Ribblestrop (37 page)

Miss Hazlitt's voice cut through the mayhem: “Millie Roads! Stay where you are!”

Then there was an explosion so loud it seemed to turn the world over and a rain of plaster was falling on her head.

The last bolt slid to the side; the door opened and Millie fell out of it. Someone fell on top of her—it was Sanchez, but she disentangled herself and tried to run. The boy had her by the arm and was pulling her back. He got his arms round her.

“Wait, Millie—wait!”

Millie swore and kicked. She got a knee up and felt Sanchez double up in pain, but he would not let go. She glimpsed his face, pleading, panic-stricken now but still hanging on in an effort to restrain her. She punched as hard as she could and she was free. She ran faster than she'd ever run, losing both shoes, slipping in the gravel, and tearing her elbows and knees. Then she was on her feet again, sprinting over the grass.

There was a second gunshot behind her and she managed to run even faster, clearing the lawn and then blundering on. Her chest was heaving; she aimed for the lake, with no plan in her head anymore. All she wanted was to get away from fire, from crossbows, from shotguns, and from people. . . .

“You're in charge, Sanchez,” said the headmaster. “You're senior boy; I'm counting on you one hundred percent. We're going to the hospital, I want you—”

“I've got Routon,” said Professor Worthington. “Let's go.”

“Millie's gone,” said Sanchez. “Anjoli, too—he was washing up, and Israel says he hasn't been seen—”

“Find Miss Hazlitt, she was here a second ago.”

“The car's right here, Headmaster. Hurry, every second is crucial.”

“What about Millie, sir? Please! She's out there—”

“Phone the police and find Miss Hazlitt. If you can't find her, use the phone in my office.”

Captain Routon was groaning. Asilah and Sanjay had found towels in the kitchen and were wrapping them, wet and sodden, round the man's blistered hands. But the blisters seemed to go up his arms and on to his shoulder. He was grinding his teeth and shaking his head. They'd sat him down, but he had to stand up again and Professor Worthington could barely support him.

“Tell the police we've got serious problems here, we need a search party out looking for Millie. Was Anjoli with her?”

“Nobody knows, but probably. We can start looking, sir . . .”

“Absolutely not: I don't want any more children out in the grounds. That's an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Asilah, help us with Routon. Everyone else, back to your dormitories.”

Routon was loaded into the passenger seat and the crowd watched as the headmaster's little car bounced off up the drive, Professor Worthington in the back. Sanchez wiped the blood from his face and let his eyes scan the lawns, the lake, and the woods beyond. Millie was out there somewhere. Had Anjoli followed her? They were often together. They might make for the Greek temple, that would give them shelter. He had seen the terror in her eyes. She'd make for the deepest, darkest part of the wood. Or maybe she'd had enough now and was fleeing Ribblestrop completely. Perhaps she was running along the open road right now, hitchhiking as she'd threatened—if Anjoli was with her, maybe he'd persuade her to come back.

He turned quickly. His nosebleed was bad, but he couldn't stop for it. They were wasting time when they should be out looking. He would have to disobey orders, but then he knew things the headmaster didn't. First job, phone the police. Then search parties, there was no question in his mind. He and Asilah led fourteen boys up to the headmaster's office, hoping it would be empty. It was time to phone his father, evidence or not, and ask for help; he should have done it already. The door was closed and he threw it open without knocking.

Miss Hazlitt leaped to her feet, a cell phone pressed to her ear.

“Captain Routon's hurt,” said Sanchez. “Millie and Anjoli, we think—”

“Quiet!” she cried. She held the children back with a raised forefinger. They'd interrupted her; Sanchez saw her dentures shift as she fought to regain her composure. Her voice was trembling, and she spoke quietly. There was makeup on the desk, a mirror. “No,” she said. “We're going ahead.”

“Miss,” said Sam. “We need the police! We need the telephone!”

“I have to go . . .”

The children pressed in through the doorway, filling the room.

“I'll call you back,” she shouted, over the noise. Then she
turned on the boys, a mixture of anger and panic in her eyes. “How
dare
you!” she cried. “That is the height of rudeness! Get away from this desk, get back!”

“We need the police, miss!” cried Sanchez. “Millie's out in the grounds, she's not even got shoes!”

He reached for the instrument, but Miss Hazlitt was faster. She snatched it up and cradled it against her bosom. “The police are on their way!” she snarled. “If you'd just stop for a moment, and let me get a word in—”

“We need to find Millie!” said Asilah. “We need a search party! For Anjoli, too.”

“I called the police ten minutes ago!” screeched Miss Hazlitt. “That's my job and I don't need to be told how to do it! I am well aware of what is going on in my own school;
I
am in charge here!”

There was silence.

The children looked at her and wondered why her lips were shaking. Her eyeballs were darting from one face to another, and she held the telephone as if it were a precious thing. “The call has been made,” she hissed, trying to calm down. “A description has been issued and everything is under control. So I want you to go back to your rooms and go to bed.”

There was a chorus of dismay and outrage. “We're not going to bed,” said Asilah. “We'll find our friends first. Two groups, all right? Sanchez takes one to the lake—”

“No!”

“I'll take the other. She ran toward the lake, so we're going to—”

Miss Hazlitt's voice rose above Asilah's, deep and dangerous. “No you're not!” she cried. She was backing away, because the children were pressing forward. “You need to calm down, we
all
need to calm down! Nothing is achieved—” she was breathing hard again, “—by hysteria. Look at you, you're treading muck into the carpet! You're half dressed and it's way past lights-out.” Sanchez tried to speak, but Miss Hazlitt went on, unstoppable: “The shed has been destroyed and that is an act of vandalism. She
did it at her last school; she's done it again.” She had to raise her voice once more: “If she chooses to run off into the night—”

“You think
she
lights that fire?” shouted Israel. “She was in our room!”

“Well she shouldn't have been, that's against the rules as well! That girl has had countless warnings, I am issuing an order for her immediate expulsion—you as well, Ruskin, for being drunk and disorderly.”

“She wasn't even there,” said Sam. “Someone was trying to kill her!”

Miss Hazlitt gaped like a fish. “If you want to speak to me, Sam, you put your hand up—or you're the next one out!”

“Oh for goodness' sake!” said Sanchez, reaching for the telephone. “I need to call my father and you've got no right to stop me.”

And it was at this point that Miss Hazlitt did a curious thing. She simply took hold of the telephone cord and wrenched it from the terminal block. It took three strong tugs and there was the wire in her hand, torn and ruined. “You need to know something,” she hissed. She was in the corner now. “All of you need to know.
I
am in charge now;
I
have taken responsibility and you will do as you're told. The police are on their way and they will deal with the situation. I am locking all the doors . . .” The children were pressing forward again. “I'm going to count to three and I want this room clear! One!” she cried.

Her eyes were darting left and right again, unable to focus. She dropped the phone and turned, hunting for something. Ruskin, however, had beaten her to it. She yelled and plunged toward him, but the boy was too fast. The ring of keys was there on the desk and he snatched it up before throwing it to Israel, who passed them to Asilah.

“Give them to me!” she screamed. “I'll count to three!” She lunged again, but stumbled and sprawled—then she found herself rising upward. Her feet were kicking, but the floor dropped away. The children simply lifted her, the way ants lift a leaf; it was as
if they'd been practicing. She writhed and screamed but there was absolutely nothing she could do. Her feet went up, her head went down. She saw the wastepaper basket coming toward her at a very strange angle, and then her face was inside it, and she was doing a kind of collapsing headstand. As she fell, the desk was shunted forward, trapping her into a ball. The sofa was next, crunching down sideways and cutting off the light. The hat stand, a filing cabinet, drawers opening and paper falling. A coffee table, a bookcase—she was imprisoned in a pyramid of furniture as books, boxes, and documents rained down upon her. She had no time to cry out, the violence was so fast.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was all over.

She heard the door close and there was a ratcheting sound. Sam had his toothbrush in his pocket; it was a simple matter to use the key end to lock the door.

Miss Hazlitt sat on the floor, trembling in both shock and fury. Her teeth were out and her wig was on the carpet. She waited until the last footfall had died away and got to her knees, feeling over her scalp for cuts or scratches. Her left hand had been crushed against the desk, but nothing was broken. She flexed each finger and closed her eyes.

The cell phone bleeped. “Cuthbertson,” she said. She could barely speak. “Where are you?”

“Coming up the drive, where should I be?”

“You've got Anjoli?”

“Yes, he's in the chair. Did you find your briefcase?”

“No, I didn't find my briefcase. Just a minute.”

Miss Hazlitt managed to crawl. She found a way under the desk and staggered onto her feet. “The girl's still alive. I searched everywhere, but she's hidden it—listen. Listen to me! She wasn't in her bed and now we've got the whole pack of them out in the grounds looking for her! They've stolen my keys. Turn your headlights off.”

“Why?”

“Turn your lights off and go right. Get off the drive and head
for the lake. You'll get her if you're quick; the children said she was making for the lake. She'll go toward the Neptune statue, or she'll double back to the phone box. Either way—”

“She's by herself?”

“At the moment, yes. That's what I'm saying, you can get her! But the children will be following. She had a head start of five minutes.”

The policeman thought hard. He'd already swung his car onto the grass, lights off. He drove as fast as he dared and, rounding the copse, he could make out the two humpbacked bridges to the island.

“I can see Neptune,” he said. “I can't see her. Anyway, what can I do? I can't just—”

“She'll be exhausted,” said Miss Hazlitt. “Get her in the lake.”

“In the lake?”

“It won't take a lot. Get her in the water and she'll last half a minute. I'll start on the boy.”

The policeman was silent. His thoughts were racing too and he knew Miss Hazlitt could almost hear them.

“She won't last long, Cuthbertson! She's skin and bone.”

“I was trying to save her, was I? And I just couldn't reach.”

“Exactly: it was just too cold. She ran into the lake. You went in after her. It's easy, man—you won't need to hold her under, you just push her out and make sure she stays out. You radio for assistance and it's all over.”

“Has she got a flashlight?”

“I doubt it.”

“I'll find her. Hang on . . . I've got her. I can see her.”

“Where?”

“She's coming round Neptune . . . Got her.”

“Do it properly, all right? She knows everything. I'm going to the lab, I'll start scanning the boy. Has London arrived?”

“Not yet. I'd better go, she's moving.”

“He's awake, isn't he? You didn't overdo the—”

But the line was dead. Miss Hazlitt clicked off her phone and
crawled to the paneling. Would she need her wig or her teeth? She picked them up in case and opened the lift's control panel. It was expertly hidden and a tiny switch turned the mechanism on and off. She clicked it on and heard distant pulleys come to life. In less than three minutes the metal grille was open and she was in the lift car.

*

Deep underground, Anjoli heard doors open behind him, but he couldn't move to look around. Leather straps restrained him and his skull was held absolutely still by metal rods. All he could do was blink and breathe. He was aware of vibrations in the floor, coming up through the chair. It was as if a train was approaching, getting louder and louder. He could just open his mouth, but he didn't dare. He was too scared even to whimper.

Millie knew that she would not survive the night without shelter, but she didn't know where to go. She was by the lake, with vague thoughts of hiding under one of the bridges—but her mind was full of fire, arrows, and shotguns, and everything swirled in her head until the thoughts became soup. A revenge attack, for the bathroom assault? That was Caspar, of course. But the fire? That was someone who knew she'd been underground.

She winced as another spike of something in the ground tore her foot. She was walking now, damp with perspiration and freezing dew, and there was ice all around her. She wore a thin shirt and shorts, and that was all. She'd die if she didn't find shelter.

She thought of Sanchez. She'd hit him, hard! She'd punched her friend, she'd been out of control. And now she was alone and the cold was so deep, her teeth were chattering. Something cracked, off to her left—a stick or something—and she cried out, turning wildly and crouching. It was silent again.