Ribblestrop (7 page)

“He's less like a geek already,” she said. “He's like a little monk.”

“Will you put it in the post?” mumbled Sam.

Captain Routon smiled. “He'll be fine. Bit of a headache, so it'll be best if someone's by when he comes round. Now, what I suggest—”

“Twenty-one for supper, please, sir,” said Sanchez, under a pile of blankets.

“Twenty-two, with Sam. Right . . .” He checked the boy's pulse and lifted him into Millie's arms. “He'll be right as rain. Now wrap that round him and get him into bed. I'm going to talk to that woman, she wants taking away. We could have lost eyes, we could have had arteries cut. I've seen it! Friend of mine was in Londonderry when they let off a nail bomb—there's some wounds you can't stitch up.” He was back at the pastry, crimping merrily with a fork.

“Are you a teacher or a chef?” said Millie. She'd managed to pass the sleeping Sam over to Sanchez, who was wrapping him as best he could on the trolley.

“Oh, bit o' this, bit o' that. Jack of all trades, master of none—I lend a hand where a hand is needed. I did most of the science tower with the headmaster.”

“I'm Millie.”

“When we've got more time I'll tell you about the shrapnel I saw in Cyprus.”

“What are you teaching us?” said Millie.

“Anything you want,” said Captain Routon. “First thing tomorrow, practical geography. Walking boots compulsory.”

“I don't have any,” said Millie.

“Nor me,” said Sanchez. “I didn't know.”

“School shoes then,” said the captain. “Rule one, use what's available. Now, listen, if the pain is too much, give me a call—we can knock him out somehow.”

*

“Sanchez,” said Millie, as they pushed the trolley down one of Ribblestrop's long corridors. “Is this really a school?”

“Yes,” said Sanchez.

They had carried Sam out of the kitchen-cum-courtyard, up another set of steps made of fruit boxes. A plastic sheet concealed a doorway, where the stone was scorched black. Someone had hung some bulbs on a long, looping wire. It was a bright evening still, but no light got in here, because the windows were boarded over. The bulbs lit the way up a staircase.

“It's a ruin,” said Millie. “It stinks.”

“Yes. We had a fire. A boy called Miles tried to kill everyone.”

“Can you carry Sam? I'm going to drop him.”

Sanchez took Sam again and they made their way to another door.

“This can't be safe,” muttered Millie. “Look at it, it's half underwater! They shouldn't allow kids here.”

“Why not?” Sanchez looked baffled. “We make things better all the time. Me and Henry put the tarpaulins up, last term. This is the west tower; upstairs is our bedroom. It's fine.”

A winding staircase led upward.

“What about this headmaster?” said Millie.

“What do you mean?”

“He's insane, isn't he?”

“Millie, you've got it wrong—of course he's not insane.”

“He was showing everyone Sam's head! The kid was bleeding to death and he's doing a lecture on . . . anatomy!”

“Yes, he takes the opportunity. He says that ‘Learning is about opportunities for experience,' that's what he does. I think he's good.”

Millie laughed. “I've just sewn up a boy's head, in the school's so-called kitchen. While I'm doing that, the teacher in charge of first aid and geography bakes a pie. Sam could have been killed.”

“But he's fine. Open the door, please.”

“Is it a swindle? He takes money from the government, spends nothing on our education, and walks off with millions. You must have people like that in Colombia.”

Sanchez stopped. He adjusted Sam into a more comfortable position, hoisting him higher over his shoulder. “All I can say, Millie, is that I was here last term—and yes, we had problems—but this is a good place.”

“Well, it's better than prison,” said Millie. “That's where I thought I was going.”

They were going through a low doorway now, which gave onto another, tighter spiral of steps. Sam gave a low whimper and struggled in his blanket. “I like it,” said Sanchez, after some time. “In Colombia, I was never at school.”

“Why not?”

“I had one teacher only, okay? Teaching me everything. Here it's the same: one teacher and he teaches everything, but there's nice people. And now there's more of us and I think we have more teachers. It's normal for me, so—yes, I think it's a good school. And you should stop running it down.”

“Where are we actually going?”

“The dormitory.”

“Whose dormitory? Where do I sleep?”

“Millie, just open the door.”

“Why don't you damn well knock?” said a voice.

“Who are you?” asked Millie.

Caspar Vyner was sitting on a bed, a snarl of dislike twisting his face.

Sanchez pushed past Millie. Sam was beginning to struggle and Sanchez could feel his weight. “Hello, Caspie,” he said, as he moved into the bedroom. “You shouldn't be in here, man. This is our room.”

“You're the one that's trespassing. I own this house, remember? I was looking for your gun—is it true you have one?”

They were high in the tower. The room was timber-paneled with five elegant windows. The park spread out around them, glorious in the sunset. Millie hadn't realized how high they'd climbed. Five beds were set out like the spokes of a wheel, with five little lockers and five little rugs on the stone flagstones.

“Another thing, Sanchez. I've told you before—don't call me
Caspie
.” He stood and moved to the wall. His voice was reedy with irritation.

Sanchez laid Sam gently down on the nearest bed.

“Hang on a minute!” said Caspar. His eyes went from Sam to Millie. Back to Sam, then back to Millie. His nose lifted, as if he was trying to catch her scent. “Oh no. You're the girl!” he shouted. “What on earth is a girl doing here? And in the boys' room, that's so not allowed!”

Millie looked coolly at the child, her eyes narrowing with dislike. Caspar had a nasal voice; he was skinny, with bad skin, and his tufty hair didn't seem to grow evenly. His school uniform was immaculate, but he had a wizened look, not unlike a little old man.

“That's my bed!” said Caspar, looking at Sam again. “Move him to another one, Sanchez, I don't want a dirty oik dying on my bed. Is that the one we hit? Full-on strike with a teapot! That was me!”

“Caspar, you don't even sleep here.”

“I can sleep wherever I want. If I want that bed, it's mine. And, look—answer me. What's a girl doing up here? That is so against the rules—and you let her come in! You must be the weirdo girl that the government's paying for. My granny knows all about you!”

“Who
is
this?” said Millie, moving toward him.

“Caspar Vyner,” said Sanchez.

“
Lord
Vyner, actually,” said the boy. “I inherit this place in eight years, and if you know what's good for you, you'll damn well remember it.” He stood up and brought his right hand from behind his back. He had the flintlock pistol still, and the boy took great delight in cocking it and aiming with two hands straight at Millie's face. Millie stood her ground. “How would you like to lose an eye? You will if you don't get out.”

“Caspar!” barked Sanchez. “You don't
do
that!”

“Look at her, she's a scaredy!” laughed Caspar, stepping forward. “A little sissy girl—now why don't you turn around and beat it!”

Millie stared at the pistol and at Caspar's twisted face. Her adrenaline had been rising steadily for the last ten seconds and she knew enough about first encounters to know they were important. Moving fast, she slapped the gun to the side and punched Caspar hard, full in the face. He went backward, tripping over the bed and onto the floor. Millie followed, kicking, though the boy's arms were protecting his head so she didn't connect. She dropped to her knees instead, all her weight on his stomach. The pistol went skittering
across the floor, and Caspar was gasping and twisting. Millie had him now, though. She went for his hair, but there wasn't enough to hold on to. As the boy's head came up, she had to content herself with slamming it back onto the flagstones with her open palm.

Sanchez was yelling and Caspar had found the air from somewhere for a long, high-pitched howl.

“Little swine!” hissed Millie. She grabbed the boy's tie and looped it once round his bare throat, jerking it tight. He was half on his side, scrabbling to protect himself. Sanchez was between them, levering her backward, but she still managed a hard punch on the child's ear. She was being dragged off now, and all she could do was kick at the backside that was curling away from her. Caspar got to his feet, his screams coming in furious panting sobs.

“You cow!” he whispered. “You rotten, damn . . .”

He stumbled from the room, clutching his head. He bashed into the door and nearly fell again. Millie went to kick him once more, but Sanchez had her from behind and was dragging her backward. “Let him go!” he was shouting. “It isn't worth it, Millie, it's just not—”

“Get off me, Sanchez!” hissed Millie. Her voice was trembling. “Nobody asked you! Get your hands off!” She twisted out of his grip and stood ready, fists clenched.

“I'm sorry, but it makes things worse! If he tells his granny, the headmaster has problems—”

“I'll decide if he's worth it! He was going to shoot me in the face!”

“It's an antique, he's always playing around with stuff like that.”

The two children were staring at each other, Caspar long gone. Millie was trembling, but the joy of triumph was taking over. She had forgotten how invigorating a good fight could be, and she stood there drunk and dangerous.

“Honestly,” said Sanchez, trying to calm her, “what he says is true. His grandmother owns the place—his parents are dead. She wants to close the school anyway, so you just give her more reasons to make trouble.”

“He got just what he deserved. I don't let anyone mess me around, Sanchez. Nobody.”

“Well, we spent all last term trying to ignore him,” said Sanchez. “He does a few lessons with us—he's not worth worrying about. We don't fight him.”

“Sanchez, I don't need anyone telling me what I can and can't do.”

“Mum?” said a quiet voice. It was Sam.

“I don't want to tell you what to do,” said Sanchez, patiently. “I don't want you or him getting hurt, and . . . what are you doing?”

“I'm having a cigarette.”

Millie had produced a slightly crushed packet. She fiddled with the contents, one eye on Sanchez still.

“You shouldn't smoke. Let's just look after Sam.”

“Look,” said Millie. “He's left his little gun.”

“Mum? Dad?” moaned Sam. Sanchez moved quickly to the boy's bedside. He sat beside him and drew the blanket up to the child's chin.

“Sanchez,” said Millie, “how am I supposed to sleep in a boys' dormitory?”

“I don't know. Ask the headmaster.”

“It's illegal for one thing. Who sleeps here, apart from you?”

“Look at him, man,” said Sanchez. “He's yellow.” Sam's eyes were wide open. He was staring at the ceiling, licking his lips. “Sam? Are you awake?”

“Where am I?” whispered Sam.

“You're at school, okay?” said Sanchez. “You had an accident. Hey, Millie: he's hot. We need water or something. Do you want to go downstairs and get the captain?”

Millie sat down heavily on the nearest bed. She had a cigarette between her lips, but the lighter had disappeared. “I'm not a nurse,” she said. “The cook said he'd be fine—I'd leave him alone if I were you.” She put her feet up on the bed and found what she was looking for. From her breast pocket she extracted a thick silver
lighter and lit up expertly. Lying back on the pillow, she inhaled and blew a smoke ring.

“Everything's . . . watery,” whispered Sam. “I can't see properly, I don't . . .”

“
Millie!
” said Sanchez. He was torn between his patient and the strange, dangerous girl. He wiped Sam's forehead under the bandage, but his attention was caught by another plume of smoke. Then he saw the cigarette lighter. Millie had put it on the little chest of drawers next to the bed. “That's my father's,” he said.

“What is?”

“That lighter.”

“Yes, he gave it to me.”

“He
gave
it to you? That's the one my mother had made for him.”

“Do you want a cigarette?”

“No, I don't. And I told you, we don't do this here.”

Millie blew a smoke ring. “You don't do much, do you, Sanchez?”

“When did he give you his cigarette lighter? How come I didn't see?”

“Some time at the wine bar. You must have been kissing good-bye to your bodyguards.”

“I don't believe you. You're very insulting, and I don't think—”

“You're calling me a liar?”

Sanchez stood up and moved toward Millie. Sam moaned again, but he ignored it. “I'm asking you if you stole my father's lighter. My mother gave him that; I think it's unlikely he gave it to you.”

“I think Sam needs you, Sanchez.”

“Yes or no, did you steal it?”

“Look at him—he's trying to get his bandage off.”

Sanchez turned and saw that it was true. Sam was sitting up now, in panic. His hands were fluttering around the dressing on his head. “Where's Mum?” he said. His eyes were focusing now and he looked in terror from Sanchez to Millie.

“Not here,” said Millie. “You're all alone.”

“Where am I?” said Sam. “I want my dad!”