‘It’s too late for that. I forgot all about it—’
‘No, listen. Kenji’s just told me. He says it’s gone.’
‘Gone where?’
‘Someone took the key to the safe. Yesterday, when he was in the shower.’
‘Are you saying it’s been stolen? Over.’
‘Sanchez, let me finish.’ The truck reared up onto the school lawn and picked up speed. Asilah had to shout. ‘Kenji says it was taken yesterday, but he didn’t notice ‘cause whoever took it just changed keys – put a locker key in its place. So Kenji didn’t notice. Over.’
‘And that somebody?’
‘He thinks it was Miles.’
‘Oh boy . . .’ muttered Sanchez. ‘Miles with a gun. Again.’
‘Miles was around,’ shouted Asilah. ‘Now he isn’t. All I’m saying is, it’s possible.’ The truck jolted again and Asilah was thrown against the dashboard. ‘I have to go!’ he shouted. ‘We can see the lake, over and out . . .’
‘Come in, Millie,’ said Sanchez. ‘Unit one to unit three, are you receiving, Millie?’
‘Yes,’ said Millie.
‘We’ve got problems. State your position, over.’
‘I’m on my way to the pump-room. Where’s the freak?’
‘Are you on your own, Millie?’
‘Yes. Miles is missing and so are Ruskin and Oli. I’m by myself.’
Chapter Forty-five
Professor Worthington had spent the evening reading the drafts of an article she was writing and was now ready for her usual nightcap with the headmaster – she always enjoyed the end-of-the-day chats. It was very late, but she could see a light on in his study. She noticed with approval that the east tower was now in darkness. Doonan had been told to end the orphans’ party soon after midnight: he’d been as good as his word and it seemed every boy was in bed – there wasn’t a sound. She knew that a special farewell breakfast was planned for Imagio, so that probably explained it.
She knocked lightly on the headmaster’s door.
‘Clarissa!’ said the headmaster. ‘Come in!’
She saw at once that there was something wrong. There were papers all over the floor and both Flavio and Routon looked tired and sad.
‘We’re having a wretched time,’ said the headmaster. ‘We’ve been looking at the bank statements and . . . we need inspiration.’
‘We need cash,’ said Flavio.
‘Things are looking bad,’ said Routon. ‘But the truth has to be faced.’
‘What about the loan?’ said Professor Worthington.
‘Used up. Gone. And the bank’s calling it in.’
‘I feel so bad about this,’ said Flavio. ‘I was jus’ saying, I know where all the money’s gone – it’s those damn animals again.’
‘No, Flavio—’
‘I tol’ you before this thing started, they use up every penny you get . . .’
‘A school is an expensive thing,’ said the headmaster, soothingly. ‘I don’t want you blaming yourself.’
‘The root of the problem, surely, is fees,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘So few children are actually fee-payers.’
‘Did you see the solicitor today, sir?’ said Captain Routon.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Could he see a way forward?’
‘Not really, no. He said we ought to close immediately and auction our assets. Then we should file for bankruptcy and come to terms with Lady Vyner to avoid immediate prosecution. Then he advised me to leave the country.’
There was a silence.
‘We are in a serious situation,’ said Professor Worthington.
‘What did you say to your solicitor, sir?’ said Routon. ‘I hope you didn’t stand for that kind of nonsense. Surrender and retreat – that’s not a strategy any of us would even consider.’
‘I said giving in was out of the question, of course I did.’
‘I can take a cut in salary!’ said Routon, standing again.
‘Sit down,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘There are no salaries – none of us are paid.’
‘The kids come first,’ said Flavio. ‘We cannot close.’
‘It’s two weeks before the end of term,’ said the headmaster. ‘I told the solicitor that the children look to us as their guardians, and we will not be interrupting their education, simply because of a . . . cash-flow crisis.’
Everyone was nodding.
‘Stick to your guns, sir – always.’
‘We’ve been up against it before,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘Surely Lady Vyner can wait?’
‘What’s that noise?’ said Flavio.
‘Someone at the door, by the sound of it.’
They listened again and three heavy blows of a door knocker echoed up the stairs and corridor.
‘It’s not those parrots, is it?’ said the headmaster. ‘They imitate everything.’
‘No, sir – they’re asleep.’
The headmaster looked nervous. He stood up and peered out of the window. ‘I just hope it’s not bailiffs or debt collectors. She warned me they’d be showing up soon, and once they’re in . . .’
‘Don’t answer the door then, sir,’ said Routon. ‘Sit tight.’
‘Sometimes it’s the best thing to do.’ The door was hammered again. ‘Ignore it. Now can I tempt anyone with a little more whisky?’
Meanwhile, under the ground, things were getting ugly.
Gary and Percy Cuthbertson had been walking for twenty back-breaking minutes, supporting the groaning figure of Father O’Hanrahan. The policeman was holding Ruskin – their guide – by his collar and progress was pitifully slow. The two boys were still handcuffed back to back, so they moved sideways, like an injured crab. Oli was constantly tripping and his brother would become entangled. The old man had foam round his mouth and could hardly walk.
‘My feet are numb,’ he said. ‘I can’t feel my feet!’
‘Keep going!’ hissed the policeman.
‘I might be dying! People die of a scorpion sting!’
He had seen Joe crawl from his satchel, so he knew what had happened. His hand had swollen and there were red pimples over the back of it. One minute he was freezing cold – the next he was feverishly hot. He felt like his throat was closing over his windpipe, and had to stop and suck at the air.
D.C.C. Cuthbertson had a hand under his arm, but he was also trying to drag the large trunk full of tapestries and wine. Gary Cuthbertson had the roll of oil paintings, but the stone Buddha had been abandoned. Both were weighed down by rucksacks full of plunder.
‘Please,’ said Oli, softly. ‘I need water. I can’t go on . . .’
‘I’m on fire!’ whispered O’Hanrahan.
‘Please unchain us,’ said Ruskin. ‘We are all suffering!’
The policeman put his hand on the boy’s neck and squeezed. ‘You’ll walk as you are, son. So will your squib of a brother.’
‘Left or right?’ said Gary. ‘Where is the pump-room?’
‘I’m pretty sure it’s to the left . . .’ said Ruskin.
‘No, Jake,’ said Oli. ‘Show them the quickest way. It’s right, then right again. Then up the steps.’
‘Oli, no – that way was bricked up. It’s a left, then a right, and then you’re in the Neptune corridor – then it’s down the steps.’
The hand on his neck squeezed tighter. ‘Don’t waste our time, boy. I will break you if I have to! Which way? That statue’s supposed to be five minutes from where we were, so how come we haven’t reached it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ruskin. ‘It does seem strange.’ He paused and looked about him, holding his lenses close. ‘You know, I’m sorry to say this,’ he said. ‘But I think Oli might be spot on. I think I’ve made a bit of a gaffe. It’s an awful confession, but . . . I have a feeling we should have gone right when we came out of Tomaz’s house.’
There was a long silence, interrupted only by the heavy groaning of Father O’Hanrahan.
‘I can onl
y put it down to disorientation and these wretched specs.’
Oli slumped to his knees and then lay on the sandy floor.
Father O’Hanrahan leaned against the wall and retched. D.C.C. Cuthbertson closed his eyes and fought to control his temper. He had a brief vision of smashing Ruskin’s skull hard against the rocky wall, but he knew it would do no good. ‘How do we get out, then?’ he said, quietly. ‘Try and think where we are.’
‘I’m pretty sure we’re close. I need to look at my map.’
‘You have a map?’ said Gary.
‘We’ve got a very detailed map. Sam and I put hours into it.’
‘They’ve got a map,’ said Gary. His voice was dangerously low.
‘We colour-coded it,’ said Ruskin. ‘It’s like the London Underground, only clearer.’
‘Well, perhaps we could take a look at it, son. Maybe it would help us?’
‘I wish we could. I keep it in my blazer, you see. And of course . . . my blazer’s hanging up in, um . . . Tomaz’s hall.’ He attempted a laugh. ‘We didn’t expect to be leaving in such haste.’
‘Let’s keep calm,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘Panic leads to disaster. Can you get us back to Tomaz’s house? From here?’
‘Yes,’ said Ruskin. ‘I think I can.’
‘Are you sure you can?’
‘Uncuff them,’ said Gary. ‘We’ve got to move faster than this.’
‘You don’t uncuff prisoners,’ said the policeman.
‘They’re kids, Percy! The little one’s half crippled, his brother’s not going to run off anywhere.’
Still Cuthbertson hesitated.
‘I think he’s right,’ whispered Father O’Hanrahan. ‘They can carry some of the load as well. Take the risk, man, otherwise we’re all dead.’
The key was produced. The handcuffs were removed and the boys rubbed their sore wrists. Oli staggered to his feet, cradling his damaged arm, and stifled a sob. Father O’Hanrahan forced himself upright and the party set off the way it had come, Gary Cuthbertson’s torch illuminating the long, gentle curve of the tunnel.
Chapter Forty-six
‘Come in, Millie,’ said Sanchez. ‘Where exactly are you, over?’
‘I’m five minutes from the pump-room. Where are you? Over.’
‘We’ve just got to Tomaz’s house.’
‘You’re inside? Is there any sign of Ruskin or Oli?’
‘No. And still no sign of Miles.’
Millie caught the subdued tone in Sanchez’s voice.
‘Is Tomaz’s house OK? Over.’
Sanchez paused. ‘No. It’s been smashed up pretty bad. Millie . . .’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘You shouldn’t be on your own, Millie.’
‘I know, but the pump-room’s a quick exit, isn’t it? Right up to the lake.’
‘But you shouldn’t be alone! You were supposed to be with Miles.’
‘Where are the cats?’
‘Through the railway entrance, moving in.’
‘Everything depends on how well they know the tunnels,’ said Millie. ‘Or if they’ve got guides – they’ve probably got the boys as prisoners. We can still get them – is Asilah outside?’
‘Yes, he’s covering the lake.’
‘Sanchez, we better face it – and you better tell Tomaz. If they’ve found the pump-room, they’ll be gone by now. We should have checked it first.’
‘I’m worried about Miles, Millie. He was acting strangely . . .’
‘He’s always acting strangely!’
‘What if he’s run away? We’ve got to look for him too . . .’
‘He could be in on this, Sanchez, have you thought of that? I’m coming down the steps, over.’
‘He’s got my gun again.’
Millie cursed quietly. ‘He got your gun?’
‘I need to tell you something. Last term, he took it twice . . .’
‘So none of us are armed?’
‘Millie, I’m worried about him . . .’
‘I’m worried about us! I tell you, Sanchez, when I see that freak again, I’m going to shoot him myself. He’s putting everyone in danger. We don’t know whose side he’s on any more.’
‘He has this obsession with guns . . .’
‘Let’s hope he shoots himself and gets it over with. I’m going to have to go, I’m close to the pump-room. I’m turning the radio off.’
‘No, Millie! Don’t!’
‘Over and out.’
Up by Neptune, the injured Darren had managed to get back into the speedboat. He’d paddled it right back, under the bridge, and drawn it close into the shadows. He was in great pain and he lay on his back, shivering with cold, trying not to make a noise. There were children all around him and he hardly dared breathe. They’d clattered over the bridge and he’d seen them streaming down the neck of the statue. He had no idea what to do, so he lay there and did nothing. He could hear the sound of a truck. He could hear machinery moving and the shrill voices of children shouting instructions in a foreign language. Chains were clanking and at one point there was an explosion, like a rocket, and he saw sparks travelling over the lake. He was aware of someone, or several people, in the water. Any minute now he knew he would be discovered, so he lay silently and closed his eyes.
What, meanwhile, had happened to Doonan?
The boys had left him with a candle so, as his eyes adjusted, the cupboard didn’t feel quite so lonely. There was a window high above, letting in a little starlight, and at least he wasn’t cold. He sat and thought hard, trying to suppress his disappointment that even the oldest children should behave so childishly.
They’d given him sheets and a pillow. Did they really mean to keep him here all night? No prank could go on as long as that . . . He turned over Caspar’s words in his head. The little chap had seemed very serious and the reaction he’d caused has been pretty major. Doonan found himself wondering if something serious was going on.
He stood up and rattled the cupboard door. It was locked firmly and the wood was far too thick to break. He looked up again at the window, and a plan formed. He had a penknife – he wasn’t helpless. He made two little cuts in the edge of the cotton and, after a good deal of ripping, he had three sheet pieces. He knotted them together and had a rope some six metres long. It wouldn’t be enough to get him down, but it might be enough to get him up – if he had a grappling hook. He didn’t, of course, but the chair might do. He lashed the sheet around its back. Then, using muscles he hadn’t had to use for some time, he made his way to the top of the cupboard, bracing himself against a shelving unit, until he could hang upon the window.
It opened just wide enough for the chair.
He let it through, then he put out his arms and head. Not three metres above his head projected a gargoyle – he’d seen Anjoli swinging on it a number of times. It was a place that most of the orphans liked to sit, so it had to be pretty secure. He swung his sheet and threw the chair – on the fifth attempt, the chair went over the gargoyle and lodged itself securely in the guttering. A series of hard tugs reassured Doonan that he now had an exit of sorts.
He muttered a prayer and heaved the rest of his body out of the window. For thirty dreadful seconds he was suspended over nothing, clinging to the sheet. Terror gave him strength and he clawed his way up, legs kicking, feet grabbing at the knots. At last he had the gargoyle in his arms and a foot on the roof. The drop, as he accidentally looked down, made his stomach heave and for a moment he was paralysed. It occurred to him that he had taken a ridiculous risk and that his journey over the wet roofs of Ribblestrop was going to be lethally dangerous. That was always assuming he could get onto the roof, because at that moment, he was completely stuck.
Someone had to raise the alarm, though. Something was wrong and the headmaster needed to know. As he sat, he too heard the revving of an engine down on the lakeside. Like Darren, he also saw a rocket burst and zoom across the lake in a flurry of sparks. He knew in his bones now that
the children were not playing games.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Oli. ‘It’s my arm. I can’t go on!’
‘Shh!’ said Gary. ‘Yes you can.’
Oli crumpled to the floor. His brother knelt beside him.
‘I think he’s fainted.’
‘We’ll leave him here,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘We must be at the blessed statue – we must be!’
‘My arms are numb,’ whispered Father O’Hanrahan.
‘Shut up!’ said Gary. ‘I can hear something. I don’t know what it is . . .’
He bashed his torch hard and the weak beam brightened for a second or two.
They listened to their own breathing. Then, just as Cuthbertson went to pick up his bag, the sound came again. It was a deep-throated animal growling.
Everyone stood still.
The tunnel they were in had a sandy floor and curved sides. Just ahead, it was bisected by another tunnel: Gary’s torch illuminated the corner of the stonework. He found himself backing away from it, because the growl had come from that passageway and it was amplified and sinister. It was like an engine, throbbing. When it came again, it was nearer and it was followed by a steady, heavy panting.
‘What is this place?’ whispered Gary. ‘Where have these kids brought us?’
‘That is not a human sound,’ hissed Father O’Hanrahan. ‘That is the sound of a beast. I’ve left my Bible . . . I left it on the chair!’
Gary kept his torch on the intersection. The panting was regular, but in the strange echoes of the labyrinth, it seemed to come from in front and behind. It could only be seconds before the thing appeared.
Sure enough, as they watched, a huge head and a huge pair of shoulders moved around the corner, into the beam. The creature stopped and everyone stared at its profile. Then the great head turned and two green eyes flashed like emeralds. They could see a fang, too large for the creature’s mouth – then more teeth as the thing licked its lips. Its fur was black and white and then, like a crack of flame, they saw the burning stripes of a tiger.
Nobody moved a muscle; nobody breathed. It was as if the three men hoped they might not be seen behind the torch. For the tiger peered, but seemed to be dazzled. It took another two paces, revealing its monstrous chest. Most strange of all – and most terrible, because it sent the scene falling away into the horror of true nightmare – there was a child on its back. The child held the fur in both hands and his knees clamped the animal’s flanks. He wore his shirt open and there was a black-and-gold tie around his head.
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