‘Israel,’ said Oli. ‘You’re just in time.’
‘So’s Ivan,’ said Ruskin. ‘These men are bad.’
The tiger and its rider stared, expressionless. Israel kicked at the flanks and moved closer to the torch. The child stared forward, as a king might stare from a throne.
‘That’s you, Ruskin, right?’ he said. ‘I can’t see nothing, man – turn off the torch. Pod’s got Prince, but he’s doubling back.’
And the tiger chose that moment to roar, bucking its great shoulders so that Israel nearly fell. The sound filled not just the tunnel, but the labyrinth, and seemed to blow the three men backwards. They dropped everything and fell against the walls. Father O’Hanrahan spun, and even in his pain grabbed, instinctively, at Cuthbertson’s rucksack – the bag with the sword. He heaved it onto his shoulder, desperate and driven. He was poised to run, and would have done so, had not an answering roar echoed even louder and frozen him. It was in front and it was behind. Ivan roared again and went into a crouch. The three men screamed and from the far end of the tunnel, behind them, cutting off their exit, came the second tiger – Prince. He was moving at a lolloping run, with Podma standing on his back. The child had his arms out and was bare-chested. His skin shone and he looked like an avenging demon.
The three men clutched each other and stumbled again like drunks. They were united by one simple, human desire: the desire not to be eaten. Ivan roared, Prince roared, and they moved in for the kill. Gary Cuthbertson led the way, plunging down the one open tunnel, not caring where it might lead.
The tigers came together and leaped into a snarling, joyful fight, Ivan rolling Prince easily onto his back so that Podma had to somersault to safety.
Ruskin had his arm round Oli.
‘You poor thing!’ he said, earnestly. ‘Can you walk? I can carry you if—’
‘Jake, you twit!’ shouted Oli, scrambling up. ‘I was pretending! It was my way of slowing them down. Like you, pretending to be lost.’
‘We are lost.’
‘Of course we’re not – that’s the tunnel to the pump-room.’
‘Go!’ shouted Podma. ‘Let’s get after them!’
Chapter Forty-seven
Millie entered cautiously, radio in hand, relieved to find the place empty. She clicked the switch. ‘Come in, Sanchez. I’m in the pump-room. Over.’
‘We’ve got the boys!’ said Sanchez. ‘Ruskin’s OK, so’s Oli – they got them lost in the tunnels and Oli pretended to be injured . . . but they’re fine! We’re all here with the tigers . . . and, Millie! Positive identification of the intruder. It’s Cuthbertson again.’
‘I knew it.’
‘Cuthbertson, the priest – Father O’Hanrahan – and the bent ref: Cuthbertson’s brother.’
‘I told you, Sanchez! Anjoli told you as well!’
‘We think they’re heading towards you. They could be there any minute – you’ve got to get out!’
‘How do you know?’
‘Eric thinks so and so does Oli. When they saw the tigers, they legged it. The tunnel they took leads straight to the pump-room and if they’ve been there before, they’ll recognise it. Remember that barge?’
‘Yes. Hang on, I can hear something.’
‘It’s the tunnel with the barge. If they see that, they’ll have their bearings. Have you seen Miles?’
‘No. Forget him.’
‘Millie, I don’t like you being in there by yourself! Are the monks around?’
Millie wasn’t listening. There was a noise outside and it was growing louder. Running feet. She could hear somebody gasping and she slid back between the pipes, instantly on her guard.
‘Millie, where are the monks?’
‘Shhh!’
It wasn’t just one man: there were several.
‘Millie, will you please come in? Over.’
‘Shut up! They’re here.’
‘Who? The monks? Come up to the lake. We can get them on the lake – Asilah has everything rigged—’
Millie frantically turned the volume down. She was looking at the policeman and he was as big and as ugly as she remembered him. Her palms were suddenly sweaty and a wave of fear rose up in her belly. She watched him as he staggered, wheezing, through the doorway. Behind him came his brother and, seconds later, stumbling, unable to stand upright, came the old man. He carried something in a red cloth and it looked heavy. They were all desperate and shaken, and they piled back against the door.
‘Get it closed!’ yelled the policeman. ‘Get the door closed!’
‘It is!’ gasped Gary. ‘We’re OK, we’re OK . . . Nothing’s coming! Calm down . . .’
The old man was on the floor, racked by a coughing fit. He looked utterly wretched.
Millie drew the radio to her mouth, her hands trembling. She turned the knob a fraction.
‘They’re here, Sanchez,’ she whispered.
‘Who? The monks?’
‘I’m turning off.’
‘I can’t hear you!’
But now Millie didn’t dare speak. The policeman was staring around the room into the infinite tangle of the pipework. She turned the volume down to minimum and crouched in the darkness. She had no idea what to do.
There was silence but for the orchestra of drips and surges.
Millie put the radio to her lips again, wondering if she dared speak. Then, carefully, she turned it off. As the connection was broken, the receiver let out a shrill squirt of static.
‘What was that?’ said Cuthbertson.
‘What was what?’ said Gary.
‘I heard a radio.’
‘I’m not interested in a blessed radio,’ said Father O’Hanrahan. ‘We’ve still got the sword. Let’s just get ourselves out.’
‘It’s a sound I’m used to,’ said the policeman. ‘We’ve got company.’
Millie took another step back and felt a pipe behind her legs. She carefully stepped over it and retreated, ducking under another.
She could see the policeman’s brother again. He too was staring around, up and down. The pipes took your eyes off into random corners – it was hard to focus. As she watched, he seemed to lose interest – he moved off to what Professor Worthington had called the dry dock.
Millie’s heart was beating fast. She could see that the man knew the system. He was hauling at the rowing-boat, preparing his exit.
‘Give me the sword,’ he said.
The old priest seemed to wake up. He was clearly exhausted, but he got to his feet, leaning on pipes, moaning. The red bundle was on the floor and the old man could barely lift it. He half dragged it and soon it was in the boat.
‘Percy?’ called his brother. ‘What are you doing?’
There was no answer.
Millie stared at the radio switch and made her calculations. To raise the alarm and be discovered alone in this room: that was frightening. Not to raise the alarm, however, and risk them getting away, seemed even worse. They were so close – she could see Gary Cuthbertson’s bald head staring down at a stopcock, twisting it open. The dock was filling and the boat was floating.
‘Percy!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got no time to waste!’
‘Come on!’ cried Father O’Hanrahan. There was desperation in his voice. He so wanted to be gone.
Millie turned on the radio again and put her mouth close to the transmitter. ‘Sanchez!’ she whispered.
And that was when she felt a huge hand cover her face.
Her arm was wrenched behind her back and the radio skittered away from her. Then the arm was twisted and bent in the Cuthbertson technique she had experienced once before: terrifying strength. Terrifying malice. And worst of all, no chance of escape. She smelled breath she had hoped never to smell again.
Then the voice was in her ear.
‘Oh my,’ it said. ‘Of all the people I hoped I might run into.’
Chapter Forty-eight
‘Has the party finished, Clarissa?’ said the headmaster.
‘
Yes. They’re quiet as mice.’
‘That’s good. Doonan seems to have those boys well and truly under his thumb. He was quite a find, wasn’t he?’
‘He’s doing well,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘Now . . . Sanjay gave me some of that lovely cake from teatime.’
She brought a heavy triangle out of her handbag, wrapped in a napkin. The icing was black-and-gold and there were little meringue footballs embedded in the sponge.
The headmaster produced a knife and it was cut into four.
‘I’m going to miss Imagio,’ said Captain Routon. ‘It was a privilege to coach him.’
‘I never see skill like that,’ said Flavio. ‘Genius.’
‘He’s going to leave a hole here that will be hard to fill,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘He’s as tough as they come – I mean, a real street boy. But the most delicate hands and an absolute thirst for knowledge.’
The headmaster was nodding. ‘It’s going to be a sad farewell. I was writing the goodbye speech this morning. Do you remember that section in Virgil when Aeneas kisses Dido? I thought I’d quote it: Tu nobis memorabilis es caelo paterfacto.’
‘What’s it mean?’ said Captain Routon.
‘You showed us heaven,’ said the headmaster. ‘We will not forget you.’
‘That is beautiful, sir. And very true. We had a commander-in-chief in the Falklands, stood on a grenade. We sang a song at his funeral and—’
‘You got someone on the roof,’ said Flavio.
‘I’m sorry?’
Flavio had been distracted and was half standing. He was staring over the headmaster’s shoulder, out of the window.
‘There’s a man on the roof. Debt-collector, maybe?’
‘Surely not,’ said Professor Worthington.
‘He’s waving,’ said Flavio. ‘I think he’s in trouble.’
The headmaster stood up. He still had no glasses. ‘No,’ he said, peering. ‘Can’t see anyone.’
‘He’s gone again,’ said Flavio. ‘I think he slipped, maybe.’
‘Who was it? Man or child?’
‘Not a child.’
Flavio had the window open. ‘I think I better go see,’ he said.
Flavio’s days as a wire-boy stood him in excellent stead. He kicked off his slippers and was onto the sill in a moment. He ran briskly up the hip of the roof. The slates were wet with spring dew, so he kept his toes splayed. He ran along the ridge tiles towards the orphans’ tower, but stopped almost at once. He could hear somebody calling and a choked sob. He followed the sound and peered carefully down.
Brother Doonan was spreadeagled on the slope beneath him. He was holding himself still, arms and legs open to maximise friction. But he was gradually slipping and as Flavio watched, his feet and then his knees pushed past the guttering.
‘Oh God!’ he cried, staring up at Flavio with desperate panic in his eyes. ‘Please help,’ he said. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have done this.’
Flavio went into a low crouch. It wasn’t difficult to pad down to the frightened boy and, after five minutes of careful shuffling, he was out of danger. Doonan was shaking and he wouldn’t let go of Flavio’s arm. It took longer to get him to the headmaster’s window, but then there were many hands to help him in and soon he was in a chair with a large glass of rum by his elbow.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Doonan. ‘I had to reach you. I think we may have a major crisis on our hands.’
‘Hello!’ shouted a voice.
The headmaster went back to the window.
‘I don’t believe this,’ he muttered. ‘This is harassment.’
The headmaster leaned out of the window. He could just make out the robed form of of a monk. He had his hood off and was looking up, his hands cupped round his mouth. ‘Can you hear me up there?’
‘It’s one of the Brethren!’ said the headmaster.
‘Answer him,’ said Professor Worthington.
‘Yes!’ called the headmaster. ‘How can we help?’
‘I’ve been trying to raise you for quite some time. I’m sorry to bother you, but we think one of your little chaps might be in danger. A little long-haired fellow, name of Miles.’
Cuthbertson swung Millie round and held her by the chin. He stared into her eyes, and in the half second before he spoke Millie recalled a huge, mad mastiff-dog that one of her relatives kept. A guard-dog that barked and bit. Cuthbertson’s eyes were mad as a dog’s and his teeth were exposed in a smile that made Millie turn away and jerk for freedom. She kicked wildly and screamed, but the hands were used to restraint and they bashed her hard against a nearby pipe, so her skull burst with lights.
The voice again close to her ear. ‘We don’t need weapons, Millie Roads. Not in the police force. That’s what we used to say: Who needs a weapon?’ He cracked her again, so that it was the back of her head this time, smacking hard against a stopcock. ‘Use what’s around you. I had a chap try to get loose from me on Ribblestrop High Street. I broke him round a lamp post. Now . . .’
‘We’ve got to go!’ hissed the old man. He was now sitting in the rowing-boat, the sword across his knees.
‘If your friends are on their way,’ said Cuthbertson, ‘you’ll be rescued, won’t you? You’ll live to tell the tale. But to give ourselves a sporting chance . . .’ His hand moved to the back of her neck. ‘To keep them at bay . . . I’m going to flood the tunnels. Do you know how to drain the lake? I do.’
He was opening a spigot with his left hand. Immediately, there was a vibration in the floor. Forces were coming to life under their feet. He dragged Millie round a corner and there was a box she’d never noticed before. No lock, so the lid flipped open to reveal four enormous valves, all painted red. Without hesitation, Cuthbertson spun each one of them, one-handed. They were so well greased they flew like propellers and the roaring under their feet doubled in volume. The rowing-boat joggled in its dock.
Millie struggled again and tried to bite, but the policeman had both hands free again and she didn’t stand a chance. He turned her to the central shaft – the glass elevator. The four pipes in the corners were bubbling furiously and, as if on terrible cue, the floating chamber drifted into view.
There were fifteen centimetres of water in the bottom and a mess of weed and driftwood.
‘My only regret, my friend,’ said Cuthbertson, as he opened the door, ‘is that I don’t have time to watch you drown.’
Millie managed to speak. ‘Please!’ she said. It was the only word she had time for, though, because he pushed her hard. She fell sideways into the chamber – an awkward fall into mud and water. By the time she’d scrambled up, the door was closed and sealed.
Cuthbertson allowed himself a few seconds to look at her. Then he spun the dial.
Millie’s hands went to the glass wall. She felt the chamber shift, up a few centimetres then down again. He was working it out. Moments later, she felt the water at her feet start to froth and bubble, and she knew what he was doing. She knew that the chamber was filling from the bottom upwards. From where exactly, she couldn’t see – there appeared to be various inlets and they were gushing. The housemaid’s revenge. The family. Millie never forgot stories, and Professor Worthington’s story had been so horrible it was etched in her memory: ‘dead bodies, sluiced out into the moat . . .’
She hammered on the door, knowing it was useless. She cried out, knowing that cries were even more useless because the glass was so thick. There was the noise at her feet, but more terrible was the thunder of thousands upon thousands of gallons that were sluicing through the giant pipes around her. If the tunnels were filling, her friends would be fleeing. If her friends were fleeing, who would ever reach her?
The door to the dry dock was closing; the rowing-boat was rising and, even as she watched, it disappeared.
She was reminded of waterfalls, and the strange thing was she now felt a curious stillness. This could not be death, she thought. You didn’t die like this. She beat the glass again and it was obvious tha
t no amount of kicking would even so much as crack it. The ceiling was more than a metre above her head and that was sealed with brass bands. The water was over her feet, past her ankles. She could stand on one of the platforms, but . . . the level was rising. There was no space for doubt or dispute: the water would rise steadily.
The pump-room was empty. They’d bolted the door. She was alone.
Chapter Forty-nine
‘Brother Rees?’
‘What?’
‘Brother! I’m sorry to disturb you – I know you’ve only had an hour or so . . .’
‘What’s the matter? Have you found Miles?’
‘No.’
‘What’s the time?’
‘It’s two a.m. and I hate to wake you, but we might have a problem. Brother Joe heard the noise and he woke me. It would appear that somebody’s got into the pump-room and I think they might have done something rather foolish.’
‘What have they done?’
‘They appear to be draining the lake. The tunnels are flooding.’
‘That’s impossible. That was . . . I had a dream . . .’
Brother Rees was sitting bolt upright in his bed. He fumbled for his glasses and said a number of very quick prayers, bobbing to the crucifix in the alcove.
‘Is the sword in danger?’ said the other monk as he hastened after his friend.
Brother Rees was moving swiftly in the direction of the pump-room. ‘Technically, no,’ he said. ‘As I understand it, the sluicing tunnels would not interfere with Tomaz’s home. Therefore the sword is not in any danger. We clearly have a situation, though. This could be very, very dangerous, so I think we need to get everyone up on the surface. When was the lake last drained, Brother Joe?’
The monk shook his head. ‘Certainly not in my lifetime,’ he said. ‘I saw a chart once and nineteen hundred and two rings a bell.’
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