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  ‘You!’ said Ruskin, softly. He shook his head and from the depths of his outrage managed to say, ‘And I thought you were a man of God.’

  Even Father O’Hanrahan managed to laugh.

  ‘A so-called policeman!’ cried Ruskin. ‘A referee! Ha! So biased and unfair . . .’

  Both Cuthbertsons were chuckling. They had moved back from the boys and their eyes were travelling round the chamber again.

  ‘All I can say is you’ve opened my eyes. I am innocent no more.’

  The ex-priest, however, came closer. He climbed down from the table and stood over Ruskin, smiling broadly. ‘You’d better keep that mouthy gob shut tight, boy. I nearly died up there and I’m just in the mood to batter someone. Have either of you seen the ghost? Is he down here?’

  The old man was pulling his satchel round to his stomach and opening the flap. He removed a whisky bottle first and swigged deep. Then he took out his holy water and looked up defiantly. ‘I’ll lay that miserable spirit any time he likes – he won’t get me this time!’

  Chapter Forty

  In the kitchen, it had taken all of Sam’s courage and self-control not to panic, not to scream, and not to cry. He was just hidden in the doorway, by a curtain of catkins and pine-cones. He had made it with the little ones only a week ago.

  He had to stand and watch the assault. Somehow, with a supreme effort of will, he managed to stay silent. Somehow, he managed to take another step back. Contradictory thoughts were clashing in his skull. To run in and intervene – to save his friends! To stay back and call for help. To pull out a kitchen knife and steam in, as he knew Anjoli or Miles or Millie would. Alas, he was not made for such attacks – he’d be swatted in an instant.

  He started to shake. Surely they’d come into the kitchen soon and he’d be trapped! He could hear the struggle and the horrifying fear in Ruskin’s voice and the agony in Oli’s, but he found the calm to make his decision. To raise the alarm, that was the important thing. By radio? Not by radio.

  He backed away further, thanking his lucky stars that he knew the layout of Tomaz’s house. There was a passage by the toilet and that ran to the little area Tomaz called his ‘hall’. That was where the boys left their shoes and hung their blazers, and it was where the exit was. He found his legs were heavy – they seemed to swing crazily from his hips, but he managed to make his way round. He clutched the radio to his chest, stamped his shoes on, and sat down. Then he scooped himself through the hole into the tunnel and he was running.

  He stopped once, to try the transmitter. Nobody answered his cries – the party was too loud, he presumed. He had made the right decision, then: he would have to raise the alarm in person. The way was familiar: two lefts and a right, then through another hole – Tomaz had been so careful! – and he was in the Neptune tunnel. He shoved the radio down his shirt and he was climbing the ladder. The exit mechanism was oiled and simple to operate. Oli had helped there, setting up counterweights so the giant’s head tipped back easily – and as he thought of his friend Oli, Sam found a new burst of adrenaline. Everything was down to him – Sam Tack. He had to run like he’d never run before!

  He balanced on the giant’s shoulder and jumped. As he hit the ground, he stumbled and he saw a pair of legs. Instinctively, he tried to swerve – it had to be the enemy, for the legs were black and the boots were huge. He changed direction, but he was off-balance and a hand grabbed him by the arm. He snatched his arm away, flailing wildly, and the hand came again and this time got him by the hair.

  Darren had seen the giant’s head open and was ready.

  Strong fingers transferred to the boy’s shirt collar. He shoved forwards and then jerked back hard, so the kid’s tie cut into his windpipe. He slammed Sam onto his back and dropped his knees onto his shoulders. The little boy looked up, hopelessly caught – a rat by a cat – and Sam recognised his assailant.

  He tried to roll and kick, but the older boy had all his weight on him; one hand came under his chin and the face loomed down, eyeball to eyeball.

  ‘I know you,’ said Darren, slowly.

  ‘No you don’t!’ said Sam.

  ‘You’re that little scumbag from football.’

  ‘I may be,’ said Sam. ‘What of it?’

  ‘What of it? I’m going to kill you.’

  Sam yelped. ‘You can’t,’ he said.

  ‘Yes I can. I hate your guts.’

  Sam thought hard and fast. ‘If you let me go,’ he said, ‘you can have my radio-controlled digger.’

  Darren seemed to think hard for two or three seconds. Then, with the practised ease of a thug – a thug who specialised in hurting small children – he gave Sam a jaw-breaking slap. Then he was up and he was lifting his victim by the collar again. Sam knew that escape was impossible and he also knew he was in for a beating he’d probably never recover from. His teeth would be smashed. His bones would be broken – he might even be crippled forever. You heard stories about backs being snapped and parts of the brain switched off forever by hard kicks – boys like him lying in lonely hospital rooms breathing by machine, their parents weeping.

  He cried out once and found that his tie was tight round his throat again. He saw a fist drawn back and he tried to get his arms up, closing his eyes, waiting for the crunch of knuckle.

  At just that moment, the ground under him seemed to somersault. One second he was being strangled and the next fragment of the same second he was flying. Then he was turning over and the lake was up on its side – even the stars were wheeling around under his feet. The side of his face landed in soft mud and his legs collapsed over his chest to land in icy water. There was a very powerful smell of wild animal, but then it was gone in the breeze.

  Darren was nowhere to be seen.

  The radio was smashed into Sam’s ribcage and it was agony. When he was able to look up, he realised what had happened. The world had righted itself, just about – the lake was under the sky again. And Darren had reappeared, kneeling in the shallows of the lake. The only reason he was upright at all, however, was because his head was in the mouth of a lioness. It was Sushamila and she was shaking Darren like a rag. The High School striker had been turned into one of those toys Sam’s gran bought for her Jack Russell to dismember.

  Sushamila seemed uncertain whether she wanted to shake the boy’s head off or drown him, and she spun round in fury so the boy’s legs swung clear of the water. She spun him three hundred and sixty degrees and then shook him again. She dunked him in the water, and it occurred to Sam that she was reviving him for another bout of punishment.

  Sam stared in horror and Sushamila – as if suddenly ashamed – threw the limp body sideways and turned towards him.

  She then padded proudly onto the shore and put her huge muzzle against Sam’s chest.

  ‘Good girl!’ said Sam, as firmly as he could. ‘Good girl!’

  He stood up, painfully, and backed away. His body hurt all over, but he tried to speak both gently and authoritatively. ‘Stay back there, now. Stay back . . .’

  Sushamila wasn’t listening. ‘Please!’ cried Sam. ‘We don’t have time!’

  The lioness nosed under her favourite’s chin, then she licked his face lovingly, removing the few hairs that had grown back in his eyebrows. Then, with a mother’s infinite patience, she nudged him hard, so he was knocked off balance, and caught him by the back of his shirt. Sam was lifted off the ground, totally helpless.

  He did his best to talk his way out of the situation, but he knew from experience what would happen. He would be taken to Sushamila’s cage and washed; nothing he could say or do would prevent the beast from doing its duty. This was now the sixth time it had happened.

  As they made their way towards the school building, Darren floated in the water. It was lucky for him that he’d been dropped on his back. It was even luckier that that the pumps were working in the pump-room and there was a very gentle current pushing to the bank – otherwise he would surely have been drowned. He lay there, looki
ng at the stars, gradually getting his breath back. Three ribs were broken and he was in such pain he couldn’t even whimper.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Beneath all this, Brother Rees – superintendent of the pump-room – was closing the final valve.

  ‘I think we’re done for tonight,’ he said.

  He wiped his hands on a rag and took a last look at the bank of dials. His assistant, Brother Morgan, was making a note of the numbers on the various gauges. A silent, grey-shirted child sat on the pipes, some distance off, watching quietly.

  ‘What’s the time?’ said Brother Rees.

  ‘It’s exactly . . . one-ten. There’s rain forecast by noon, so that should bring us back to normal. One of these days . . . Just look at it.’

  He moved to the glass cylinder, in the centre of the room. He played with the knob, gently, and after a few seconds of distant sluicing, the capsule descended into view. The bubbles in the four pipes around it shot upwards.

  ‘One of these days we’re going to have to strip this masterpiece down and give it a good old greasing. I doubt if it’s been taken apart for a hundred years.’

  ‘Is it showing any signs of age?’

  ‘No. No, it’s as smooth as it ever was. It’s the engineer in me, I suppose. I’m so keen to see exactly how it works. My brother was the real craftsman. He ended up driving trains and I used to watch him stripping down steam engines.’

  ‘Is he local?’

  ‘Oh yes – he lives in Taunton.’

  ‘He could come and give us a hand if you think he’d like to.’

  Brother Morgan shook his head. ‘He had a bit of an incident just before Christmas, unfortunately. He was driving the train that . . .’

  ‘Ah! The one that . . . had the incident. Yes.’

  ‘His hands are a bit shaky now. Still, he’s got his garden – he’s happy enough.’

  Brother Rees opened the chamber and stepped into it. He looked at the schoolboy sitting quietly on the pipe opposite and smiled at him. The boy stared back, white-faced.

  ‘Have you seen this, son?’ he said.

  Miles nodded. He stared into the capsule and remained still.

  ‘Come and have a look. If you’d been here last week, you would have seen something truly remarkable – come over here.’

  Miles stood and picked his way carefully to the door of the capsule. Brother Rees was holding up a large, broken piece of egg.

  ‘Six baby crocodiles,’ he said. ‘We watched them hatch last week. The babies are gone – they’ve found somewhere more private, I should imagine.’

  ‘We saw the eggs,’ said Miles, softly.

  The two monks looked at each other, relieved to hear him speak. ‘Ah, well! We saw them hatching,’ said Brother Morgan, cheerily. ‘Truly miraculous.’

  Miles stared at the chamber and blinked.

  ‘Are we done?’ said Brother Morgan. ‘Shall we lock up?’

  ‘I think so. Are you ready, son? What’s your name?’

  Miles nodded.

  The two men looked at each other again, then looked at the child. He’d been with them all evening and he’d barely spoken. His shirt was torn and he had a wild-eyed look, as if he hadn’t been sleeping properly. He’d simply appeared underground and walked into their circle. He’d listened to their chanting and sat down. He’d taken some soup, but refused to say a single word.

  Brother Rees put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I think we need to get you back to school,’ he said, gently. ‘They’re going to be wondering where you’ve gone.’

  ‘I’m not going back,’ said Miles. ‘And nobody cares.’

  The monk smiled and patted him. ‘You know that isn’t true. And you can’t stay here, can you? Your friends will be worried.’

  ‘I’m a guardian, though. And I have no friends.’

  ‘Guardian of what?’

  ‘She changed the letter,’ said Miles. ‘Millie changed it, but that doesn’t mean anything – I still had to come back.’

  ‘Why don’t we walk you up to the school?’ said Brother Morgan. ‘We could have a nice chat with your headmaster and hear all about it. Shall I turn the light off, Brother?’

  ‘Yes, please do.’

  They emerged into the passage and began to climb the stairs. Miles let himself be led by the hand. ‘Do you want me to call your home?’ said Brother Rees. ‘Is something going on that perhaps your parents should know about?’ Miles walked on. ‘If you’re upset about something, I’m sure they’d want to know. Where’s your mum?’

  Miles stopped. He was at the top of the stairs now, looking down.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Brother Morgan.

  Miles looked at them, silently.

  ‘I think you need a doctor,’ said Brother Rees, slowly. ‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can tell us, you know. We might be able to help.’

  He went to touch Miles’s shoulder again, but this time the boy backed away from him and stood poised, ready to run.

  ‘Don’t be frightened.’

  Miles stared at him. ‘I’m not,’ he said.

  ‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there? Tell me your name.’

  ‘Miles. I’m a guardian.’

  ‘Miles, I think we need to talk to your parents . . .’

  He went to touch the boy again, but Miles simply dived to the side and fled.

  ‘Miles!’ cried the monk. ‘Come back!’

  By the time he reached the top of the stairs, the boy had disappeared. They could hear his feet drumming along the tunnel, until they were lost to the silence.

  ‘Brother Morgan,’ said Brother Rees. ‘I want you to go up to the school and find that headmaster. The boy’s in grave danger, I can feel it. Go at once, please.’

  Chapter Forty-two

  ‘We should have brought a trolley,’ said the policeman. He was rubbing his hands and flexing his fingers. ‘There’s a small fortune down here! This is the most remarkable find!’

  ‘There’s rooms everywhere,’ said Gary. ‘We need a truck! You look for the sword, Father. We’ll get other stuff together, anything that looks valuable.’

  ‘The sword’s the most valuable item—’

  ‘And you’re sure it’s not that gold one? That suit of armour must be worth—’

  ‘You don’t pay three million pounds for one of them, I can promise you. The sword of St Caspar has twelve priceless diamonds – I showed you the pictures!’

  ‘So go and look for it!’ said the policeman. ‘Look at this . . .’ He turned and yanked at a tapestry.

  Gary laughed, ‘And to think a little foreigner’s been sitting on all this. It’s enough to make you weep.’

  D.C.C. Cuthbertson turned to the boys. They were sitting quietly, back to back, their handcuffs tight on their wrists. ‘This where you have your midnight feasts, is it? You’re more daft than you look, if that’s possible. You could’ve made millions out of this.’

  ‘Oi!’ shouted Gary. ‘Here’s the wine cellar! How much did you say a bottle would fetch?’

  ‘A thousand pounds.’

  He stood in the kitchen doorway with a bottle in each hand. He smashed the neck of one against a nearby table and the wine foamed over the carpet. ‘We can afford a glass each, can’t we?’ he laughed. ‘Celebration time?’

  He pulled two of Tomaz’s best wine glasses from their cabinet and glugged the wine into them. The two men gulped a mouthful down.

  ‘This is to you, boys,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘Thanks for being stupid. And thanks for being our guides out of here.’

  ‘We won’t be guiding you anywhere,’ said Ruskin, bravely. ‘And my brother needs urgent medical attention – that is the priority.’

  ‘The priority,’ said Gary, kneeling beside Ruskin, ‘is that when the time comes, you get us straight down to the pump-room. Or I’ll break his other arm.’

  ‘Cuthbertson!’ called the old man.

  The poli
ceman looked up. ‘What?’ he shouted. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Come and see this – you won’t believe it.’

  The two men trooped out of the lounge and down a passage. They entered another grotto – the chamber Tomaz used as his bedroom. The old man was standing by a long rosewood table and on it was a hexagonal chest. It was Indian sandalwood, clearly carved by a craftsman. Its drawers got progressively smaller as they rose to the apex and every face was inlaid with marble. Father O’Hanrahan had removed a drawer and revealed the contents to his colleagues: a diamond, the size of a pea. He set it down and removed another. Two emerald earrings lay on a bed of red velvet. It was a jewellery chest that all the children had seen and admired. They had taken turns polishing the gems and rearranging them in different sized drawers. Anjoli had once sat down to dinner wearing the rings, two on each finger, so that his hands looked like they were in flames – but Asilah had made him put them back.

  ‘I’ll take care of that,’ said Cuthbertson. He was smiling broadly. ‘You look for the sword.’

  ‘I will do – but this in itself is a million! We’re rich . . .’

  ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  The policeman pulled his rucksack off and opened it wide. It took him two minutes to go through the chest, and by the time he was finished he was ankle-deep in empty drawers. His brother, meanwhile, had started work on the oil paintings. He stripped the larger ones from their frames and rolled the canvases. He laid them gently in a leather trunk, interspersed with wine bottles. Now he stared around the room, wishing he knew more about antiques – wishing he knew what was really worth stealing.

  Father O’Hanrahan, meanwhile, made his way back to Tomaz’s kitchen. He pulled out the drawers, hurling everything onto the floor. He moved to the larder and upturned trays of vegetables and fruit. The sword was in use, every day – that’s what the Brethren had told him. Assuming they were telling the truth, that must mean it was a tool – so why not a kitchen implement?