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The ball was still around the centre line when Imagio spun round and knocked it to Miles. Miles played it to Anjoli, who was grinning, and he passed it back to Imagio. Imagio broke.

A whippet? A missile? A stone skimmed on water? Imagio was a blur of black-and-gold, poking the ball through legs and over shoulders: the goalkeeper came at him – why? Imagio simply let
the ball bounce and the goalie was too low, it fell over his head tenderly for the volley and it was five-one. Imagio raised a hand.

Then he was shoulder-high.

He was up on someone’s back, but felt his feet grabbed and he was hoisted higher; when he let himself fall, it was into the arms of all his team-mates, who threw him up again. He spun,
they caught him, he was kissed and patted, and was finally allowed to stand. Sanchez had both arms round him, hugging him tight. ‘Oh man, we want ten,’ he said, in the boy’s
ear.

‘
Te doy cinquo, y me voy a dormir
,’ Imagio said.

‘What did he say?’ cried Sam.

Sanchez said, ’He said, “I’ll give you five, then I’m sleeping.” Five’s his lucky number.’

For the next quarter of an hour, the High School team watched a display. They took no real part. They ran about and kicked hard at space. They had possession immediately after
the goals they conceded, and at the free kicks they were awarded for a rash of theatrical dives. But in fairness, they were spectators; Imagio simply danced amongst them. The ball zig-zagged one
minute, if he played close with Sam or Anjoli. The next it was long balls, Miles, Tomaz, and Millie all crucial to the routines. Suddenly, it was the extended run: the dribble. He was a spiralling
fighter jet and he simply cut through everything. The High School goalie spent as much time in the back of his net as in front of it; the shots came long and short, the woodwork was cracked again
and again, and the net was torn from its hooks. The High School collapsed and their supporters went silent.

Three goals were disallowed for no reason. Nobody cared: the score was still five-all, with twenty minutes left. Imagio had scored them all: could Cuthbertson disallow any more? He called fouls
at whim, offside at random, throw-ins that weren’t. He lost his temper and yellow-carded Sam for smiling. He shouted at Darren and Darren shouted back.

Poor Darren was helpless and he’d barely touched the ball.

It wasn’t just the two newcomers: every Ribblestrop player now seemed to whisk the ball from his boot. He tried to fight dirty, of course, but neither blows nor kicks connected. He ran up
the field, sweat and tears blinding him: he couldn’t get back in time. All the High School could hope for now was to keep the draw. They piled back into defence and built walls in the
goalmouth. Imagio was lethal, though – however many defenders cornered and surrounded him he’d still poke the ball through. Five minutes from the end, he had closed in again. Ten men
opposed him, but he juggled it to Sam. Sam took it backwards, into the centre; Anjoli was waiting and lobbed it. A lob was a dangerous move considering the height of the High School players, and
time was ticking. They took possession but muffed it, two boys struggling for the same ball. It was Miles who nipped it from their toes and sprang like a deer, into the penalty area. He drew back
his right foot, and for a moment time froze.

It was a photograph: a blood-stained Miles Seyton-Shandy, about to shoot at goal, not wanting to shoot. It was five-all and he wanted the moment to last forever. That night, when he talked about
it with Millie and Sanchez, he explained the pain and the joy – the knowledge that the goal was wide and the goalie on his knees. He’d thought:
Sam should score this goal – or
Millie, or Tomaz, or anyone else. Why me? How can I deserve this
? And then, for a ridiculous moment, he had thought of his mother, and wondered why she wasn’t on the touchline,
watching.

He shot, hard and true.

To watch – not the goalie, he was nowhere near – but the perfect swish of the net, as it sighed with satisfaction. To turn and see the firework display of joy from his own side. To
see Imagio handspring back to the centre line. To see Millie run the length of the pitch and meet Sanchez in the centre and embrace, Sanchez swinging her off her feet and kissing her. It was
six-five, six-five, six-five to Ribblestrop. The headmaster and Professor Worthingon were in each other’s arms. Flavio and Routon were dancing together. Just one little kick and the world had
changed.

Those who saw Miles fall to his knees and cry never mentioned it. He was picked up and carried, carefully: every part of him, it seemed, was cut and bruised and he could no longer stand.

Six-five and five more minutes left. Gary Cuthbertson blew for full-time there and then, and nobody cared. The High School boys staggered off the pitch, heads down.

Darren’s girlfriend was there with the tracksuit, but the boy didn’t want to know – he was making straight for the coach.

The Ribblestrop Towers team stayed on the field.

By some instinct, they collected in their own goalmouth and simply sat down. There was nothing to say. Individuals went to speak, but it was as if they were dumb. Some held hands. One by one,
they lay down.

The teachers stayed away and left them to their time of grace.

The teachers cleared the refuse. The teachers took down the nets. They left the children out there on the sacred ground until the moon rose.

That very night, Violetta gave birth to six panther cubs. The children watched, in the candlelight and straw. Six healthy parcels of fur, with snarling, yowling mouths and
needle-sharp teeth. Professor Worthington was midwife and managed a fascinating lecture on the muscles of the uterus as she delivered them.

Had Father O’Hanrahan been a little less impetuous, he might have saved himself a great deal of trouble. Had he only chosen to go slow and, for example, enjoy the
football game, he might have avoided some unfortunate blunders.

When he left the headmaster’s office, he had convinced himself that Lady Vyner had just died. Naturally, he telephoned D.C.C. Cuthbertson with the wonderful news and the two men arranged
to meet the next day in a quiet Ribblestrop bar.

‘It’s just what we hoped for,’ whispered the old man. He’d allowed himself a glass of whisky in celebration and he gulped it down in a single mouthful. ‘You told me
here in this office. When she goes, the contracts go with her. The Brethren will be forced to move out and—’

‘It also means,’ said the policeman, ‘that you can search her rooms. See if there’s documents and keys.’

‘I’ll talk to the monks first. Vow of wretched silence, I’ll give them silence now!’

‘Still no communication, then?’

‘No, but I had a bit of luck the other day. I found a set of stairs! The artful swine: they’ve been coming and going and I couldn’t work out how they popped up and disappeared.
There’s a little staircase, all hidden with bushes and – oh, they’re a clever little outfit!’

‘That will be the staircase down to the pump-room,’ said D.C.C. Cuthbertson.

‘What are you talking about? What pump-room?’

‘There’s a pump-room underground. That’s how the Brethren get down.’

‘When the devil did you find this out?’

Cuthbertson laughed. ‘Police work at its finest,’ he said. ‘I called up some old friends at the Water Board. Said we had some problems at the lake. They sent me maps,
yesterday. Pipe diagrams as well – if I was a plumber, I think I’d be in heaven. It’s a staircase down, isn’t it? Seventy-two steps, then a door with a mortise
lock.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve got a copy of the key as well – here it is, oiled and ready to go.’

Father O’Hanrahan looked bewildered.

‘You do know what a pump-room is, Father? Let me tell you all about it, then you’ll know as much as me. Now you know that this lake is an artificial one?’

Father O’Hanrahan sighed in frustration. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about – how can a lake be artificial? There are things swimming in it!’

‘It’s a
manmade
lake. It was dug, years ago, by human beings. Countrymen of yours, funnily enough. Check out our tourist information centre, Father – it’s a
goldmine. That lake, and a lot of the tunnels, were dug two hundred years ago. The Vyners were so rich they thought they’d give the grounds a face-lift, and putting in a lake was the
fashionable thing. So they imported two hundred potato-eaters to do the job. No – calm down, Father. I will get to the point in a moment. Get yourself another drink.’

Cuthbertson supped his beer and the old man looked at him with dislike. He slid back to the bar and replenished his glass. When he sat down again, the policeman was sitting back, smiling. He had
a large sheet of paper in front of him, with a labyrinth of pipes traced out in blue ink.

‘Why is a pump-room relevant?’ he said. ‘Well. The Water Board boys explained everything. An artificial lake needs to be topped up. In the summer it gets dry and the level goes
down. Then, when it rains, it gets too full. The pump-room, therefore, is the underground chamber that controls all that. And you have to be able to get to it, and that’s the little staircase
you’ve discovered.’

‘And the monks live in a pump-room?’

‘I doubt if they
live
in it. But they must live nearby, because according to my sources, they look after the pipes.’

Both men were silent.

‘So . . . the Brethren are a bunch of handymen-plumbers?’ said Father O’Hanrahan.

‘No,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘But I imagine that’s all part of their duties. It can’t be the most difficult task, polishing a few pipes – but the point is that if
they have access down there, then there’s a strong chance they get through to all the tunnels. They must interconnect, and they might well know about young Tomaz and the wine cellars. And
everything else besides. How are you getting on with Tomaz, by the way? Have you had your little chat?’

Father O’Hanrahan looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid I’ve barely spoken to him.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! I thought that was your priority.’

‘I told you before, getting to sit down with those children is impossible. They have no timetable – it’s a wretched free-for-all.’

‘What about in the evenings? Are you the housemaster now?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, Father! I thought you were going to move in with the little wretches and read them Bible stories!’

‘
The job went to Doonan!
’ hissed the priest. ‘At the age of seventeen, with a brain the size of a pea! He’s a child himself, but he gets the job, over a man of my
experience! The headmaster says I’ve got too many duties as chaplain.’

‘I didn’t think you had any duties.’

‘I have no duties at all! I call them for interview: they don’t turn up! They’re all heathens. All they do is mock and sneer. I hate the lot of them. All I do is break my
fingernails moving stones around, and all that turns out to be for no reason because you knew about the stairs and have the wretched key!’

‘I found out yesterday, Father—’

‘Have you been down?’

‘No!’ I was going to tell you, so calm yourself down – I’ll give it to you later and you can go exploring.’

‘I’ll go see the Brethren first, then—’

‘You have still got the radio set, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it charged?’

‘Yes!’

‘What about Lord Vyner? Any news on the ghost?’

‘I’ve seen nothing. Tomaz won’t talk about it. I tell you what, though . . .’ He patted a small satchel that hung over his shoulder. ‘I’ll be ready for him if
he does show up. Him or his missus – I can deal with ghosts.’

‘What’s in there?’

‘That’s my exorcism kit. I’m taking no chances now the old witch has gone as well.’

‘You’re not a priest any more. What good’s that going to do?’

Father O’Hanrahan took a long mouthful of whisky, licked his lips, and smiled. ‘I remember the basics. I got some fresh holy water, mail order. I got it all written down, and anyway
– it’s like riding a bike. Exorcism is something you don’t forget.’

‘Drink up, then. Sounds like you’ve got a lot of work to do.’

Professor Worthington was in the Tower of Science with the headmaster and noticed a flashlight bobbing over the grass. She had brought the python up to her lab and it lay
coiled around her chair, hoping for some scraps of toast. The two teachers always met last thing at night to discuss the day and review progress.

‘Father O’Hanrahan’s out and about,’ she said.

‘Is he?’

‘What could he be up to at this time of night?’

‘I think he’s looking for a purpose, Clarissa. I don’t think he feels connected to this community just yet.’

‘I wonder if you should have invited him.’

‘He invited himself. I think I have to get better at saying
no
to people. Having said that, Doonan is an absolute blessing. He’s just the sort of teacher we need.’

‘He’s very good with Caspar, I’ve noticed. Even Miles gets on with him.’

‘Why do you say
even Miles
? Miles seems to have calmed down.’

‘Miles won’t ever be calm. Have you seen the way Henry’s behaving, by the way?’

‘No. Not particularly.’

‘You don’t notice things, do you, Giles?’

‘How is Henry behaving?’

‘He’s always watching Miles. Something’s brewing.’

‘Something’s always brewing, that’s the nature of a school . . .’

‘Yes, but Henry feels things. Henry’s on edge and I don’t know why.’

‘Clarissa, I’m sorry to interrupt – but is that snake trying to hypnotise me, by any chance?’

Professor Worthington scratched the python’s head gently, but it didn’t take its eyes off the headmaster’s.

‘He’s probably wondering if he could swallow you. That’s our next project, you know. Once we’ve finished reproduction, the boys want to do digestion. It will mean
ordering piglets, but I think we should follow enthusiasm when it’s shown.’

It was pitch dark when Father O’Hanrahan reached the chapel. He was in a hurry, feeling at last that there was progress to be made. He had a torch in his hand and the key
in his pocket. He descended the steps slowly and tapped at the door.