‘I have.’
‘Those were your very words, Miles: “I have changed.” And yet, it would appear that you were handling – and offering – a loaded gun to another boy.’
Miles was silent. He let his chin drop to his chest and his hair covered his eyes. He pulled his shirt around him like a shawl.
‘Why is your shirt so torn, Miles?’
‘Because I tore it.’
‘Yes. Why are there cuts on your forearms?’
‘Football.’
‘Those are tattoos, aren’t they? Professor Worthington says you do them yourself. With a compass.’
Miles stared at him. ‘I don’t,’ he said.
‘Did you give Caspar Vyner that gun?’
Silence.
‘Will you please answer my question?’
‘Yes,’ said Miles. ‘Yes.’
‘You loaded it?’
Miles nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘If I know Sanchez, it would have been empty when you found it. Sanchez left it unloaded, true or false?’
‘He left it unloaded. It was in his hiding place and I took it out. Ages ago and I told everyone.’
‘You gave it to Caspar and you loaded it at the last minute.’
Miles licked his lips.
‘You told him the gun was empty,’ said the headmaster. ‘But you had secretly loaded it.’
The silence stretched between them.
‘Is that the case, Miles? Can you confirm or deny what I have just said?’
‘If you want to expel me again, you can do it – you don’t need to go through all of this.’
‘I am not interrogating you. This is a conversation.’
‘You’re asking all the questions! How is that a conversation?’
‘Are there questions you want to ask me?’
‘Yes.’ The boy sat up. ‘For a start, why do you allow a gun to be in a kids’ dormitory? That little freak was after it – he would have found it in the end.’
The headmaster picked up his cup and sipped his tea. ‘It’s Sanchez’s gun, as you know. It saved lives last term. And his father insists that he keep it.’
‘Not very safe, though, is it?’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Weird school that lets its pupils have guns.’
The headmaster looked at him. ‘You have a point,’ he said. ‘Ribblestrop is an unusual school and some of its pupils are also unusual.’
It was Miles’s turn to sip tea. ‘I didn’t mean to give Caspar a loaded gun,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d taken all the bullets out, but sometimes they get stuck.’ Suddenly, there were tears in his eyes. ‘This is the last thing I wanted to happen! Everyone’s going to think I did it on purpose. Sanchez is going to go crazy – he’s my best friend! I love him!’
The headmaster watched carefully. There was a single tear rolling down the boy’s nose. Miles wiped it away angrily.
‘If you expel me, I’m going to kill myself.’
‘Oh, Miles, what a disgusting thing to say!’
‘It’s true! If you want to—’
‘It’s absurd and obscene!’
They sat in silence.
‘We’re halfway through the term,’ said the headmaster. He was breathing heavily. ‘I have a casualty in hospital, with gunshot wounds. I have a boy threatening suicide. I have a traumatised child in a police station. Less than six weeks, Miles! When, not just two hours ago, we were enjoying ourselves on the lake! You come to me: “I’ve changed! I’m healed.” You shouldn’t have even been touching Sanchez’s gun! Not after last term!’
‘But I didn’t know there was a bullet in it.’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘He begged me to borrow it, Caspar did!’
‘Yes. And Caspar is one of our most vulnerable children. He’s completely isolated! Are you proud of tormenting him?’
‘I didn’t torment anyone!’
‘Is this the new Miles? Are you gloating, now? Are you proud of yourself?’
Miles was turning red. ‘I didn’t mean to do it!’ he hissed.
‘You gave him the gun,’ yelled the headmaster. ‘You put bullets in the chamber – just like last term! You showed him how to shoot and you told him—!’
‘I thought it was empty!’ screamed Miles. He was on his feet. ‘I thought it was empty! Empty! Empty!’ He smashed his teacup onto its saucer, breaking both. A lake of hot tea spread over the table and Miles’s right hand was suddenly red with blood. He grabbed the teapot and turned wildly around, and then crashed it through the window. The blood now ran freely from his injured arms and he howled suddenly, like an animal. Once, twice – he stood and howled, and then the sobs took hold and shook him like a doll.
The headmaster sat in horrified shock. He forced himself to be calm. Despite the blood and the screaming, he had to be calm. There was a box of tissues nearby and he slowly laid them over the boy’s injuries. Miles leaned forward, gasping. Blood leaked through the tissues. The headmaster pressed a napkin, gently, firmly. His own hands were shaking.
Miles quietened. ‘No . . .’ he moaned. ‘I don’t want to go. I have to stay!’ It was a whine and he seemed to be five or six years old suddenly. ‘You never heard what she said!’ he shouted.
‘Who?’
‘Lady Vyner. Last term! You never heard what she said about my mother!’
‘And you’re telling me . . . Miles, are you telling me you’ve been holding a grudge for all this time?’
Miles said, ‘She got what she deserved!’
The headmaster sat in silence for a moment.
‘You’re cut,’ he said. He knew his voice was trembling.
Miles shook his head. ‘I’ve had deeper than that. This is nothing.’
‘Let me see, please.’
Miles sat down and laid his arms on the table. The headmaster removed the napkins and tissues, peeling them back. He felt utterly sick. The child’s skin was ruptured in several places and he clearly needed stitches. Even that could wait, though: this moment was too important and he needed time.
‘I’m going to tell you about one of my problems, Miles,’ he said. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much pain are you in?’
Miles met his eyes.
‘No pain,’ he whispered.
‘See if this makes sense to you, because I need your advice. I’m going to tell you something that I think is true and important. Throughout my life, I have never been able to recognise truth from lies. One of my worst failings is that I find almost everyone I meet plausible. And I am cursed with an imagination that understands people who do awful things. It’s why I was sacked from two schools. It’s why I lost my family, I think – and it’s no doubt why Ribblestrop will fail.’
‘I’m telling the truth,’ said Miles. ‘If you don’t believe me, there’s nothing I can do about it.’
‘But we can’t go there, can we? We can’t talk about truth.’ The headmaster paused. ‘Don’t you see? Liars lie to themselves. The need to survive is such that we believe our own lies – just to keep going. Do you understand me?’
Miles said nothing.
‘I’ve got one more question for you, then I think we ought to look at your cuts. I want you to think about the answer – alright?’ The headmaster paused. ‘I want to know,’ he said, ‘what you would do, if you were me?’
Miles still said nothing, and the only sound was a very soft drip of blood and tea from table to floor.
The headmaster continued. ‘Would you believe this boy sitting opposite me? Would you say, This wonderful boy. He must be telling the truth. It’s all a horrible accident that we can learn from. Or would you know in your heart that he’s just done a wicked thing and is now lying about it? Lying to himself, even.’
Miles went to speak three times and each time nothing came. He had sucked his injured flesh and, just like at the football match, there was blood on his lips. His eyes were wide and luminous, and he was st
aring at the little shunken head that was still on the headmaster’s desk.
‘That’s my head,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s the head I gave you. That’s what I feel like, that’s how it feels.’
‘Miles, you can’t go on like this.’
‘Don’t tell her, please—’
‘Look at me!’
The boy’s eyes lifted and stared without blinking into the headmaster’s.
‘Oh, Miles – I don’t know what to do. If you’re lying . . .’ The headmaster paused and then his voice shook with new passion. ‘If you’re lying and deceiving, then you’ll do something like this again, I know you will. And someone will die – possibly you. If you’re lying, then you need help, urgently. Where can you get that help? We are not equipped to help you here. We haven’t the expertise. Tell me what I should do!’
‘If I were you,’ said Miles, ‘I wouldn’t know what to do.’
‘So what would you do?’
‘I’d expel me.’
The headmaster sat still and silent. After some time, he picked up a piece of china. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s a very good answer.’ He sat back in his chair and the silence went on. Suddenly, he stood up. ‘And that’s why I can’t. I cannot expel you, you’re too precious.’
He strode across the room, to the door. ‘You’re going to make your peace with Caspar and his grandmother. You are going to put things right. You are going to change. You are going to amaze yourself.’ He pointed at the boy. ‘That is my promise to you.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
D.C.C. Cuthbertson had no sympathy for Father O’Hanrahan. He despised weakness and stupidity, and it was with great difficulty that he concealed his fury at the man’s recklessness. He heard all the news by telephone and gave him a few days to recover. Then – his own sense of greed now fully aroused – he called a council of war.
First he picked up his brother, Gary Cuthbertson. They drove to a small country pub, six miles outside Ribblestrop.
Father O’Hanrahan arrived a little later, his fingers still covered in plasters from clawing at stone. His hands were shaking visibly and he wore a bright white bandage around his head.
‘I can hardly drive a car,’ he said. ‘Why do we have to meet miles from anywhere?’
‘Because secrecy is now more important that ever.’
‘This whole thing is turning into a nightmare!’
‘And whose fault is that?’ replied the policeman.
‘Excuse me!’ exclaimed Father O’Hanrahan. ‘Who was it who confirmed the existence of the sword? Who put their own life at risk, eh? So I don’t need any smart-alec criticisms—’
‘You have also alerted the Brethren to your own personal interest.’
‘Ach, they’re a bunch of old women!’
‘And made a fool of yourself telling one and all that Lady Vyner was dead.’
‘Which I thought was the case! How was I to know he was talking about a wretched football game? The man looked traumatised. I put two and two together—’
‘And made a very wrong number.’
‘Alright, I jumped to conclusions . . .’
‘You go charging in, getting yourself lost. And what’s wrong with your head?’
‘What?’
‘What happened to your head?’
The old man took a long pull on his whisky.
‘I got hit by a piece of flying china.’
‘Flying china?’
‘That is the kind of school I am working in!’ cried the old man. ‘I’m on my way to see the headmaster, to see if I can help. I stop for a nip of something strong and someone tips crockery out of the window. The place is a madhouse – all I want is to get out of it, the sooner the better.’
The policeman sighed. ‘Your job was so simple. All you had to do was see what the Brethren had to say, not lose yourself in the tunnels. I could have told you that you stood no chance of finding the chamber. I’ve been looking for months, before the entrances were blocked. We tried maps, we went down with metal-detectors—’
‘And this pump-room –?’
‘We only just found out about it! So we have to go slower than ever – but you’re still our man with access. We still need you in there, more now than ever before. You found out that the sword is safe – that is a big step forward.’
‘It’s in there, alright!’
‘Shhh! Keep your voice down.’
The policeman looked around him, but the pub was empty. ‘You’ve identified the location. We treat that as one hundred per cent positive: we are on the right track, so that’s good.’
‘Can I say something?’ said Gary, leaning in. ‘I say it’s time for the next move. If this old boy’s made everyone suspicious, then we ought to move fast. Now I suggest a speedboat is the priority. For that we’re going to need—’
‘What?’ said O’Hanrahan. ‘What do we need a speedboat for?’
‘Hold on, hold on – both of you,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘We’re all jumping the gun and putting carts before horses. First thing, Father, is this: how suspicious are the children?’
‘Of me?’
‘Of anything.’
‘I don’t think they’re suspicious of me at all. They think I’m some kind of clown – they probably want me for their damned circus . . .’
‘Then we still go softly. Alright, Gary?’
‘Fine. No problem. But Darren’s in, I can tell you that. Confirmed today.’
‘Good.’
‘Who’s Darren?’ said Father O’Hanrahan.
Gary supped his beer. ‘Darren,’ he said, ‘is a rather disappointed lad who’s been preparing for a football contract. And then in came Ribblestrop Towers, and took it from under his nose. He hates those kids more than I do, so he’ll drive the speedboat.’
‘We’re a team of four,’ said the policeman. ‘But we’re still not going to rush into anything. The Brethren saw the sword – that’s what they said. Therefore, we can assume it’s sitting there, waiting for us.’
Father O’Hanrahan nodded.
‘I’ve got a man in London, ready to receive it. Three million, in cash. There’ll be a down payment of a half-million. The rest as soon as the authenticity is proved, and I don’t think that will be difficult.’
‘What’s he going to do with it?’
‘What does that matter?’
‘I’m thinking if he’s going to sell it on, it won’t be long before it’s recognised for what it is . . .’
‘He’s buying it for a private collection. Middle East, that’s all I know.’
‘Alright. Good.’
Gary Cuthbertson unrolled the pipework blueprint, setting down the beer glasses to keep it flat. ‘Getting the sword out,’ he said, ‘will be easy – once we’ve got it. We need a boat waiting here.’ He put a fat finger close to the Neptune statue.
‘We don’t know where it is!’ said Father O’Hanrahan.
‘Shh! We do know where it is. It’s in Tomaz’s house.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ hissed the old man, his eyes closed in frustration. ‘But we don’t know how to get there. I spent two days trying and you wander in circles! All we’ve got is what you gave me: this blessed map of the blessed pipes. And that’s no good to anyone.’
‘No,’ said the policeman. ‘You’re wrong. If you’d taken this drawing with you, you could have found your way to the pump-room, and you could have got out much quicker than you did. Where is it, by the way – the copy I gave you?’
‘In my room, where else would it be?’
‘Locked away?’
‘It’s secure, if that’s what you mean. I’m not a complete idiot. But I still don’t see what a load of pipes and pumps have to do with anything. The sword is somewhere in a place we can’t get to.’
‘The pump-room’s important,’ said Gary, patiently, ‘because it’s our best way out. This is what I’ve been saying all along. There’s a way up from the pump-room t
hrough what’s called a dry dock, just here.’ He poked at a jumble of lines and boxes. ‘You get out in a little rowing boat, rising with the water level right up to the lake. We row a few metres and transfer to a speedboat. That’s where Darren comes in.’
‘Our man from London’s waiting on the far side of the lake: the handover takes half a minute. So what we’ve got to do, if you’ll let me finish . . .’
Father O’Hanrahan sat with open mouth.
‘What you have to do, I should say, is find out from little Tomaz how to get into that home of his. You said you could hear them having some kind of party?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you must have been close. We play it soft and slow – see what he’ll give you . . . any clue at all. Meanwhile, Gary is researching the potholing and caving side of things, in case we have to go down that way. Have you got anything yet?’
‘Not yet,’ said Gary. ‘I’ve sent letters to the main clubs. There’s a man called Spedding, used to be in charge of mountain rescue – I’m visiting him tomorrow night. The thing is, the Ribblestrop estate is private property, but the Ministry of Defence took some of it. So the routes haven’t been listed officially. And we can’t go exploring at random; it would take forever.’
‘I’ve got a couple of contacts who might help out.’
‘Listen,’ said Father O’Hanrahan. ‘I had better tell you something. I’d better come clean about something right now.’
‘What?’ said both men, together.
The old man took a long pull on his whisky. ‘You’re asking me to talk to the little long-haired boy, young Tomaz.’
‘Yes.’
‘In my role as chaplain.’
‘Yes,’ said the policeman. ‘You were going to make it a priority, remember? To have one-to-one, soul-baring sessions with each of them.’
‘And I did make a start. But to be honest . . . they didn’t go too well.’
There was a silence.
‘What’s been the problem?’ said Gary.
‘There’ve been several problems. One is that they keep changing the blessed timetable, so the children hardly ever show up. The other problem is when they do show up, they don’t seem to take me very seriously. I told you before, I can’t talk to children!’