Ribblestrop Forever! (21 page)

Miles, Asilah and Eric let it down carefully. Then, as soon as it touched the courtyard, Sam slid after it. Doctor Ellie followed his lead and Asilah was there to receive her as she stepped onto
the courtyard. She was drunk on adrenalin.

‘Hurry,’ said Miles. ‘If the old crow looks out the window—’

‘She’ll be pissed by now,’ said Caspar, who had jumped the last five metres, and rolled paratrooper-style in the gravel. ‘She’ll be off her face.’

‘Even so,’ said Asilah. ‘Let’s get back to the camp. You did well, guys.’

‘We’ll have to leave the pulley,’ said Eric, and he hauled the ropes through. Then he smiled. ‘What’s going to happen when it rains?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve taken half the roof off. Her flat’s going to get flooded.’

‘Good,’ said Caspar. ‘Let’s hope she drowns.’

‘What about Auntie Rose?’ said Doctor Ellie, starting to laugh. ‘What will your gran say when she sees that Rose isn’t there any more?’

‘She‘ll think she’s dead,’ said Sam, grinning. ‘She won’t realise for days!’

‘Look,’ said Miles. ‘There’s that balloon again. Shall we give them a wave?’

Everyone looked up and waved joyfully. Doctor Ellie was laughing hard and knew she was slightly hysterical. She looked at the precious stone and closed her eyes. She said a quick, silent prayer,
thanking God for the ingenuity of children, and gave the thing a quick hug. Henry plucked it up and balanced it on his shoulder.

They crossed the lawns together, as fast as they could. Caspar was twirling and dancing, and Vijay was singing. The balloon rose higher – they could just see a burst of flame as the pilot
lit the gas. It became a dot, high above the earth, and they forgot all about it. They reached the camp in time for supper and the headmaster brought his car as close as he could, so the stone
could be taken, at once, to the safety of the Ribblestrop Museum.

Ex-Inspector Cuthbertson called a high-level strategy meeting the very next day. The venue was his ice-cream van, which he’d driven onto to the edge of Ribblemoor. Its
freezers had been stripped out and there was now a bank of storage lockers and radio equipment. Photographs of the Ribblestrop children were taped around the walls; the face of Andreas Sanchez was
circled in red. Timmy Fox and Mr Ian squashed themselves onto stools as the wind howled across the wilderness and rattled the windows.

‘Update me,’ said Cuthbertson.

‘We’ve agreed base camp,’ said Mr Ian. ‘It’s a car park beside Flashing Tor, and we’ve agreed the date, as well. We’ll be camping there next Tuesday and
pushing forward the next day.’

‘Outward bound?’ said Timmy. ‘What’s the plan, exactly?’

Cuthbertson met his gaze. ‘As far as you’re concerned, it’s flying a balloon in difficult weather conditions. We’ve got a job to do and you’re going to be our
eyes.’

‘Right-o. I’ll warn you now, though, there’s always storms over Ribblemoor, and—’

‘Can you fly, or can’t you?’

‘The Fox can fly anything,’ said Timmy. ‘All I’m saying is it won’t be easy.’

Cuthbertson turned to Mr Ian. ‘What if they postpone because of bad weather? Is that possible?’

Mr Ian snorted. ‘They won’t even check. They’ve left all the organisation to me and I’ve told them next week is clear and sunny. I’ve put them into groups –
and the Sanchez boy’s one of five. When it gets stormy, I’ll get my lot back to base-camp. The Ribblestrop teams will probably lose themselves and they’ll be well away from their
teachers.’

‘Hang on,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘If you take The Priory kids off, they’ll do the same – they’d be fools not to.’

‘They won’t know what I’m doing. Communication’s going to break down.’

‘When do the two schools come together?’

‘I don’t know, exactly – sometime in the evening. We’ll arrive by minibus. The Ribblestrop lot are arriving by . . . chariot. They said they’d be taking an
“unorthodox route”.’

‘They are pretty unorthodox,’ said Timmy.

‘It’s this history project,’ said Mr Ian. ‘Something about “flare paths” – they’ve got it into their heads that they can follow some of the old
pathways, so they want to navigate independently. I didn’t understand much of it.’

‘This is the doctor, is it? Doctor Ellie?’ asked Cuthbertson.

Mr Ian nodded.

‘Will she be with them?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Have you spoken to her, Ian? Have you picked her brains?’

‘Not yet.’ He paused. ‘Look, Cuthbertson, she can’t stand the sight of me.’

‘Few people can, lad, but that’s not going to stop us. I want you to get on friendly terms with that woman. Set up a meeting, do you understand me? Take your lot to the crackpot
museum and get her to do a lecture. Foxy, I want you out over Flashing Tor tomorrow, getting used to the wind. I want up-to-the-minute coverage by radio. Soon as they’re clear of their
teachers, we do the deed.’

‘What deed?’ said Timmy Fox.

Cuthbertson stared at him.

‘I do need information,’ said Timmy. ‘The Foxter’s part of the team now – he needs to know the plan.’

The ex-policeman reached up to the side of the van and plucked some of the photographs. He set them on the table and turned them so the Fox could see faces. ‘These are our targets,’
he said. ‘That’s Anjoli, all right? Small but wiry and violent. I’ve seen him in action and he’s a menace. Miles, you know – Ian’s going to deal with him.
Vijay’s another little beast, dangerous as the rest of them. Millie . . .’ His finger lingered on her nose. ‘She’s the one I’ll be looking after. We have scores to
settle. You understand me?’

Timmy Fox swallowed. ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I’m not fond of the little beggars, obviously, but—’

‘That’s the one we’re really after,’ cut in Cuthbertson. ‘Andreas Sanchez. That’s the one we lift, because he’s the golden ticket. Son of a Columbian
and rich as Croesus. Believe me . . . if we ask a sensible price, it will be wired to us at once. He was kidnapped before and his father will be desperate. We wait for the money, then fly off into
the sunset.’

The men were silent.

‘So where do I send them?’ said Mr Ian. ‘We’re meeting at Flashing Tor. Have you chosen the finishing post?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Where? I’m going to need to set the co-ordinates.’

‘I’ve chosen the perfect spot. I think the best thing is if I show it to you.’

Cuthbertson struggled into the driving seat and started the engine.

The road he took wound upwards into a range of sharp, grey peaks, and the wind got stronger. He turned right over a cattle grid and was soon lurching down an unmade road. He passed a notice
saying
Strictly Private
, and squeezed between two enormous
Stop!
signs. Minutes later, the road was good again and they were rolling over a wide plain of scrubland and broken
rock.

Mr Ian looked anxious. ‘Cuthbertson,’ he said, ‘this is pure wilderness. They’ll be lost for days.’

‘This is Boundary One.’

They came to a wire fence. It stretched long and high and there were rubber claws fixing high-voltage cables all along it.
Keep Out!
said a blood-red notice.
Ministry of Defence
Property. You Have Been Warned.

‘This is the way to Lightning Tor,’ whispered Mr Ian.

‘Correct.’

‘This is totally off-limits. The public can’t come here!’

‘It’s been decommissioned. Nobody knows but, as of yesterday, Lightning Tor is undefended and accessible. The army’s packed up and gone – almost. So guess who’s
looking after it.’

‘Looking after it? I don’t—’

‘While the ministry boys are sorting things out. You’ve got to have some kind of presence.’

‘You,’ said Timmy Fox. ‘Stillwater Security Systems!’

‘These are my men,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘Lazy and thick, every one of them. Hand-picked!’

A young guard was hauling open a gate and Cuthbertson saluted.

‘You can’t see Lightning Tor yet,’ he said. ‘It’s up in that cloud. The road’s a bit steep here, so hold tight . . .’

They drove on for another kilometre and were soon surrounded by angry shards of granite. There was no colour anywhere and the wind nagged at the vehicle, rocking it from side to side.
Cuthbertson stopped.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘In a few weeks’ time, the bulldozers arrive. There’s silver deposits round here going down for miles and there’s going to be
quarrying.’ He grinned. ‘We’re expecting protesters, of course. Always a few loonies trying to stop progress. So the deal is we’re going to blow up the whole
site.’

‘Who?’ said Timmy Fox. ‘Who’s going to blow it up?’

‘The army’s laying the explosives. Should be ready by Friday.’

‘And you’re going to detonate . . .?’ said Mr Ian.

‘When it’s safe to do so. Yes. Do you want to see Lightning Tor?’

‘You’re going to bring the children here?’

‘Everyone wants to see Lightning Tor, don’t they? It’s a special place.’

He let in the clutch and inched the van forward again. They curled left under a black shoulder of rock and passed a series of long, low sheds. The windows were boarded up and there were padlocks
on the doors. Beyond that was a radio mast, bristling with antennae. They came to another gate, wrapped in razor wire, and a squall of rain splattered over the windscreen. The road dwindled into
grass and gravel and it rose up sharply towards a misty cliff. Cuthbertson shifted into first gear and rolled forward. Almost at once, they were enveloped in cloud.

‘Cuthbertson,’ cried Timmy Fox. ‘You can’t see the road!’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Let’s stop here!’

‘I’ve been here before. Stop panicking.’

The tyres were slipping now and the engine was screaming. The ex-policeman revved harder and they were suddenly rising, swaying wildly from side to side. Timmy Fox let out a groan of terror and
there was another flurry of drenching rain, hammering at the roof. Then, the cloud lifted and the whole of Ribblemoor seemed to spin around them. They were halfway up a crag, clinging to bare rock,
and an enormous skull and crossbones was hanging close to their bonnet.

Danger of Death!
said the sign.
Lightning Tor. Do Not Proceed.

‘Cuthbertson,’ said Mr Ian. ‘This is madness.’

‘Now we have to walk.’

‘You can’t expect the children to come here!’

‘Yes I can.’

‘But the fences! The gates!’

‘Everything will be unlocked. I’m organising it.’ He turned and smiled. ‘They’ll think it’s the most exciting place they’ve ever been. You know
children. And we’ll be waiting for them, Timmy, won’t we? We’ll be up there at the top, all ready for action. Now, come and see the best bit . . .’

It was hard to get the doors of the van open, for the wind seemed to be piling straight down on top of them. Cuthbertson dragged himself out and bent low. He pulled the hood of his coat up and
staggered along a narrow path. Mr Ian followed him and Timmy Fox came last. Minutes later, they were forcing themselves through a narrow gulley. That’s when they saw, rising above them, the
snout of the volcano. It appeared and disappeared, for the clouds were caught in a vortex around it. Overhead, giant birds were wheeling, shrieking with rage.

‘Up!’ shouted Cuthbertson.

He led the way to a set of stairs carved into the rock. A metal rail enabled them to haul themselves upwards. They came, at last, to a narrow wooden bridge.

‘My God,’ shouted Timmy. ‘This is impossible!’

They could look down, now, over the edge of the crater. The birds were everywhere and they could see where they’d come from: the crater was full of ancient, twisted trees – it was a
forest, protected by walls of granite. The little bridge crossed just above the tops of foliage and ran to a central column on which sat a concrete bunker, under another enormous radio mast.

‘What’s down there?’ cried Mr Ian. He was clinging to the side of the bridge, white-faced.

Cuthbertson put his mouth to the man’s ear. ‘The centre of the earth!’ he roared. ‘Now come and meet my brother.’

‘What brother?’

Cuthbertson pointed to the top of the mast. ‘He hates those kids as much as I do. He’s in the control room, sorting out our equipment. And Timmy!’ he shouted, gripping the
man’s shoulder. ‘That’s where we need the balloon. That’s our launch pad – top of the aerial!’

Meanwhile, the children were smelting.

They had been hard at work all morning, so they stank of charcoal and burnt metal. The furnaces had risen to a thousand degrees and they’d watched iron liquefy. They had guided it down
earth channels into moulds; then they’d struck those moulds open so the axe-heads inside dropped hissing and glowing, like meteors. Their eyes were dreamy at the wonder of it, for this was
real magic – the magic of the elements.

They showered in a nearby waterfall and lunched on nut roast – then they were ready for Captain Routon’s briefing. Everyone knew that some kind of trek was being planned, and the
word ‘pioneers’ had been whispered in many corners. But the details were still secret. Today all would be revealed. They met in the roundhouse, where Doctor Ellie had pinned an enormous
map.

It was surrounded by flaming torches.

‘This, my dears, is us,’ said Routon, pointing to a cross. ‘Just by the stream.’

‘Sir,’ said Miles. ‘I’m not being funny, but isn’t that chart a bit old?’

‘It’s very old. 1938.’

‘If we’re going into the wilds,’ said Millie, ‘we ought to have a modern one.’

‘I don’t know about that. Rocks and rivers don’t really change, do they? I got this from the auction house, yesterday. All kinds of things coming in at the moment – a lot
of it army surplus. They’ve just closed one of those old bases.’

‘Is that where these came from?’ said Vijay. He was holding the receiver of an antique-looking field radio. In a crate nearby there were rucksacks, helmets and battery packs.

‘They were almost giving it away,’ said Routon. ‘I thought it might come in handy.’

Oli’s eyes lit up and he crept forward.

‘Look at it later,’ said Ruskin. ‘Let’s find out where we’re going.’