Return to Ribblestrop (29 page)

The darkness seemed total. It seemed to jump at the men and press itself against them. Each man blinked and stared, astonished that such darkness was possible. Then, at first like a trick of the
brain, they saw a flicker – a very thin glow, that suggested candles. It might have been a hundred metres below them, but in that overpowering darkness, the glow leaked upwards without a
flicker.

‘That could be it,’ said Gary. ‘There shouldn’t be a light source down there.’

‘How do we descend?’ said Father O’Hanrahan.

Gary switched his flashlight back on.

‘We drop. Ever tried an assault ladder?’

The man had his rucksack open and was pulling a large coil of wire from it. The policeman seemed to know what to do as well. He had a metal stake in one hand, a hammer in the other. In seconds
the air around them was throbbing to the sound of iron blows, and the old man watched as the wire was bent and tied, tested, and double-tied.

‘It’s a knack,’ said Gary. ‘Put your torch round your neck.’

He flung the coil into space and it unfurled downwards into the corkscrew. The ladder was the width of a hand. The wire was so thin as to be invisible.

‘I’m not a spider, sir,’ said the old man. ‘You won’t get me down on that!’

‘Your choice,’ said Gary, getting his boot onto a rung. ‘It’s a lot easier than it looks and the alternative is staying up here.’

He swung himself into the void and, with surprising speed, started his descent. Ten metres below, he paused and looked up.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I can hear jazz. I think we might be close.’

In the orphans’ east tower dormitory, the party was getting yet louder. Doonan had tried to call for hush, but the boys didn’t seem to hear him. It was pyramid time
and that meant a great deal of drumming. Biscuit tins had been saved for several weeks and a substantial kit had been created. Sanchez started the first roll and Henry moved to the centre. Two
pairs of sturdier orphans flanked him, and then – one by one – as the cymbals crashed, boys leaped and scrambled. Within seconds there was a second tier. The third tier was easy too,
especially as Flavio had coached the team in handsprings and backflips. Anjoli and Sanjay were still the stars and could fly upwards, somersaulting twice into position on the shoulders of their
cousins.

As the party was in Imagio’s honour, he was allowed pride of place at the apex. He couldn’t jump that high without the trampoline, but he could flip into eager hands, which then
flung him up another level. The pyramid stood firm, Imagio’s head way up in the conical tower amongst the drying socks and hammocks.

Sanchez changed the drum rhythm. Millie was trying to make herself heard, but was having as little success as Doonan. The boys now started to change position. The four at the base dropped to
their knees and crawled backwards. This meant that the formation was now centred around Henry only. On his cue, Henry started to turn and the structure turned with him – the boys had their
arms outstretched.

‘I can’t hear you, Sam,’ said Millie into a radio set. ‘It’s completely crazy! Wait!’ She took the unit out of the dormitory and closed the door. She still
couldn’t hear – she had to descend a dozen steps. ‘Right. How’s it going? Over.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I said “How’s it going?” Over.’

‘Oh, it’s not bad at all,’ said Sam. ‘We’ve had our supper. I’m making some tea and we’ve put a record on.’

There was a pause.

‘Say
over
,’ said Millie. ‘If you say
over
, I know you’ve finished speaking. It makes it easier. Over.’

‘OK. Over.’

‘So what are you calling about, Sam? Is there a problem? Over.’

‘No. It’s just that . . . well, it’s gone midnight and there’s no sign of Eric.’ He paused. ‘Over.’

Millie checked her watch and cursed. Asilah had insisted on rigid timekeeping, so far, and everyone had been very conscientious. Eric, Podma, and Israel should have left half an hour ago.
Without them, however, the pyramid had no centre. There was also the obvious fact that nobody wanted to miss Imagio’s farewell – the boy was a much-loved figure. He had been in tears
twice already during the day, dreading the farewells that were now so close. Mr Scanlon was arriving the very next morning and a limousine would take their friend away to London. The deal was
done.

‘Are you there, Millie? Over.’

‘We’re running a bit late, Sam,’ said Millie. ‘Over.’

‘Yes,’ said Sam. ‘It’s just that . . . I played football with Imagio too, Millie. I was hoping to see him.’

Millie knew this and cursed under her breath. If there was one boy desperate to say goodbye personally to Imagio, and spend time with him, it was loyal little Sam. She could feel the guilt
rising, so she moved swiftly to aggression.

‘I’m afraid you have to make sacrifices sometimes,’ she said. ‘There’s a party going on: you’ll see him in the morning.’

‘I know, over. It’s just that—’

‘Life isn’t always fair, Sam. Sometimes you get the short straw.’

‘Millie . . .’

‘What? Say
over
if you’ve finished, or we just sit here interrupting each other. Look: we’ll send Eric as soon as we can, alright? Open another bottle of wine and make
Imagio a nice card.’ She clicked the radio over Sam’s clicking. ‘See you later. Over and out.’

‘Millie . . .’

Sam clicked the radio more urgently, stepping back as he did so.

‘Millie! Wait . . .’

He was in Tomaz’s kitchen, beside the charger. As he spoke, he had glanced up into the lounge area, where Oli and Ruskin sat. He had seen something and it had made him go cold.

It was a man, wearing black. He was standing on a sideboard, with his back to Sam. He was staring at Ruskin, but Ruskin was dozing over the chessboard. As Sam watched, he let himself down
noiselessly onto the carpet. Sam had no idea what to do. He stepped sideways, into the darkness, and hugged the radio, quivering.

‘Sushamila’s gone,’ said Flavio, standing by the cage.

‘That’s not a problem, is it?’

‘Is not a problem – everyone else accounted for . . . I jus’ don’ know how she does it.’

‘Well,’ said Captain Routon. ‘She’s harmless. She pads about on her own from time to time – let’s leave her to it.’

‘It’s like magic,’ said Flavio. ‘How can she chew her way out o’ here when she’s got no teeth?’

‘Do you want to go looking for her?’

‘I think she misses that damn crocodile. She was by the lake yesterday. And the day before. That’s the thing about these animals, you know – I guess it’s after all that
time on the road. They like a little family. They
care
about each other.’

Routon checked his watch.

‘She’ll be back,’ he said. ‘If we’re going to see the headmaster, we ought to be moving. He said he’d be brewing the cocoa just about now.’

‘You’re right. Shall I bring a bottle?’

‘Always wise. I’ve got a feeling it’s bad news.’

‘Still no money?’

‘Things are grim. Unless something comes up, Circus Ribblestrop will fall at the first fence. I just wish I had some ideas. Or some savings.’

Captain Routon spent a lot of time down in Flavio’s cab. It reminded him of the services and time under fire, warm as toast in a dug-out. He didn’t miss the bombardments, of course,
but he did miss the easy comradeship of soldiers together. He put his coat on and they set off together.

‘Talking of the circus,’ he said, ‘did I ever tell you about the time my corporal got trampled by an elephant?’

Flavio sucked in his breath. “That happened to a friend o’ mine. Where was yours?’

‘Sri Lanka.’

‘Mine was a wedding in Pakistan. The bride’s father, man – got drunk and tried to swing on its trunk.’

As the two tales unfolded, the men wandered to the building. They did not go past the lake, or even look towards it. If they had, they might have seen Darren paddling the speedboat with silent
oars. He was thinking about betrayal, turning his rage over and over in his empty head. He would have liked to use the motor – he liked noisy things. But his instructions had been clear:
Total silence.

It wasn’t hard work: the boat was light and handled nicely. Landmarks were easy to see in the starlight and the water lapped softly under him. Far off he could hear the clatter of drums.
His brain went back to the chance he’d had and the chance he’d lost. He’d heard about Imagio’s luck, of course, and his loathing for every member of that cursed Ribblestrop
team caused him to grit his teeth. To be here, on their territory, made him feel even worse. If the opportunity came – if he met up with any of the kids – he’d do more than
immobilise
. The thought of pounding the face of a Ribblestrop child made him grin for a moment.

He came round to the first island and sighted the white shoulders of Neptune. He paused and wondered if he had tools to vandalise it. He brooded, floated, and lit a cigarette.

Who knows how many birds or beasts noticed that small flaring of a match? Who knows how many fish felt the vibrations of that matchstick as it landed on the water? One thing was for sure: a
crocodile noticed, because the night was so still, and it was hanging motionless and hungry not five metres from the boat. It had followed its wake and it turned now, slowly, and rose to the
surface to open a single eyelid.

On the edge of the woods, meanwhile, a larger animal had seen the flame. Her old eyes were poor, but the match had still been like a flare in the darkness, and she paused in her drinking. Darren
didn’t hear the low, anxious growl. He pressed on into the shallows, and reaching the bank, clambered out to wait under the statue.

Gary Cuthbertson’s ladder had fallen amongst the shards of mirror that the orphans used as Christmas decorations. They swayed on their cords and a couple of them
clinked.

As he climbed down, he was so astonished that he wasn’t sure what to do. He’d emerged from darkness and here he was in a forest of fairy-lights: it was some kind of palace, and his
thoughts were racing so fast he could only gape at the treasures around him. He could see tapestries and a suit of armour. There was a picture in a gilt frame; in fact, there were several pictures.
There was what appeared to be the chimney of a stove – but there were so many tree branches it was hard to see what was where.

His instinct was to call up to his brother, but he checked the cry in his throat and climbed a little lower, holding his breath. Clearly, there was someone down there – and at the moment
he still had the advantage of surprise. He hoped the old man above him wouldn’t slip or shout. Decision made, he went down another few rungs, doing his best to be silent. He found a ledge of
rock and stepped onto it. Then it was easy: he found two good footholds and lowered himself onto a sideboard. The Vyner collection was laid out as if it had been waiting for him.

He saw the child at the same moment it saw him. It was Oli, and they stared at each other.

The boy licked his lips and put down his soldering-iron. He looked utterly bewildered.

‘Jake,’ he said. ‘There’s a man.’

Gary Cuthbertson moved fast. He was a ruthless soul and had played rugby for years, specialising in the illegal tackle. The adrenaline flared up in him and he leaped. He had Oli by the arm
before he could flinch, jerking him out of his chair and swinging him round. There was another boy at the table, so he picked the little one up in both hands and shoved him onto the big one, hard.
The larger one buckled under the impact, grunting with pain, and they were both on the floor. Then the little one took a deep breath and screamed.

Gary Cuthbertson found the two heads and slammed them into each other. Then he moved his hands to their necks. He pulled and pushed until they were under him. He got his knees on top, pressing
with all his weight, and he shoved the two faces into the rug. No more screaming, no more moving. He didn’t have the handcuffs or any way of restraining them, but he could hold them until
help arrived.

‘Percy!’ he yelled. ‘Get down here, now!’

He glanced around the room, fearing witnesses. They seemed to be alone. He pressed the faces down, harder. Then, as he got his breath back, he allowed himself another look around the astonishing
room. There were stuffed animals, statues, and more suits of armour. The furniture was polished wood, reflecting the silverware – there was cut-glass on the shelves and a white rabbit
standing in terror on an armchair.

His eyes were drawn to some kind of pedestal. Then, upwards, to the thing on the pedestal. It was turned away from him – he hadn’t seen it at first. Whoever had put the place
together had an eye for display, for it stood against a background of dark greens – it was a golden suit of armour and it stood at ease, shoulders back, surveying the chamber. Its gauntleted
hands came together in front and they clasped . . . a golden sword.

One of the boys made a frantic bid for air or freedom. Gary Cuthbertson changed his grip and got more weight on him. He didn’t want to kill them, but he had no anxiety about causing them
pain. Not when he was so close to success.

He had to look again. Was that the sword they’d come for? If so, they were now so close . . .

‘Percy!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you?’

D.C.C. Cuthbertson appeared on the ladder. ‘This is it!’ he cried. ‘This is it!’

‘Help me,’ said Gary. ‘We’ve got visitors to deal with.’

It was another few minutes before the policeman was on the ground. He had taken it slowly, because his hands were shaking and his feet couldn’t find the rungs. When he
made it to firm earth again, he staggered and his legs buckled. He took in his brother and the two captives, but he too was lost in the wonder of the treasures around him. He saw the knight
immediately and its beauty left him speechless. He reached up and touched it.

‘Give me your handcuffs!’ shouted Gary. ‘Let’s sort these kids out first.’ The policeman didn’t hear him. He had to say it again, louder.

D.C.C. Cuthbertson turned. His brother was sitting back and the two boys weren’t moving. The skinny one was crushed under the larger one and his nose was bleeding.