Ribblestrop (24 page)

“Sanchez, I walked along that tunnel. I must have been so close to an exit. How can the monks get down there? This is fantastic! When do we go down?”

“We don't.”

“Oh yes we do. We'll come back tomorrow, with tools. We've got to go down!”

“No way, Millie, this is too much.”

“Sanchez, we have the entrance point, we have the map! We need to find out what's going on down there. You tell me Tomaz disappeared. He was warned he was in danger, so maybe that's exactly what he was in. We have to go down! Don't we?”

“Shut up! Yes.”

“You'll come down with me?”

Sanchez had his hands on his head. He thought hard. “Yes,” he said.

Millie smiled. “Good. Now let's get the wretched ball and get some food.”

*

They were both in time for supper.

“All right, Sam?” said Sanchez.

Sam seemed to be sitting in a strange, stiff position and was surrounded by the other boys. The food was a prematch carbohydrate
special: shepherd's pie with jacket potatoes. Sam had a portion on his plate, but couldn't seem to open his mouth. Anjoli stood behind him, massaging his shoulders. Asilah had a forkful of food and was holding it close to Sam's lips.

“What happened?” said Millie. “You haven't seen a ghost, surely!”

Sam swiveled his eyes. His whole neck had seized up.

They sat down next to him.

“Thief,” whispered Sam.

“What?”

“I'm a thief.” Sam's voice was high-pitched: it was a mouse, squeaking. “I'm going to prison, that's what they said!”

Asilah patted Sam's shoulder. “You're not a thief, Sam. Eat your food.”

“She's crazy, man!”—that was Sanjay, on his other side.

“What have you stolen?” said Sanchez. “What are you talking about?”

“I can't make this out at all,” said Ruskin. “The whole thing seems jolly unfair. If I understand it correctly, Sam's been accused of breaking into the headmaster's office with a toothbrush. He's just been interviewed by that policeman, and by all accounts they got pretty rough!”

Millie stared and noticed the familiar purple-and-green plastic handle sticking out of Sam's blazer pocket.

“He thinks he's going to be expelled,” said Ruskin. “He thinks they're going to call his parents! He's been sick and everything, and she made him take pills. Look at this, everyone's got more pills—what is going on?”

“What pills?” said Millie. “What are you talking about?”

Millie and Sanchez looked about them. Beside every orphan there was a small glass dish with the child's name taped to it. Inside lay a cluster of bright little pills and capsules, and next to that, a glass of water.

Millie sighed with frustration. “What has this got to do with Sam?” she said.

“I don't know,” said Ruskin. “Something about a truth drug. They made Sam take a load of pills and then they were asking him questions about going underground with you and a toothbrush.”

“Sam,” said Millie. “Look at me. What exactly were they asking you?”

“They wanted to know,” sniffed Sam, “if I knew what you saw . . . when . . . If I knew what you saw when you went underground.”

“Underground? They were asking you about me?”

Sam nodded. “They think I stole a rabbit!” Tears were dripping down his cheeks.

“How do you break in,” said Ruskin, “with a toothbrush? I vote we go and see this policeman and put in a formal complaint. They have procedures, and I don't believe they would allow Sam to be . . .
terrorized
like this.”

“Shut up, Ruskin.”

“No, I won't shut up. Apparently, the headmaster came back and broke the whole thing up, otherwise goodness knows what could have happened. All over a wretched toothbrush!”

“Look,” said Sanchez. “The toothbrush is a key. Millie made it when we went looking for that map—she used Sam's toothbrush.”

“And now they think it was him!” said Millie. She put her hands over her face for a moment, trying to conceal a smile. “Sam,” she said. “Were they seriously trying to blame you? Did they threaten to
arrest
you, for breaking and entering? For being part of my gang?”

Sam managed to nod and his tears plopped into his dinner.

Millie was silent for a moment and then she started to laugh. It was just a quiet chuckle, but then it took hold of her, and in seconds she was giggling with delight. The laughter rose until she was howling. “Oh my, they thought it was him!” she gurgled. “Look at him! Sanchez, look at him! As if Sam's going to break in anywhere! What did you say?”

Sam couldn't speak. He put his hands over his face and wept.

Millie's laughter got louder and louder. Meanwhile, Sanchez
could only stare. He didn't trust himself to speak. He looked from Sam to Millie and back again. The orphans were all watching, totally confused. Sanchez looked at his hands and wondered if now was the time to break one of his father's golden rules:
You never hit a girl . . . Smash her!

“I don't get this at all,” said Ruskin. “But I tell you something—it's not right.”

Sanchez put down his knife and fork. He stood up and found that his fists were clenched. He said to Millie, quietly: “You are disgusting. How can you laugh? Look at him! You are disgusting. You are not human.”

Millie brought herself under control and looked at him through moist, laughing eyes. “Sanchez, it's
funny
. This place is so weird, and they give themselves away! They're frightened!”

“You . . . are not a girl,” said Sanchez. He picked up his plate and cutlery, very carefully. He was bright red. There was an unoccupied table and he started to walk toward it.

Millie was looking at him, smiling; she seemed bewildered. Sanchez turned on her hotly. He said, “You are . . . a maggot. I don't want anything to do with you. I am not helping you, I don't even want to speak with you. You go exploring by yourself and leave me alone!”

The next day was the big match, which made further argument impossible. Soccer came first, and everyone accepted that.

The dining hall had been swept and dusted. The tarpaulins were stretched tighter and new planks were laid over the mud. An extra trestle table had been found, and jugs of juice were arranged on doilies. Captain Routon had been up long before dawn preparing ham, chicken, and roast beef with a number of attractive-looking salads. There was a cheese board, fruit, and various yogurts, and Professor Worthington—with the headmaster—had been up in the tower of science most of the night sculpting a sugar-and-meringue model of the school. This was, after all, the first time Ribblestrop was hosting visitors.

Over the main table hung a banner, which read:
Welcome to our high school, Friends
. Ruskin and Sam had designed it, but everyone had contributed to the bright border of handprints and smiling faces.

*

The visitors were staring, square-jawed and mean.

They wore emerald-green blazers. Some of the larger boys hadn't been able to find jackets big enough and looked rather uncomfortable. A tall, lean man stood among them, noticeable partly because he was completely bald. This was Harry Cuthbertson, brother to the inspector. He was a younger, fitter man, and he had the same searching eyes, with that hint of madness.

“. . . so welcome, warriors all!” finished the headmaster.

There was a smattering of applause from the home side. He'd been speaking for ten minutes or so, and it was clear his speech wasn't working. He hadn't expected whistles or cheers, but he had hoped for the occasional titter or smile. Homer's
Iliad
had been his text, and he'd made a number of interesting references to the changing profile of sport in Western civilization. Sadly, his guests weren't listening. Their eyes were locked onto the eyes of his own children: they seemed to be fixated. Ruskin was smiling, and so was Sam. The orphans never stopped. The guests, however,
weren't
smiling. They had the look of boxers just before round one, when the referee has brought the contestants together.

The applause died quickly and Harry Cuthbertson shouldered his way to the front. He had a strong nasal accent and spoke quickly.

“Oh, thank you very much, thank you very much indeed, Headmaster, boys . . . Thank you. It is really very nice to be made a fuss of like this, not what we're used to at all, is it, boys? Very kind indeed of you to lay on a lunch like this . . .”

He was immaculately dressed and his forehead was polished almost to metal. “Hope that nobody takes it amiss if we eat a very light lunch,” he went on. “Nought to do with the hospitality, needless to say, but we do like a
light
lunch before a game—tend to eat up a bit after, eh lads? Eh?”

“There is a hot meal planned for six o'clock,” smiled the headmaster. “And we thought we might even serve beer, if that's permissible, and show some slides on our new projector.”

“Have to be off by four, Headmaster, we train extra on a Friday, but another time we'd make special arrangements for that, wouldn't we, lads? Don't say no to a glass of beer or three, do we, Darren?” There was a little ripple of amusement from the visiting team. “Do we, Darren—eh?”

Darren was a slim boy with a small slit of a mouth. His jet-black hair was greased back till it looked like a layer of tar. His lips stretched into a knife-cut of a smile; then it was gone, and he was
adjusting his shoulders in his blazer. Clearly Darren liked beer.

“Where do we get changed then, sir?” said Harry.

“Here,” said the headmaster.

Silence.

“We don't have changing rooms,” he continued. “Thinking ahead, you see: we got so involved in the pitch . . . Could you use these benches, once we've had lunch?”

“Get changed here, like, in the . . .” He looked at the blackened timbers above his head. “Is it safe?”

“Oh yes. It's our hall. Do you have much stuff?”

“Well, aye, yes we do. We have our kit and our bits and pieces; I mean we can change here, course we can, it's just . . . What about your lot?”

“We'll be outside.”

“Where's the showers?”

“Ah, we can't offer you showers, I'm afraid,” said the headmaster, smiling. “But we've fixed up a hosepipe just behind you. By the sink.”

*

“Right-o, boys, last few words of wisdom!”

Captain Routon was jogging round the group, trying to corral the orphans into one area. There had been angry scenes as he tried to count the team down to eleven, and for the first time Millie had seen real tempers and tears. A cluster of three boys had at last been separated, including one of the oldest children: the concept of “reserve” had finally been understood.

“Our strength,” said Captain Routon, in his final address, “is speed and passing. Henry? Passing. Everyone clear?” He could feel the excitement and the tension. Anjoli was simply bouncing, and a number of the orphans seemed electrically charged. “Sanchez,” he shouted. “Don't come out too far, I don't want any unnecessary contact between you and some of those tough ones.”

“Who's referee?” said Millie.

“Their man, Cuthbertson. He's a bit more up on the regs than me and, I told you, I'm no good in the sun.”

There was a shout from the other end of the pitch. “Get that donkey out the goal!” It was Harry Cuthbertson, transformed. He was in black shorts and a lightly striped black T-shirt, the breastpocket neatly buttoned over cards and papers. Whistle and watch flashed in the sunlight as he doubled on the center spot, knees as high as his chin. His own team were stretching, running, and passing the dozen soccer balls they'd brought with them. They'd scored so many practice goals that the net they'd been warming up in was torn from its hooks. The headmaster and Professor Worthington were hastily putting it back up.

The whistle blew: it was two o'clock.

“Captains?”

“You go,” said Sam, to Ruskin.

Millie was already on her way, moving confidently to the center spot. Her shorts were roped in tightly with a black-and-gold tie, which drew attention to the pencil-thinness of her waist and torso. “Heads,” she said, loudly.

“All right, all right,” said Harry. “We want a clean game, all right? This isn't World War Three, this is a game of
soccer
—play hard as you like, but play
fair
. Twenty minutes each way.” He looked at his own captain, who had tattoos up his neck. “We've got extra training tonight, so treat this as shooting practice. I don't want to see no holding—”

“Heads,” said Millie, loudly.

“You what?”

“Heads. That means your team's tails. Can we get on with it?”

Harry Cuthbertson stared at Millie, shocked into silence. His short speech had been interrupted. He discovered he was panting slightly. His own captain didn't seem to have noticed the insult. He put his face close to Millie's. “I've heard about you,” he said.

“Who's been talking?”

“My brother. He said this was a school for weirdos. Are you a boy or a girl?”

“I'm both,” said Millie. “And you should see a dentist. Your breath stinks.”

Harry Cuthbertson felt blood rushing to his skull. It was slooshing up the big vein in the neck and painting his whole forehead red. He stood up and bounced the ball hard. He trapped it neatly under his cleat and rolled it to the spot. The coin in his hand was twirling as he did so; he snapped it, hand on wrist: “Heads it is,” he snarled.

“We'll kick off,” said Millie.

“Downhill first half,” said the high school captain.

“Yes!” hooted Ruskin, waving his arms and dancing. “We won the toss. Always a good omen. Come on, Ribblestrop: take no prisoners!”