Ribblestrop

by Andy Mulligan

  “Give them to me, please. The earrings. No, no, no—he’s got to be involved—we’ll have to set up a video link. Talk to my secretary, call me back.”

  “You know, I haven’t read that rule,” said Millie. Her heart was beating faster, just like Anjoli’s, but she managed to keep her friendliest voice. The woman’s hand was so close to her cheek, and Millie fought the urge to bite. “I’ve been trying to get hold of a new rule book for some time,” she said. “I lost my copy and I feel rather at sea without it.”

  “Oh, I’ll find you a rule book,” said Miss Hazlitt. Her voice had dropped still further. It was a poisonous whisper. “Don’t you worry about a rule book, child. We’ll be looking at the rule book, line by line. We shall learn it by rote if necessary, because routine and regulation are the cornerstones—the pillars—of any great construction, which this school will be. A school to change history.”

  The headmaster laughed softly. “Ah, yes, construction is the word. Though, as you know, Miss Hazlitt—hah!—we have a very relaxed approach here. Now, why don’t you meet the orphans? Children, Miss Hazlitt was instrumental in smoothing the way for you boys, so I know you’ll want to make her welcome. Come along, now, out of the shadows!”

  Miss Hazlitt’s eyes left Millie’s. She turned away, her gaze shifting from child to child. She moved from cluster to cluster, peering hard. Now and then she touched a chin or a shoulder, or turned a head to see the child in profile.

  “Sit,” she said, at length.

  “Some of you may wonder,” said the headmaster, “why Miss Hazlitt is here. Well. It’s for many reasons. Administration and finance are two of them.”

  “Health,” said Miss Hazlitt. “Safety and discipline.”

  “Yes, indeed. So? A round of applause, I think, to welcome a most important member of staff.”

  Everybody clapped and the cell phone chirped again under it. The woman’s thumb was a blur as she dealt with the call. “I’ll start tomorrow with the one-to-one interviews,” she said to the headmaster. “I need to cross-reference my own notes with your filing system and I need to conduct medical examinations, as a priority. There seems to be very little information about any of them, so that will have to change . . . I will also be teaching, children. So I will have the opportunity of getting to know you intimately. Think of me, if you will, as both teacher and friend.”

  “Yes,” said the headmaster. “I suppose—”

  “Note to self,” said Miss Hazlitt, into her cell phone. “Address timetabling issue re: personal-conduct classes and ensure exercise is part of an appropriate program—double-check timetable. A lot of red meat, Headmaster. I don’t see any balance in this diet.” Miss Hazlitt’s eyes flicked over the ranks one last time. “I’ll see you all tomorrow,” she said. “Ties properly worn. Shirts buttoned at the neck and tucked in smartly. Blazers done up.” She held Millie’s eye a little longer. “Doctor, I think you and I need to talk.” She tried to turn and a plank shifted under her. She grabbed a bench for stability—nearly dropped her briefcase—and righted herself. She tried once again to smile. Everyone saw her dentures shift. She picked her way across the hall to the corridor, the headmaster following.

  “Wow,” said Millie. “What a cow.”

  *

  The hall emptied. Millie was on washing-up duty and she worked at it slowly. Her mind was buzzing. There were two bags full of stolen goods she had to conceal, and she wondered how long she had. The woman had recognized her, and cross-referencing the credit card records with the goods in her shed would be all too easy. There was a very conspicuous fur coat that had been ridiculously expensive and the earrings had nearly been taken. Everything would have to go, she knew it. She could wrap it in plastic and hide it in the woods, maybe. Reclaim it before Christmas? How infuriating . . . Millie was so engrossed in her plans that she didn’t hear Captain Routon behind her, didn’t notice him even as he leaned in next to her.

  “Millie,” he said, softly. Millie started and swung round. “I know why you’re wearing makeup.”

  “What?”

  He had a flashlight in his hand, but it wasn’t switched on. He was looking at Millie hard, in the candlelight. “I’ve seen those sores before,” he said.

  “What sores?”

  “The ones you’re trying to hide. The sores on your face.”

  He spoke gently and sympathetically. There was no threat.

  “I’m not trying to embarrass you, Millie. The fact is I know they’re not cold sores—that’s what the headmaster thinks they are. That’s what we told him.”

  “What are they?” said Millie. Her mouth had gone dry.

  “You’ve been near acid.” Captain Routon paused. “You’ve been near something with ammonia, and quite a dose. I was speaking to Professor Worthington and we think you’ve had a blast of something nasty, unless you’re allergic to bleach.”

  “Are they on your feet?” said another voice. Millie saw a shape in the shadows of rubble and timber. It was Professor Worthington, cocoa in hand. “You often get them where the skin is stretched,” continued Professor Worthington. “Ankles, scalp. They don’t clear up with a bit of moisturizer, Millie. The captain’s right.”

  Millie discovered her hands were shaking. Her fingers were up at her mouth, hovering over the little pustules.

  “Captain Routon said bleach, but it’s not, is it? I think it’s something more serious. I’d like to know where you’ve been, Millie.”

  “Nowhere. It’s just eczema, I always get it. It’s fine.”

  “Millie. I need to look at your skin.”

  Both adults came toward her. She was desperately aware of the darkness all around and the fact that every other child in the school was high up in a tower, a long way from where she stood now. Captain Routon switched his flashlight on and the powerful beam flicked madly over the makeshift kitchen. There was a knife block close to the taps. Six knives stood ready: she could reach them if she needed to. They knew she’d been in the cellar, they must do. Was it their laboratory she’d found?

  “Can I see?” said Professor Worthington.

  Millie’s mind was racing faster. She knew what was causing her sores, she had no doubt at all. It was the white powder from the bottle she’d broken, the stuff she’d so stupidly touched. Professor Worthington had recognized it and wanted to be sure. That meant . . . that must mean it was her laboratory. If it was her laboratory, she now knew Millie had been inside. The child closed her eyes. What choice was there? The teacher held the bright light centimeters from her; she felt the breath of Professor Worthington on her cheek.

  As if the woman could sense her fear she said, gently: “I’m not going to touch you, Millie. I don’t need to touch you. The captain’s here because he’s seen this before and I wanted a second opinion. Don’t be frightened.”

  Millie flipped an eye open and the light was merciless. She closed it again. For a split second she imagined herself in a dentist’s chair, tilted to the light.

  “Where have you seen them before?” she asked the captain. Her voice was a strange, grating squeak.

  “Pakistan,” said Captain Routon. “Some of the local boys used a thing called myelin.”

  “Heard of that, Millie?” asked Professor Worthington.

  Millie shook her head.

  “It’s a nerve agent,” said Captain Routon. “Developed in the Second World War, liquid form. They’d put drums of it in a car and get some madman to drive it into the barracks. Grenade goes off, you’ve got a blast that takes the skin off your bones. Now the gas . . .”

  “Hold your collar open, Millie. I’m not going to touch you. They’re all over your gums as well, aren’t they?”

  Millie nodded.

  “The gas is different,” said the captain. “Anyone sniffing the gas knows about it. The sores they get are just like what you’ve got.”

  “I would say,” said Professor Worthington, “that you’ve been exposed to a sulphur-based acid compound. It could contain myelin. I
t’s not been a severe dose, or you wouldn’t have any skin left. It’s stored in powder form, to keep it stable. If it touches water, you get the vapor. You’ve been somewhere dangerous.”

  “I haven’t been anywhere,” said Millie.

  “Millie,” said the captain. “Why don’t you tell us, love?”

  He waited with patience. He turned off his flashlight. All three stood in the candlelight, and the silence went on, and on. Someone had to speak, or it would be midnight.

  “Nowhere,” said Millie.

  Professor Worthington sniffed. She felt in her pocket and brought out a squat bottle. There was a paste inside, like mayonnaise. She said: “Rub this on tonight. And tomorrow morning, lunchtime, and night. If you run out, come and see me. I’ll give the treatment three days to work and if your skin hasn’t cleared up, we’ll take you to hospital. And I’ll need to tell the police, because that stuff is illegal unless you’re licensed. You may have to tell them something, Millie.”

  “The police?”

  “Chemicals like that are controlled, you need a police certificate just to store them. Now rub this onto the skin, right into the sore. I’m not going to press you, because that’s not my nature. But I’ll say this: if you are getting into places where somebody’s playing with myelin, you must have a death wish. There is no more painful way to die.”

  “Are you listening?” said Captain Routon. Millie nodded.

  “It destroys brain cells. It was developed as a nerve agent, to destroy memory. It attacks the brain and leaves you without a mind.”

  “I understand,” whispered Millie.

  “Good.”

  “We’ll see you in the morning,” said Captain Routon.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Are you awake, Ruskin?” said Sam, just after lights out.

  Sanchez was breathing evenly. The night was peaceful, though Henry was just starting to snore. He barely fitted in the bed, and it creaked under the rise and fall of his massive chest. Of all the children, Henry had worked hardest. He had exhausted himself removing the trees from one of the penalty areas, a task that had kept him occupied for most of the day. He’d only had ten minutes for training, but his huge kicks had impressed everyone. He had also eaten the most and had dozed through Miss Hazlitt’s maiden speech at Ribblestrop.

  “I’m awake,” said Ruskin.

  Sam said, “Have you played soccer much before? You seemed ever so good.”

  “I enjoy it,” said Ruskin. “I thought Sanchez did some cracking saves. You know, I think Henry should be center forward. That’s pole position really: he can sweep the ball up the pitch and get it up to you and me.”

  “And Millie,” said Sam.

  “She’s fast,” said Ruskin. “She’ll be dangerous in the penalty area. You see, I’m not sure the orphans will have much grasp of strategy. Yet. I mean, don’t misunderstand me—I think they’re doing frightfully well. But it is all a bit ‘kick and rush’ as my father says. They’ll be at the opposition like a flock of birds, we’ll see some real skirmishing. But in terms of a controlled attack . . . well, I have a feeling that’s for us more experienced players. I think you and Henry ought to practice together tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  Silence fell. Sam stared into it with wide-open eyes. How he wished his vision would clear. As he stared, he noticed the light change. The door was opening slowly; a ghostly beam entered. From a flashlight. A small figure padded across the flagstones.

  “Anyone awake?” whispered Millie. Her voice was low and rasping.

  “Hey!” said Sanchez. He sat up angrily.

  “Millie?” hissed Ruskin.

  “This room is for boys!” said Sanchez.

  “I know, I can smell that. I’m only visiting.” She crept in and sat at the end of Sanchez’s bed.

  “Aii! Jesus! You sat on my blasted foot! Oh my sweet . . .”

  “Sorry,” said Millie, rearranging herself at the end of the bed. “That was an accident, Sanchez. Look, this is urgent. We’ve got to get down to that basement room. I know you want me to forget all about it, but I can’t. I’ve been contaminated. I was rescued by some weirdo who didn’t want to be seen and we can’t ignore it anymore.” She paused, to let it sink in. Then she said, simply, “I’m going back down.”

  “When?” said Ruskin.

  “Soon. The headmaster said he had a map. I’m going to find it. I’m going to break into his study.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Sanchez.

  “And you’re a coward,” said Millie. “You’re stubborn and you’re frightened, and you think saying ‘You’re crazy’ over and over again will make the whole thing go away. But it won’t. Without your bodyguards, Sanchez, you’re just a scared little boy. Caspar Vyner would be more use than you.”

  “You can’t break into places, certainly not the headmaster’s—”

  “And you can’t ignore something that you know is totally wrong and puts the fear of God into you!”

  “Look, there are places down there rented out quite legally to other people.”

  “That’s true,” said Ruskin. “We were told that on the first day, we mustn’t interfere with the other tenants.”

  “A boy went missing, Sanchez! A friend of yours!”

  “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “He was never seen again! I’ve been thinking and thinking: what if there’s a connection?”

  “He ran away! Tomaz went home!”

  “They’re playing with dangerous drugs and chemicals down there, it’s happening right under our noses. How can we pretend it’s not happening?” There was a silence. Millie spoke again, this time in her bitterest voice. “Okay, boys, I just popped in hoping someone might have the guts to help me. I thought I’d give you the chance. You don’t want to: no problem, I’ll go alone.”

  “It’s kind of you, Millie,” said Ruskin. “But this soccer training has really done me in.”

  “I don’t mind—” said Sam. But he was interrupted by a sudden flurry of sheets and duvet as Sanchez leaped angrily out of his bed.

  “Okay, fine!” he said, in a savage whisper. “Yes, you are crazy. Second, also, I am not a coward. I will come, if that’s what you want: and I will prove you’re crazy. We’ll go downstairs together; we will find a map, except we probably won’t find a map. If we do, we will go underground, and we will find out what’s going on, which is nothing, and then we get some sleep. Okay?”

  “Fine,” said Millie.

  “Turn round.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to get dressed and I don’t want you looking.”

  *

  Minutes later, two small figures crept down the tower stairs.

  “You really think I’m mad?” said Millie.

  “Yes.”

  She laughed suddenly. “Here. If we get caught by the Cockroach, she’s going to think we’re sweethearts.”

  “Who’s the Cockroach?”

  “Who do you think? Miss Hazlitt. What kind of name’s that? The human-insect. Listen, if we get caught she’ll assume we’re off in the night for a secret snog. Can you think of anything worse?”

  “I would rather cut my throat,” said Sanchez. “You know that?”

  “You know where the headmaster’s room is?”

  “No. My sense of direction’s nonexistent.”

  “Then you’re lucky I came. Follow me.”

  They came to the main corridor, and then the smaller staircase that led to the corridor with the headless suit of armor. Sanchez led the way: up a short flight of steps to another corridor. Left, then right. Soon they were at the imposing black paneled door of the study, which—not surprisingly—was shut.

  “You think it’s unlocked?” said Sanchez.

  “I doubt it. But I have a way with doors. I have a little tool kit with me. Try it.”

  “Okay . . .” So, gently, as if fearing for alarms and guards, Sanchez tried the door handle. The door was locked. “No luck,�
� he whispered.

  “Okay . . . Shine the torch. We can try this a few times.” She searched a pocket and produced a toothbrush. The end had been melted flat. “Here’s one I prepared earlier,” she said.

  “Your toothbrush?”

  “Sam’s actually. I thought he’d like to do his bit. Now: hold the torch, nice and steady. This is how schools get burned down. Oh—hold on. Oil the lock.” She produced an oilcan. “Found this in my dorm. Bit of luck they gave me the shed, eh?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I oil the lock. It’s easy only if the lock is smooth. Now: I’m going to warm up the toothbrush. One lighter . . .”

  “You thief!” said Sanchez. “You’ve still got it! That’s my father’s bloody lighter!”

  “Stop swearing. Your language really deteriorates when you’re cross. I’ll give it back to you, I just couldn’t resist it. He’s a rich man.”

  Sanchez muttered in Spanish. Millie held the lighter up and flipped out a strong flame. She then rolled the end of the plastic toothbrush into the hottest part and kept it there. She played the flame on both sides.

  “I needed a good lighter. This is perfect, you see: you have to get it just right, nice and wet. But not too wet.”

  “Wet?”

  “Molten. Melted.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to put this end into the lock. The molten plastic will form itself into the shape of the key. Once it’s cool, we turn the key. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two, three . . . go.” Millie pushed the plastic firmly into the keyhole and felt the soft end squirm round the metal. She pushed farther, seeing in her mind the plastic stretch and bulge. Then, she waited. “Now it cools.”

  “I blow on it, yes?”

  “Yes. And give it five minutes.”

  Sanchez blew into the keyhole. Millie pocketed the lighter and they sat, backs to the door, legs outstretched.

  “You do this before?” said Sanchez.

  “Once or twice.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Only if you let the toothbrush cool and harden. If it’s stuck to the lock casing, no chance. We must take our time: the plastic contracts.”