Return to Ribblestrop

  ‘Right foot down, Father.’

  ‘Down where?’

  ‘Down to your right. Take it slow – feel the rock-face. Just a bit lower . . .’

  ‘The rope’s tangling.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the rope. Ease yourself down, right side. I’m right underneath you.’

  D.C.C. Cuthbertson was above, his teeth gritted with impatience. He shone a flashlight down, careful to avoid the old man’s eyes. Gradually, painfully slowly, they descended another two metres.

  It was past midnight already and progress had not been quick. They were through the worst of it though: the cantilevered elbow had nearly defeated Father O’Hanrahan and they’d had to haul him like a roll of carpet, bending his fat body over a shelf of limestone that threatened to cut him in half. His rucksack had got stuck, he’d got dirt up his nose, and he’d lost a glove. Cuthbertson waited and heard his brother whistle. He let himself down on the rope and bounced inelegantly down to the next platform.

  ‘We can’t be far,’ said Gary.

  They were staring into a dark chamber. Their torches picked out swirls of rock, folding and stretching. For fifty metres or so, they followed a trail of loose scree, hearing the stones they dislodged skitter and tumble either side of them. The rope gave out and Gary paused to tie the next. As he did so, he heard his brother gasp.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Look this way. Look at this!’

  Percy Cuthbertson was pointing his torch into a grotto. The sides of the rock were pale pink; the colours flowed in a corkscrew pattern, plunging down. Then they seemed to open up, suggesting bottomless caverns.

  ‘Turn your torch off,’ said Gary.

  The policeman did as he was told; so did Father O’Hanrahan.

  The darkness seemed total. It seemed to jump at the men and press itself against them. Each man blinked and stared, astonished that such darkness was possible. Then, at first like a trick of the brain, they saw a flicker – a very thin glow, that suggested candles. It might have been a hundred metres below them, but in that overpowering darkness, the glow leaked upwards without a flicker.

  ‘That could be it,’ said Gary. ‘There shouldn’t be a light source down there.’

  ‘How do we descend?’ said Father O’Hanrahan.

  Gary switched his flashlight back on.

  ‘We drop. Ever tried an assault ladder?’

  The man had his rucksack open and was pulling a large coil of wire from it. The policeman seemed to know what to do as well. He had a metal stake in one hand, a hammer in the other. In seconds the air around them was throbbing to the sound of iron blows, and the old man watched as the wire was bent and tied, tested, and double-tied.

  ‘It’s a knack,’ said Gary. ‘Put your torch round your neck.’

  He flung the coil into space and it unfurled downwards into the corkscrew. The ladder was the width of a hand. The wire was so thin as to be invisible.

  ‘I’m not a spider, sir,’ said the old man. ‘You won’t get me down on that!’

  ‘Your choice,’ said Gary, getting his boot onto a rung. ‘It’s a lot easier than it looks and the alternative is staying up here.’

  He swung himself into the void and, with surprising speed, started his descent. Ten metres below, he paused and looked up.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I can hear jazz. I think we might be close.’

  In the orphans’ east tower dormitory, the party was getting yet louder. Doonan had tried to call for hush, but the boys didn’t seem to hear him. It was pyramid time and that meant a great deal of drumming. Biscuit tins had been saved for several weeks and a substantial kit had been created. Sanchez started the first roll and Henry moved to the centre. Two pairs of sturdier orphans flanked him, and then – one by one – as the cymbals crashed, boys leaped and scrambled. Within seconds there was a second tier. The third tier was easy too, especially as Flavio had coached the team in handsprings and backflips. Anjoli and Sanjay were still the stars and could fly upwards, somersaulting twice into position on the shoulders of their cousins.

  As the party was in Imagio’s honour, he was allowed pride of place at the apex. He couldn’t jump that high without the trampoline, but he could flip into eager hands, which then flung him up another level. The pyramid stood firm, Imagio’s head way up in the conical tower amongst the drying socks and hammocks.

  Sanchez changed the drum rhythm. Millie was trying to make herself heard, but was having as little success as Doonan. The boys now started to change position. The four at the base dropped to their knees and crawled backwards. This meant that the formation was now centred around Henry only. On his cue, Henry started to turn and the structure turned with him – the boys had their arms outstretched.

  ‘I can’t hear you, Sam,’ said Millie into a radio set. ‘It’s completely crazy! Wait!’ She took the unit out of the dormitory and closed the door. She still couldn’t hear – she had to descend a dozen steps. ‘Right. How’s it going? Over.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said “How’s it going?” Over.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not bad at all,’ said Sam. ‘We’ve had our supper. I’m making some tea and we’ve put a record on.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Say over,’ said Millie. ‘If you say over, I know you’ve finished speaking. It makes it easier. Over.’

  ‘OK. Over.’

  ‘So what are you calling about, Sam? Is there a problem? Over.’

  ‘No. It’s just that . . . well, it’s gone midnight and there’s no sign of Eric.’ He paused. ‘Over.’

  Millie checked her watch and cursed. Asilah had insisted on rigid timekeeping, so far, and everyone had been very conscientious. Eric, Podma, and Israel should have left half an hour ago. Without them, however, the pyramid had no centre. There was also the obvious fact that nobody wanted to miss Imagio’s farewell – the boy was a much-loved figure. He had been in tears twice already during the day, dreading the farewells that were now so close. Mr Scanlon was arriving the very next morning and a limousine would take their friend away to London. The deal was done.

  ‘Are you there, Millie? Over.’

  ‘We’re running a bit late, Sam,’ said Millie. ‘Over.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sam. ‘It’s just that . . . I played football with Imagio too, Millie. I was hoping to see him.’

  Millie knew this and cursed under her breath. If there was one boy desperate to say goodbye personally to Imagio, and spend time with him, it was loyal little Sam. She could feel the guilt rising, so she moved swiftly to aggression.

  ‘I’m afraid you have to make sacrifices sometimes,’ she said. ‘There’s a party going on: you’ll see him in the morning.’

  ‘I know, over. It’s just that—’

  ‘Life isn’t always fair, Sam. Sometimes you get the short straw.’

  ‘Millie . . .’

  ‘What? Say over if you’ve finished, or we just sit here interrupting each other. Look: we’ll send Eric as soon as we can, alright? Open another bottle of wine and make Imagio a nice card.’ She clicked the radio over Sam’s clicking. ‘See you later. Over and out.’

  ‘Millie . . .’

  Sam clicked the radio more urgently, stepping back as he did so.

  ‘Millie! Wait . . .’

  He was in Tomaz’s kitchen, beside the charger. As he spoke, he had glanced up into the lounge area, where Oli and Ruskin sat. He had seen something and it had made him go cold.

  It was a man, wearing black. He was standing on a sideboard, with his back to Sam. He was staring at Ruskin, but Ruskin was dozing over the chessboard. As Sam watched, he let himself down noiselessly onto the carpet. Sam had no idea what to do. He stepped sideways, into the darkness, and hugged the radio, quivering.

  ‘Sushamila’s gone,’ said Flavio, standing by the cage.

  ‘That’s not a problem, is it?’

  ‘Is not a problem – everyone else accounted for . . . I jus’ don’ know how she does it.’

>   ‘Well,’ said Captain Routon. ‘She’s harmless. She pads about on her own from time to time – let’s leave her to it.’

  ‘It’s like magic,’ said Flavio. ‘How can she chew her way out o’ here when she’s got no teeth?’

  ‘Do you want to go looking for her?’

  ‘I think she misses that damn crocodile. She was by the lake yesterday. And the day before. That’s the thing about these animals, you know – I guess it’s after all that time on the road. They like a little family. They care about each other.’

  Routon checked his watch.

  ‘She’ll be back,’ he said. ‘If we’re going to see the headmaster, we ought to be moving. He said he’d be brewing the cocoa just about now.’

  ‘You’re right. Shall I bring a bottle?’

  ‘Always wise. I’ve got a feeling it’s bad news.’

  ‘Still no money?’

  ‘Things are grim. Unless something comes up, Circus Ribblestrop will fall at the first fence. I just wish I had some ideas. Or some savings.’

  Captain Routon spent a lot of time down in Flavio’s cab. It reminded him of the services and time under fire, warm as toast in a dug-out. He didn’t miss the bombardments, of course, but he did miss the easy comradeship of soldiers together. He put his coat on and they set off together.

  ‘Talking of the circus,’ he said, ‘did I ever tell you about the time my corporal got trampled by an elephant?’

  Flavio sucked in his breath. “That happened to a friend o’ mine. Where was yours?’

  ‘Sri Lanka.’

  ‘Mine was a wedding in Pakistan. The bride’s father, man – got drunk and tried to swing on its trunk.’

  As the two tales unfolded, the men wandered to the building. They did not go past the lake, or even look towards it. If they had, they might have seen Darren paddling the speedboat with silent oars. He was thinking about betrayal, turning his rage over and over in his empty head. He would have liked to use the motor – he liked noisy things. But his instructions had been clear: Total silence.

  It wasn’t hard work: the boat was light and handled nicely. Landmarks were easy to see in the starlight and the water lapped softly under him. Far off he could hear the clatter of drums. His brain went back to the chance he’d had and the chance he’d lost. He’d heard about Imagio’s luck, of course, and his loathing for every member of that cursed Ribblestrop team caused him to grit his teeth. To be here, on their territory, made him feel even worse. If the opportunity came – if he met up with any of the kids – he’d do more than immobilise. The thought of pounding the face of a Ribblestrop child made him grin for a moment.

  He came round to the first island and sighted the white shoulders of Neptune. He paused and wondered if he had tools to vandalise it. He brooded, floated, and lit a cigarette.

  Who knows how many birds or beasts noticed that small flaring of a match? Who knows how many fish felt the vibrations of that matchstick as it landed on the water? One thing was for sure: a crocodile noticed, because the night was so still, and it was hanging motionless and hungry not five metres from the boat. It had followed its wake and it turned now, slowly, and rose to the surface to open a single eyelid.

  On the edge of the woods, meanwhile, a larger animal had seen the flame. Her old eyes were poor, but the match had still been like a flare in the darkness, and she paused in her drinking. Darren didn’t hear the low, anxious growl. He pressed on into the shallows, and reaching the bank, clambered out to wait under the statue.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Gary Cuthbertson’s ladder had fallen amongst the shards of mirror that the orphans used as Christmas decorations. They swayed on their cords and a couple of them clinked.

  As he climbed down, he was so astonished that he wasn’t sure what to do. He’d emerged from darkness and here he was in a forest of fairy-lights: it was some kind of palace, and his thoughts were racing so fast he could only gape at the treasures around him. He could see tapestries and a suit of armour. There was a picture in a gilt frame; in fact, there were several pictures. There was what appeared to be the chimney of a stove – but there were so many tree branches it was hard to see what was where.

  His instinct was to call up to his brother, but he checked the cry in his throat and climbed a little lower, holding his breath. Clearly, there was someone down there – and at the moment he still had the advantage of surprise. He hoped the old man above him wouldn’t slip or shout. Decision made, he went down another few rungs, doing his best to be silent. He found a ledge of rock and stepped onto it. Then it was easy: he found two good footholds and lowered himself onto a sideboard. The Vyner collection was laid out as if it had been waiting for him.

  He saw the child at the same moment it saw him. It was Oli, and they stared at each other.

  The boy licked his lips and put down his soldering-iron. He looked utterly bewildered.

  ‘Jake,’ he said. ‘There’s a man.’

  Gary Cuthbertson moved fast. He was a ruthless soul and had played rugby for years, specialising in the illegal tackle. The adrenaline flared up in him and he leaped. He had Oli by the arm before he could flinch, jerking him out of his chair and swinging him round. There was another boy at the table, so he picked the little one up in both hands and shoved him onto the big one, hard. The larger one buckled under the impact, grunting with pain, and they were both on the floor. Then the little one took a deep breath and screamed.

  Gary Cuthbertson found the two heads and slammed them into each other. Then he moved his hands to their necks. He pulled and pushed until they were under him. He got his knees on top, pressing with all his weight, and he shoved the two faces into the rug. No more screaming, no more moving. He didn’t have the handcuffs or any way of restraining them, but he could hold them until help arrived.

  ‘Percy!’ he yelled. ‘Get down here, now!’

  He glanced around the room, fearing witnesses. They seemed to be alone. He pressed the faces down, harder. Then, as he got his breath back, he allowed himself another look around the astonishing room. There were stuffed animals, statues, and more suits of armour. The furniture was polished wood, reflecting the silverware – there was cut-glass on the shelves and a white rabbit standing in terror on an armchair.

  His eyes were drawn to some kind of pedestal. Then, upwards, to the thing on the pedestal. It was turned away from him – he hadn’t seen it at first. Whoever had put the place together had an eye for display, for it stood against a background of dark greens – it was a golden suit of armour and it stood at ease, shoulders back, surveying the chamber. Its gauntleted hands came together in front and they clasped . . . a golden sword.

  One of the boys made a frantic bid for air or freedom. Gary Cuthbertson changed his grip and got more weight on him. He didn’t want to kill them, but he had no anxiety about causing them pain. Not when he was so close to success.

  He had to look again. Was that the sword they’d come for? If so, they were now so close . . .

  ‘Percy!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you?’

  D.C.C. Cuthbertson appeared on the ladder. ‘This is it!’ he cried. ‘This is it!’

  ‘Help me,’ said Gary. ‘We’ve got visitors to deal with.’

  It was another few minutes before the policeman was on the ground. He had taken it slowly, because his hands were shaking and his feet couldn’t find the rungs. When he made it to firm earth again, he staggered and his legs buckled. He took in his brother and the two captives, but he too was lost in the wonder of the treasures around him. He saw the knight immediately and its beauty left him speechless. He reached up and touched it.

  ‘Give me your handcuffs!’ shouted Gary. ‘Let’s sort these kids out first.’ The policeman didn’t hear him. He had to say it again, louder.

  D.C.C. Cuthbertson turned. His brother was sitting back and the two boys weren’t moving. The skinny one was crushed under the larger one and his nose was bleeding.

  ‘Oli,’ said the larger boy. ‘Oli? Are you a
lright?’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Gary.

  ‘My brother,’ said Ruskin. ‘You’ve hurt my brother!’

  The policeman fished out two sets of handcuffs. He brought Ruskin’s arms roughly behind him and slapped them on. He jerked the thin boy into a sitting position. His eyelids fluttered.

  ‘You’ve hurt my brother,’ said Ruskin. ‘If you’ve hurt Oli, you’re for it. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ said Gary Cuthbertson. He shook Oli by the shoulder, dragging him into a sitting position. ‘Say something, you!’

  ‘I think you’ve . . .’ Oli’s voice was very quiet. ‘I think you’ve broken my arm.’

  ‘Nobody’s dead. Not yet, anyway. A broken arm won’t kill him.’

  ‘You brutes!’ cried Ruskin. ‘You just let us go, right now. He needs an ambulance and you know it!’

  D.C.C. Cuthbertson had handcuffed Oli as well, threading the cuffs through those of the older boy. The child cried out as he was moved: he appeared to be only semi-conscious. They were back to back, and as the policeman lifted them, Oli could hardly stand.

  ‘Who else is down here?’ said the policeman. He punched Ruskin hard in the small of the back. ‘Where are the others?’ he shouted.

  ‘There are no others!’ said Ruskin.

  ‘And what are you doing here? Why aren’t you up at the school?’

  ‘I’m not in the school because . . .’ Ruskin couldn’t put his thoughts together. ‘Because here is where me and Oli . . . are. I’m not telling you anything, anyway! My father, when he hears about this . . . You don’t want to get on the wrong side of our father. There would not be one bit of you left, I can tell you.’

  ‘I know . . . both of these,’ said an Irish voice, softly. The words came between long, panting breaths. ‘I don’t know . . . their names, but I can tell you . . . they both need a damned good thrashing.’

  Father O’Hanrahan was covered in dirt. Trembling from his descent on the ladder, he had managed to clamber to the same shelf of rock that Cuthbertson had used. Now he slithered down onto a table and sat there swaying.

  Oli was hurting too much to raise his eyes, but Ruskin looked up. When he saw the face of the ex-priest, his anger rose to a new level. The old man’s face was red and it was running with sweat. The mouth was open, the yellow teeth bared like fangs as he sucked in air. The exertion of the climb had almost killed him, but the treasures he could see had set his heart pumping so his eyes bulged from their sockets.