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He laughed, suddenly, and with quick, skilful hands made the gun safe, shutting it down and folding it away.

‘I guess . . . being Head Girl, Millie, you’re going to have to tell on me, aren’t you?’

Millie was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘Put the gun back where you found it. It’s not yours.’

She would reflect on the conversation weeks later with shame. She could have taken the gun from him, by force – with Tomaz’s help – and she should have done. She should have
given it to the headmaster and warned him that Miles was more disturbed than he’d realised. Instead, she did nothing.

‘Look at the south tower,’ said Miles, softly. ‘Can you see what I see?’

‘No.’

‘That’s my little friend. I told him I’d be here and he can’t wait to see me.’

He stood up and waved.

Sure enough, a window in the tower opposite opened, and Millie and Tomaz could make out the small, white face of Caspar Vyner, who was waving back.

Two important things happened in the next few days: one bad, one good. The good thing was that Lady Vyner fell ill and was confined to her bed. The bad thing was that
Portuguese Air Traffic Control went on strike. This would have a major effect on the Ribblestrop football game.

Lady Vyner’s illness meant that her legal letters went undelivered and she caused no trouble. Her collision with Miles in the corridor had unsettled her and she’d had another
unfortunate encounter with a unicycling orphan the very next morning. Father O’Hanrahan made a point of visiting her regularly, but she never let him in.

In fact, Father O’Hanrahan was working extremely hard, taking an interest in everyone. He was often seen trudging around the school, trying to be cheery. He wanted to lead work-parties to
the ruined chapel and set up the ‘Church Renovation Club’. Unfortunately, nobody joined, and he found that however many boys he made join his expeditions, he’d always arrive at
the chapel alone.

He took over Doonan’s R.E. classes and put a huge jar of sweets on the desk. Nobody came, and when he asked the children why they were cutting his class, they told him that the timetable
had been changed.

‘We were waiting for you last night,’ said Eric. ‘One hour we waited.’

‘Big disappointment, man,’ said Israel.

‘Last night at what time?’ said Father O’Hanrahan.

‘Ten o’clock, after supper.’

‘But I was in bed.’

‘It’s that new timetable,’ said Anjoli. ‘New stuff every day.’

It was a plausible excuse, because lessons were constantly being cancelled or rearranged. Football practice was getting urgent, as the first game was looming. That had to be fitted around
circus-training. Zoology continued and reproductive science classes had been doubled as Violetta was now so heavily pregnant she couldn’t move. The children crammed into her den with
Professor Worthington, poking and prodding, and there had been two midnight emergencies, when Flavio thought she was going into labour and had woken the entire school.

One Monday morning, Father O’Hanrahan decided to see the headmaster in person. He had been up early, clearing stone at the chapel. He had ordered Henry to attend, but
there was no sign of him. He’d seen one of the Brethren and given chase: the elderly monk had simply disappeared. His hands were red and raw again. That evening he spent another hour waiting
for Sam in a freezing classroom – he had organised a set of one-to-one spiritual guidance sessions, intending to interview each child alone.

Instead of Sam, Millie arrived, hot from football practice.

‘What are you doing here?’ he cried. His cassock was filthy and his hair was wild.

‘Did I leave my credit card here?’

‘What?’

‘I want to buy things and I can’t find it anywhere.’

‘It’s not time for sweets, girl – I have an appointment with Samuel! Have you seen him?’

‘He’s been taken by Sushamila again. He won’t be free for ages.’

‘I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about—’

‘What are you going to talk about, anyway?’

‘That is a confidential matter—’

‘Is it like a confession? Because he won’t have anything to confess.’

‘What or who is Sushamila? Will you please explain what is going on in this madhouse?’

‘Sushamila’s the lion,’ said Millie, slowly. ‘She’s got it into her head that Sam’s a lion cub, and she grabs him now and then. He’s not happy about it,
but what can he do? She’s obsessed and he’s cute.’

At that very moment, the door crashed open and Sam stood in the threshold, breathing heavily. His blazer was sopping wet and one sleeve was coming loose at the shoulder. It gave him a lopsided
look.

‘I am so sorry,’ he panted. ‘Did Millie explain?’

Sanjay and Israel were behind him, giggling. ‘She’s still after you, Sam! She’s right behind us!’

‘It’s not funny!’ cried Sam, turning on them. ‘You all think it’s a big joke, but it’s not much fun for me, you know! And look . . .’ He peeled his
blazer off. ‘Who’s going to pay for this? She must be growing teeth. Look at my shirt!’

‘Sam, you stink,’ said Millie. ‘She’s slobbered all over you.’

‘I know!’ shouted Sam. ‘And it’s the fourth time and everyone just stands and laughs.’ He looked at Father O’Hanrahan. ‘I’m very sorry, sir. I
think I need to get changed.’

The old man could stand it no more.

He took Doonan with him and knocked firmly on the headmaster’s door.

They found him in his office, cradling the telephone receiver, unable to speak. Mr Sanchez had, at that very moment, passed on the information that Lisbon airport had been closed. Sanchez and
Imagio had just landed there, for the transfer to London. The plane had docked and the boys had been taken not to their onward connection, but to a hotel. They had stand-bys for the next
day’s three o’clock departure, and would get the night train down to Ribblestrop, arriving Wednesday morning.

The football game against Ribblestrop High was on Tuesday, and that meant they would miss it.

When Father O’Hanrahan and Doonan opened the door, the headmaster looked haggard and bewildered.

‘I understand,’ he said, in a fragile voice. ‘How tragic. We were all so hopeful . . .’

The two men came in softly, the anger dying on Father O’Hanrahan’s lips. He had witnessed bereavement countless times before and knew its tone. He became alert.

‘Of course,’ said the headmaster. ‘We will not despair.’

‘Bad news, I think,’ whispered Father O’Hanrahan to Doonan. ‘Sit down and be quiet.’

‘Life goes on,’ said the headmaster. ‘We’ll do everything that’s necessary.’

‘It’s the old Vyner woman,’ hissed the old man. ‘Oh Lord, I was expecting this. I managed to get into her kitchen yesterday and I thought she looked like death . . .
she’s had a relapse.’

‘We’ll carry on as usual,’ said the headmaster. And he put the phone down. Brother Doonan instinctively crossed himself and the headmaster put his head in his hands.

‘Is it the old woman?’ said Father O’Hanrahan.

‘What?’

‘I was just saying to Doonan, she didn’t look well yesterday. Old people often know when their time has come. She was a fighter, though! She was fighting, by Jesus. Called me every
name under the sun.’

‘I don’t quite follow you . . .’

The old man’s eyes gleamed. ‘She had a good innings, though, that’s for sure. But everything changes now. Those monks will be cursing – they’ve had it all their own
way till now.’

He struggled to his feet, Doonan helping him.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the end for the lot of us. Ha! I was going to talk to you about this wretched timetable, but that can wait.’ He smiled. ‘There may
not be a timetable soon, eh? Might be time to start packing your things!’

‘Father?’ said Doonan. ‘I wonder if . . .’

‘What?’

‘Shall I stay here, Father?’

‘Yes. Offer some comfort to the man: you can see he needs it.’

Father O’Hanrahan smiled grimly at Doonan. ‘I expect some of your precious little orphans will feel twice bereaved! This is a test for you, boy. But I tell you what . . .’ He
rubbed his hands. ‘It’s a blessing for some of us!’

The headmaster didn’t notice the old man leave. He sat gazing out of the window, until Doonan felt he ought to say something. ‘Bad news, I think, sir?’ he said.

‘What?’ The headmaster peered and seemed surprised Doonan was in the room. He still hadn’t found time to get new glasses, so everything was blurred. ‘Yes, Doonan:
catastrophic. Gary Cuthbertson . . . I know him too well. He’s the High School’s Director of Sport and he won’t postpone the fixture, I know he won’t. He has some talent
scout coming down, apparently – one of his lads is up for a trial. And every aeroplane’s in the wrong place! The children were so excited and now we’ll be a dangerously weak side.
It’s not just the goalie – Sanchez is our goalie, you know. It’s his presence on the pitch; it makes such a difference.’

‘Are you talking about football, sir?’

‘Not to mention Imagio – he was our secret weapon.’

‘Sir, are you—?’

‘I’m talking about the game, Doonan! Eleven o’clock kick-off tomorrow and two of our key boys are stuck in Portugal!’

‘You know, I think Father O’Hanrahan’s got the wrong end of the stick.’

‘I know what Routon will do. He’ll play Ruskin in goal, and I can see the logic of that, and I am not going to interfere, but . . . Oh, Doonan! Our defence is not strong!
Ruskin’s brave, but he’s so uncoordinated. I’d put Sanjay in goal, but Routon insists he’s a winger. It’s all too bad! I have every sympathy for trade unions, but . .
. I’m sure if the workers knew, they’d fly one little plane to London.’

‘Father O’Hanrahan got a different impression, sir. I think he’s—’

‘He’s not a footballing man, is he? Let’s be honest. We’d better find the boys and break the news. I wonder what difference Miles will make – he’s fearless,
you know.’

The two men crossed the lawn together.

Doonan laughed nervously. ‘You know, that’s why we were coming to see you, sir,’ he said. ‘We never seem able to find the children when we want them. We thought there
were classes today.’

‘No, no, no. We’ve put everything on hold until the match is over. Flavio’s become a pretty good fitness coach, actually, which is just what Routon needed. Routon’s more
of a manager. This is why they’ll be devastated, you see: everything’s been going so well. Ruskin in goal! Can you imagine anything worse?’

‘You may find,’ said Doonan, ‘that tragedy sometimes binds a community.’ It was a line he’d had prepared and it still seemed appropriate.

The headmaster nodded. ‘You may be right. So many things are not ours to control.’

‘Prayer is action, though,’ said Doonan.

‘Yes,’ said the headmaster. He paused and met Doonan’s eyes. ‘That’s a useful thought. The fact is, though . . . without Sanchez and Imagio we’re going to be
annihilated. After so much expectation, it seems terribly cruel.’

‘I’d be happy to say a few words, if that would help them, sir?’

‘It must seem so trivial to you! A mere game . . .’

‘No!’ said Doonan. ‘I was a cub scout back in Ireland – I was first reserve for the B-team. I know what it all means! Shall I tell them that story about how the Red Sea
was parted for Moses? You know, even as the Israelites awaited destruction?’

‘I think you should,’ said the headmaster. ‘It might lift them.’

‘Miracles
do
happen,’ said the boy.

The headmaster found the children practising their circus skills.

Flavio had not been keen to actually demonstrate his tightrope-walking abilities, because he didn’t want to show off. However, the children had persisted and he’d slung a wire from
the back of his trailer to the roof of one of the outbuildings. It was a steady upward slope if you started at the truck-end, climbing from shoulder height to about ten metres it was a sensible
start for any would-be acrobat, because you slowly learned to control your fear of heights.

Flavio did it in bare feet. His toes were wide and curled around the wire. His heavy body was in strict control and he moved up it with the speed of a monkey. The orphans, of course, took to it
at once. Many had worked on ships, some on lethally dangerous building sites, and they could soon run up the wire in boots or bare feet. Eric was the first to attempt it on a bike, removing the
tyres so the wire could fit the groove of the wheels. It wasn’t long before he and Podma could start at either end, meet in the middle, climb over the other’s machine, and then continue
their two journeys. Flavio would stand gazing up, realising that the mad idea about Speech Day was actually quite sane.

Perhaps the world
was
ready for a boy-circus, with animals.

The animals were all happier and healthier. Their diet was superb, as the local butcher drove in every morning with fresh supplies. They had a very fine exercise yard, now that the railings had
been welded together. The tigers spent most of their time inside it, stretching and rolling; the old lion, Sushamila, was never chained or caged. She padded around the lorry, her short-sighted eyes
always on the alert for a glimpse of Sam. Even the bitter-looking crocodile seemed contented, since a large stone trough had been unearthed for it. Violetta, the panther, slept most of the time and
the boys took it in turns to spoon-feed her, mincing her meat so she didn’t have to put any energy into chewing.

One of the headmaster’s zoology-art projects had been the completion of signs about each animal, listing its habitat, its diet, and any crucial statistics. Routon had thought it wise to
create warning-signs as well, and everyone had enjoyed illustrating them. There were pictures of half-eaten people and dismembered limbs. There were ferocious, snarling teeth and lethal-looking
claws – everything was blood-red on a white background. Millie had drawn a fat policeman being torn apart and eaten. It was a complicated storyboard with captions, but the headmaster had
vetoed it.

‘Let bygones be bygones,’ he had said.

‘I bet he’s still after me,’ said Millie. ‘I’m keeping ready.’