Ribblestrop (38 page)

She had to get to London now, there was no debate. She had to keep moving and find a place to hide, then get to the phone box and the road. If those people from the laboratory came looking for her, she'd be easy prey. But then Sanchez would come looking for her too; he wouldn't forget her, however hard she'd hit him. He'd organize a search party and the orphans would sweep the area, so it was a question of who got to her first and if she could stay alive in this bitter cold.

“Oh!” she moaned aloud, and she could hear her own voice shaking. Her feet were so numb they felt like wooden blocks. She stifled a sob, but another one broke through and she started to shake all over. She was by the water's edge and the first of the bridges was close.

“Millie?” said a voice.

She gasped and swung round. It was too dark. She stepped back and her feet sank into freezing water.

“Where are you, love?” She stepped back wildly, away from the voice, and stumbled. One foot scraped on a rock and she was on her backside in the lake, its dreadful coldness crushing her thighs and spine. She cried out with the shock of it and the voice came louder, “Millie! Stay where you are!”

She knew the voice, and the terror was like paralysis. She tried to stand, but overbalanced and fell flat. The water seemed to tear the skin from her bones. The shivering came in such a terrible spasm, but she hauled herself upright. She stumbled—and saw the shape of a large man moving toward her. It was a big, black shape coming out of the blackness, emerging from the mist with a policeman's cap and an outstretched arm. He was breathing heavily and walking unsteadily.

“Stay where you are, love,” he said. Reassuring. Kind, even—the voice to talk suicides off high bridges. “It's all right now, Millie—no need to worry . . .” The mist broke and there he was, striding forward fast. He had a hangman's step, his arms were out, and his hands were huge.

Millie stepped backward into the lake, up to her knees in water, poised for flight.

“It's me, love! Panic over!”

“No,” she croaked.

“What's the matter? You know me—just give me your hand.”

He was so close—his boots were in the water. She couldn't back away any more and there was nowhere to go. A second passed, maybe two, as child and policeman stared into each other's eyes. Then Cuthbertson lunged for her, and it was what she needed to locate that last bit of life. She leaped and didn't slip. He dived for
her again and there was an almighty splash and he tripped into the water. He rose up at once, cursing, and slipped in the mud.

Millie ran, and she was faster than she'd ever been. In fifty meters the rough ground was smooth again and she could run more easily. There was one light ahead, not so very far, and she pelted toward it. Oh, thank God! It was the telephone box. If she could make that, she'd be safe. He wouldn't dare touch her once she'd made a call, he'd know he could not. Her father? But he wouldn't be there. The emergency services? The police were here, but he wasn't the 999 service. Just to log her voice on to the operator's system, that would mean survival: they taped and logged everything, prank calls, accidental calls. Nine. Nine. Nine.

She was slowing down, stumbling. She managed a steady, limping jog, and got to the drive. Running on tarmac was easier, even with wounded feet. There was the phone box, gloriously safe and red. The door so heavy you needed both hands. The black telephone snug in its cradle; that musty smell as if someone slept in it. The number of the box was inked confidently in the center of the dial and everybody knew the emergency procedure. When you dialed that magic number, everyone came running.

Of course, Millie hadn't heard the slamming of a car door. She didn't hear the car engine either, as a wet Inspector Cuthbertson slipped his vehicle into gear and eased it over the grass behind her.

From his point of view, she was easy meat. She was running in the right direction, so she'd miss her rescue party. If she was making for the drive, he'd pick her up without a problem. He wouldn't use his headlights, because he didn't want any witnesses. He'd get her when she tried to use the phone. Soaked as he was, Inspector Cuthbertson found himself chuckling. The thought of Millie in a disused, broken phone box, dialing for her life . . . It came into view and, sure enough, there she was, just a little black silhouette.

Millie stood with the phone in her hand, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“
The number you have dialed has not been recognized. The number you have dialed has not been recognized
.”

She put the receiver down and waited three seconds. It was not a difficult number, but she might have misdialed. She put the receiver back to her ear and dialed again.

The same voice. “
The number you have dialed has not been recognized
 . . .”

She tried to keep calm. There was an operator's number: 100. She dialed that, and waited. She had no coins, so there was no chance of trying anyone else. She heard the clicking of possible connections and then the robot voice again, so frank, so earnest, so apologetic.

“
The number you have dialed
 . . .”

Millie put the receiver down and leaned her forehead on the cold plastic. There was no other number to try.

Inspector Cuthbertson couldn't resist putting his headlights on: he wanted to see the girl's face. A swathe of whitening grass was lit up in front of him, a great swinging triangle that caught trees and the lawn rising to the driveway and then, best of all, the red phone box and the little girl caged inside. She was looking right at him.

He jabbed the accelerator and felt the back wheels skid. But he got the extra speed and was climbing nicely from twenty to twenty-five miles per hour, closing in. He put the lights up to full beam and there she was huddled up in panic, scrabbling at the dial.

He chuckled again. Everyone knew the box was purely decorative and hadn't been serviced for years. Lady Vyner insisted it remain and occasionally there were complaints from frustrated members of the public who tried to use it.

He had a mad idea of ramming the box. He was picking up speed and the child was blinded by his lights. Sheer terror! He'd just pluck her out and drive her back to the water. He could even hear his own voice at the inquest, charged with emotion: “I did everything I could, sir. I dived three times but it was just too cold.”

He slowed and brought the car to a halt. The poor thing was still holding the phone, waiting for an answer. She was gazing into the lights and her mouth was a little round zero.

As the headlights blinded her, Millie's mind blanked out. Then, from that random mix of stories and numbers Sam had passed on, she remembered Lady Vyner's advice: 1939, the start of the Second World War. One nine three nine. She was shaking so much that she misdialed the first time and got the voice again. But the second time, forcing herself to slow down, she got it right. There was a different kind of buzzing. No voice. The clicks of connection and then, magically, as if a magician had touched the kiosk, a phone was ringing.

Millie's breath was coming out in hoarse gasps. Nobody would answer.

The car was getting closer and it didn't seem to be slowing down. She closed her eyes. She knew she should run, but she had no running left, and the phone just rang and rang, even when she whispered “
Please
” in her sweetest, mud-choked voice. A minute must have passed, because the car had slowed after all and was drawing up alongside her. She was caught. She could see that the inspector was in no great hurry. He opened his door and climbed out, as wet as she was.

“Hello?” said a voice.

“Oh!” sighed Millie. “You're there!”

The voice said nothing.

The inspector had his hand on the phone box. He couldn't see which side the door was on and he'd gone to the wrong one. He had it now.

“Mr. Winston, please,” gasped Millie.

“Who is it?” The voice was young.

“Millie Roads. For Mr. Winston, please. Help me.”

Inspector Cuthbertson hauled open the door, just in time to see his prey simply drop away through the floor, down a dark shaft. The telephone was left hanging from its cord and, as he stared, the steel plate slid back into place, so the phone booth was just as it had been. Millie had disappeared.

The chute dropped vertically, then smoothed to a long curve. It took Millie slithering downward on her backside and shoulders. She was rolled right, then left over smooth earth. She kept her elbows in and her eyes closed. After thirty seconds of falling, she landed in a sitting position on soft sand.

There was a rushing noise above her head and something heavy dropped like a stone. It slammed down behind her, brutally heavy, and it barred her retreat. She managed to turn her head and saw that it was a rough kind of portcullis. Someone had lashed together timbers, cruelly spiked so they dug into the sand. Perhaps they'd meant to impale her. She heard the same sound again. Another portcullis, another great mesh of timbers! This one crashed into the sand less than a single step in front of her. The spikes dug deep, and Millie saw she was a prisoner in a cage and that all her running had been for nothing. All that effort to survive, to be caught like a rat in a trap.

She sat and peered through the bars. A little flicker of self-pity rose up and she closed her eyes: did she really deserve to die like this? Yes, she thought. She probably did.

“Are you Millie?” said a voice.

Millie didn't have any words left.

“You are, aren't you?”

She did not recognize the voice of her captor. When she opened her eyes though, she could see him—he'd come close. She'd fallen
through time, for it was a caveman kneeling there. Or, more accurately, some kind of caveboy—a caveman's ragged little son. Long hair, tied back from the eyes. A necklace of little stones. He was holding a candle. He was wearing a gray shirt. A hand came through the bars, clean and small, rather delicate in fact. It took hold of her arm and the thumb stroked her. It moved up her shoulder and gently touched her face, where there was a trickle of blood.

“What's your name?” he said.

“Millie Roads.”

“You know my friend,” said the boy. “You know Sanchez.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I mean, yes. Yes.”

“Ruskin? Henry? All my friends.”

“Who are you?”

The face came nearer and she could see that the hair was tied back by a black-and-gold tie. The eyes were soft and the skin was clean and clear. She was looking at someone no more than twelve or thirteen years old.

“I'm Tomaz,” said the boy.

Millie simply stared.

“I couldn't get home.” The boy laughed softly. “I found you in the freezer, yes? I showed you the way! Remember? I brought you the food.”

“Tomaz?”

“I saved your life.”

Professor Worthington and the headmaster were in the hospital waiting room. Routon's wounds were being dressed and they sat there gray with worry. In the background, a radio was playing. It was a local station so, among advertisements for Christmas sales and some very mellow seventies music, there were regular news and traffic bulletins. News was breaking of a car crash on the M4 motorway. The pileup was affecting traffic in both directions and the intercity line, westbound; it was a delay that was to have a major impact on Ribblestrop Towers.

The problem had been caused by a contraflow system that was in place due to resurfacing between exits sixteen and seventeen. An elderly couple were using this very stretch of road; they had decided to visit the west country, driving overnight to avoid the congestion. They had received a postcard from their young son. Though hard to decipher, it seemed to suggest that he would be representing his school in a soccer match the following day. Knowing the boy's passion for soccer, they had decided to support him on the touchline. A bonus had been the recent arrival of his black-and-gold school cap—a cap they had feared lost forever and a cap they knew he was keen to wear. The railway company had finally located it, so this meant the parents could present it in person.

Sam had confused the dates of the game, of course. The game he was referring to had already happened and, had they got there,
Mr. and Mrs. Tack would have been in for a major disappointment. However, at this point in the journey—11:20 pm—they were crawling along at fifteen miles per hour, Mr. Tack at the wheel, looking forward to a sporting delight the next day.

Mrs. Tack was dozing; Mr. Tack didn't want to wake her. He did, however, want to know if he could get out of this slow-moving traffic. Was there, for example, anything to be gained from leaving the motorway at the next junction and cutting down toward Wells? They'd discussed the route at length and that had been an option. He turned the interior light on and groped for his RAC Routefinder in the glove compartment. As he leaned, he tilted the wheel and his car hit a cone.

His eyes were off the road, but he felt the bump and swerved. He had just one hand on the wheel, of course, so as he tried to right the vehicle, he oversteered and clipped a post office truck that was slowly overtaking him. Sadly, the post office truck driver, who'd been driving for years and was highly competent, was at that moment unwrapping a Kit Kat: he too had one hand on the wheel and he too swerved at the jolt. Seeing the lights of oncoming traffic, he instinctively swerved to the left, which meant he crunched back into Mr. and Mrs. Tack and sent them onto a whole bank of cones, barriers, and bollards. Mrs. Tack screamed. Mr. Tack braked hard and the car behind slammed into his offside taillight. Mr. Tack lost control totally and ploughed over the hard shoulder onto grass. The car bounced over a curb and down a bank. Mr. and Mrs. Tack came to rest on a railway line.

The post office truck careered helplessly into the resurfacing works, the driver stamping on the brakes and skidding wildly. Thankfully the resurfacing gang was alert and highly trained. The men leaped to safety and then moved in to rescue the stranded Tacks. But they couldn't shift the car, the chassis of which was wedged onto the rails.