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‘Oli,’ said the larger boy. ‘Oli? Are you alright?’

‘Shut up,’ said Gary.

‘My brother,’ said Ruskin. ‘You’ve hurt my brother!’

The policeman fished out two sets of handcuffs. He brought Ruskin’s arms roughly behind him and slapped them on. He jerked the thin boy into a sitting position. His eyelids fluttered.

‘You’ve hurt my brother,’ said Ruskin. ‘If you’ve hurt Oli, you’re for it. Do you understand me?’

‘Shut your mouth,’ said Gary Cuthbertson. He shook Oli by the shoulder, dragging him into a sitting position. ‘Say something, you!’

‘I think you’ve . . .’ Oli’s voice was very quiet. ‘I think you’ve broken my arm.’

‘Nobody’s dead. Not yet, anyway. A broken arm won’t kill him.’

‘You brutes!’ cried Ruskin. ‘You just let us go, right now. He needs an ambulance and you know it!’

D.C.C. Cuthbertson had handcuffed Oli as well, threading the cuffs through those of the older boy. The child cried out as he was moved: he appeared to be only semi-conscious. They were back to
back, and as the policeman lifted them, Oli could hardly stand.

‘Who else is down here?’ said the policeman. He punched Ruskin hard in the small of the back. ‘Where are the others?’ he shouted.

‘There are no others!’ said Ruskin.

‘And what are you doing here? Why aren’t you up at the school?’

‘I’m not in the school because . . .’ Ruskin couldn’t put his thoughts together. ‘Because here is where me and Oli . . . are. I’m not telling you anything,
anyway! My father, when he hears about this . . . You don’t want to get on the wrong side of our father. There would not be one bit of you left, I can tell you.’

‘I know . . . both of these,’ said an Irish voice, softly. The words came between long, panting breaths. ‘I don’t know . . . their names, but I can tell you . . . they
both need a damned good thrashing.’

Father O’Hanrahan was covered in dirt. Trembling from his descent on the ladder, he had managed to clamber to the same shelf of rock that Cuthbertson had used. Now he slithered down onto a
table and sat there swaying.

Oli was hurting too much to raise his eyes, but Ruskin looked up. When he saw the face of the ex-priest, his anger rose to a new level. The old man’s face was red and it was running with
sweat. The mouth was open, the yellow teeth bared like fangs as he sucked in air. The exertion of the climb had almost killed him, but the treasures he could see had set his heart pumping so his
eyes bulged from their sockets.

‘You!’ said Ruskin, softly. He shook his head and from the depths of his outrage managed to say, ‘And I thought you were a man of God.’

Even Father O’Hanrahan managed to laugh.

‘A so-called policeman!’ cried Ruskin. ‘A referee! Ha! So biased and unfair . . .’

Both Cuthbertsons were chuckling. They had moved back from the boys and their eyes were travelling round the chamber again.

‘All I can say is you’ve opened my eyes. I am innocent no more.’

The ex-priest, however, came closer. He climbed down from the table and stood over Ruskin, smiling broadly. ‘You’d better keep that mouthy gob shut tight, boy. I nearly died up there
and I’m just in the mood to batter someone. Have either of you seen the ghost? Is he down here?’

The old man was pulling his satchel round to his stomach and opening the flap. He removed a whisky bottle first and swigged deep. Then he took out his holy water and looked up defiantly.
‘I’ll lay that miserable spirit any time he likes – he won’t get me this time!’

In the kitchen, it had taken all of Sam’s courage and self-control not to panic, not to scream, and not to cry. He was just hidden in the doorway, by a curtain of catkins
and pine-cones. He had made it with the little ones only a week ago.

He had to stand and watch the assault. Somehow, with a supreme effort of will, he managed to stay silent. Somehow, he managed to take another step back. Contradictory thoughts were clashing in
his skull. To run in and intervene – to save his friends! To stay back and call for help. To pull out a kitchen knife and steam in, as he knew Anjoli or Miles or Millie would. Alas, he was
not made for such attacks – he’d be swatted in an instant.

He started to shake. Surely they’d come into the kitchen soon and he’d be trapped! He could hear the struggle and the horrifying fear in Ruskin’s voice and the agony in
Oli’s, but he found the calm to make his decision. To raise the alarm, that was the important thing. By radio? Not by radio.

He backed away further, thanking his lucky stars that he knew the layout of Tomaz’s house. There was a passage by the toilet and that ran to the little area Tomaz called his
‘hall’. That was where the boys left their shoes and hung their blazers, and it was where the exit was. He found his legs were heavy – they seemed to swing crazily from his hips,
but he managed to make his way round. He clutched the radio to his chest, stamped his shoes on, and sat down. Then he scooped himself through the hole into the tunnel and he was running.

He stopped once, to try the transmitter. Nobody answered his cries – the party was too loud, he presumed. He had made the right decision, then: he would have to raise the alarm in person.
The way was familiar: two lefts and a right, then through another hole – Tomaz had been so careful! – and he was in the Neptune tunnel. He shoved the radio down his shirt and he was
climbing the ladder. The exit mechanism was oiled and simple to operate. Oli had helped there, setting up counterweights so the giant’s head tipped back easily – and as he thought of
his friend Oli, Sam found a new burst of adrenaline. Everything was down to him – Sam Tack. He had to run like he’d never run before!

He balanced on the giant’s shoulder and jumped. As he hit the ground, he stumbled and he saw a pair of legs. Instinctively, he tried to swerve – it had to be the enemy, for the legs
were black and the boots were huge. He changed direction, but he was off-balance and a hand grabbed him by the arm. He snatched his arm away, flailing wildly, and the hand came again and this time
got him by the hair.

Darren had seen the giant’s head open and was ready.

Strong fingers transferred to the boy’s shirt collar. He shoved forwards and then jerked back hard, so the kid’s tie cut into his windpipe. He slammed Sam onto his back and dropped
his knees onto his shoulders. The little boy looked up, hopelessly caught – a rat by a cat – and Sam recognised his assailant.

He tried to roll and kick, but the older boy had all his weight on him; one hand came under his chin and the face loomed down, eyeball to eyeball.

‘I know you,’ said Darren, slowly.

‘No you don’t!’ said Sam.

‘You’re that little scumbag from football.’

‘I may be,’ said Sam. ‘What of it?’

‘What of it? I’m going to kill you.’

Sam yelped. ‘You can’t,’ he said.

‘Yes I can. I hate your guts.’

Sam thought hard and fast. ‘If you let me go,’ he said, ‘you can have my radio-controlled digger.’

Darren seemed to think hard for two or three seconds. Then, with the practised ease of a thug – a thug who specialised in hurting small children – he gave Sam a jaw-breaking slap.
Then he was up and he was lifting his victim by the collar again. Sam knew that escape was impossible and he also knew he was in for a beating he’d probably never recover from. His teeth
would be smashed. His bones would be broken – he might even be crippled forever. You heard stories about backs being snapped and parts of the brain switched off forever by hard kicks –
boys like him lying in lonely hospital rooms breathing by machine, their parents weeping.

He cried out once and found that his tie was tight round his throat again. He saw a fist drawn back and he tried to get his arms up, closing his eyes, waiting for the crunch of knuckle.

At just that moment, the ground under him seemed to somersault. One second he was being strangled and the next fragment of the same second he was flying. Then he was turning over and the lake
was up on its side – even the stars were wheeling around under his feet. The side of his face landed in soft mud and his legs collapsed over his chest to land in icy water. There was a very
powerful smell of wild animal, but then it was gone in the breeze.

Darren was nowhere to be seen.

The radio was smashed into Sam’s ribcage and it was agony. When he was able to look up, he realised what had happened. The world had righted itself, just about – the lake was under
the sky again. And Darren had reappeared, kneeling in the shallows of the lake. The only reason he was upright at all, however, was because his head was in the mouth of a lioness. It was Sushamila
and she was shaking Darren like a rag. The High School striker had been turned into one of those toys Sam’s gran bought for her Jack Russell to dismember.

Sushamila seemed uncertain whether she wanted to shake the boy’s head off or drown him, and she spun round in fury so the boy’s legs swung clear of the water. She spun him three
hundred and sixty degrees and then shook him again. She dunked him in the water, and it occurred to Sam that she was reviving him for another bout of punishment.

Sam stared in horror and Sushamila – as if suddenly ashamed – threw the limp body sideways and turned towards him.

She then padded proudly onto the shore and put her huge muzzle against Sam’s chest.

‘Good girl!’ said Sam, as firmly as he could. ‘Good girl!’

He stood up, painfully, and backed away. His body hurt all over, but he tried to speak both gently and authoritatively. ‘Stay back there, now. Stay back . . .’

Sushamila wasn’t listening. ‘Please!’ cried Sam. ‘We don’t have time!’

The lioness nosed under her favourite’s chin, then she licked his face lovingly, removing the few hairs that had grown back in his eyebrows. Then, with a mother’s infinite patience,
she nudged him hard, so he was knocked off balance, and caught him by the back of his shirt. Sam was lifted off the ground, totally helpless.

He did his best to talk his way out of the situation, but he knew from experience what would happen. He would be taken to Sushamila’s cage and washed; nothing he could say or do would
prevent the beast from doing its duty. This was now the sixth time it had happened.

As they made their way towards the school building, Darren floated in the water. It was lucky for him that he’d been dropped on his back. It was even luckier that that the pumps were
working in the pump-room and there was a very gentle current pushing to the bank – otherwise he would surely have been drowned. He lay there, looking at the stars, gradually getting his
breath back. Three ribs were broken and he was in such pain he couldn’t even whimper.

Beneath all this, Brother Rees – superintendent of the pump-room – was closing the final valve.

‘I think we’re done for tonight,’ he said.

He wiped his hands on a rag and took a last look at the bank of dials. His assistant, Brother Morgan, was making a note of the numbers on the various gauges. A silent, grey-shirted child sat on
the pipes, some distance off, watching quietly.

‘What’s the time?’ said Brother Rees.

‘It’s exactly . . . one-ten. There’s rain forecast by noon, so that should bring us back to normal. One of these days . . . Just look at it.’

He moved to the glass cylinder, in the centre of the room. He played with the knob, gently, and after a few seconds of distant sluicing, the capsule descended into view. The bubbles in the four
pipes around it shot upwards.

‘One of these days we’re going to have to strip this masterpiece down and give it a good old greasing. I doubt if it’s been taken apart for a hundred years.’

‘Is it showing any signs of age?’

‘No. No, it’s as smooth as it ever was. It’s the engineer in me, I suppose. I’m so keen to see exactly how it works. My brother was the real craftsman. He ended up
driving trains and I used to watch him stripping down steam engines.’

‘Is he local?’

‘Oh yes – he lives in Taunton.’

‘He could come and give us a hand if you think he’d like to.’

Brother Morgan shook his head. ‘He had a bit of an incident just before Christmas, unfortunately. He was driving the train that . . .’

‘Ah! The one that . . . had the incident. Yes.’

‘His hands are a bit shaky now. Still, he’s got his garden – he’s happy enough.’

Brother Rees opened the chamber and stepped into it. He looked at the schoolboy sitting quietly on the pipe opposite and smiled at him. The boy stared back, white-faced.

‘Have you seen this, son?’ he said.

Miles nodded. He stared into the capsule and remained still.

‘Come and have a look. If you’d been here last week, you would have seen something truly remarkable – come over here.’

Miles stood and picked his way carefully to the door of the capsule. Brother Rees was holding up a large, broken piece of egg.

‘Six baby crocodiles,’ he said. ‘We watched them hatch last week. The babies are gone – they’ve found somewhere more private, I should imagine.’

‘We saw the eggs,’ said Miles, softly.

The two monks looked at each other, relieved to hear him speak. ‘Ah, well!
We
saw them hatching,’ said Brother Morgan, cheerily. ‘Truly miraculous.’

Miles stared at the chamber and blinked.

‘Are we done?’ said Brother Morgan. ‘Shall we lock up?’

‘I think so. Are you ready, son? What’s your name?’

Miles nodded.

The two men looked at each other again, then looked at the child. He’d been with them all evening and he’d barely spoken. His shirt was torn and he had a wild-eyed look, as if he
hadn’t been sleeping properly. He’d simply appeared underground and walked into their circle. He’d listened to their chanting and sat down. He’d taken some soup, but refused
to say a single word.

Brother Rees put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I think we need to get you back to school,’ he said, gently. ‘They’re going to be wondering where you’ve
gone.’

‘I’m not going back,’ said Miles. ‘And nobody cares.’

The monk smiled and patted him. ‘You know that isn’t true. And you can’t stay here, can you? Your friends will be worried.’