‘I’m very concerned,’ said Professor Worthington.
‘Let’s get down to the lake.’
Before they reached the door, Anjoli had smashed between the Cuthbertsons, turning their rowing-boat to matchwood. He plunged almost to the lake’s bottom, lucky that he’d hit a deep patch, as the level was falling fast. He revolved, got his bearings, and struck out for the surface. Through the murk he saw a pair of kicking legs and he knew someone was in the water.
It was Father O’Hanrahan.
The Cuthbertsons were grabbing at the speedboat – the policeman had the precious sword and managed to pass it to Darren. Gary Cuthbertson rolled himself into the boat and went straight to the engine, to yank at its cord. Father O’Hanrahan managed to grab the policeman’s leg and then he too had the side of the boat.
Anjoli hauled at him, but he desperately needed air, so he couldn’t hold on for long. He kicked away and burst onto the surface, laughing and gasping at the same time.
Then, from the other side of the lake, came the children’s own rowing-boat, concealed for counter-attack. Nikko was in the bows and his thin voice came floating over the water: ‘Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!’ The oarsmen were pulling hard and still the speedboat’s engine would not fire.
‘Get in!’ roared Cuthbertson, and by superhuman effort and a great deal of luck, the old man hauled himself up; the policeman wrestling him onto the boat’s floor.
All at once, there was fire in the air. Kenji was throwing fire-bombs and one hit the side of the speedboat, splashing burning rum across the gunwale.
‘Stroke! Stroke! Faster!’ yelled Nikko.
Gary Cuthbertson almost fell, for the craft was rocking more madly than ever. He leaned heavily on Darren’s shoulder, which elicited a hideous scream, and tried once more at the engine cord.
‘My goodness,’ said the headmaster, pausing on the lawns. ‘They’re on the lake! This is an outrage!’
As he spoke, the speedboat came to life and its chainsaw screech blotted out further comment. Gary Cuthbertson was an adequate climber, but he was no boatman. He dropped the propeller way too fast, before he had control of the rudder, and the boat spun in dangerously fast circles, the flames now fanned by the breeze and taking hold.
Anjoli dived out of the way for safety.
‘Hard to starboard!’ shrieked Kenji. He had one more bomb to lob and aimed it at the engine. The rowing-boat was moving at speed, though, and it was an impossible shot. It fell harmlessly into the water.
The rowers were tearing at the rowlocks. Their vessel had been patched up with bits of timber and canvas, but there was no way it could stand the strain it was under: holes were appearing where their feet were braced. They hoped to ram the villains broadside and then, like marauders of old, they might have jumped onboard for a total rout. Sadly, it was not to be. The policeman grabbed the tiller and righted his craft. The engine howled and the boat swept forward out of the smoke. The boys’ boat rushed by, just grazing the motor. Israel lunged at the policeman with an oar, but the blow glanced off the side of his head and Cuthbertson stayed upright. They pulled Anjoli out of the water and sank in the wake of the disappearing speedboat.
‘Damn!’ cried Asilah. ‘We need that gun, man! Why did Miles take it?’
‘They’re getting away!’ wailed Israel. He was up to his knees in water.
Sure enough, Percy Cuthbertson – even whilst clutching his ear – had brought the boat under control and was turning it in a graceful curve. Somehow they’d put out the fire and were on their way.
‘What is going on?’ cried Professor Worthington. She too was in the water and was panting hard. Flavio and Routon were soon beside her.
‘They’re getting away,’ said Anjoli.
The speedboat was almost out of sight and the misery of defeat rolled in like a fog.
Then a curious thing happened. The speedboat appeared to stop.
‘It’s stopped,’ said Asilah.
‘What’s it doing?’ said Kenji.
Flavio’s eyesight was good. He peered into the moonlight, the white of the boat vivid against the dark water.
‘I think they’re grounded,’ he said. ‘They’re just standing there.’
Anjoli gasped. ‘Of course!’ he cried. ‘The water level’s dropped, man. They’re stuck in the mud.’
At this point, the head of Neptune opened and the rest of the children poured out onto his shoulders, led by Brother Rees. The old monk saw the teachers and clambered through the mud to get to them. He nearly fell into the headmaster’s arms. ‘There are two children, sir!’ he gasped. ‘Underwater.’ He fell to his knees and the headmaster crouched beside him. ‘There’s another one . . . lost, sir. Millie, I think.’ His eyes were wild and the headmaster could only stare. ‘You’re going to need divers!’ cried Brother Rees, finding a last morsel of energy. ‘Fire crews, sir! Air ambulance. I’ve afraid you must expect casualties, sir. I did what I could – I tried to . . .’ Brother Rees had started to cry. Sobs were choking him, as he saw again the black water and Miles’s face as he dived.
The headmaster, meanwhile, started to run. He reached his study in record time and snatched up the telephone receiver. ‘Emergency . . .’ he shouted. ‘Emergency!’
Above his head, two parrots woke up and flapped angrily. One let off a volley of gunshots, whilst the other roared like a tiger.
The headmaster swore and dialled firmly: nine-nine-nine. ‘Ambulance,’ he cried. ‘Fire crews too! Police!’
‘Everyone in the lorry,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘We’ll go round!’
‘No!’ said Asilah. ‘We stretched a wire across. We can walk.’
Flavio saw what he meant and his eyes bulged with wonder. They had fired a wire right across the island and used the truck to stretch it. It was secure and tight, and they could simply stroll into the middle of the lake.
Imagio led and soon there was a queue of schoolboys making their way behind him.
Chapter Fifty-two
The water level had risen to Millie’s shoulders.
She stood on the top platform, her eyes fixed on the pump-room door that remained so completely closed, just ten steps away. When the level rose to her neck, she started to pray. When it got to her nose, she lost her footing on the platform and had to float. She tried to keep calm.
There was less than a metre of air above her, and when she kicked to locate the platform, she couldn’t find it – it was out of reach. She bobbed in the water, her nose just above the surface, still hoping. Soon, the effort was unbearable and she was gulping river water. She had to cough it out and replace it with air – air that was becoming fetid and thick. She needed all her strength to do that and yet her real strength was needed to keep herself afloat.
She tried to lift herself up and stretch out in a star shape. When she did this, it was a little easier, but the horror was looking only at the ceiling, as it came closer and closer. She realised she was crying and she thought of Sanchez.
Miles was also floating.
The tunnel had seemed endless and, again, it had been like swimming in oil or ink – the blackness seemed to get thicker. He knew, like Millie, that panic of any kind burned up oxygen, and he knew that to get into difficulties now – to suddenly lose confidence – would kill both him and Henry. The thought of dying, though, had become too attractive to resist and he knew it was why he was here. He would not panic: in a strange way, he was in slow-motion, and the fact that he had no idea of his direction and therefore could not worry . . . it kept him calm. Then he saw himself again, but the phantom boy was underneath him now, and it was younger. This one was wearing baggy red swimming trunks, which Miles dimly remembered were the ones he learned to swim in, when he was six years old. He saw his mother, then, at the far end of the tunnel, stretching out her arms to him, because it had been she who had taught him. She was laughing, he was laughing.
He kicked once more and the six-year-old rose so that Miles could get his hand on his shoulder. He was drawn throu
gh and the little boy pulled him into a new cave, down through rock, and over a ridge that scraped his belly. His mother loomed closer and she was calling out to him as his face broke the surface. Air cascaded down upon him and there was light from somewhere as she hugged him.
Henry was there again too, though Henry’s face was unrecognisable. Something had happened to Henry’s face. Maybe he’d caught it on the rocks as he swam, but his jaw seemed to be dark with blood and he looked like an old man. He’d lost an eye and he was wearing a suit and holding Miles up. The light swung away and Miles knew he was in the arms of Lord Vyner and that he had to dive again.
Tomaz swam with him this time. It was the Tomaz he had known at the start of last term – the shy Tomaz, who spoke very little English. It was the Tomaz he’d looked after and they swam well together. They could hear Sanchez’s voice calling them and they raced towards it. Miles felt stronger and when he kicked his legs, he seemed to shoot forward at amazing speed. He followed Tomaz, who was quick as a tadpole, and when the cave divided into two, he had no choice to make – he followed the racing boy. He just had to hope that Henry was following.
When he broke the surface again, he knew he was nearly done. These great feats of endurance, they took their toll and he was shivering. He had drunk so much water and his strength was leaving him. He could barely tread water; he had to lie back and float – and thank goodness for Henry. Henry was there again, his face repaired, and he held him up. Then Henry was shaking him, because he was suddenly sleepy. His big friend was slapping him gently. He was wrapping a tie around his wrist. Then, instinct taking over, he took a great lungful of air and was diving for what had to be the last time.
This time Henry was leading and Miles was tied to him. He hardly had to do anything; it was as if he was under the boy’s arm, drawn onwards. Then the inky water around him seemed to catch fire and he was hallucinating more violently than ever. All around him, fire was rolling and it was the roof of Ribblestrop. He’d set it ablaze; he had no one to blame but himself. He had packed the broken-down organ with paper and paraffin rags and it had gone up like a torch. So much anger and anger burned best of all! The whole cave was on fire and Miles was a bullet in a gun, shooting through it. A black-and-gold tie tugged at his wrist – if he could only slip it off, undo the knot . . . but Henry was pulling hard and the waters were rushing.
He saw Sanchez now; he saw Ruskin. The headmaster was by the side too, cheering him on, and out of nowhere a boy in the luminous strip of Ribblestrop High came at him. It was a swinging tackle, but Miles swam over it, the ball miraculously still at his feet. His mother was waving, on her feet with excitement, because he was going to score again – the winning goal was his. Still there was fire and he knew he was the one burning. He was flying forward like a comet and the water could not extinguish him.
Someone had a handful of his hair.
They were dragging him and the pain of his torn scalp cut through the hallucinations. He was on his knees in mud and Henry was standing, pulling him up.
In his hands, Miles felt a thick, brass pipe.
He managed to look up and he saw that it ran through a low arch of rock and he glimpsed more pipework.
The two boys dragged each other, and though there was such stillness in the pump-room, and though they were half-dead, they both were overwhelmed by a feeling that time was against them. Just as they wanted to rest, they knew they had to be fast. They crawled and staggered, using the pipes for support. The plumbing was thick about them – it was a maze. But soon they were at the centre and there was the great glass column.
The chamber it held was full of brown water.
Miles would return, to contemplate it. Unknown to anyone, he would bring a small bottle and preserve some of that water. It would always be holy to him.
Because Millie had no more air.
The water was so dirty that they didn’t see her at first. But Miles saw movement.
If he had not, then Millie would have drowned: she had another thirty seconds of life – forty-five at the most.
He saw a hand, fluttering at the very top of the water. Then he saw a shoe kick the glass about halfway up. At once, he threw himself against it.
Henry leaped into action too. They both moved round the chamber, in an agony of helplessness, shouting – screaming. They saw Millie’s face and her eyes were closed.
Then Miles had the gun, as if someone had put it there.
He had forgotten that he had it. How had it not dropped as he swam? He had pushed it hard into his belt and it was heavy. He pulled off the safety and the mechanism ran with water – it would not fire, but he had to try. He had a moment of terrible indecision. To shoot the lock? The lock was a wheel and the wheel had been bent. No: he would have to shoot the glass.
He did so and the first bullet ricocheted straight off and punctured pipes above his head. Spouts of water cascaded from ceiling to floor.
He tried to aim straight, but the second bullet did the same, and he feared for Henry, who was moving somewhere behind him. Again, punctured pipes sprayed over them both. Millie was helpless at the top of her death-chamber, her face crushed against the ceiling. Miles held the gun close and fired three more times. At last the glass was broken.
It was Henry who knew what to do next. After the second gunshot, he took hold of the nearest pipe and wrenched it from its stopcock. The brass fittings were sealed and bolted, but he simply tore at them, ignoring the new geysers that sprang up around him. With a metre of metal pipe in his hands, he set to work on Miles’s bullet-hole. The glass around it cracked, and he twisted his weapon and attacked the centre of the crack. As Miles fired again, he had a hole as big as his wrist and water was gushing from it. He fired one more time and the glass split like an egg, the deluge of water knocking Miles backwards.
Henry attacked the brass seals. Inspiration seized him and he leaped upwards and hung from a convenient pipe, so that he could kick with his big boots. The first kick produced a crack from top to bottom. The second opened the chamber in half – the two sides simply came apart and the water cascaded out in a river. Millie was sluiced out onto the pump-room floor and she lay with her hair plastered over her face, like a dead thing. Her skin was white and rubbery and she was covered in algae and weed. She was a creature of the lake; it was as if the waters had claimed her and released her only with reluctance.
Miles lifted her carefully. They were surrounded by broken glass. He checked her airway and laid her in the recovery position.
Then he and Henry sat, dazed, unable to speak, watching her breathe. The miracle of her chest, rising and falling, drawing in air . . . it was almost too much to look at. The wonder of her face, gradually taking colour – Miles sat close, but dared not touch her again. They were surrounded by water and glass, and the glass was like ice.
It was some ten minutes later that Brother Rees arrived.
He had led Sanchez over the lake, wading in mud so thick it threatened to suck them down. At last they got to the dry dock – the well, through which O’Hanrahan and the Cuthbertsons had made their escape.
It was a difficult climb, but they were both desperate and fearless, and they braced themselves against the walls, helping each other. At last they found the remains of a rusty ladder, bolted in place, and they descended to the pump-room.
The devastation was tremendous, though most of the ruptured pipes were now only trickling. They didn’t see Millie at first and stood there, astonished, trying to make sense of the wreckage.
Miles looked up and saw his friend. Sanchez saw Miles and limped over the mess towards him. When he saw Millie, he cried out and dropped to his knees. He cried out again and again, and Miles had to hold him tight, for he looked desperate.
‘It’s alright,’ said Miles, when he could make Sanchez hear. ‘Everything’s alright.’
Chapter Fifty-three
On the lake, things were getting more complicated.
For the four men in the boat, it was an exp
erience of the most terrible despair. They were wet, cold, and in pain. There had been the one moment of joy, as the boat catapulted them to what they thought was safety: now they were frightened. A hundred metres away, a car was on the lakeside, flashing its lights. Behind them, they could hear their own engine revving uselessly.
Gary Cuthbertson was up to his chest in cold water, feeling the mudbank that gripped the keel of the boat. Darren and Percy were trying to rock in time together, to dislodge it that way. The old man simply sat with chattering teeth, clutching the sword. After his tenth mouthful of muddy water, Gary gave up.
‘We’ll have to wait for it to drop further,’ he gasped. ‘Then we can get off. It’s either that, or swimming.’
‘We’re in the middle of the lake!’ hissed the policeman. ‘Can you swim that far? With half a tonne of metal under your arm?’
The policeman threw his weight against the side of the boat, hoping to dislodge it. He tripped on Darren’s legs and was a hair’s breadth from going overboard. He sat down again, his head in his hands.
‘I can’t shift this bloody thing with you three sitting it!’ shouted Gary. ‘If you get in the water, we might have a chance!’
Their shouts drifted over the water, like the calls of furious birds.
It was at that point that Sam reappeared.
He had squeezed out from under Sushamila’s paw at his first opportunity, having been washed three times over. Once out of the cage, he was running. He took the same route as the tigers, following the disused railway into the labyrinth and soon he was pelting up the tunnels towards Tomaz’s house. He stood in his friend’s ruined chambers, numb with shock, and turned in confused circles, helpless and confused. On the floor lay a soldering-iron and next to that the radio-controlled submarine. At least he could salvage something, so he gathered it all together and hurried on to Neptune.
The relief as he clambered out and saw his friends nearly made him faint. He slithered wearily down the giant’s shoulder and the boys were reunited.