hadn’t changed. The boys weren’t quick, but they were powerful and hard, and tackling them was always going to be dangerous. The Ribblestrop team were brave but skittish, and concentration in the din of howling was almost impossible. Everyone was remembering the cruel tackles of the last meeting, and it was clear that the first ten minutes were going to be the hardest.
The penalty, when it came, was outrageous. Cuthbertson was in the right place to see what happened, so his decision was cynical and absurd. Henry had moved in firmly, as a high school player tried to break. Henry played the ball; the other lad went down in a theatrical stage dive, throwing his arms in the air and somersaulting twice. A hurricane of screams and whistles came from all sides, so intense that the referee’s own whistle was inaudible. It was the ref’s decisive pointing at the penalty spot that confirmed the unbelievable decision. The dive had taken place a good two meters outside the penalty area, but Cuthbertson yellow-carded Henry and simply walked through the scrum of protesting Ribblestrop players and planted the ball on the penalty spot.
In the visitors’ box, which was a small concrete bunker halfway down one side of the pitch, Mr. Tack was aghast. Captain Routon—whose face was red anyway due to the blistering—had turned a frightening plum color.
Sanchez bounced on the goal line.
The high school captain backed off for the kick. He had a smug smile on his misshapen face, which turned into a glare as he prepared to run. Sanchez didn’t see the ball as it smashed into the top lefthand corner of his goal. He didn’t even move.
The crowd noise turned into a jet engine during takeoff. One of the metal fence panels was breached, and there was a brief pitch invasion before a handful of hardy teachers linked arms and filled the gap. As Ribblestrop kicked off, it was as if the ground had tilted and they were playing uphill in a tornado.