The policeman sighed. ‘That was your job. You said you would win their trust.’
‘You try doing it! Half of them are psychopaths! They spend their time playing with tigers – the rest of the time they’re running wild.’
‘So try again.’
‘Who’s going to bare their soul to me, looking like this?’
‘Look,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘What if I was with you?’
‘You? How?’
‘There is a way—’
‘You said you couldn’t come near the place.’
‘Not in person, no. But what if I was on the end of a wire? Would that make you feel any better?’
Father O’Hanrahan thought about it. ‘So you’d be listening in? Guiding me?’
‘Yes. I can fix you up with a surveillance radio. Earpiece, microphone. I could feed you a few ideas if you get stuck. Keep you calm if you got a bit flustered.’
The old man nodded.
‘Would that help you?’
‘I think it might be a good idea,’ he said.
‘In the end,’ said Cuthbertson, ‘you’re looking for a simple clue. You must never forget: you’re dealing with kids. Kids respond to discipline.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
Father O’Hanrahan let several days pass.
He was aching and bruised, so he let the days go by, spending most of his time in his room. When he did venture out, he made a point of smiling regularly and being particularly nice to those he met, even Doonan. He constantly reminded himself that there was no hurry. The school was getting back to normal after the shooting of Lady Vyner. She had checked out of the hospital and was back in the south tower. Her first act had been to evict her grandson, who was now sleeping in a small bed next to Sanchez. Miles had asked if he could move out, temporarily, and was sleeping in a store-cupboard used by Professor Worthington. She was keeping a close eye on him.
The old man studied the new timetables as they were produced and tried to get into the swing of the school day. Circus-skills, gymnastics, science, football, and art – they seemed to run from one thing to another almost at random. The initials R.E. occasionally appeared, but nobody ever showed up.
One Friday he did manage to teach a class, but that was almost by accident. He came upon the three youngest orphans who had laid out their abacus and ledgers under a staircase. Father O’Hanrahan found a stool and joined them. He talked at length about bread and wine and the importance of the incarnation. The boys thanked him politely when they left, and he felt as if he’d made a breakthrough.
At mealtimes, he watched Tomaz.
Now that he knew that Tomaz was chief cook, he started to compliment the food.
One lunchtime he took a chance: he took hold of the boy’s sleeve and asked about the recipes he used. He even asked how Tomaz had mastered them and managed nearly a minute’s worth of normal conversation.
The boy was polite and self-contained. He was small and quick. He didn’t have the horrible confidence that some of them had, and didn’t find eye-contact easy. Father O’Hanrahan began to wonder why he’d ever felt nervous. The boy was thin: if it came to it, he thought, he could get the child in a headlock and squeeze. On the other hand, that would simply cut off the air-supply, which would be foolish. A few sharp slaps would be better. A twisted arm . . .
Alternatively, he could administer the currency of his own boyhood – a sound thrashing with a belt. Hands first, then the backside – he could remember even the toughest boys sobbing like babies after a strapping. It was a last resort, but the idea was comforting. He would talk the talk, but if it came to it, well . . . he wore a thick leather belt that would do the job beautifully.
He would have the map in his satchel and a pen. All Tomaz had to do was mark his home with a cross.
Encouraged, he created a new interview schedule and posted it on the notice-board. He decided not to use his classroom, which was drafty and doorless. He chose the stationery cupboard, at the back, which had one small window and was about the size of a church confessional.
He blacked out the window and put a small table and two chairs inside. Inspired, he found some candles. Inspired further, he fetched his cassette recorder and put on one of his relaxation tapes. When he closed the door, the room took on a calm, almost magical ambience. He unpacked his surveillance kit and put it on as he’d been shown – earpiece and microphone. Then he prepared for his first customer. Wisely, he had chosen Sanchez, who he knew would keep the appointment.
The meeting went well. The boy was civilised, and when Father O’Hanrahan offered a can of Pepsi-Cola – yet another inspiration to put the children at their ease – he accepted it. The old man quite enjoyed the exchange and Cuthbertson – listening in and offering encouragement through the earpiece – was very positive.
Fired by this success, he waited forty-eight hours and summoned Asilah. Asilah was another pleasant, responsible member of the community, and though he was more skittish than Sanchez, nothing terrible took place. The chaplain managed three minutes of easy conversation and Cuthbertson didn’t intervene once. He felt calm and professional.
The very next day was Tomaz’s day. He reminded him at breakfast and then, just after lunch, he waited outside the kitchen.
‘Tomaz!’ he cried, rubbing his hands and smiling. ‘You’ve not forgotten our appointment, I hope! Shall we walk together?’
‘Oh,’ said Tomaz. ‘No. I mean . . . yes.’
‘Two o’clock on the nose – let’s be punctual.’
‘It’s just that we’re . . . I think Professor Worthington needs us for a—’
‘Oh, I’ve had a word with her,’ Father O’Hanrahan lied. ‘She knows it can’t be helped! You can do your science any old time. Spiritual matters come first, everyone knows that.’ He put his hand on the boy’s neck and got a firm grip of his collar. ‘We’re talking about your soul, son. Your immortal soul.’
He pushed, noticing how light the child was. Tomaz had no choice but to walk. ‘I’ll tell you something, Tom: when I was your age, it made my day when the priest had a moment to spare. I did not keep him waiting, or he’d make me dance, I can tell you! That was a splendid bit of beef you did for us last night, by the way. Roast potatoes to die for and that’s an Irishman speaking. I’ve eaten a few potatoes in my time and you’ve got a magician’s touch, Tom – a magician’s touch . . .’
The cupboard was ready, candles flickering. Fizzy drinks were on the table. Father O’Hanrahan had gone through his tape collection and found Whales of the Antarctic. He switched it on and the lonely cries, over the hum of an organ, seemed friendly and gentle.
‘Sit yourself down, boy,’ he said. ‘This needn’t take long at all. It’s a formality, really, but I believe that all children have the right to speak up about spiritual matters. I was chatting with one of the little foreign boys, yesterday – Ashlah or something similar. Quite a lot to say for himself, he had. Surprisingly ignorant of the Bible, though – and that’s one thing about these interviews, my boy.’ Father O’Hanrahan picked up a small, plastic Bible. ‘You don’t go away empty-handed. I’ll be giving you one of these to keep at the end of this little chat, and they’re not as cheap as they look.’
He closed the cupboard door and shot the bolt.
‘Fitted that myself,’ he said, smiling proudly. He fingered his microphone and turned the battery pack on. ‘The last thing you want is interruptions when you’re baring your soul, and I do find children here have no sense of privacy. What’s the little long-haired fellow, wears his tie like a bandana?’
‘Imagio?’
‘No.’
‘Miles?’
‘No, not that monster. This one’s a foreigner.’
‘Anjoli maybe?’
‘That’s the one! Always in my face, jumping around me. The devil’s own, in my opinion.’
‘Receiving,’ said a voice in his ear. ‘Proceed.’
‘Are you sitting comfortably, Mr Tom?’ said Father O’Hanrahan.
‘Ye
s, sir.’
‘Then what we need, now that we’re ready – one to one like this – is a nice refreshing glass of the old Pepsi-Cola.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Tomaz, as the can was offered. ‘I don’t drink it.’
‘Oh.’
‘I don’t think it’s good for you.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’re wise. Tastes like muck to me, but most kiddies seem to like it. Now, Tomaz . . . do you want to kick-off, or shall I?’
Tomaz hesitated. He tried to smile, but he was sweating already. His eyes danced round the little cell and he was dreadfully conscious of the bolt on the door. Father O’Hanrahan seemed much bigger in a cupboard. He was all black cassock and lobster-like hands.
‘I’m not really sure what to say,’ he said, politely. ‘I don’t believe in God, you see.’
Father O’Hanrahan nodded. ‘That’s a very good start,’ he said. ‘I like a boy who thinks before he speaks and says things frankly. Some of your friends, they don’t ever shut up – that Millie girl, for instance: she’s got a mouth on her. But you’re a thinker, I could tell that straight away. You’re an orphan, aren’t you?’
‘Well. Yes.’
‘You see, death gives us stability. If your parents are dead, you know your own mortality.’
Tomaz went to speak, but the old man interrupted. ‘A bit of tragedy is actually good for you, in my opinion. It leads to a certain seriousness, especially if your folks pop off when you’re young. You must have been glad to find a home in dear old Ribblestrop, eh, after that kind of suffering? How did they die?’
His earpiece buzzed. ‘Stick to the point!’ hissed Cuthbertson.
‘How did they die?’ said Tomaz. ‘They were living in—’
‘Ah, it’s not important,’ said the old man. ‘Get over it, that’s my advice – once they’re gone, they’re gone. And I tell you another thing, you can think of me as a second father. And I won’t let you down.’
Tomaz was silent.
The old man smiled. ‘Of course, you don’t actually live at the school, do you?’ he said, slowly.
‘Don’t I?’ said Tomaz.
‘Go careful,’ said Cuthbertson, softly. ‘Don’t rush it.’
Father O’Hanrahan smiled even more broadly. ‘If the rumours are true,’ he said, ‘I hear you have your own little retreat. A second home, as it were. You can tell me, you know! There should be no secrets between a boy and his Father.’
He leaned forward and patted Tomaz reassuringly on the knee. The boy leaped to his feet as if he’d been stung, crying out.
‘What in God’s name’s the matter?’
‘I thought you touched me. I felt something on my knee!’
‘I did touch you. To make you feel safe, you idiot. Sit in your chair.’
‘Go gently,’ whispered Cuthbertson. ‘Keep it relaxed.’
‘I’m trying,’ whispered the old man. ‘He’s like a scalded cat!’
‘What?’ said Tomaz.
‘Nothing! Mind your own business and sit yourself down.’
‘Can I go now, please?’
‘No, you can’t go, we’ve hardly started! Where have you got to go to?’
‘I told you, Professor Worthington’s running an extra class. I didn’t want to miss it.’
‘Sit.’
Tomaz slid back into his seat. There was a long silence.
‘You don’t actually live inside the school,’ said Father O’Hanrahan, at last. ‘Do you? Come clean.’
‘Yes,’ said Tomaz. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’
O’Hanrahan smiled as broadly as he could, showing all his teeth. He chuckled and said: ‘You have a bed elsewhere. That’s what I heard. I believe it’s underground?’
There was a longer silence now. Tomaz was looking into the old man’s eyes.
‘Let him sweat,’ said D.C.C. Cuthbertson, very softly.
‘Either you do or you don’t,’ said Father O’Hanrahan, after a moment. ‘I’m just asking out of fatherly interest and it’s not a difficult question. I’m trying to build up a picture, Tomaz. You see, I was told you were a nice polite, honest boy who didn’t want any trouble. But if I’ve got that wrong . . . If you’re a boy with something to hide, then . . . maybe I should be taking a different approach.’
‘Let him dangle,’ said the voice in his ear.
Thirty seconds passed.
‘I’m going to ask you again,’ said the old man, slowly. ‘And I want you to think hard about your answer. Do you have a home, under the ground, that’s part of the Ribblestrop tunnels as once used by a gentleman called Vyner? Yes or no.’
Tomaz was white. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Then you’d better tell me everything about it.’
Chapter Thirty
Up in the Tower of Science, Professor Worthington had not noticed the absence of Tomaz. The children were used to him missing lessons for special kitchen duties, so they said nothing. It was on with the project of the day.
The reproduction module was over now that the baby panthers were up and running and though the professor was keen to work with the python and explore digestion, she was always equally keen to take opportunities when they presented themselves.
That very morning Doonan had given her a set of blueprints, clearly labelled Ribblestrop Pumping Station. He had been tidying Father O’Hanrahan’s desk and had remembered the science teacher’s excitement when they’d all looked down into the swirling water together. He’d borrowed them, vowing to replace them the same evening. Better still, young Caspar Vyner – who had become a permanent member of the class – remembered that a key to the pump-room hung in his kitchen. He had produced it at lunchtime and an expedition was planned for that very afternoon. First, however, was the removal of Miles’s stitches and the children had their books and pens out, ready. Miles had become a quiet student. He sat in his chair, still and nervous, looking at the expectant class.
Imagio had the job. He stood ready with mask, gloves, and a plate of freshly sterilised tools. His hair was neatly tied back and he wore a white coat.
Miles had his hands on a stool under a pair of desk-lamps, his elbows held gently by the clamps of a retort stand.
The rest of the children sat as close as they could, Doonan at the back, peering nervously.
‘The healing of the skin,’ said Professor Worthington, with a hand on Miles’s shoulder, ‘starts as soon as a cut occurs. A mixture of corpuscles and “clotting factors” join together. The other blood cells fight off the bacteria trying to get into the cut, and meanwhile, the dead bacteria, the immune cells and the blood all clot together to help form a scab. If the cut is too big for a scab to form, that’s when stitches are required. That’s why we had to stitch Miles.’
She used a pointer and touched the top of a wound. ‘Are you alright, Miles?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘We’ll be as gentle as we can. Now, who can explain scar tissue?’
There was a forest of hands.
‘Podma?’
‘The scab does only a temporary job,’ said Podma. ‘It seals things up, but once the normal skin grows under it, it dies and turns to crust.’
‘Very good, but what do we mean by “normal skin”? Eric?’
‘The white corpuscles that repair the damage at the slower rate, Miss.’
‘Good. Now, let’s give that a quick wipe with antiseptic. Is that hurting, Miles? You’re looking a little bit sick.’
‘A bit, Miss. But it’s OK.’
‘You’re a brave boy and this won’t take long. Now, what do you think the function of pain is? I’m asking you, Miles, as you’re experiencing it.’
‘I don’t know, Miss.’
‘That’s not an answer I can accept. Try again.’
‘To . . . alert the body to something that’s wrong?’
‘Very good. Pain is very important. Pain alerts us to the fact that our body is under threat, and it becomes important to
remove the cause of the pain. If you lean in, children, you can see – just where Imagio’s tweezers are, by the first stitch – keep them still, Imagio . . . Can you see? That’s the first sign of infection – and that is what is causing Miles pain. It’s nothing serious, but . . . Anjoli: identify it.’
Anjoli looked nervous, but he did his best. ‘It’s the . . . redness, Miss, and the slight swelling. Possible secretion of pus, Miss.’
‘Ah, very good. You’re redeeming yourself. Snip it, Imagio, then pull the thread,’
Miles gasped as the first stitch was eased from his flesh.
‘Good,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘We’re being very careful, Miles.’
‘I know.’
‘Define pus, quickly!’
She put her hand gently on Miles’s shoulder again.
Miles looked as if he was about to faint, but he thought hard. ‘It’s an emergency . . . fluid, Miss.’ He swallowed. ‘It removes antibodies that are hostile to the body.’
‘Absolutely right. The body heals itself – the body is determined, always, to live and reject anything threatening to life. Caspar, how would you treat Miles’s infection?’
Caspar was staring at Miles.
‘Miss?’
‘How would you treat the infection? You did a lovely picture last week, remember?’
‘Antibiotics!’ he cried.
‘Excellent,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘Removal of dead tissue and antibiotics. I’m impressed, Caspar. You’ve only just joined the class – you’re doing better than some. This, of course, is not gangrenous – there’s no need for Miles to be worried. It’s a mild infection and we’ve caught it in plenty of time. Are you enjoying Miles’s discomfort, Caspar?’
‘No, Miss. Of course not.’
‘You think we should we treat his infection?’
‘Treat it, Miss, yes,’ said Caspar.
‘Of course we should. Suffering has to be kept to a minimum. We are all about healing, not destruction. In my experience, we very rarely enjoy another person’s pain. And yet we always think we will. Millie, I want you to remember that too.’
‘Me, Miss?’ said Millie.
‘Note it down, in large letters. Write it on your wall.’