Ribblestrop (23 page)

“What did? What train?” It was the inspector.

“It's why I'm not wearing it.”

“The train in the tunnel? What went under it?”

“My cap.”

Miss Hazlitt stood up. She moved in and put her face closer and closer to Sam's. Sam could see the makeup. He could see the little hairs you normally don't notice. The pores. The blood vessels. She'd been eating peppermints, but he could smell the meat she'd had for lunch. Why was the makeup so thick? You could pick it with your fingernail and lift the whole thing off like a mask. Sam took a step back, but the policeman was right there, with a hand on his shoulder, gripping his blazer.

“Listen to me, Sam,” said Miss Hazlitt.

“Stand up, son,” said the inspector. “Stand up straight.”

“We've had experience with your sort. The inspector sees people like you every day—in the cells, in the courts, and finally in prison. So, listen.” She shouted suddenly, like a dog barking: “
Nobody is interested in your wretched cap!
”

Sam was so shocked by the noise that he put his hands over his face. He tried to turn but his arms were gripped and then, before he could flinch, they were twisted up behind him and he was forced back to attention, the tendons straining. Miss Hazlitt was still close enough to bite him and he knew he would be sick. The policeman was horribly strong, and Sam was on his toes.

“When did you last clean your teeth?” she said. There was a hand on his neck. She sounded even more like his dentist! He couldn't speak: he had no oxygen.

“Answer the question,” said the policeman, squeezing the boy's arms higher.

“Answer the question, Tack, answer a simple question!”

Sam managed to squeak, but no words came. “All right! All right!” said Miss Hazlitt. Now he could feel her spit on his face. “Put him over the desk! Where. Is. Your. Toothbrush?”

“I don't know, miss!” he squeaked. The policeman had bent him in half, he was jackknifed over the desk. He cried out, “Ow! Stop!”—but who was there to hear him?

“Whose toothbrush are you using when you do clean them?”

“I don't know! Please! I lost it, I lost it!”

“You lost it, did you?” said the inspector. “I'm not sure that's the truth!” The voice was a whisper, but right in Sam's ear; he could feel the air and smell the sourness of the man's breath. “I think you've been picking locks and stealing. Did she make you do it? Shall we beat it out of him?”

“You want to take all the blame, Sam?” said Miss Hazlitt. “We're getting to the bottom of this tonight! Did you lend it to her?” She took hold of the boy's tie and wrapped it round her fist. “Or are you in it together?”

“Where's the rabbit, Tack! Where did you put him?”

“I don't know!”

“Oh yes you do, and what we really want to know is
how much
you know!”

Sam could only endure. He'd been on the summit of Mount Snowdon with his father, in a hurricane as fierce as this. True, he'd had his father's arms round him: but he could survive this, he had to. The hands on his wrists felt like iron and his arms were being dislocated. Miss Hazlitt was yelling, but the words had become inaudible to Sam. He waited for the thunder to roll past and, as it did, magically a green-and-purple toothbrush appeared by his nose. The policeman had leaned in from behind and was holding it between finger and thumb. He was jerked upward, onto his toes again. “I've had enough,” the policeman was saying. “If this one thinks he's going to wreck years of planning with a wretched toothbrush, he's wrong. Now where's the map?”

“I d . . . d . . . don't know! Please!”

He was spun round and there was a hand under his chin. All he could see, in monstrous monochrome, were the inspector's nostrils and one of his eyes. “I'm going to ask you one more time.” His feet weren't touching the floor and the policeman held the toothbrush like a knife. Sam squeaked and tried to kick. The words cracked him over his skull. “Where. Is. The. Map?”

“Sam!” said a voice. “Good Lord . . . Inspector! What on earth is going on?”

There was a flurry of footsteps and Sam was falling. His throat was free and he was on his knees, gasping. There was a flurry of scraping furniture and more footsteps. Voices competed, braying against each other, and Miss Hazlitt appeared to be grunting and stumbling. The policeman's voice was repeating the same line: “Steady on, sir—just a moment, just a moment!”

“Mind my hand!” cried Miss Hazlitt, and she cried out.

Then Sam was lifted, and the study floor was moving under him. There was a voice speaking over him and the voice was kind. “. . . not sensible, Sam . . . playing games with something so important, eh? Miss Hazlitt is quite right to bring it up, but here we go, now . . . on your way, and let's hope that's the end of it!”

“Headmaster!” The woman was turning and her voice was a low crackle of hatred. Sam had never seen a face look more angry. The skin was raw, the eyes were bulging. Her hair was lopsided on her head. Sam noticed his own hands were both on the headmaster's, holding it firmly, clutching it as if it could pull him from the sea. He was being led to the door, and the inspector was backing away, red-faced, breathing heavily, a billy club in his hand.

“Always clean your teeth, that's my motto! Now you'd better get moving—really, he should, Miss Hazlitt. This chap's our striker, you see, and he needs an early night for tomorrow's game.” He had the toothbrush in his hand. He popped it into Sam's blazer pocket. “Off you go, Sam. Hurry. Run, please.”

The door was closed after him and there was an immediate flurry of furious voices—three adults all yelling and another squeal of furniture. Sam was tottering along a corridor that appeared to have no end. He felt he was falling down the long lens of a telescope and that he might disappear, or drop out of the end. The voices rose behind him, like clamoring birds. Miss Hazlitt was the loudest, but Sam couldn't make out what she was shrieking because it seemed to go on and on, like a high-pitched
drill. He reached the stairs, tripped, and clung to the banister. Taking deep breaths, he started to descend and the dreadful row faded behind him.

Ruskin was at the bottom. “You all right, Sam?” he was saying. “How did it go?”

“I posted the letter to Miles,” said Millie.

Sanchez said nothing.

“I'd forgotten all about it, but it was in my blazer pocket. A bit mangled, but intact. I hope he hasn't found somewhere else.”

“I hope he has.”

“What didn't you like about him?”

“He was mean. Selfish. Dangerous. Foulmouthed. Destructive. Crazy.”

“Ah, this is the difference between us, Sanchez. You see the worst in people; I see the best. You see, if it was me, I'd try to work out what was troubling him.”

Millie's hand had snaked through Sanchez's arm. They were both cold, so they were walking briskly. The night had come down, and their flashlights bobbed ahead of them.

“I don't think we're going to find that ball,” said Millie.

“I know where it is,” said Sanchez. “Israel booted it onto the island, I saw it.”

They walked in silence.

Then Sanchez said: “Actually, Millie, you are totally, completely wrong. You always jump to conclusions. I really tried to help him.”

“By making speeches about rules?”

“By trying to be nice! It was me, Miles, Ruskin, Henry, and Tomaz. We got on fine, we were good friends. Except—we play a
game, Miles has to win. We go swimming, Miles has to try and drown someone.”

“He had a sense of fun!”

“Yes. Conjuring spirits in a black mass. You think that's fun, do you? You think that's funny?”

“He was into black magic?”

Inevitably, as if on cue, an owl decided to hoot. Millie stopped. They'd come to the first humpbacked bridge, and the lapping water and the wind in the trees took on a more ominous sound.

“He was bad news, Millie. He had a death wish. He took something of mine and he scared Tomaz. He scared everyone.”

“Slow down. How? Tell me.”

She found herself hugging Sanchez's arm closer. Sanchez let her: they were both getting colder. He spoke quietly now. “You heard about the man who was killed? Lord Vyner?”

“Yes. Suicide.”

“He was shot in the head and Caspar said he saw the ghost. This makes everyone scared. Then Miles decides he's going to talk to him, properly. You know—talk to his spirit.”

“I heard about this. Go on.”

“We go down to the chapel, late one evening. I don't know why I said I'd do it, but I did. Tomaz too. Miles just kept on and on—he had a way of persuading you. So Miles is in charge, and we take a couple of flashlights, and it's very scary—the chapel's a ruin, the monks don't use it. He draws a big circle on the floor, with letters and symbols and all the stuff he gets from some book. And we're sitting there, with candles all around us—there's Ruskin, Henry, Tomaz, Caspar. All of us. We have this glass and we have our hands on the glass.”

“A Ouija board, that's what it's called.”

“That's right, a Ouija board. And we start trying to raise the ghost of Lord Vyner.”

“This is amazing! I didn't know you got up to this kind of stuff, Sanchez. I thought you were just a boring prefect. What happened?”

“Miles starts to ask questions. He does all the stuff: ‘Is there anybody there? Do you have a message for us?'—all that stuff. It's really freaky.”

“Is the glass moving?”

“Yes.”

“So he's getting answers? What does it say?”

“Millie, I never saw anything like it. I thought it was Miles pushing the glass, but it's going so fast I realized it couldn't be. It starts spelling out words, real words and sentences. I just sat there . . . I could not interrupt, or say anything. Miles keeps asking questions, ‘What do you want from us?'
Help
. ‘Are you at peace?'
No I am not
. So Miles starts reading the answers out—we're all reading them, but Tomaz couldn't read so we're saying them out loud. Then the glass starts moving, and it spells out:
one of you is in danger
.”

“It said that? The glass spelled out that?”

“Yes.”

“The ghost of Lord Vyner,
warning
you! So who was in danger? Wait, Sanchez—stop a minute.”

“What?”

“Look up.”

They had arrived on the island and, by eerie coincidence, they were standing directly under the monument to Lord Vyner. It was silver in the moon. The statue gazed back to the house. Its eyes seemed to be fixed; it seemed hungry for something. The two children stared up, shivering.

“There's the ball,” said Sanchez. “I'll get it.”

“I'm coming with you. Who was in danger? Did Miles ask who it was?”

“Oh yes. I saw the name get spelled out—T.O.M.A.Z. Tomaz. The spelling was perfect. Miles told him, and Tomaz didn't believe him for a second. Then he just went crazy—he completely flipped. He got up and he ran out the chapel. I tried to talk with him, Miles tried. But two days later, Tomaz is gone.”

“Because he thought he was in danger. He must have known
it—that's completely logical. Maybe he was being warned, Sanchez! And he ran straight into the trap—they kidnapped him!”

Sanchez grabbed Millie's arm. “Shh!”

“What?”

They both stood absolutely still. There was a sound, but they couldn't tell what it was or where it was coming from. They listened harder, and it seemed to rise from beneath them: it was a groaning noise.

“Holy Mother of God, Holy Mary . . .” Sanchez was crossing himself. He was backing away, poised to run, but Millie held him back.

“It's singing!” hissed Millie. “Is it the ghost? Sanchez, he was following me underground, it must have been him! He blew his brains out and now he's haunting the place!”

“Shhh!”

“He was cooking me food! This is so horrible!”

They listened harder than ever, rooted to the spot. The noise rose, then fell. It seemed to get closer, and both children realized at the same time: it was the chanting of monks.

“It's inside the monument,” said Sanchez. He shone his flashlight at the stone base.

“Underneath,” said Millie. “It's coming from underneath.”

Sanchez swung his flashlight slowly. There was a plaque, which bore a lengthy inscription in Latin. The plaque was set into a low stone archway and, looking hard, they could see how the plinth was constructed. They hadn't been this close before because of the brambles, but now they were beside it, they could see that the monument base was a kind of cube, built as a set of arches. Long grass had grown, and a rather forlorn wire fence ran round the whole thing, as if to deter you from exploring further. But the sound, which rose now in a wave of mournful voices, was definitely rising beneath those arches.

“It's the monks,” said Millie. “I heard them when I was down there. It's the monks, singing.”

“I thought they were on a vow of silence.”

“Maybe singing doesn't count.”

They approached slowly, as if the monks might leap out at them. Sanchez stepped over the fence. He shone his flashlight down and, as Millie came up beside him, she could see a deep vertical air shaft disappearing into the dark ground.

“It's the air vent,” she said.

“What air vent?”

“Look. You can't fall down. There are bars. Oh wow, this is what I've been looking for. It's the air vent down to the labyrinth. That's where I was—I was standing down there, looking up!”

She moved closer and knelt. It was like looking down a chimney: the brickwork was meticulous, and a tiny disk of sand was visible at the very bottom.