‘Amen,’ said Brother Doonan.
The car was veering right; Doonan eased it left.
‘We all need help, and most of us are humble enough to ask for it. We ask you now to open the eyes of the blind, and as we seek to work with your brethren, may we bring the chapel back to glory and reinstate what is lost.’
‘Amen to that.’
‘We know there will be obstacles and hazards, like the stubborn child behind me.’
It occurred to Millie that both men had their eyes closed. She couldn’t be sure, but a kind of rapture had descended. She could also see what looked like a build-up of traffic ahead and the red lights of an intersection.
‘We’re going too fast,’ she said softly.
‘Do you think so?’ said Doonan. ‘Well, the Holy Spirit can be a frightening thing, but you have to trust—’
‘Seriously,’ said Millie. ‘We’re going too fast.’
‘It was like that for me,’ said Doonan. ‘I was just your age, and one day I found myself speeding towards the presence of God, and—’
Millie was fired by instinct. She jumped forward and grabbed the wheel.
The two men jerked their eyes open and saw the danger at once. For a second or two, they fought, with flapping hands. Father O’Hanrahan stamped on the brake just as Doonan screamed.
Time slows down when you crash.
The slow-motion cuts in and you get to see every amazing detail. From Millie’s point of view, there was a great comet-shower of red lights hurtling towards them. The soundtrack was an agonising howl of brakes and horns. Brake lights, traffic lights, and the long, pink strip of a petrol garage: the colours ran together in the rain, and as she twisted the wheel, she got the vehicle clear of the stationary cars. They fishtailed wildly as the wheels locked, and Father O’Hanrahan snatched them away from an oncoming truck. Thus they skimmed into the centre of the junction: the great box of the A312 and A303 interchange, beside the Family Roadgrill and Travellers’ Sleepeasy. Millie’s car floated through at twenty miles per hour; a family saloon emerging from the garage crawled into her path at less than five.
They smashed together in a shower of glass.
Mercifully, everyone was belted in, so the worst injuries were three whiplashed necks and a nosebleed. It could have been so much worse, and the police said that many times over the next few hours.
Who was driving the family saloon? A cautious driver by the name of Donald Tack. His wife, Edith, was next to him, and in the back, amongst comics, games, and sweet-wrappers, sat Sam Tack, Jacob Ruskin, and a newcomer to the school: nine-year-old Oli, brother to Jacob. Their car was spun three hundred and sixty degrees, and two of the windows burst over them, but it was actually no worse than one of those fairground rides you pay several pounds for. Oli had the nosebleed, but that was shock, not impact. He was reading his advanced guide to radio technology and was mortified to get blood on it. But he didn’t cry. Nobody did.
The children were herded into the Family Roadgrill by teams of helpful garage staff. Millie’s vehicle was crunched up against a lamp-post, but the back door opened easily enough. She was pulled out, and was able to stand shakily in the fuel and water that poured out of the broken car. The adults stayed where they were.
‘Millie!’ said Ruskin.
The two children looked at each other, thunderstruck. There was Ruskin, short and wide, built like a balloon. He snatched off his glasses to clear them of raindrops, grinning happily. ‘Unbelievable!’ he said.
He started to laugh. Sam was more worried about his parents, but a forceful waitress led him and the others firmly to a table.
‘Of all the incredible coincidences, what are you doing here, Millie? How was Canada?’
Millie was trembling with shock. ‘I didn’t go to Canada,’ she said.
‘Yes you did – you went with Sanchez. You patched things up at the end of term, and everyone said you were going to Canada!’
‘Sanchez lives in Colombia.’
‘Did you go?’
‘Yes. Ruskin, what are you doing here? Were you in that car?’
‘Yes! Sam’s dad was driving. We’re on our way to Ribblestrop, same as you.’
He sat down at the table and Millie joined him.
‘We were delayed,’ continued Ruskin. ‘Ironic really. Sam forgot his cap, so we had to drive over to his house and no one could find it. When we did find it, we were running late, so my father got a bit cross and we decided to go in Sam’s car instead, and have tea on the road. In fact, this is our table – I bet there’s a cup left in that pot.’
‘You and Sam spent Christmas together?’ said Millie. ‘That must have been . . . mesmerising. Could I have a hot chocolate?’ she said to the waitress.
‘We actually live quite close to each other,’ said Ruskin. ‘So we’ve been taking it in turns to have sleepovers. The fun we’ve had, honestly! We’ve got some super stories. Sam’s dad had a fall and had to go into hospital. That meant we had the house almost to ourselves – and the things we got up to!’
‘Could I have another glass of water?’ said a quiet voice, nervously.
Millie looked again at the third member of Ruskin’s party. Ribblestrop uniform, same as the rest. But this child was smaller, thinner, and altogether weirder. He had a tuft of pale hair on the top of his head and slightly protruding teeth. His eyes were huge and his little pink hands clung to the table top. He had the look of a foetus, born very prematurely and dressed up in clothes that would never fit. His grey shirt collar didn’t touch his neck, and he didn’t appear to have any shoulders.
‘Who’s the alien?’ said Millie.
‘Pardon?’
‘You’ve brought a pet. What’s its name?’
Ruskin closed his eyes. ‘This is my little brother, Millie. His name’s Oli.’
‘No way,’ said Millie. ‘It must have been a Christmas present.’
‘Actually, Millie, you’re wrong and you’re rude,’ said Ruskin. ‘And I had forgotten how hurtful you can be. Oli’s nine and he’s got a GCSE in maths already, so don’t insult him.’
‘Mmm, hello,’ said Oli, breathlessly.
‘Wow,’ said Millie. ‘I love the voice.’
‘I’ve told Oli all about you, Millie,’ said Ruskin. ‘I don’t think I mentioned your insensitive side, though. We may not look the same, but we’re alike in many ways, or that’s what our parents say. So if you think you’re going to pick on Oli, you’ll be dealing with me and Sam first.’
‘Oh no,’ said Sam.
The others looked up. Sam hadn’t joined them at the table. He was at the window, nose against the glass. The first blue light had appeared, closely followed by another. There were distant sirens too. Floodlights were going up on stands, reflecting broken glass: a couple of men from the garage were directing traffic, and both crashed vehicles were still full of grown-ups. Sam watched as the first couple of stretchers emerged from an ambulance.
Ruskin got up and went to his friend. ‘Don’t worry, Sam, they always use stretchers these days. I think it’s for training – it doesn’t mean anyone’s badly hurt.’
‘Dad has only just got well,’ said Sam. ‘They’ve just taken the cast off!’
‘Psst,’ said Millie. Oli snapped his eyes up to hers; they had been wandering crazily over to the windows, then to his hands. ‘Oli Ruskin.’
‘Hello,’ said Oli.
‘Did your brother tell you about the new system we have this term?’
Oli’s eyes fluttered. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘He told me some stuff.’
‘It’s a bit like the old days, at all those posh public schools. New boys are assigned to the more senior pupils, like me and Sanchez. They have to run errands. Shoe-cleaning, toast-making, that kind of thing.’
Oli groped for a word.
‘How old are you again?’ said Millie.
‘Nine,’ said Oli. ‘And a half.’
‘Look. I don’t want you getting bullied. If you play your cards right, I
’ll see you get put with me.’
Oli’s eyes filled with tears, but whether they were from fear or gratitude wasn’t clear.
‘Why are you coming to Ribblestrop?’ said Millie. ‘Didn’t your brother warn you what happens?’
‘Mmm, well. I was . . . Mmm.’
Millie tried to put on a kinder face. She sat a little lower in her chair and tried to meet the boy’s troubled eyes.
‘You see, my primary school was a bit useless,’ said Oli. ‘I was really just repeating work, treading water really, which was hardly challenging. So they put me up to the next class but it wasn’t any better – it had rather a worksheet methodology and I wanted something more project-orientated, something more stretching. I did a trial day at the big school, you know – the local boys’ comprehensive. I—’
‘Didn’t you like it?’
‘Mmm, all the boys. They were really quite rough and they were just doing things I’d done at home. I had a tutor, you see.’
‘Did they beat you up?’
‘I was only there for a morning. They said they would, though.’
‘I don’t think they’d have appreciated you. I think it was a wise call, coming here. I’ll make sure nobody touches you, Oli. But you will have to do a few jobs – is that OK?’
Oli licked his lips nervously. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he looked around him, as if to check nobody could hear. He leaned forward in his seat. ‘You seem very decent,’ he said. ‘Do you have any, mmm . . . hobbies?’
‘Hobbies?’ said Millie. ‘What, like stamp-collecting?’
Oli was nodding.
‘No,’ said Millie.
‘I do.’
‘I bet you do.’
‘We’ve got a really good hobby. Sam’s into it as well, so’s my brother. If you like . . .’ Again he looked around nervously and pulled a booklet out of a pocket. ‘For a job, I mean . . . I’ll show you how to make one of these. I’ve got loads of spares.’
‘What is it?’
Oli pushed the booklet across the table and Millie glanced quickly down tiny columns of small print, taking in complex-looking cross-section diagrams. Oli’s face had changed; it was now eager. He stood up and leaned forward, his nose close to the page. He was breathing quickly. ‘Four-wheel-drives, radio-controlled. That’s just the chassis, showing how to mount the clutch. Sam’s got a Land Rover. I’ve got an earth-mover, more of a drill really. It’s the sort of thing you use to make underground railways; it drills the soil and clears it. If you like, I could make you the submarine.’
‘Could you do me a favour, Oli?’
The child nodded.
‘While I’m reading this, could you get me a saucer I can use as an ashtray?’ Millie had produced a cigarette. She was searching for her lighter. Oli gazed up at her, his tongue just visible between his lips.
‘Your first errand,’ said Millie. ‘Go and get a saucer, and see what’s happened to my hot chocolate.’
‘OK.’
‘In fact, Oli?’
The boy turned, hands up at his chest.
‘Get the menu, will you? I want proper food.’
Oli trotted off. Outside a fire-engine manoeuvred past Father O’Hanrahan’s car and got the foam hoses ready. It said something for Oli’s new sense of responsibility that he didn’t drift off to watch. He did everything Millie had asked, making sure she had salt and pepper cellars, a napkin, and even a towel for her dripping hair. Then he sat next to her and explained exactly how her submarine would work.
Millie discovered that she was getting quite interested. She put down her fork and took the boy’s small, frail ear between her fingers.
Oli stopped talking and stared with big fascinated eyes.
‘You’re actually quite cute,’ she said. ‘I think we’re going to be friends.’
The blood rushed to Oli’s face and in three seconds he was scarlet.
Chapter Three
Back at Ribblestrop Towers, it was still Christmas.
Father Christmas himself was sitting on a desk. Opposite him stood a large snowman and on the sofa, looking anxiously through thick glasses, sat an elderly fairy. The school hadn’t had a Christmas party at the end of the winter term; it hadn’t seemed appropriate as the police were still in the grounds recovering the body-parts of the deputy headmistress. The headmaster, Captain Routon and Professor Worthington had therefore been keen to start the new term in celebration and style – hence the fancy dress.
Downstairs, the orphans were waiting, dressed as elves. The feast was laid, and there were gifts, jellies, and crackers plus an enormous gingerbread model of the school. There was to be a disco and finally a film.
The headmaster put the telephone back into its cradle.
‘Bad news,’ he said.
‘What’s happened?’ said the captain.
‘There’s been a car accident and they’re all stuck in Somerset. They won’t be down till tomorrow.’
‘Anybody hurt, Giles?’ said the fairy.
‘No, thankfully – everyone’s fine. I didn’t quite understand the details; there was a lot of background noise. But it would seem that the Tack parents are in Casualty, just being checked over. They’re with those two . . . religious people.’
‘What about the children?’
‘They seem to be right as rain. They’ve been installed in one of those Sleepeasys for the night, and they’re hoping we can send a vehicle tomorrow morning.’
‘Easy enough, sir. I can take the van.’
‘It’s not really roadworthy, is it, Routon?’
‘There’s a few jobs left to do, but it gets from A to B. I’ll leave first thing.’
‘We’d better tell everyone downstairs. Drat it, I had so hoped to get off to a good start. The orphans were disappointed enough about Sanchez’s late arrival . . .’
‘We can have the party tomorrow, Giles – it’s hardly the end of the world.’
‘Jellies won’t keep, sir.’
‘We’ll eat the jellies and show the film. Poor kids! They’ll be going out of their minds with boredom waiting at a motorway service station. You know, I had a feeling something was wrong.’
‘Go!’ shrieked Oli. ‘Straight!’
‘I can’t control it!’
‘Pull the throttle and get the drill down . . . you’ve missed it!’
Oli Ruskin had climbed up onto the television, which was bolted to a high bracket in the corner of the Special Deluxe Supersize Family Room. From there he could supervise operations. The room was ideal: minimal furniture, all easy to move, and a smooth industrial carpet.
Millie sat on its far corner; she had the radio console in her hands and was doing her best to control the digger-vehicle. It had a mind of its own, but she was learning, and laughing with excitement.
‘Reverse!’ yelled Oli. ‘Go left, go left!’
‘I can’t find reverse!’
There were three radio-controlled vehicles in operation, each one about fifty centimetres long. Ruskin Senior had a truck; Sam had a Land Rover. Ruskin Junior had a strange armadillo-like vehicle, with twelve small wheels and a sharp, rotating snout. The task was to get each vehicle through the obstacle course that they’d built from the Sleepeasy furniture. Oli had devised a series of penalties and rewards, and was in charge of the clock. The obstacles were mattresses, blankets, and a telephone cable stretched between bed-legs. It was the telephone wire that Millie was finding tricky; she had to find a point at which the snout of her drill could get under it. She was losing valuable seconds and Sam’s time had been good.
The windows were all open, but the room still stank of engine oil and smoke. Ruskin Senior was in charge of refuelling, for the little motors ran down ridiculously quickly. Larger fuel tanks were on order, but Oli was worried they’d need complicated pumps.
‘Rotate it!’ cried Oli. ‘Rotate it!’
‘Damn,’ said Millie. She rammed the toy forward and this time got the drill-head spinning. It severed the telephone cord
and took a chunk out of a chair leg.
‘Good!’ shouted Ruskin.
‘Yes, but she loses five for cutting,’ said Oli. He scribbled a mark on the wall beside him.
Millie pressed the steering lever and, amazingly, the vehicle obeyed her and started up the mattress-mountain. Its wheels caught on the sheet and soon it was up to the apex – it nearly toppled over but righted itself – and started down the steepest part of the slope. They’d propped two mattresses together over a low armchair, and it was a difficult thing to negotiate. All the toys had four-wheel drives and magi-grip tyres; Oli had put a little extra weight on the chassis of his vehicle, to keep the centre of gravity low. Despite Millie’s clumsy control, she was making good time now.
‘Oh, keep it steady . . .’ shouted Oli. He was living every half-metre of progress, his hands twitching at imaginary controls. The engine noise was unbearable: high-pitched and wasp-like. It sawed at the ear relentlessly, the clutch of the little vehicle burning as it teetered down the slope. There were pizza cartons scattered round the room. The boys had torn up the polystyrene bases, and Sam had used the pieces to lay out a curving road as part of the floor-level steering test. Millie approached it now, in full control.
‘Slow down,’ whispered Oli. ‘Try and get the nose up.’
Ruskin walked along with the little car, intent on its progress. His own vehicle had taken eleven minutes to complete the course; Millie was on a very promising eight so far. She turned into the first straight and missed the curve. Reverse, try again. She oversteered. Black smoke was leaking from the engine and she couldn’t work out how to close off the drill. This was a problem as the razor-sharp edge was cutting into the carpet, sending wool-threads spinning – the friction was counting against her.
Nobody heard the hammering on the door.
Millie was stuck and the seconds were ticking by. Oli and Sam were cheering. The finishing post was a pillowcase dangling over a coffee table, and it was going to be very close. The drill was devouring the carpet, the nylon threads melting and smouldering. Millie tried to reverse again.
‘Go!’ shrieked Oli. ‘You can cut through it!’
Ruskin was jumping up and down: ‘She’s stuck, she’s stuck!’ But Millie found reverse and somehow disentangled the drill. She went for the home stretch fast, missing the pillow and curving wildly. This time the drill slammed into the skirting-board, and the boys cheered louder, knowing she was losing more points. Sam leaped onto the mattresses, did a backward flip from the table; he punched the air, confident that he had the best time. He bounced to his feet and ran to Oli: the child was doing complicated sums on the wall, subtracting and adding points.