Ribblestrop (28 page)

“You're getting angry because you know something's wrong. You know as well as I do, Tomaz never got home!”

“Nobody knows that!”

“We should be doing something about it, but you're too scared! We have an incompetent headmaster, an insane deputy headmistress, a so-called head of science who thinks we have batteries in our heads—”

“Shhhh!”

The door opened. “Sanchez?”

“Headmaster. Sir.”

Sanchez leaped to his feet, almost to attention. Millie rose as well.

“I'm sorry, my dears, I can sense I'm interrupting. I wanted to check up on Sam . . .”

“Sorry, sir, of course. Please come in, you are very welcome, sir.”

“Little chap's on my mind, I can't settle.”

“Sir.”

“Did I interrupt something important?”

“Certainly not, sir. Will you have a glass of water? Refreshment?”

“No, no, no. There was another matter, too, Sanchez. Millie as well, but that can wait. How is the little chap, any improvement?”

“He was speaking in his sleep, sir.”

“Really? He may have fever again.”

“No, sir—I could not hear his words, but they were quiet. He's not running a temperature.”

At that moment, Sam rolled over and let out a groan.

Millie said: “Shouldn't we get a real doctor? He might be dying.”

“Yes. I think maybe you're right, Millie. The time has come to end this, hasn't it?”

“To end what, sir?” said Sanchez.

“I think we have to face the facts. This is the end of the road. I've just been looking at the eviction papers, there's no room for appeal. I promised, you see, and—”

“
No
 . . .” said Sam.

“Promises must be kept. And Miss Hazlitt has asked for my resignation.”

Sam's voice was faint. It was a groan of pain. His eyes were closed and his face twitched. As they stared, the eyelids opened. “
Where are you, Ruskin?
”

“What did he say?” said Ruskin.

Sanchez sat beside Sam. “I think he wants you. Sir, I have something for you, I managed to forget it.”

The headmaster pulled up a second chair and sat on Sam's left. “Ruskin's right here, Sam. Right beside you—do you want to talk to him?”

“No!” The boy's voice was stronger. “Into the center. I can't do all the work. Millie, play the wing, stay out of the way and I can
push it to you. You can cross, you can cross! Oh, go on! Anjoli!”

“Sir, he's out on the pitch, sir.”

“I think you're right, Sanchez. He's reliving the game. His breathing's better as well. Routon took out the tube—he said he'd come round.”

Sam's eyes closed again. “To me, to me. I can't pass, there's no one to pass to. Okay, all right,
but don't blame me
—on the left, he's through, it's up to Tack. Oh! Incredible play, he's out on his own . . .”

“He's going to score, sir!”

“Astonishing, where did he learn to do that?” Sam's voice had deepened; he spoke confidently. The voice was a TV commentator's: “The crowd are on their feet now, they rise as one: it's Tack. All the way! The opposition doesn't know what to do, they didn't expect humiliation like this. Oh! Oh! On he goes, this is poetry—through the legs, over the shoulder, this is soccer, the goalie's dithering . . . Yes! Yes! Ah!”

Sam sat up in bed, bolt upright.

“He's delirious,” said Millie.

His eyes were wide, his arms were flung open wide. “Three-nil!” he shouted. “Hat trick! Yes!”

“Sam!” shouted Sanchez. He held him gently, by the shoulders.

“What?”

“The game's over.”

“What? Where am I? Oh. Am I late? My cap . . .”

“Sam, you're in bed,” said Ruskin. “You've been hurt again.”

“The game finished hours ago,” said Sanchez. “You've been unconscious, man. Do you recognize me?”

“Of course I do. Did we win?”

“No, we lost.”

“Oh. Was it my fault?”

“For goodness' sake, Sam,” said Millie. She sat down on the next bed. “Get a grip. You were the hero, all right? You were scoring number two and their gorilla of a goalie kicked your head in. You were stretchered off and we went down eleven-two.”

“When's the next game?”

“The next game! Sam,
look at yourself
! Look at your leg!”

“Why?”

Sanchez put a hand on Sam's arm. The headmaster stood up and moved back, simply watching. There was a movement in the doorway—the orphans had come, unable to sleep themselves. They pressed silently into the room.

“Sam,” said Sanchez. “I think you are in for a big shock, yes? When the goalkeeper came at you, he messed up your leg, pretty bad.”

“Oh.”

Sam lifted the sheets and peered down at his legs. “Where?”

“You lost a lot of blood, man.”

Sam pulled the sheet off completely: his left leg was swathed in bandages. He moved his hands down his thigh, to his knee. He moved the joint; he flexed his toes.

“It's not broken.”

“Keep it still,” said Asilah. The room was now full of children. Every orphan was carrying a sweet, as tribute to Sam.

“My dad says you can always tell a break,” said Ruskin. “You can't move anything.”

Millie said, “You lost about ten pints of blood. You've been in a coma.”

“Oh no.” Sam laid back on the pillow. He closed his eyes and seemed to go pale. “Oh no, just imagine. He did me with his cleats?”

“Yes.”

“Ruskin! Millie!”

“It's all right,” said Sanchez. “You're okay. We're here.”

“Oh thank you!”

“What?”

“It's my left leg, isn't it? Oh thank Heaven! I lead with my right: if he'd done me on the right leg, I might never shoot again. You see, Millie? It's just like my dad says. I'm so lucky. I'm so lucky . . .”

And with that the boy's eyes closed and he fell fast asleep and snored.

“He was raving,” said Millie. “He's off his head.”

There was suddenly the loud blowing of a nose. “I'll leave you to it now, children,” said the headmaster. “I'm afraid the school must close . . . We can't go on, boys. Rent has to be paid, and . . . she's right. The contract is watertight—I ignored it. Lady Vyner is victorious.”

He made for the door, slightly unsteadily. Anjoli opened the door for him and saluted.

“Oh, sir,” said Sanchez.

“Yes?”

“Sir, I am very sorry. I have something for you that I should have given you weeks ago. From my father, sir.” Sanchez stood and moved to his own bed. Then he was bending low, leaning in under it. He had to lie down full length, and even then stretch. After some time, he re-emerged, clutching a shoebox. “I don't know why I forgot, sir: my father will be angry. He said make sure this is given straightaway, but with all the things that happened . . . I forgot.”

Dr. Norcross-Webb took the box. You could see him caught between excitement and fear. You could almost read his thoughts:
What if this is some well-meant gift?
 . . .
A handful of cigars, perhaps. A Colombian doll in national dress
 . . . It was heavy. He didn't dare open it.

“No problem at all, Sanchez. Thank you.”

“Aren't you going to open it?” said Ruskin.

“No, no . . . I'll look at it tomorrow.”

“It's just some money, sir,” said Sanchez. “My father says not to use the bank, I don't know why. Oh, but sir.”

“What?”

“Sorry, I think I left my gun inside. Can I just . . .”

Sanchez lifted the box lid gently and reached in. He took out a handgun and, as he did so, the headmaster glimpsed whole bricks of banknotes, tightly packed. The notes were fifties, and even the
swiftest glance confirmed that this was more than enough for the rent, the new roof, and other projects besides.

Sanchez replaced the lid. “I think it's everything for the year,” he said. “And he told me to say thank you very much.” Then he tossed the gun onto his duvet and smiled. “Good night, sir.”

The headmaster stood rigid, unable to move. Very slowly—as if needing support—he put out his hand.

Sanchez took it and shook, firmly.

Millie decided that she had wasted far too much time already. The following day, she made her plans. The whole school was distracted by frenzied preparations for the roofing, which, after Sanchez's cash injection, was now full steam ahead. The materials had been ordered and delivery was set for dawn the following day. Captain Routon wanted everyone on site at six o'clock sharp, ready to finish clearing the ruins. This gave Millie the excuse she needed to disappear early. She was in bed by eight thirty and she set her alarm for one.

Flashlight, gloves, crowbar, wire. She had everything ready, stuffed into a sports bag. The other essential tools she'd have to steal, under the cover of darkness. She dozed fitfully and rose before the alarm went off. Checking for the loathsome Miss Hazlitt, who'd been known to do a little midnight prowling, she got dressed and slipped out of her shed.

The first thing she needed was a vehicle, so she crept round to the school's parking area, at the back of the mansion building. She'd broken into cars before, of course, and knew that beaten-up old wrecks were the easiest. There were two candidates: the school bus—which was an old builder's van owned by Captain Routon—and the headmaster's battered little heap of rust. It looked sorry for itself next to Miss Hazlitt's recently purchased four-wheel drive.

Millie slid between the two and went to work. It was a fiddly process, but the wire bent through the old seals of the car door,
lifted the lock, and Millie was inside. How nice it was to be working without boys. You could do just what you wanted at the pace you preferred . . . She flashed her flashlight around and then jerked backward with fright. Across the park there was a pair of headlights, bumping down the drive.

She clambered into the rear of the vehicle and turned off the flashlight. The headmaster kept his backseat flat for some reason and the car was littered with old tools and rubbish. She peeped through the window, her heart thumping. Incredibly, the vehicle approaching was a police car—she could see its fluorescent stripes. She swore softly, unable to believe her bad luck. It crawled closer and closer, into the car park and alongside her. She could see the craggy profile of Cuthbertson. Why would he be patrolling at this hour? She swore again. Like a shark in deep water, the police car paused for ten heart-stopping seconds . . . and rolled forward again, in search of other prey.

Millie breathed out. She thanked her stars she hadn't left the car door open, or been caught as she crossed the yard. Somebody was looking after her, maybe. All she needed was gear for a wheel change, so she turned the flashlight back on and kept the beam low. There were tools and rags jumbled under a bit of old blanket. She searched and found a heavy hammer and a towing rope. Both could be useful. After more rummaging, she located the precious wheel jack, resting against a very bald spare tire. It was well-oiled, compact, and ready to go—never been used, obviously. She put everything in her bag and clambered out of the car. Her load was heavy now and it chafed her leg.

She lit a cigarette and got her nerve back. She closed the door gently and set off, eyes peeled for headlights. Nothing, so she dared herself into the open, over the lawns. Where the driveway curved, she could see the telephone box, with its light always on. She wondered for the fiftieth time if anyone ever used it and why the telephone company bothered maintaining it. She set her sights on the lake and tried to feel brave. Just then, as she crossed the lawn, two figures appeared on the first humpback bridge.

Millie stood stock still, unable to believe her bad luck.

There was no way she could conceal herself, she was on wide-open ground. She would have no explanation. As she stared, the smaller person waved, and she saw that it was Ruskin.

“We thought we'd missed you,” he said as she joined them.

“I thought you were teachers,” said Millie. “What made you change your mind? Or do you still want to prove I'm crazy?”

Sanchez wouldn't look at her. “We all know you're crazy,” he said.

“Ha!” cried Millie. “So why are you here?”

“The only reason I'm here,” said Sanchez, “is because we thought it wasn't fair to let you go on your own.”

“Look, the police are around,” said Ruskin, quickly. “I think we should get out of sight as soon as possible. And, Millie: we have a plan. Sanchez and I have been talking, and we think this is
far
too dangerous, so I'm going to stand guard while you two go down together. Then, if anything happens, I can alert the appropriate authorities.”

“No,” said Millie. “I've actually planned this down to the last detail.”

“You want to go alone?” said Sanchez. “You can if you want! I thought—”

“All I'm saying,” said Millie, loudly, “is don't tell me what to do. I have a strategy.”

“Fine.”

*

The Vyner monument was black against a deep blue nighttime sky. There was a strong moon still, hovering low, and a strange, metallic light. Millie squeezed under the fence to the shaft and laid out the tools.

“Hold the flashlight, Ruskin. We're going to pry the bars apart and go down on the rope. There's no way of lifting the grille.”

“How far down is it?”

They shone their flashlights down into the black. Ten meters below was a sandy-looking disc of floor.

“You could almost jump,” said Millie.

“I brought a rope,” said Sanchez.

“So did I,” said Millie.

Sanchez moved in and together they positioned the jack. Working as one, they spun the wheel and within a minute there was a gap between the central bars, a good thirty centimeters wide. They attached both ropes.