Ribblestrop (30 page)

“It can't be, how can you tell?”

“I can see feet. Use your eyes, you can see a pair of feet! It's a boy, and his feet can't touch the ground, he's small. I can see his
hand
. Stand here, you can see his hand. It's Tomaz, it must be.”

“It
can't
be . . .”

“We're going in.”

“No. Call the police.”

“How? One of them is probably down here!”

“This is so dangerous, Millie!”

“He's on his own! We're going inside!”

Aboveground, Ruskin's night was getting worse as well.

His imagination would not stop working. The cold had crept up from his feet and met the cold coming down from his hair. He didn't know whether to keep still or move, and the time was ticking by, ticking by. He drank more rum and the injection of warmth was the most welcome feeling he had ever felt. More welcome even than the black-and-gold rosette, first prize for the best roof model. More wonderful than the time he'd taught his little brother to whistle, or last Christmas with Gran when she'd sung a carol with him, after about half a year of silence . . . His mind was rambling and he discovered his eyes were full of tears and mist. He so wanted to be home in bed, he stood up and flapped his arms.

Ribblestrop Towers still had a few lights on. As he looked, he saw them switch off, which gave him a lonely feeling. He sang the first line of the school song again, then lapsed into silence. The problem with silence and stillness was that the two things combined to make him feel he was being watched. He could not stop thinking about Lord Vyner and the awful story of his suicide or murder. If he managed to blot that out, he'd start to think about Sanchez and Millie disappearing underground, down into that black, black hole. Oh . . . there the statue was, up above, staring at nothing.

Ruskin knew that if he ever returned as a ghost he would certainly want to settle close to his birthplace. He was fond of his
semidetached home in outer London, and he knew that once he'd made a few trips and seen a few sights, he'd happily settle down to haunt it. Inevitable, then, that Lord Vyner would be nearby, watching over the estate with half his head missing. Miles had spoken to him. They'd met on the lawn, if you could believe Miles, and Miles had described his speech impediment and the supper tray that he carried.

Suicide or murder? The thought of an old man with the top of his head blown off wandering through the woods made Ruskin feel physically weak. He sat down again and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He kept his eyes down and tried not to listen to the wind rising in the trees. He put his hands over his ears and went through the whole school song as loud as he could. As a result, he never heard the footsteps behind him, nor the soft rattle of glassware and crockery.

*

Back in the basement, the floor seemed to be tilting sideways for Sanchez, as if he'd stepped on board a ship. The chair had its back to them still. There were legs and feet visible and now he could see the shape of a head, and he didn't want to look. Around him stood shelf after shelf of jars and bottles, rising to the ceiling, and he didn't want to look at them either—they had things in them that were looking at him. He took a deep breath and moved on toward the chair.

Whoever was in it was Tomaz-size. Yes, he could see a little white hand emerging from a gray shirt cuff and a black-and-gold blazer. There was a leather strap over the wrist, tight enough to hold it firm.

“Tomaz?” said Millie. Her voice was hoarse.

Sanchez tried to speak, but nothing came.

The child in the chair didn't answer. They were both behind him still; they couldn't bring themselves to move in front—to the face. The prisoner remained silent and motionless.

“Tomaz?” she said again, all moisture gone from her mouth. “Sanchez is here, it's okay. You're safe now.” She looked at Sanchez with tears in her eyes. “Speak to him.”

“Tomaz?” he said. His voice was a husk.

“We're friends,” said Millie. “We're going to help you . . .”

She forced herself to move. The face was coming into view, the whole profile. An eye, wide open, staring forward. Not a blink or a twitch. Sanchez was beside Millie, swaying and holding her shoulder; he was dragging himself forward. He took a step and stared. How quickly sight imprints horror on your brain.

You cannot unsee what you've seen; it's there, photographed into you. They were both looking at him, immaculate in his Ribblestrop uniform. A chalk-white face, with staring eyes that had no life. The lips were apart, as if the boy had died speaking, and he was bolt upright. But worse, much worse than this—was the sight neither Sanchez nor Millie could look at . . . the top of the skull had been removed and, sitting there ripe and raw, like a brightly colored dessert, was the child's brain.

Millie realized she was making a noise, just trying to breathe. It was a horrible, guttural moan and Sanchez, who had backed away, was getting ready to scream. He took another huge pace back and fell onto his behind, overturning a stool.

Millie cried out and backed away too. “
It's not real!
” she shouted. “It's not real, it's not him!”

Sanchez was still on the floor. Millie forced life into her hand, her arm, and stretched it out. She touched the boy's shoulder, and he wasn't real. She moved to the neck and it was hard as stone. She touched the cheek. She traced the smoothness up to the too-long eyelashes. Plastic or fiberglass. Not flesh.

“Sanchez,” she said. She swallowed hard; back in control. “It's a dummy, it's the same as George. There's another one!”

“Where?”

“Stand up. Come here.”

“I don't think I can. What
is
this, Millie?”

“Keep calm. There's another one behind you. They're just models, Sanchez. Like the one by the notice board. It's George.”

Sanchez had managed to turn his head and, sure enough, standing over him but staring past into nothingness—was a second
child. The same uniform, the same face. The skull was intact on this one, though the thing was bald. It carried a tray as if it might be waiting for a food order.

“What are they?” said Sanchez. “Millie, there's one in the corner, over there!”

“They're just models. Look at this! Come here. It's a medical model, isn't it? They had something like this at my last school; you could take them apart and see all the bits.”

“Why are they dressed up? Why are they
here
?”

“I don't know. Look at this, it's beautiful . . .”

Sanchez came slowly and stared with Millie at the one in the chair. Under the drenching light, the brain was shiny. It was also lit from within and, up close, you could see transparent panels that allowed you to look deep inside, where pinpricks of light illuminated different shafts and channels. The children looked and looked: the colors of the brain were gently changing.

“Millie!” said Sanchez.

But Millie was lost. She was staring deeper, hypnotized by the wonder of the thing.

“Millie! I can hear something! We should go.”

Sanchez was listening hard, trying to work out where the noise was coming from. Even as he spoke, soft vibrations had turned into a hammering. He grabbed Millie and she was jerked back to reality; she felt and heard it too. The noise was in the floor and the walls; it felt as if someone was shaking the whole, hideous laboratory; the glassware rattled, and trickles of dust fell from the brick arches.

“Let's go! It's the lift.”

Louder and louder, the sound of metal sheets clashing together, the squeal of an engine. The noise was way too huge for a lift, Millie knew that now, and there was a screech of brakes. All at once she made the connection. It was a train, not a lift. The rumors must be true—there was an underground line, and it still ran.

She looked around wildly; she would not be caught twice. Sanchez was turning, like a deep-sea diver, unable to decide on a
direction. Millie made a grab for him, and they were in each other's arms as if they'd decided to dance. Cabinets and shelving surrounded them, and there were the freezers—but Millie knew she would never go willingly into that kind of darkness again. She spun around and around, desperate for an exit—the doors were no good, they'd be cornered in the storeroom.

“Up!” said Sanchez.

He was looking above the chair, at the ceiling. The venting system came into this room too and let air in through a large, perforated grille. Direct center was a maintenance hatch. Millie leaped onto the back of the chair; she got a foot on the inspection lamp and Sanchez helped her balance. Then she was rising, pushing at the hatch with outstretched fingertips. It flipped open and she was hauling herself back into the roof space, elbows in, waist disappearing.

The noise around them made speech impossible, but Sanchez was shouting something. He was following her, teetering crazily, stretching up as high as he could. He felt a hand on his hair and another on his shirt collar. He jumped and slipped; he kicked; and with superhuman strength Millie lifted him to where he could grab the ceiling rods.

They lay together panting; they heard the dreadful ratcheting noise of an iron gate opening, and they rolled over. They pressed their noses to the grille and scrambled the hatch back into place. And now they couldn't tear their eyes away, because, oh . . . it was impossible: the noise they could hear was that of a whole wall opening, folding back to reveal a narrow concrete platform and the side of a silver subway car.

Who was opening the door? A big man was straining till he was pink in the face, and pinker through the sharply combed gray hair. He wore a uniform that was too tight and, as he shifted around to drag the gate farther back, both children gulped. It was Inspector Cuthbertson.

They tried to back away, but the ceiling flexed under them as if it might collapse. A cluster of men were entering the surgery. They were dressed in dark clothes—funeral suits and raincoats—no, one man wore a white coat, and he was ushering the others in. They carried briefcases and one was talking into a cell phone or radio set, mumbling quietly. The man in the white coat was moving from wall to wall, pressing switches. Here and there monitors flashed into life, at first black and white, then panels of static. There was a flurry of squeals and chirps.

“Who are they?” whispered Millie. She was holding Sanchez's arm, and she all but crushed the bone. “That was Cuthbertson. Can you see Worthington?”

“Shh! I've no idea!”

“He was opening the door. Who's that? I can't see . . .” The man in the white coat had moved to the model's head, talking quietly. Everyone else gathered around him, just under the children. He had a bird's nest of white hair dragged over a skull that seemed too big for the shoulders. He was thin and leaned forward, rubbing his hands thoughtfully, playing with
his fingers—a surgeon's elegant hands, pale and slender.

Everyone was staring at the model.

“We'll see a result,” he said. “If we hold our nerve, I guarantee it. I want to show you the results of the serotonin, you'll be—”

“We've heard this before,” said somebody.

“And I still don't think we'll ever get past its reputation,” said somebody else.

The white-coated man put a hand on the model's shoulder and picked up a long needle. “You've asked me to demonstrate,” he said. He sounded just a little nervous. “And this is the best I can do at present. You have to inject deep. In a rabbit, for example, you've got the possibility of twelve different reactions. I will be in a position to demonstrate if you give me time.”

He peered up at one of the monitors, and the children could see his eyes. Such a wrinkled face, the skin of old fruit. Little black eyes, sharp as stones. His voice was rasping, as if he'd been talking all day and all night.

“People are dubious—and for the right reasons,” said a man in gray. “It's never been properly tested, and that's why your work was so important. You've documented the dangers frankly and faithfully, and I feel we've had value for money.”

“Mr. Jarman,” said another voice. The children couldn't see his face, but the man's tone was sharp. He stood close to the model with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a bowler hat and black gloves. “How much longer do you actually need? The school seems to be in chaos. You don't seem to be getting anywhere . . .”

“I'm nearly there. Christmas, at the outside. The end of the term.”

Inspector Cuthbertson said, “There's been a lot of interference, sir. Some of the English kids have made things complicated.”

There was a woman's voice: “Talk me through the process again. I'm impatient, like everyone else. But assuming you do have an opportunity, let's say before Christmas—talk us through the procedure. You're still with myelin?”

“I'm still with the myelin, ma'am, yes. It's dangerous, I acknowledge
that. But parts of the brain have to be neutralized first and that's what we developed it for. It's a far sharper tool than serotonin, for example, and we still have a great deal stockpiled here.”

Millie and Sanchez could see perfectly: as he spoke, he was feeding the needle into the doll's brain. A screen above the chair lit up. Everyone gazed at it and colors appeared, composing themselves into spheres and hemispheres. A whole galaxy of what looked like transparent planets started to break open. The man in the white coat inserted a second needle and more images scrolled quickly. “The myelin neutralizes and the surgery removes. Drugs
and
surgery—you can't have one without the other, because I'm killing parts of the brain that the knife won't reach. This is the uniqueness—this is the art. I've said all along, you won't get what you want by drugs alone; you have to intervene, boldly, with corrosives. I'm referring not just to the amygdala, which you can see just there.”