Ribblestrop (29 page)

“I hope you brought the map,” said Sanchez.

“I did bring the map. I do have a brain cell.”

“After you, then. Ruskin: are you going to be all right, here on your own?”

“Oh, don't worry about me. I'm not sure I'll be able to pull you back up, though.”

“We'll climb,” said Millie. “All you need to do is help us through the bars. I want you to give us two hours, all right? And if we're not back by then, go to the phone box and raise the alarm.”

“And tell the headmaster?”

“No, Ruskin. No. You go to the phone box. You ring my father.” She took a pen from her blazer pocket and scribbled a number onto Ruskin's left hand.

“Here,” said Sanchez. He wrote a number on the boy's right. “Phone my father too.”

“You do not tell the headmaster anything,” said Millie. “You don't phone the police. You get through to these numbers and explain that we're lost underground and need a search party. Tell them the headmaster is chief suspect, along with Professor Worthington and Hazlitt and the inspector. And probably Captain War Hero.”

“Okay.”

Sanchez had a bottle of rum in his hand. He took a quick nip and handed it to Millie. “Keeps out the cold,” he said.

Millie stared and then she smiled. “Sanchez, you little hero! You're turning into a thief, bad as me!” She took a sip too and smiled a little more broadly. “You're scared, aren't you?”

“Very.”

“Did you bring your gun?”

“No.”

“That, my friend, might have been a big mistake. Why do you keep a gun if it stays under your bed?” She handed the bottle to Ruskin. “Don't get drunk,” she said. And with that, she squeezed through the grille, expertly transferred her weight to the ropes, and descended.

Sanchez held the flashlight, then followed her.

Ruskin dropped the flashlights down to them. “Good luck,” he called, softly. “Send me a postcard.”

He sat back then and wished he'd put on a coat. The school blazers were warm, but there was a chilly breeze. The lake was generating a mist, so the clammy air surrounded him. He rubbed his hands vigorously. Some creature of the night squawked and there was a rustling nearby. Ruskin gritted his teeth and prepared for a long, cold vigil. He wished he had never heard about the ghost of Lord Vyner, and he wished he'd never been part of that circle in the chapel conjuring him up. Sitting under the family monument in the darkness seemed to be asking for trouble, and Ruskin wanted no further contact with the spirit world. There were a few lights on in the distant school building and he fixed his eyes on them. He hummed the school song and took a mouthful of rum.

*

“That way's north,” said Millie. “Toward the house. I say we go toward the house and we should come to this intersection
here
.”

“And then we go left,” said Sanchez.

“I've marked it in red. I'm sure that is the laboratory. I've been thinking and thinking: when I went down, there was Cuthbertson and someone else setting something up. Animals, things in jars . . . it's research, Sanchez. And I bet you it's
illegal
research. And I didn't ever tell you, did I? Professor Worthington recognized the sores I was getting, the ones on my mouth. She knew it was from some chemical, and she knew the antidote. Now the only chemical I was ever exposed to was in that room—it was a sort of white powder,
when I broke a jar. I think the school is a front for something very, very wrong.”

They walked in silence for some time. The tunnel was smooth and straight, and their flashlights bounced. After five minutes they came to the first turning.

“By the way, you didn't finish your story,” said Millie.

“What story?”

“You told me all about Miles. You told me Tomaz ran away. But you never got to the end: you never told me what happened.”

Sanchez hesitated: “Maybe we should just concentrate on not getting lost,” he said.

“Sanchez, tell me the story!”

“All right! All right. Tomaz left, yes? But there was a big problem.” He paused. “Nobody knew where he lived, so . . . how could anyone be sure if he'd got home or not? All we knew was that he'd gone. So when—”

“How do you know he wasn't kidnapped? This is what I'm saying!”

“Millie, listen. You want the story, I'll tell it, okay? Okay. He told me he was leaving. He liked the school, but he was scared of Miles, and the black magic thing freaked him out completely. We all saw his name, it was written out, two or three times. He wanted to get out, but he didn't know anyone and he couldn't get his passport back, because the policeman had it.”

“Why would Cuthbertson have Tomaz's passport?”

“I don't know, I'm just telling you what happened. Tomaz came to me and asked for money, so I gave him what I had. He was staying in the grounds, living rough. So he came back one night, up the outside of the tower, and he said he needed more cash for tickets. I didn't even know where his country was, I hadn't heard of it. Uzbeki-something.”

“How old was he?”

“Thirteen, nearly fourteen. Very small, but so strong. Like a little buffalo!”

“He sounds brave.”

“He was amazing. He told me somebody in the town was getting him papers. They were smuggling him out in a lorry. I got more money from somewhere, and Ruskin had a bit. We were trying to get more, so we put food out for him, every night, while we were—”

“Like he's a dog? What's the school doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sanchez, a boy's gone missing, yes? Turn left here—I mean right.” Millie checked the map again.

“The school's going crazy,” said Sanchez. “We have the policeman round, asking everyone questions. We have searches. The headmaster was up all night, he was making himself ill. Miles was going crazy, he loved Tomaz! And I didn't know
what
to do! I was taking Tomaz his dinner every evening. We had a special, hollow tree and I always leave food. This goes on for a week or more and then suddenly, I don't know . . . nothing. The food isn't touched, it's just where I left it. He got his ticket home, he must have done.”

“Without the money?”

“He must have found some. He had what we gave him, Millie: he
must
have gone home.”

“What about his family? Surely there was someone . . .”

“No. He was a street kid . . .”

“Why is this school so interested in orphans?”

“He couldn't read or write, he was here on some . . . special arrangement.”

“So Tomaz was the first. You're starting a school and you take kids who can't pay fees. What kind of logic is that?”

“Charity, I don't know.”

“An orphan disappears and there's no one to ask too many questions, no inquest. It all dies down—”

“It didn't die down, the school nearly closed! That's why this woman is here, we lost our license! It's why Miles set the place on fire.”

“I don't believe Tomaz ever got home. I think he was the first victim and I think they're doing some kind of Frankenstein thing.
Why do they need freezers? Why the rats and rabbits? And what on earth do they need a chair with straps for?”

“Shh.”

“What if they kept him alive? What if they're—”

“Shut up!” Sanchez was still. “Did you hear something? There's someone behind us.”

The children flashed their flashlights behind them. Millie turned hers off; Sanchez did the same. There was a glow from dim electric lamps above: nothing else.

“I can hear a machine,” said Millie.

“So can I.”

“We're closer than I thought. It's a generator, I bet.”

Millie set off again. She went slowly now, and very quietly. The tunnel curved and led to another intersection. Turning right, without the flashlights, they could see a soft glow of light in the passageway ahead. Sure enough, there was a lightbulb emerging from the rock.

“Bingo,” said Millie. “We've done it.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is exactly where I was. Millie Roads, A-star map-reading scholar: that's the door.”

“It's closed.”

The door was a plate of gray steel in a wall of granite. The two children stared at it and then at each other.

Millie said: “I've always felt that one mustn't be put off by a closed door. One has to think round it, over it, and under it. And I always carry this.”

“What?”

She took out a small penknife.

Millie was standing on Sanchez's shoulders and he braced himself against the metal. Around him, short, squat screws fell in the sand. After a few minutes, a large wire grille rattled open, swinging on its hinges.

“You coming?” said Millie.

He looked up and she was forcing the thing upward. She had her tie in her hand and had lashed one end round the frame. The other end was over the lightcable. The flap rose inch by inch, and suddenly Millie's torso was disappearing, and her weight was gone. She squirmed back around and let down a hand, grinning in triumph.

There wasn't much room in the air vent, and Sanchez was an awkward climber. They lay there together, wet with sweat, getting their breath back. Then Millie led the way, spreading her weight like a lizard, inching through the metal trunking. She dreaded something giving. It was built for air, not for children, and was thick with dust and dirt—nobody had ever cleaned it. She imagined falling in a cloud of filth and landing at the feet of angry teachers. What would actually happen to her if they really
were
about to interrupt some horrible experiment? If Professor Worthington was there, knife in hand? Millie hadn't thought about this before; for Millie, consequences only suggested themselves seconds before they occurred.

She gritted her teeth and inched forward.

The air vent had started square: it now converted to a tube the
width of a large rabbit hole. The children wormed through, flashlights between their teeth. Mercifully, there were no right angles. A gentle curve took them about six paces in, and then the metal under them turned into a perforated grille, where the air was either pumped in or extracted out. There were lights below, but Millie couldn't get her bearings. She whispered back to Sanchez: “Somebody must be down there, the lights are bright.”

“Yes.”

“They work late. When they think we're in bed, they come down here. I bet it's her, our trusted Professor Worthington. Her tower is a complete red herring: this is where she works. And I bet the lift goes straight to her room.”

“How do we get down, Millie? This is painful.”

“It's wider here, give me your hand. We can unscrew a section and drop.”

She helped Sanchez out of the tube and turned to the bolts. The whole venting system was simply built and it wasn't long before a section was opening upward, like a hatch.

Sanchez was muttering a prayer. Millie hesitated too. “Maybe I should have just called my father. Or maybe we should have called yours.”

“Shall we go back? We can phone him, but I don't know what he can do . . .”

“I don't know what
anyone
can do,” said Millie. “I don't know what we'd say without any proof.” She started work on the last bolt. “Let's do it,” she said. “We'll get some evidence, then leave.”

The panel tilted, and it wasn't hard to slide it to one side. Millie peered downward into the quiet. It looked like that first room, the storage area, but she wasn't sure. She tested the supporting rods and started to lower herself. Her feet found some kind of work surface and she was steady enough to help Sanchez. They jumped down onto a tiled floor. Millie wondered why Sanchez was clutching her. Then she realized she was clutching him too and they were both breathing fast.

“Was I telling the truth?” she whispered. “About this place?”

“Yes.”

“Am I crazy?”

“Oh yes.”

“This is where I started and those are the doors into the lab. They could be in there, Sanchez, there's lights on everywhere! Keep to the wall, okay? Don't say a word.”

“What's that smell?”

“Shh!”

“It's like a hospital. Disinfectant, or something. It's so damp, it's horrible!”

The children huddled themselves together and crept forward, keeping low. Sanchez looked at the doors and shuddered. They reminded him of operating theaters—the thought made his heart lurch. He'd seen doors like that when they'd wheeled him down the corridor after the kidnapping, hoping to save his toe. Doors that flipped open so the trolley could be raced inside.

He was aware of a humming and a ticking: the sound of fridges and their motors. Millie was beside him; he felt a hand on his arm, and her voice was high-pitched, right in his ear. She said, “You know I told you I never got frightened?”

He nodded; he couldn't speak.

“I was lying,” she said. “I've never been more scared.”

They were at the doors now, squatting. Sanchez felt for Millie's hand. He swallowed. “If it matters,” he said, and his voice was shaking too, “I think you're the bravest person I know. And I'm very frightened, also.”

They started to rise, inch by inch. “Are you ready?” whispered Millie.

“No.”

Their hands were clasped. He had a vision of the doors crashing open. She had a vision of a room full of people, turning to stare—but they forced themselves up and their heads came level with the windows.

“
There's someone in the chair
,” whispered Millie.

She was staring at the monstrous black thing, which sat there just as she remembered it. It was tilted back and drenched in light. “Look, Sanchez—
look
!”

“I can see . . . but—”

“Someone's in it. Someone is sitting in the chair. Oh no, what if it's him? It's Tomaz.”