Ribblestrop (19 page)

“Okay.”

Silence fell. Sam stared into it with wide-open eyes. How he wished his vision would clear. As he stared, he noticed the light change. The door was opening slowly; a ghostly beam entered. From a flashlight. A small figure padded across the flagstones.

“Anyone awake?” whispered Millie. Her voice was low and rasping.

“Hey!” said Sanchez. He sat up angrily.

“Millie?” hissed Ruskin.

“This room is for boys!” said Sanchez.

“I know, I can smell that. I'm only visiting.” She crept in and sat at the end of Sanchez's bed.

“Aii! Jesus! You sat on my blasted foot! Oh my sweet . . .”

“Sorry,” said Millie, rearranging herself at the end of the bed. “That was an accident, Sanchez. Look, this is urgent. We've got to get down to that basement room. I know you want me to forget all about it, but I can't. I've been contaminated. I was rescued by some weirdo who didn't want to be seen and we can't ignore it anymore.” She paused, to let it sink in. Then she said, simply, “I'm going back down.”

“When?” said Ruskin.

“Soon. The headmaster said he had a map. I'm going to find it. I'm going to break into his study.”

“You're crazy,” said Sanchez.

“And you're a coward,” said Millie. “You're stubborn and you're frightened, and you think saying ‘You're crazy' over and over again will make the whole thing go away. But it won't. Without your bodyguards, Sanchez, you're just a scared little boy. Caspar Vyner would be more use than you.”

“You can't break into places, certainly not the headmaster's—”

“And you can't ignore something that you know is totally wrong and puts the fear of God into you!”

“Look, there are places down there rented out quite legally to other people.”

“That's true,” said Ruskin. “We were told that on the first day, we mustn't interfere with the other tenants.”

“A boy went missing, Sanchez! A friend of yours!”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“He was never seen again! I've been thinking and thinking: what if there's a connection?”

“He ran away! Tomaz went home!”

“They're playing with dangerous drugs and chemicals down there, it's happening right under our noses. How can we pretend it's not happening?” There was a silence. Millie spoke again, this time in her bitterest voice. “Okay, boys, I just popped in hoping someone might have the guts to help me. I thought I'd give you the chance. You don't want to: no problem, I'll go alone.”

“It's kind of you, Millie,” said Ruskin. “But this soccer training has really done me in.”

“I don't mind—” said Sam. But he was interrupted by a sudden flurry of sheets and duvet as Sanchez leaped angrily out of his bed.

“Okay, fine!” he said, in a savage whisper. “Yes, you are crazy. Second, also, I am not a coward. I will come, if that's what you want: and I will prove you're crazy. We'll go downstairs together; we will find a map, except we probably won't find a map. If we do, we will go underground, and we will find out what's going on, which is nothing, and then we get some sleep. Okay?”

“Fine,” said Millie.

“Turn round.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm going to get dressed and I don't want you looking.”

*

Minutes later, two small figures crept down the tower stairs.

“You really think I'm mad?” said Millie.

“Yes.”

She laughed suddenly. “Here. If we get caught by the Cockroach, she's going to think we're sweethearts.”

“Who's the Cockroach?”

“Who do you think? Miss Hazlitt. What kind of name's that? The human-insect. Listen, if we get caught she'll assume we're off in the night for a secret snog. Can you think of anything worse?”

“I would rather cut my throat,” said Sanchez. “You know that?”

“You know where the headmaster's room is?”

“No. My sense of direction's nonexistent.”

“Then you're lucky I came. Follow me.”

They came to the main corridor, and then the smaller staircase that led to the corridor with the headless suit of armor. Sanchez led the way: up a short flight of steps to another corridor. Left, then right. Soon they were at the imposing black paneled door of the study, which—not surprisingly—was shut.

“You think it's unlocked?” said Sanchez.

“I doubt it. But I have a way with doors. I have a little tool kit with me. Try it.”

“Okay . . .” So, gently, as if fearing for alarms and guards, Sanchez tried the door handle. The door was locked. “No luck,” he whispered.

“Okay . . . Shine the torch. We can try this a few times.” She searched a pocket and produced a toothbrush. The end had been melted flat. “Here's one I prepared earlier,” she said.

“Your toothbrush?”

“Sam's actually. I thought he'd like to do his bit. Now: hold the torch, nice and steady. This is how schools get burned down. Oh—hold on. Oil the lock.” She produced an oilcan. “Found this in my dorm. Bit of luck they gave me the shed, eh?”

“I don't understand.”

“I oil the lock. It's easy only if the lock is smooth. Now: I'm going to warm up the toothbrush. One lighter . . .”

“You thief!” said Sanchez. “You've still got it! That's my father's bloody lighter!”

“Stop swearing. Your language really deteriorates when you're cross. I'll give it back to you, I just couldn't resist it. He's a rich man.”

Sanchez muttered in Spanish. Millie held the lighter up and flipped out a strong flame. She then rolled the end of the plastic toothbrush into the hottest part and kept it there. She played the flame on both sides.

“I needed a good lighter. This is perfect, you see: you have to get it just right, nice and wet. But not too wet.”

“Wet?”

“Molten. Melted.”

“Why?”

“I'm going to put this end into the lock. The molten plastic will form itself into the shape of the key. Once it's cool, we turn the key. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Two, three . . . go.” Millie pushed the plastic firmly into the keyhole and felt the soft end squirm round the metal. She pushed farther, seeing in her mind the plastic stretch and bulge. Then, she waited. “Now it cools.”

“I blow on it, yes?”

“Yes. And give it five minutes.”

Sanchez blew into the keyhole. Millie pocketed the lighter and they sat, backs to the door, legs outstretched.

“You do this before?” said Sanchez.

“Once or twice.”

“Does it work?”

“Only if you let the toothbrush cool and harden. If it's stuck to the lock casing, no chance. We must take our time: the plastic contracts.”

They sat in silence again.

Then Millie said, “Sanchez . . . what was it like, being kidnapped?”

“Look, Millie, please don't wind me up about that.”

“I'm not. I'm serious; I'm interested.”

“I'm sure you are interested. You want to know, so you can
laugh? Make fun? Okay, I tell you: it was a very happy time for me, like a holiday. I meet interesting people, I—”

“What was it
like,
Sanchez? I want to know.”

“It was . . .” He paused, hunting for the words. He said quietly: “Okay, I'll tell you. You ever have nightmares?”

“No.”

“Never? Not when you're sick?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“So you never get scared?”

“I'm not trying to show off, but, no . . . I don't get scared.”

“You're lucky. I got taken away, okay? By someone I thought was a friend; it was our driver. I thought I could trust him and all he wants is money. You realize then that your life is nothing. Just some money. We had been in a restaurant and he said he had to take me home.”

“What did he do?”

“You want to see?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Hold the torch. If you want to see, I'll show you.”

Sanchez had pulled on his school shirt. He undid the cuff of his right arm and rolled the sleeve. Millie shone the light and watched as he revealed his forearm. Just below the elbow was a patch of mutilated flesh: it was scar tissue, not unlike the remains of his father's hand.

Millie touched it gently. She whispered: “Oh my, what did they do to you?”

“You want to know? I'll tell you. There were three of them. One man, he telephones my mother. The other two are holding me and they put me on the phone, talking to her. One man takes a cigarette and puts it out on me, here. On the skin. So I am screaming. Okay? They do this five, six times: they make my father listen also. The police . . . Everyone gets to hear me screaming.”

“That's horrible.”

“Then they say, ‘We are very serious, Mr. Sanchez,' and they hold me and one man—he cuts off my toe.” Sanchez paused. “My father says . . . Ah, but you don't need to know.”

“What?”

“You don't need to know, I don't need to tell you.”

“Yes, you do. What did your father say?”

“My father says it's what killed my mother. That's what he says.”

“Oh.”

The children sat in silence. Millie tried to think of something to say, but it was Sanchez who continued, very quietly.

“So I'm not a coward,” said Sanchez, “but my father says never to take risks. It's why he sends me here, he doesn't want me to die. I'm the only son.”

“I'm sorry, I—”

“You don't have to be sorry, it's fine. Let's try the door.”

They got up onto their knees. The toothbrush looked ridiculous sticking out of the keyhole: it was stripy purple and green. Sanchez knelt beside Millie and trained the torch up close; Millie—carefully, and oh so slowly—gripped the brush and twisted it.

Nothing.

She counted to five. Once the weakened plastic had snapped. Once it had jammed. She twisted, just a little harder . . . “Go on,” she whispered. And with a rolling click, the mechanism turned.

“Wow,” said Sanchez.

“Thought I was crazy, didn't you?”

“I think you're very crazy. Truly amazingly crazy.”

“I'll go first,” she said, pushing the door open. “Welcome to my office, Mr. Sanchez. Come and sit down.”

They crept inside. They closed the door. Moonlight flooded in through high windows and soon they could make out the desk, the chairs, the sofa.

“The tricky bit now,” said Millie, “is where on earth do we start to look for a map? Let's try his desk.”

The desk was a mass of paper. Sanchez held the torch, Millie did the sorting. She was brisk and efficient. She moved to some trays and pulled out plastic wallets. “Bills . . . bills.” She read quickly. “Look at this, the bank manager seems a bit upset. Ooh, a solicitor here, getting involved. More bills: final demands, look.”

“Be quick, okay? This is not our business.”

“Letters . . .” she muttered. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Look. Who's Miles Seyton-Shandy? I've heard that name. Letter for Mrs. Seyton-Shandy, about a
Miles
Seyton-Shandy.”

“Yeah, he's very bad news. He was kicked out. He's the one who set fire to the library last term.”

“Bad boy. Oh, listen to this though: poor Mrs. Seyton-Shandy. Listen. ‘Dear Mrs. After lengthy consultation . . . blah-de-blah . . . I'm afraid it will not be possible to accept Miles back at Ribblestrop. We have considered our position most carefully, and feel that in Miles's own interests . . .' That is such nonsense!”

“What?”

“They kick you out and then say they're doing you a favor. Poor boy, passed on to some dogs' home somewhere.”

“He was trouble; he was dangerous.”

“I like the name Miles. Look, this is his file. Look at the photo!”

Millie was staring at the passport-size photo of a young, blond boy. He was grinning happily; his eyes were wide and luminous.
His hair was tangled over his forehead, his tie was off center. He was blazing with energy and laughter.

“I'm in love,” said Millie. “He's beautiful!”

“For Chrissake, Millie, I tell you, if he ever came back here, I would leave. I swear to God I wanted to kill that boy.”

“You do have a temper, don't you?”

“What are you doing?”

“Changing the letter, Sanchez. Shine the flashlight.” There was a pen in a jam jar. “I know it'll look a bit strange, but a good lawyer could say it's a contract. Here we go, we cross out the ‘not.' There we are: ‘in Miles's own interests' he should ‘return immediately.' ” Millie scratched and wrote and laughed. She held up the letter and waved it, to dry the ink.

Sanchez snatched at the letter and the flashlight beam spun crazily.

“Hey!” Millie held it away from him. “Give him a chance!”

“He is totally psychotic!”

“He sounds interesting and this is a school for freaks, so let's have a handsome one. I'll post this tomorrow.”

She stuffed the letter and its envelope into her pocket. And that was the moment they heard a jangle of keys.

Freezing involves the heart turning to ice and fear spreading over the entire body, toes to brain, in one split second.

Both children froze.

“Good Lord, it's a toothbrush,” said a voice.

“What?”

“Oh, this is so silly, it's jammed as well. What possesses them? Why would anyone . . . ?”

“Let me see, stand back.”

The children recognized the voices immediately: the headmaster and the new deputy. They were fiddling with the toothbrush, trying to remove it. It took a full minute, and that's what saved Millie and Sanchez. Flashlight off, papers hurriedly stuffed back into trays, they hid in the only place they could see: the cubbyhole under the desk. This meant easing limbs together and,
by the time they were hidden, their noses were nearly touching.