“What is that?” said Ruskin. “It looks like fire.”
The word had been said—that dangerous word. It was whispered again now and it caught and crackled between them all. “Fire . . .” they said. “It’s fire!”
“It can’t be,” said Sanchez. He elbowed his way to the front and pressed his face against the windowpane. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “It’s the roof!”
Just at that moment, as Henry let out a great sob of horror, a column of light shot upward and nobody was in doubt. As if to confirm the nightmare, a bell began to clang wildly. There were distant cries and a woman’s voice started to scream. It was unmistakable then, because the voice was thin and desperate, sailing over the rooftops—she was crying for help and the bell became frantic and constant. Like a flock of birds, they moved together. Some managed to grab shoes and blazers, others just ran barefoot. They piled out of the door and were leaping the stairs, three, four at a time.
Sam said, “It can’t be, can it?” but there was no one to answer him. Asilah was in the lead, but when he cannoned out into the corridor and raced to the doors, he found them locked. Children were piling down the stairs still as those at the bottom tried to fight their way back up. The door had never been locked before.
Somehow the tide turned and Sanchez led everyone back to the left, then a right. It was the back way and they were wasting precious time. They now had to go through the herb garden and round the front of the building.
The main doors were locked as well and the glow was fiercer. They could hear a roaring, and everyone knew that awful, furnace sound. They saw a tower of flame licking upward and they ran even faster. The bell was louder too—the type you ring by hand—and Miss Hazlitt’s voice was screeching over and over again, “Help! Help us here!”
Israel shouted, “Follow me, I know another way!”
He led the way to where the school van was parked and the children flooded through a narrow arch into the courtyard. Millie had lost her bearings for a moment and she couldn’t see at first. She couldn’t understand, because looking up, the new roof seemed to be intact and safe. The fire was coming from somewhere else—her little yard, separate from the kitchen and the hall. Another plume of sparks rose over the dividing wall and something detonated like a bomb, the air around them suddenly charged with the stink of gas. Somebody was screaming and there were adult voices yelling orders. But most terrifying of all was the unending, rising roar of the flames as they devoured Millie’s little wooden shed.
“She’s in there, she’s in there!” yelled a voice.
Henry was cowering backward from the heat; Professor Worthington was there, so was the headmaster. Sanchez tried to force everyone back, but Millie fought her way to the front, ducking under his arm. She knew, somewhere she had known, and she’d been a fool not to anticipate this. Her shed was the furnace.
Someone’s arms enclosed her and dragged her back. The wooden walls were simply sheets of flame and something else exploded inside. She could feel her eyebrows singeing, and there was a clamor of voices shouting about water and a hosepipe, and the fire bell kept on ringing like madness.
Then, above the whole cacophony was Captain Routon’s voice. He’d just arrived on the scene; he was in his pajamas and he was roaring like a madman, “Millie! Millie!” He was pounding on the burning door, standing in the flames. He crashed at it with his shoulder, dragged it backward, but the door wouldn’t give. He was beaten back by the heat; he turned away smouldering. His jacket was blackening.
The shed roof was ablaze now; a hosepipe began playing a stream of water, uselessly, over the inferno. Then Captain Routon, with no heed to his own safety, sprang at the flames and began to hack the timbers away with his bare hands. The door was down. He found something, some burning timber or tool and started to swing it wildly. Bits of flaming wood and cloth flew left and right as he struck. Then he moved into the fireball—at least he had boots on—and the walls disintegrated about him.
Millie couldn’t speak. She saw inside. She saw her own bed and it was rolling in fire. The flames were over it like a fluid and there was an awful sighing as the mattress was consumed. She could see bedsprings and the whole black chassis with a burning pail turning to liquid. Captain Routon was on fire too. He’d dropped his weapon and was searching madly, moving like a drunk man. He kicked the bed over, he turned in the blaze, searching and searching. The headmaster appeared beside him. He’d grabbed the hose and was trying to drench the captain. And then, suddenly, as if someone had pulled a lever, because the shed was so small the flames began to die. The inferno divided itself into a few ragged curtains and fell to the floor. The flames were extinguished in the gravel.
Captain Routon dropped to his knees, panting and moaning.
Then Professor Worthington was shouting, “She’s there, Routon! She’s there!” and every head was swinging round. A gap formed around her and Millie stood with her mouth open. It was dawning on her what the captain had been doing. He could barely lift his head and he certainly couldn’t stand. His face and head were a mass of dirt and stubble, and Millie realized the new smell, the barbecue smell, was cooked human flesh. He was lifting his hands, and they were as cumbersome as claws: they’d been roasted. His dry lips were moving and over and over again he was blubbering, “Oh Lord, thank you . . . Oh my sweet, sweet . . . thank you . . .” but the words were indistinct because his tongue wouldn’t work and he was weeping.
Millie was embraced by Professor Worthington. She had never been held so tight.
“I’ll get my car,” said the headmaster. “He needs a hospital.”
“How did it start?” said Millie.
Routon was mumbling and moaning, and it was Sanchez who got under his arm and tried to lift. That was when the big man howled in pain.
Millie was feeling very sick and very cold. She was trembling all over: shock was kicking in as the adrenaline reduced. She had survived; she was alive; she should be dead. She should have been burned to a crisp inside that shed, stretched out on the metal of that bed . . . She saw herself for a split second, naked on the springs. Charcoal black, teeth bright white between charred lips. She had survived.
And there was a new terror as well, which fought against any relief. Sheds don’t catch fire. Fires are started. If fires are started, somebody started this one. That means somebody wants me dead . . . As the thought solidified, as the lump of certainty formed, there was a sharp whistling sound and the crack of a whip. Something flew past in the night air, close to her face.
She looked to her left. One or two of the orphans had heard the noise, but there was still too much going on. Captain Routon was being helped back toward the kitchen by Sanchez, Asilah, and Sanjay. The noise came again, and this time Millie felt a rush of air pass her ear. There was a buzzing mosquito noise and a sharp snap. Sanjay had heard it too and now he pointed to the ground some three meters behind.
An arrow was sticking out of the earth: only a few centimeters of the shaft were visible. Sanjay looked up, followed the trajectory, and pointed at the south tower. The top window was in clear view, and there was a figure leaning out, something huge in his arms.
“Caspar,” said Sanjay.
Millie was to think later how slow reflexes could be. She was standing still, looking at Caspar and Caspar’s new crossbow. She was a stationary target, offering herself; the child was leaning out as far as he could, lining up his third, lethal shot. It was only when that third arrow smacked into a nearby door, millimeters from her head, that Millie really understood.
She threw herself to the side and never found out if a fourth shot came. She rolled and was on her feet again, cowering to the wall. There was another door and she backed through it into the corridor. To one side was the wide staircase to the headmaster’s study and she felt safer under cover.
Miss Hazlitt was standing there, with a bell in her hand. She wore an expression of both rage and astonishment; it left her mouth twisted half open. “Stay where you a
re!” she said.
Then, from off to the right, another voice—one word she didn’t understand at first.
“Assassin!”
The voice was behind and above her; it came from the stairs. People wanted her dead; they were trying to kill her. Two attempts, and now?
“Assassin!” screamed the voice again.
Something mechanical ratcheted hard and fast, and even Millie recognized the sound of a shotgun.
“You shot him in the bath!” yelled the voice, and Millie turned, stepping wildly. She was off balance; she swung drunkenly into a large clock she’d never noticed before—where could she run? It was Lady Vyner, pale as a ghost, moving down the stairs toward her. She had a shotgun in her hands and was raising it. “I know what you are!” she was shouting. “I know what you did!”
Millie threw herself at the door of the school. Locked, of course. She huddled against it, tearing at the bolts. She was crying and panting now, the hysteria taking hold.
“Millie, wait!”
Sanchez had appeared and was calling her. He hadn’t seen Lady Vyner. The door wouldn’t budge. She could hear Israel and perhaps somebody else, their feet on the stairs. The bolts of the door were so stiff Millie’s hands were bleeding. She smashed at the metal, waiting to die.
Miss Hazlitt’s voice cut through the mayhem: “Millie Roads! Stay where you are!”
Then there was an explosion so loud it seemed to turn the world over and a rain of plaster was falling on her head.
The last bolt slid to the side; the door opened and Millie fell out of it. Someone fell on top of her—it was Sanchez, but she disentangled herself and tried to run. The boy had her by the arm and was pulling her back. He got his arms round her.
“Wait, Millie—wait!”
Millie swore and kicked. She got a knee up and felt Sanchez double up in pain, but he would not let go. She glimpsed his face, pleading, panic-stricken now but still hanging on in an effort to restrain her. She punched as hard as she could and she was free. She ran faster than she’d ever run, losing both shoes, slipping in the gravel, and tearing her elbows and knees. Then she was on her feet again, sprinting over the grass.
There was a second gunshot behind her and she managed to run even faster, clearing the lawn and then blundering on. Her chest was heaving; she aimed for the lake, with no plan in her head anymore. All she wanted was to get away from fire, from crossbows, from shotguns, and from people. . . .
Chapter Thirty-eight
“You’re in charge, Sanchez,” said the headmaster. “You’re senior boy; I’m counting on you one hundred percent. We’re going to the hospital, I want you—”
“I’ve got Routon,” said Professor Worthington. “Let’s go.”
“Millie’s gone,” said Sanchez. “Anjoli, too—he was washing up, and Israel says he hasn’t been seen—”
“Find Miss Hazlitt, she was here a second ago.”
“The car’s right here, Headmaster. Hurry, every second is crucial.”
“What about Millie, sir? Please! She’s out there—”
“Phone the police and find Miss Hazlitt. If you can’t find her, use the phone in my office.”
Captain Routon was groaning. Asilah and Sanjay had found towels in the kitchen and were wrapping them, wet and sodden, round the man’s blistered hands. But the blisters seemed to go up his arms and on to his shoulder. He was grinding his teeth and shaking his head. They’d sat him down, but he had to stand up again and Professor Worthington could barely support him.
“Tell the police we’ve got serious problems here, we need a search party out looking for Millie. Was Anjoli with her?”
“Nobody knows, but probably. We can start looking, sir . . .”
“Absolutely not: I don’t want any more children out in the grounds. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Asilah, help us with Routon. Everyone else, back to your dormitories.”
Routon was loaded into the passenger seat and the crowd watched as the headmaster’s little car bounced off up the drive, Professor Worthington in the back. Sanchez wiped the blood from his face and let his eyes scan the lawns, the lake, and the woods beyond. Millie was out there somewhere. Had Anjoli followed her? They were often together. They might make for the Greek temple, that would give them shelter. He had seen the terror in her eyes. She’d make for the deepest, darkest part of the wood. Or maybe she’d had enough now and was fleeing Ribblestrop completely. Perhaps she was running along the open road right now, hitchhiking as she’d threatened—if Anjoli was with her, maybe he’d persuade her to come back.
He turned quickly. His nosebleed was bad, but he couldn’t stop for it. They were wasting time when they should be out looking. He would have to disobey orders, but then he knew things the headmaster didn’t. First job, phone the police. Then search parties, there was no question in his mind. He and Asilah led fourteen boys up to the headmaster’s office, hoping it would be empty. It was time to phone his father, evidence or not, and ask for help; he should have done it already. The door was closed and he threw it open without knocking.
Miss Hazlitt leaped to her feet, a cell phone pressed to her ear.
“Captain Routon’s hurt,” said Sanchez. “Millie and Anjoli, we think—”
“Quiet!” she cried. She held the children back with a raised forefinger. They’d interrupted her; Sanchez saw her dentures shift as she fought to regain her composure. Her voice was trembling, and she spoke quietly. There was makeup on the desk, a mirror. “No,” she said. “We’re going ahead.”
“Miss,” said Sam. “We need the police! We need the telephone!”
“I have to go . . .”
The children pressed in through the doorway, filling the room.
“I’ll call you back,” she shouted, over the noise. Then she turned on the boys, a mixture of anger and panic in her eyes. “How dare you!” she cried. “That is the height of rudeness! Get away from this desk, get back!”
“We need the police, miss!” cried Sanchez. “Millie’s out in the grounds, she’s not even got shoes!”
He reached for the instrument, but Miss Hazlitt was faster. She snatched it up and cradled it against her bosom. “The police are on their way!” she snarled. “If you’d just stop for a moment, and let me get a word in—”
“We need to find Millie!” said Asilah. “We need a search party! For Anjoli, too.”
“I called the police ten minutes ago!” screeched Miss Hazlitt. “That’s my job and I don’t need to be told how to do it! I am well aware of what is going on in my own school; I am in charge here!”
There was silence.
The children looked at her and wondered why her lips were shaking. Her eyeballs were darting from one face to another, and she held the telephone as if it were a precious thing. “The call has been made,” she hissed, trying to calm down. “A description has been issued and everything is under control. So I want you to go back to your rooms and go to bed.”
There was a chorus of dismay and outrage. “We’re not going to bed,” said Asilah. “We’ll find our friends first. Two groups, all right? Sanchez takes one to the lake—”
“No!”
“I’ll take the other. She ran toward the lake, so we’re going to—”
Miss Hazlitt’s voice rose above Asilah’s, deep and dangerous. “No you’re not!” she cried. She was backing away, because the children were pressing forward. “You need to calm down, we all need to calm down! Nothing is achieved—” she was breathing hard again, “—by hysteria. Look at you, you’re treading muck into the carpet! You’re half dressed and it’s way past lights-out.” Sanchez tried to speak, but Miss Hazlitt went on, unstoppable: “The shed has been destroyed and that is an act of vandalism. She did it at her last school; she’s done it again.” She had to raise her voice once more: “If she chooses to run off into the night—”
“You think she lights that fire?” shouted Israel. “She was in our room!”
�
��Well she shouldn’t have been, that’s against the rules as well! That girl has had countless warnings, I am issuing an order for her immediate expulsion—you as well, Ruskin, for being drunk and disorderly.”
“She wasn’t even there,” said Sam. “Someone was trying to kill her!”
Miss Hazlitt gaped like a fish. “If you want to speak to me, Sam, you put your hand up—or you’re the next one out!”
“Oh for goodness’ sake!” said Sanchez, reaching for the telephone. “I need to call my father and you’ve got no right to stop me.”
And it was at this point that Miss Hazlitt did a curious thing. She simply took hold of the telephone cord and wrenched it from the terminal block. It took three strong tugs and there was the wire in her hand, torn and ruined. “You need to know something,” she hissed. She was in the corner now. “All of you need to know. I am in charge now; I have taken responsibility and you will do as you’re told. The police are on their way and they will deal with the situation. I am locking all the doors . . .” The children were pressing forward again. “I’m going to count to three and I want this room clear! One!” she cried.
Her eyes were darting left and right again, unable to focus. She dropped the phone and turned, hunting for something. Ruskin, however, had beaten her to it. She yelled and plunged toward him, but the boy was too fast. The ring of keys was there on the desk and he snatched it up before throwing it to Israel, who passed them to Asilah.
“Give them to me!” she screamed. “I’ll count to three!” She lunged again, but stumbled and sprawled—then she found herself rising upward. Her feet were kicking, but the floor dropped away. The children simply lifted her, the way ants lift a leaf; it was as if they’d been practicing. She writhed and screamed but there was absolutely nothing she could do. Her feet went up, her head went down. She saw the wastepaper basket coming toward her at a very strange angle, and then her face was inside it, and she was doing a kind of collapsing headstand. As she fell, the desk was shunted forward, trapping her into a ball. The sofa was next, crunching down sideways and cutting off the light. The hat stand, a filing cabinet, drawers opening and paper falling. A coffee table, a bookcase—she was imprisoned in a pyramid of furniture as books, boxes, and documents rained down upon her. She had no time to cry out, the violence was so fast.
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