Ribblestrop Forever!

by Andy Mulligan

  ‘Police? On the moor?’

  ‘I’ve still got my contacts,’ said Percy, ‘and that’s what I’ve heard. They’re going to raid the camp and grab everyone in it. So this is “final conflict”, boys. I’ll do it alone if necessary.’

  Gary swore. ‘We’ll have to move fast,’ he said. ‘The police will come looking for the children—’

  ‘Those explosives,’ said Timmy Fox. ‘Surely we can’t detonate—’

  ‘No changes.’

  ‘But if the police are right behind us—’

  ‘Everything is ready. We blast the lot of them – soon as we have the kid.’

  The three men stared at each other.

  ‘You sure they’ll get to us?’ said Gary. ‘If the weather’s this bad, they may turn back.’

  ‘Give me the whisky. They’ll make it, I know they will.’

  He poured everyone two thick fingers of drink and they drank together. Then he pulled the photograph of Sanchez from the wall and stared into the soft eyes.

  ‘Five million,’ he said. ‘His dad’s worth . . . a hundred times that, but we’re not going to be greedy. Keep it simple and quick.’

  Gary touched Timmy Fox’s arm and the man jumped. ‘You ready, Foxy?’ he said, softly. ‘Those cables will hold?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you can fly in this? You sure you’re up to it?’

  Timmy Fox swallowed more liquor and his eyes welled with tears. He nodded.

  ‘Trust the Foxter,’ he whispered. ‘It can be done and I’ll do it. Up and out, yes? Up and out . . . and away, for the rest of our lives.’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Dawn broke, but there was no sign of a sun.

  The world was saturated, for the rain had come down all night until the ground was mud and sponge. The rocks ran with it and the streams were bulging. Clouds rolled into the valleys and rained yet harder, spurting water that the wind took upwards and sideways, creating cold, wet tornadoes that spun across the moor.

  Sam’s team had managed to sleep in shifts, for their canvas worked well under the trees as long as nobody moved about too much. Mr Ian was unconscious, with a waxy look to his skin. They found he had vomited in the night, which Ruskin said was a good sign.

  ‘It’s like when our cat got food poisoning. Do you remember, Oli?’

  ‘Jake, he didn’t have food poisoning.’

  ‘He did. He ate that rat.’

  ‘I meant Mr Ian. He didn’t have food poisoning.’

  ‘Yes, but what I’m saying is, the body always knows how to look after itself. Being sick usually means you’re on the road to recovery.’

  ‘He’s a weird colour still,’ said Caspar, poking his neck. ‘He’s cold, as well.’

  ‘At least he’s not shaking any more,’ said Sam. ‘He’s stopped swearing at us, too. I say we get moving, quick as we can.’

  ‘Move where?’ said Oli, peering into the misty gloom of the woods.

  ‘Back to the car park.’

  ‘We’ll need a stretcher,’ said Caspar. He took an axe out of his bag. ‘Can you give me a hand, Hen? It needs to be light, but strong.’

  Half an hour later, they were ready to go.

  They’d finished breakfast and rolled their casualty onto a kind of tree branch ladder. When they lifted it, they found Mr Ian’s bottom sank through, so they had to roll him off again and put in more cross-pieces. When they tried a second time, his head lolled backwards, so they wedged in a large piece of tree bark. Ruskin and Sam led, with Henry taking the rear and Caspar carrying the packs. Unfortunately, this meant Mr Ian’s feet were much higher, and it wasn’t long before the whole body had slipped and slithered over the boys’ shoulders, onto the soaking ground.

  Mr Ian lay in the mud and started to cry.

  They put the stretcher down beside him and tried a third time. This time they lashed him to the wood with his shoelaces and tucked the canvas neatly around him. He was wet, of course, and the tree bark had spawned a hundred woodlice, which were now busy in his beard. But there was a redness in his face again and when they lifted him they heard a familiar string of curses. They got him up on their shoulders and made better progress. Before long they were on the edge of the woodland and they stopped to catch their breath and gaze at the storm. The wind gusted noisily, nagging and scratching.

  ‘This isn’t going to be easy,’ shouted Sam. ‘I have absolutely no idea where camp is.’

  Ruskin had to yell back. ‘I think we go south!’ he cried. ‘I’ve got my compass still.’

  They peered at the spinning needle. They were all cringing in the lashing rain and it was hard to keep the stretcher level.

  ‘Where’s the map?’ shouted Sam. ‘We ought to try and navigate.’

  They set Mr Ian down and searched the navigation bag. The map, unfortunately, was watery pulp. They did their best to unfold it, but it came apart in their hands.

  ‘You know what a lot of people would do now?’ yelled Ruskin.

  ‘What?’ shouted Oli.

  ‘They’d panic! They’d lose their heads!’

  The boys nodded, wisely, and tried to wipe the rain from their eyes.

  ‘We are not going to do that,’ cried Ruskin. A jolt of wind knocked him backwards into the grass. His friends helped him back to his feet.

  ‘We,’ he roared. ‘Are. Going—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We. Are. Going. To. Get. This . . .’

  ‘This what?’ screamed Caspar. ‘We can’t hear you!’

  ‘This. Man. To. A. Hospital.’

  They looked down at Mr Ian and saw that he had opened his eyes. They were wide with terror and his mouth was open too, slowly filling with water. He was trying to move his arms, but he was too securely tied. He managed to roll his head and spit. As one, the boys gathered around him and lifted. As one, they set off along a path that was turning rapidly into a stream.

  ‘This is south,’ shouted Ruskin, studying his compass. ‘And the one thing we know is that the car park is south.’

  ‘Keep going!’

  They bent their heads and marched, and it was Caspar who started to sing. ‘Persevere in labour, persevere in pain!’

  ‘That’s your song, Mr Ian!’ said Sam, yelling into his ear. ‘We’re going to make it! Don’t worry!’

  They started again, singing together, and marching to the beat.

  ‘Persevere in labour, persevere in pain!

  Though the path is thorny, dawn is on her way.

  Triumph in disaster! Labour not in vain!

  We will pull together, come what may!’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Caspar, as they floundered in the mud. ‘There are floods everywhere. We ought to turn back! This is terrible!’

  As he spoke, the stream – which had become a river – burst its banks. The clouds spouted new volleys of water and the wind slashed the boys’ bare knees until they staggered and swayed. Somehow they stayed upright and the song turned to a panting mantra as the weight of Mr Ian got heavier and heavier. Soon the water was up to their shins and the path completely disappeared. When they fell at last, it was into a raging torrent that was carrying all the mud from the Ribblemoor hills and rolling down the valley. They were suddenly up to their chests and Mr Ian was floating out of their reach. Henry lunged for him and managed to grab a foot. The shoe was loose, but he gripped the heel – a watery scream filled the valley once again as he was drawn around in a circle. Caspar dived and managed to get a fistful of beard; Oli, Sam and Ruskin trailed after Henry and they were all pulled out of their depth.

  They bobbed together into the centre of the stream, one hand each on the stretcher. Almost immediately, they found themselves in white water. The rapids shot them north, into the wildest part of the moor.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Asilah’s team, meanwhile, was in good spirits.

  The group had slept well, for the cave had proved warm. Everyone had been carrying food, so breakfast wa
s hearty. There was also plenty of firewood and they’d had the sense to store it where it stayed dry – so the cave seemed like the cosiest place on earth. The Priory children told stories about their school and the orphans’ eyes grew wide at the horrors they revealed. Nobody wanted to set out into the wild weather, so they sat, chatted, and watched the mist.

  At last, though, Sanjay grew restless.

  ‘Are we going to move out or not?’ he said. ‘I’m getting stiff just sitting.’

  ‘Can I see the map?’ said Tomaz.

  They stretched it out and got their bearings.

  ‘I don’t think we should go any further,’ said Jacqueline. ‘I don’t think Mr Ian would want us to try.’

  ‘What would he want?’

  ‘He’d probably want us to stay here and wait for rescue.’

  ‘No one knows where we are,’ said Eric. ‘And this phone thing is useless.’

  Israel laughed. ‘We could be here a long time, man. The rain’s getting worse.’

  Imagio said, ‘We can’t sit here all day, guys, we’ll go crazy.’

  ‘We could split into groups,’ said Nikko.

  ‘No,’ said Asilah.

  ‘Stay together,’ said a Priory boy. ‘I want to say together.’

  ‘What are you thinking, Tom?’ said Podma.

  Tomaz was staring at the map. ‘I’m thinking we ought to explore the caves.’

  Asilah frowned. ‘I remember going underground last term,’ he said. ‘When they drained the lake, remember? That was the most dangerous thing we ever did.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Scott. ‘We could give it a go – see where they take us.’

  ‘Is anyone scared?’ said Nikko.

  The Priory children shook their heads.

  ‘I bet we can get underground,’ said Tomaz. ‘We’ll be able to tell which direction we’re heading in, so if we’re lucky . . . we’ll find a way home.’

  Imagio stood up. ‘How many torches do you guys have?’

  The Priory children produced powerful flashlights.

  ‘Okay,’ said Asilah. ‘Let’s do it.’

  They packed the things they needed and kicked out the fire. Tomaz led, with Sanjay behind him, and they moved in single file. The cave they were in narrowed almost at once and ended in a thin crack. The roof lowered too, and they had to force themselves through, and then flop down onto their bellies. After some time, the passage opened and they gathered around for another conference.

  Tomaz pointed at a corkscrew tunnel of rock that rose steeply upwards. ‘You recognise that?’ he said. ‘You’ve seen one of them before?’

  ‘No,’ said Israel.

  ‘Captain Routon showed me one. They’re water holes. They were bored through in the Ice Age.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’ said Charlie.

  ‘It sounds bad,’ said Sanjay. ‘The way it’s raining, I don’t want this place to fill up.’

  ‘It won’t do that,’ said Tomaz. ‘If anything, the opposite. They’ll keep the place dry. What I’m thinking is, they probably go a long way and they don’t suddenly come to an end – you know, they have to lead somewhere.’

  ‘You know it’s in the wrong direction?’ said Jacqueline. She was peering at her compass. ‘It’ll take us north and that’s not getting us back to camp.’

  ‘They go all over the place,’ said Tomaz. ‘That one probably bends round in a little while.’

  ‘Let’s do it,’ said Sanjay. ‘We can’t just talk about it. We’ve got to do it.’

  ‘After you,’ said Tomaz. ‘You can lead.’

  Sanjay crawled into the corkscrew and started to climb. Behind him, the long line of children followed, torch-beams bouncing. They were led up for twenty metres, then back on themselves around an elbow. Then it was a steep climb down and they could feel the pulse of an invisible river, deep beneath their feet. When the roof came low, the wind got in from some unseen fissure or crack, and there was a sound like a flute, long and clear – almost beautiful. Then the tunnel plunged down steeper than ever, like a chimney, and they felt warmth rising. The rock was cracked with lines of silver and there were easy footholds. Sanjay led, down and down, and they weren’t heading north, south, east or west. They were heading to the earth’s core.

  Millie’s team had slept well too.

  The children had breakfasted on nuts and fruit, and they decided to deal with the foul weather by walking straight through it. They were soaked, of course, and the wind had almost blown them off the ridge they were following, but it never occurred to them to give up or retrace their steps.

  By midday they were looking down into a world of boiling cloud. They discarded any items that weren’t necessary, preferring to travel with sticks in one hand and daggers in their belts. The canvas cloaks they wore were useless, so they dropped them. They could get no wetter, so the water ceased to bother them. They strode into the rain, exhilarated, letting the wind flow over them.

  They didn’t know if the path they trod took them in the right direction, for the maps had dissolved. Crags revolved right and left, and they had no idea which one Lightning Tor might be – or if it was even visible yet. They would climb over some rocky outcrop and see down into the depths of the valley for a moment – then the view would be filled with vapour. Sometimes they would have to stop, for they could see nothing – and they would hold one another and shout out their names. They waited, and their beating hearts would gradually calm, and the way would be clear again.

  At last, they paused for a rest under a rocky overhang and ate more fruit. There was no chance of a fire, so they squatted close for warmth, smiling at each other. They were amazed at the distance they’d come and the wildness of the world.

  ‘You think this is the way?’ said Sanchez.

  ‘It might be,’ said Vijay. ‘Who cares?’

  ‘What does Lightning Tor look like?’ said Miles.

  ‘I guess it’s big,’ said Anjoli.

  Millie started to laugh. They were surrounded by great granite plugs and peaks, and the realisation that they had no idea where they were going was suddenly funny. Their compass was gone and Sanchez had hurled the field telephone into the mist in a joyful display of carelessness. A roll of thunder drove up the valley, making the rock they leaned against tremble. Then it burst like a bomb over their heads and they looked up, expecting to see fireworks. The rain came down yet harder, pounding them.

  ‘We are so lost!’ laughed Miles.

  Sanchez said, ‘We’d better just pick a rock and climb it . . .’

  ‘Climb them all!’ said Anjoli. ‘Why not?’

  He was pointing into the rain, grinning. He crept out from the overhang and squatted in the full force of the downpour. His long hair was plastered down his shoulders and he held it back from his face. He pointed again. Millie joined him, putting her arm round his neck, and Miles did the same.

  ‘What have you seen?’ shouted Millie. ‘What’s out there?’

  ‘Wait,’ said Anjoli, into her ear. ‘It’ll come again. It was just above that ridge.’

  Vijay joined them then and so did Sanchez. They waited together in a rain so hard and pure it felt like a waterfall. The sky was turning black as they watched, for a shelf of cloud had arrived, pushing in like a tide. The mist was sent scurrying out of the valley before it.

  ‘Keep looking!’ cried Anjoli. ‘You’ll see in a minute. You’ll see the lightning.’

  As he said it, a bolt flashed from the cloud and pierced the rock in front of them like a spear. It was like a crack in the sky and the air burned around it. The children screamed as it hit, and then – at once – there was a second bolt. Both had landed on the same peak, but what was truly remarkable was the image left behind. The sudden burst of brightness had turned the landscape black and white, and there was a phosphorescence in the air. The children blinked, for their retinas had been scalded.

  The lightning had illuminated a trail of stones right up the side of the mountain they were facing. The stones
were bright white and laid out like markers. But the strangest thing was that they continued to shine, like runway lights. Millie stood and looked behind her and saw, with a gasp, that there were more. They trailed out behind, marking the very path they’d been walking. They had come exactly the right way, as if some guide had been leading them.

  ‘It’s the flare path!’ she cried.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said . . .’

  The thunder rolled over them and her words were torn to pieces. She shouted again, but there was no need, because they could all see. It was the flare path to Lightning Tor – the mysterious path Doctor Ellie had so hoped to find. It ran straight, and it was lit not by the moon and not by the sun, but by cosmic fire.

  The lightning struck again, three times in succession, and they saw the great fist of rock rising out of the crater that was Lightning Tor. They saw the mast above it and a ring of stones around the top. Their path was unmistakable. It was clear as a motorway – an airstrip – and it led to the top of the volcano.

  Anjoli went first.

  There was mist rolling on either side, but the stones were still aglow. Miles followed him, then Sanchez, then Vijay and Millie came last. They started to run, for the way had been beaten flat by many feet. When the lightning came again, directly ahead, it was reassuring. The white stones faded slowly and needed that burst of electricity to brighten them. They ran and ran, and came at last to where the ground dipped and levelled. They struggled over loose boulders to the foot of the tor they had to climb. Hand over hand they went, for it was protected by walls of rubble. They squeezed over and under, the rain still pelting them.

  At last, they came to a fence. No Admittance, said a sign. Strictly Private. They climbed right over it and dropped happily to the other side.

  The next fence they came to was much higher and topped with razor wire. They followed this to an enormous gate made of sheet metal. Amazingly, it swung open as they looked at it. The wind caught it and eased it back with a groan of old iron hinges. The padlocks were gone and the way was clear.

  ‘This must be the place,’ panted Sanchez. ‘This is the finishing post – that radio mast.’