Return to Ribblestrop (33 page)

‘Don’t answer the door then, sir,’ said Routon. ‘Sit tight.’

‘Sometimes it’s the best thing to do.’ The door was hammered again. ‘Ignore it. Now can I tempt anyone with a little more whisky?’

Meanwhile, under the ground, things were getting ugly.

Gary and Percy Cuthbertson had been walking for twenty back-breaking minutes, supporting the groaning figure of Father O’Hanrahan. The policeman was holding Ruskin – their guide
– by his collar and progress was pitifully slow. The two boys were still handcuffed back to back, so they moved sideways, like an injured crab. Oli was constantly tripping and his brother
would become entangled. The old man had foam round his mouth and could hardly walk.

‘My feet are numb,’ he said. ‘I can’t feel my feet!’

‘Keep going!’ hissed the policeman.

‘I might be dying! People die of a scorpion sting!’

He had seen Joe crawl from his satchel, so he knew what had happened. His hand had swollen and there were red pimples over the back of it. One minute he was freezing cold – the next he was
feverishly hot. He felt like his throat was closing over his windpipe, and had to stop and suck at the air.

D.C.C. Cuthbertson had a hand under his arm, but he was also trying to drag the large trunk full of tapestries and wine. Gary Cuthbertson had the roll of oil paintings, but the stone Buddha had
been abandoned. Both were weighed down by rucksacks full of plunder.

‘Please,’ said Oli, softly. ‘I need water. I can’t go on . . .’

‘I’m on fire!’ whispered O’Hanrahan.

‘Please unchain us,’ said Ruskin. ‘We are all suffering!’

The policeman put his hand on the boy’s neck and squeezed. ‘You’ll walk as you are, son. So will your squib of a brother.’

‘Left or right?’ said Gary. ‘Where is the pump-room?’

‘I’m pretty sure it’s to the left . . .’ said Ruskin.

‘No, Jake,’ said Oli. ‘Show them the quickest way. It’s right, then right again. Then up the steps.’

‘Oli, no – that way was bricked up. It’s a left, then a right, and then you’re in the Neptune corridor – then it’s
down
the steps.’

The hand on his neck squeezed tighter. ‘Don’t waste our time, boy. I will break you if I have to! Which way? That statue’s supposed to be five minutes from where we were, so
how come we haven’t reached it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ruskin. ‘It does seem strange.’ He paused and looked about him, holding his lenses close. ‘You know, I’m sorry to say this,’
he said. ‘But I think Oli might be spot on. I think I’ve made a bit of a gaffe. It’s an awful confession, but . . . I have a feeling we should have gone right when we came out of
Tomaz’s house.’

There was a long silence, interrupted only by the heavy groaning of Father O’Hanrahan.

‘I can only put it down to disorientation and these wretched specs.’

Oli slumped to his knees and then lay on the sandy floor.

Father O’Hanrahan leaned against the wall and retched. D.C.C. Cuthbertson closed his eyes and fought to control his temper. He had a brief vision of smashing Ruskin’s skull hard
against the rocky wall, but he knew it would do no good. ‘How do we get out, then?’ he said, quietly. ‘Try and think where we are.’

‘I’m pretty sure we’re close. I need to look at my map.’

‘You have a map?’ said Gary.

‘We’ve got a very detailed map. Sam and I put hours into it.’

‘They’ve got a map,’ said Gary. His voice was dangerously low.

‘We colour-coded it,’ said Ruskin. ‘It’s like the London Underground, only clearer.’

‘Well, perhaps we could take a look at it, son. Maybe it would help us?’

‘I wish we could. I keep it in my blazer, you see. And of course . . . my blazer’s hanging up in, um . . . Tomaz’s hall.’ He attempted a laugh. ‘We didn’t
expect to be leaving in such haste.’

‘Let’s keep calm,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘Panic leads to disaster. Can you get us back to Tomaz’s house? From here?’

‘Yes,’ said Ruskin. ‘I think I can.’

‘Are you sure you can?’

‘Uncuff them,’ said Gary. ‘We’ve got to move faster than this.’

‘You don’t uncuff prisoners,’ said the policeman.

‘They’re kids, Percy! The little one’s half crippled, his brother’s not going to run off anywhere.’

Still Cuthbertson hesitated.

‘I think he’s right,’ whispered Father O’Hanrahan. ‘They can carry some of the load as well. Take the risk, man, otherwise we’re all dead.’

The key was produced. The handcuffs were removed and the boys rubbed their sore wrists. Oli staggered to his feet, cradling his damaged arm, and stifled a sob. Father O’Hanrahan forced
himself upright and the party set off the way it had come, Gary Cuthbertson’s torch illuminating the long, gentle curve of the tunnel.

‘Come in, Millie,’ said Sanchez. ‘Where exactly are you, over?’

‘I’m five minutes from the pump-room. Where are you? Over.’

‘We’ve just got to Tomaz’s house.’

‘You’re inside? Is there any sign of Ruskin or Oli?’

‘No. And still no sign of Miles.’

Millie caught the subdued tone in Sanchez’s voice.

‘Is Tomaz’s house OK? Over.’

Sanchez paused. ‘No. It’s been smashed up pretty bad. Millie . . .’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘You shouldn’t be on your own, Millie.’

‘I know, but the pump-room’s a quick exit, isn’t it? Right up to the lake.’

‘But you shouldn’t be alone! You were supposed to be with Miles.’

‘Where are the cats?’

‘Through the railway entrance, moving in.’

‘Everything depends on how well they know the tunnels,’ said Millie. ‘Or if they’ve got guides – they’ve probably got the boys as prisoners. We can still get
them – is Asilah outside?’

‘Yes, he’s covering the lake.’

‘Sanchez, we better face it – and you better tell Tomaz. If they’ve found the pump-room, they’ll be gone by now. We should have checked it first.’

‘I’m worried about Miles, Millie. He was acting strangely . . .’

‘He’s always acting strangely!’

‘What if he’s run away? We’ve got to look for him too . . .’

‘He could be in on this, Sanchez, have you thought of that? I’m coming down the steps, over.’

‘He’s got my gun again.’

Millie cursed quietly. ‘He got your gun?’

‘I need to tell you something. Last term, he took it twice . . .’

‘So none of us are armed?’

‘Millie, I’m worried about him . . .’

‘I’m worried about
us
! I tell you, Sanchez, when I see that freak again, I’m going to shoot him myself. He’s putting everyone in danger. We don’t know whose
side he’s on any more.’

‘He has this obsession with guns . . .’

‘Let’s hope he shoots himself and gets it over with. I’m going to have to go, I’m close to the pump-room. I’m turning the radio off.’

‘No, Millie! Don’t!’

‘Over and out.’

Up by Neptune, the injured Darren had managed to get back into the speedboat. He’d paddled it right back, under the bridge, and drawn it close into the shadows. He was in
great pain and he lay on his back, shivering with cold, trying not to make a noise. There were children all around him and he hardly dared breathe. They’d clattered over the bridge and
he’d seen them streaming down the neck of the statue. He had no idea what to do, so he lay there and did nothing. He could hear the sound of a truck. He could hear machinery moving and the
shrill voices of children shouting instructions in a foreign language. Chains were clanking and at one point there was an explosion, like a rocket, and he saw sparks travelling over the lake. He
was aware of someone, or several people, in the water. Any minute now he knew he would be discovered, so he lay silently and closed his eyes.

What, meanwhile, had happened to Doonan?

The boys had left him with a candle so, as his eyes adjusted, the cupboard didn’t feel quite so lonely. There was a window high above, letting in a little starlight, and at least he
wasn’t cold. He sat and thought hard, trying to suppress his disappointment that even the oldest children should behave so childishly.

They’d given him sheets and a pillow. Did they really mean to keep him here all night? No prank could go on as long as that . . . He turned over Caspar’s words in his head. The
little chap had seemed very serious and the reaction he’d caused has been pretty major. Doonan found himself wondering if something serious was going on.

He stood up and rattled the cupboard door. It was locked firmly and the wood was far too thick to break. He looked up again at the window, and a plan formed. He had a penknife – he
wasn’t helpless. He made two little cuts in the edge of the cotton and, after a good deal of ripping, he had three sheet pieces. He knotted them together and had a rope some six metres long.
It wouldn’t be enough to get him down, but it might be enough to get him up – if he had a grappling hook. He didn’t, of course, but the chair might do. He lashed the sheet around
its back. Then, using muscles he hadn’t had to use for some time, he made his way to the top of the cupboard, bracing himself against a shelving unit, until he could hang upon the window.

It opened just wide enough for the chair.

He let it through, then he put out his arms and head. Not three metres above his head projected a gargoyle – he’d seen Anjoli swinging on it a number of times. It was a place that
most of the orphans liked to sit, so it had to be pretty secure. He swung his sheet and threw the chair – on the fifth attempt, the chair went over the gargoyle and lodged itself securely in
the guttering. A series of hard tugs reassured Doonan that he now had an exit of sorts.

He muttered a prayer and heaved the rest of his body out of the window. For thirty dreadful seconds he was suspended over nothing, clinging to the sheet. Terror gave him strength and he clawed
his way up, legs kicking, feet grabbing at the knots. At last he had the gargoyle in his arms and a foot on the roof. The drop, as he accidentally looked down, made his stomach heave and for a
moment he was paralysed. It occurred to him that he had taken a ridiculous risk and that his journey over the wet roofs of Ribblestrop was going to be lethally dangerous. That was always assuming
he could get onto the roof, because at that moment, he was completely stuck.

Someone had to raise the alarm, though. Something was wrong and the headmaster needed to know. As he sat, he too heard the revving of an engine down on the lakeside. Like Darren, he also saw a
rocket burst and zoom across the lake in a flurry of sparks. He knew in his bones now that the children were not playing games.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Oli. ‘It’s my arm. I can’t go on!’

‘Shh!’ said Gary. ‘Yes you can.’

Oli crumpled to the floor. His brother knelt beside him.

‘I think he’s fainted.’

‘We’ll leave him here,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘We must be at the blessed statue – we must be!’

‘My arms are numb,’ whispered Father O’Hanrahan.

‘Shut up!’ said Gary. ‘I can hear something. I don’t know what it is . . .’

He bashed his torch hard and the weak beam brightened for a second or two.

They listened to their own breathing. Then, just as Cuthbertson went to pick up his bag, the sound came again. It was a deep-throated animal growling.

Everyone stood still.

The tunnel they were in had a sandy floor and curved sides. Just ahead, it was bisected by another tunnel: Gary’s torch illuminated the corner of the stonework. He found himself backing
away from it, because the growl had come from that passageway and it was amplified and sinister. It was like an engine, throbbing. When it came again, it was nearer and it was followed by a steady,
heavy panting.

‘What
is
this place?’ whispered Gary. ‘Where have these kids brought us?’

‘That is not a human sound,’ hissed Father O’Hanrahan. ‘That is the sound of a beast. I’ve left my Bible . . . I left it on the chair!’

Gary kept his torch on the intersection. The panting was regular, but in the strange echoes of the labyrinth, it seemed to come from in front and behind. It could only be seconds before the
thing appeared.

Sure enough, as they watched, a huge head and a huge pair of shoulders moved around the corner, into the beam. The creature stopped and everyone stared at its profile. Then the great head turned
and two green eyes flashed like emeralds. They could see a fang, too large for the creature’s mouth – then more teeth as the thing licked its lips. Its fur was black and white and then,
like a crack of flame, they saw the burning stripes of a tiger.

Nobody moved a muscle; nobody breathed. It was as if the three men hoped they might not be seen behind the torch. For the tiger peered, but seemed to be dazzled. It took another two paces,
revealing its monstrous chest. Most strange of all – and most terrible, because it sent the scene falling away into the horror of true nightmare – there was a child on its back. The
child held the fur in both hands and his knees clamped the animal’s flanks. He wore his shirt open and there was a black-and-gold tie around his head.

‘Israel,’ said Oli. ‘You’re just in time.’

‘So’s Ivan,’ said Ruskin. ‘These men are bad.’

The tiger and its rider stared, expressionless. Israel kicked at the flanks and moved closer to the torch. The child stared forward, as a king might stare from a throne.

‘That’s you, Ruskin, right?’ he said. ‘I can’t see nothing, man – turn off the torch. Pod’s got Prince, but he’s doubling back.’

And the tiger chose that moment to roar, bucking its great shoulders so that Israel nearly fell. The sound filled not just the tunnel, but the labyrinth, and seemed to blow the three men
backwards. They dropped everything and fell against the walls. Father O’Hanrahan spun, and even in his pain grabbed, instinctively, at Cuthbertson’s rucksack – the bag with the
sword. He heaved it onto his shoulder, desperate and driven. He was poised to run, and would have done so, had not an answering roar echoed even louder and frozen him. It was in front and it was
behind. Ivan roared again and went into a crouch. The three men screamed and from the far end of the tunnel, behind them, cutting off their exit, came the second tiger – Prince. He was moving
at a lolloping run, with Podma standing on his back. The child had his arms out and was bare-chested. His skin shone and he looked like an avenging demon.