Ribblestrop

by Andy Mulligan

  “Is it safe?” said Sanchez. “That’s a lot of power, that does the whole school . . .”

  The orphans wore thick rubber gauntlets and Wellington boots; they pulled visors down, and one of them wrenched the cord on the chainsaw. It caught first time and howled. Lady Vyner saw Henry stand back and cover his eyes, then the child with the chainsaw leaned into a savage cut clean through the cables. The explosion cracked windows and a bolt of lightning went from the fuse box to the floor. The saw screamed louder and another great arc of jagged electricity reared up, swung over everybody’s heads like a snake, and whipped into the ground. When the smoke cleared and Asilah shone his flashlight, Sanchez saw that the fuse box had melted and a black, bent chainsaw was welded to it.

  “Not safe at all,” said Asilah. “Very dangerous.”

  Now the school was in total darkness. The boys’ flashlights bobbed madly as they buckled on their tool belts. They jammed in screwdrivers, hammers, chisels, pliers, and as they set off, they clanked. The grinder was heaved up onto shoulders and in a moment everyone was up in the study again.

  Asilah said, “Let’s go.”

  Sanchez said: “Come in, Millie—where are you? We’re coming down the lift shaft. Where are you? Over.”

  “I’m nearly there.”

  “We’ve killed the power. Over.”

  “I know, the lights went out down here. Clever.”

  “Be careful, though. I think they might know we’re coming. Try to . . .”

  Whatever Sanchez thought Millie ought to try was drowned out by the frenzy of the grinder, as its motor screamed. He saw Tomaz in the doorway. “Did you find it?”

  “Yes.”

  The boy had a box of bullets in one hand and the heavy black pistol in the other. Sanchez took both and loaded in the light from the flashlight. Israel set the grinder to the metal grille and there was another plume of sparks.

  Chapter Forty-five

  In the hospital, the headmaster was going through a similar experience to Professor Worthington. He would also wonder afterward what psychic force was pulling him out of his waiting-room chair and infusing him with such impatience. As soon as he was alone, he’d felt restless and started to pace up and down.

  He’d phoned Miss Hazlitt, but the line to his study seemed to be out of service. That decided him. He walked briskly to reception and asked if he could see the patient he was waiting for. Phone calls were made and he was assured that treatment was continuing and he should wait to be called. The headmaster spoke firmly and was assured again that everything was under control. He grew more assertive. He grew positively demanding. In a short while he was standing in a booth looking at the boiled, anesthetized form of Captain Routon. Two nurses were halfway through the long process of preparing his burns for dressing. Routon was stable, but would be unconscious for a few more hours.

  This freed Dr. Norcross-Webb, and that was important. He knew then that there was no reason for staying any longer, so he took the stairs two at a time and ran to the car park. His car was covered in ice and he lost precious minutes hacking away at his windshield. When he had a hole big enough to see through, he roared out onto the Ribblestrop road, a voice whispering, insistently: Get back to your school, get back to your school. The ice meant nothing. He put his foot down and skidded over the lanes.

  *

  In the basement, far below, Millie was mystified.

  She’d come round the final bend so gingerly, on tiptoe in her army boots. She was in the right place; she could see the door and the air vent and was ready to go. What stopped her was the fact that the metal door was open.

  It had been firmly closed on her last visit, but now it was ajar. She approached it cautiously, not sure what this meant. If she was too late, then maybe they’d done the job and left. Though why they would leave the door open made no sense. Had someone gone to get something? Was it for ventilation, perhaps?

  Millie approached, keeping close to the wall. She shone her flashlight inside. Without electricity, the place had an abandoned look: the power cut had been a clever idea, it would have turned off every machine and stopped them dead. Perhaps they’d fled? She stepped into the little hallway, and there were the familiar double doors, the portholes reflecting her beam. Millie crawled toward them and crouched low, waiting for the courage to enter.

  Of course, someone might have seen her flashlight by now. She clicked it off and the darkness closed in all around. If they were in there, they were waiting for her. If they weren’t, then it was all over. Anjoli, her friend, would be gone. She could not crouch here forever wondering. It was Anjoli’s life, Anjoli’s smile . . .

  She clipped the radio into her back pocket so she had both hands free and rose slowly to the glass.

  They’d lit candles. She could make out the chair, and cabinets, and glimmering silver tools laid out on long counters. She blinked and tried to see detail. There were candles round the chair and on it—they’d put a cluster on the little tray that swung in close to the chair’s headrest. By the light, dim as it was, she could make out a figure, but whether it was Anjoli or the model she could not tell. Around him stood three figures, absolutely motionless. They were in dark silhouette—bending forward, like waiters in a restaurant.

  Millie licked her lips, desperate for a bit of moisture. She eased the door open an inch, and as she did she heard someone sob. She waited, her heart in her mouth, and it came again: a lonely, abandoned sob followed by a sniff. She could hear the child breathing, and he seemed to be having difficulty. Then, unmistakable, she heard his voice. “Please?” he said, very softly.

  She pushed her head into the room and listened harder. Nobody moved: the figures were still. They had their hands up by their chests and were holding what looked like trays—yes, now she could see. There were candles on each one, and they were the models she’d seen, the dummies or robots, so similar to what Sam described after his visit to Lady Vyner’s home. Now, in the flickering light they looked like statues in a church.

  Anjoli sobbed again. “Please?” he said, louder this time. There was just a quiver of hope in the voice, as if he knew someone was close. It was so forlorn, but it was alive—he could think and speak! It came again. “Help me . . .” Then the boy started to cry and Millie’s heart cracked in half. She drew her head back, let the doors close, and clicked the radio on.

  “Sanchez?” she whispered. Her voice was shaking and so were her hands.

  “Millie! I can hardly hear you—where are you?”

  “I’ve found him. He’s down here. Over.”

  “They’re down there too, Millie—I tried to say, they were using the lift. They’re down there, wait for us—”

  “He’s all right, I think. They’ve gone. I’m going to see.”

  “No, wait, Millie! We’re on our way, stay—”

  She snapped the radio off, set it to one side, and entered the room. Crablike, she scuttled in and waited for her breathing to slow down. She could see Anjoli’s cheek, shining wet with tears or sweat. It had to be him, no one else had hair swept back like that.

  “Anjoli!” she cried, in a hoarse whisper. “I’m here.”

  Oh, the crying was louder now and it was the loneliest sound in the world. It was desolate, tired, and abandoned, as if he’d been crying all night. It was so full of longing that it moved things in Millie’s guts she never wanted moved again. “I’m here,” she said. “It’s me—Millie! Be quiet, Anjoli, please!”

  She came past the first robot. It was wearing a surgical mask. There were tools on its tray, bright silver in the candlelight. Little picks and knives and tweezers, but she didn’t want to look. She glanced up and the second one seemed to be staring at her, over an identical white mask. Cotton wool and towels were piled on that tray.

  Millie forced her eyes forward and focused only on Anjoli. He was bound by his wrists and his ankles, and there was a complicated scaffold holding his head still, drawing it backward. His eyes were wide, bigger than ever, and they were
filmed with tears and they weren’t focusing. His lips were slightly open too and he was breathing evenly. Deep shock, perhaps?

  She put her hands against his face and pushed his hair back. He was warm to the touch. “Anjoli,” she said. “Have they hurt you? Have they done anything?”

  He stared past her, he didn’t know she was there—but the sobbing started again, louder now. It seemed to come not from Anjoli, but from the walls and ceiling. Even as Millie looked up and around, the sobbing started to echo and take on a demented quality, more like mocking laughter.

  “He can’t hear you,” said a voice.

  Millie swung round, and there was Miss Hazlitt, and she too was laughing. She was wearing a white coat. Millie had never seen her in a white coat before. A tape rewound and she heard her own voice, loud and demanding: “Excuse me, miss? Excuse me?” Then she heard Ruskin, asking a question, and the laughter of a whole classroom full of children.

  “Oh, Millie,” said Miss Hazlitt, sadly. “Surely you didn’t think it would be that easy?” Her voice was different. It was deeper.

  “Welcome to our school!” said the voice of an orphan. Children were still giggling in the background. “We hope you will enjoy . . . we hope you . . .” The voice dissolved into giggles, and she could hear the manners and civilization class—desks banging, feet stamping. As she stood there, stunned, lights were flashing on. They had generators, of course they did. Monitors were coming on in bright blue and above—on a big screen—there were images of a school corridor, a dormitory. Millie saw children running, walking, fighting . . . “Can I help you, sir? Are you looking for the office?”

  Millie spun around and around, not sure where to look. One of the robots was straightening up, offering its tray of tools, and she saw long needles. There were men and women emerging too, in those funeral suits she’d seen from above . . . seven, eight—two men in uniform who looked like security guards. She recognized the bowler-hatted man and the one with the ugly mustache.

  “Recordings make the process easier,” said Miss Hazlitt. “It’s part of a re-education program. Listening and watching while we stimulate the brain cells that remain; it’s a process we’re so close to perfecting.”

  “What have you done to him?” cried Millie.

  “Such progress! And we’re so close to a breakthrough. Your friend’s had the mildest shot of nerotaxodil. He’s probably dreaming of you, Millie.”

  “You’re not touching him!” cried Millie. She put herself between the chair and Miss Hazlitt. “You leave him alone!”

  “I’ve given him two grams, it’s the mildest of sedatives. The last thing anyone wants at this stage is trauma.”

  Somebody said, “Three minutes,” but Millie didn’t see who. Miss Hazlitt had moved to another of the robots and was pressing its neck. The security guards were blowing out the candles and some of the men in suits were arranging chairs. “Who are these people? What are you doing?”

  “She doesn’t understand,” said someone, kindly. The inspection lamp above was on now and its light was blinding.

  “There’s no reason why she should,” said someone else—a woman’s voice. “Millie, you’re part of a very special secret.”

  “One that must be kept,” said a man. “Having come this far.”

  “We have clearance, old boy,” said the man with the mustache.

  As he spoke, Miss Hazlitt’s cell phone chirped. She keyed in a number and said, “Everything’s signed, we’re ready to go.” She looked at Millie and smiled, the dentures huge and white and far too smooth. The face looked older, as if the makeup had been wiped away to reveal something stony, even dirty. “This has taken years, my dear. You’ll never know how long the future takes to construct. Inspector!”

  Millie swung round but even as she moved she felt a hand on the back of her neck. She hit blindly and kicked, but a hand caught her wrist and her right arm was wrenched up behind her. Twisting, she lunged with her left, but that too was caught and twisted so she couldn’t breathe. He knew the maneuvers, he’d done this so many times. In a moment Millie was tripped onto her face and a huge, heavy knee rested on her back; the air was driven from her lungs, and her face was pressing into the rubber floor as she coughed and retched.

  “I’ve been waiting too,” said Inspector Cuthbertson. He too was breathing hard, and he smelled of the lake.

  “Let me go,” she whispered. He had all his weight on her, his hands were squeezing, and she could feel her sinews being torn apart. Was he laughing? She could hear laughter, but her oxygen was going. “Please!” she cried, with the last mouthful of air. “Just let us go, please!”

  “Don’t break her, Percy,” said Miss Hazlitt. Her voice was so cold. “I was just trying to explain, trauma can complicate the injection process, and as she’s volunteered, I think we need to give her the best possible chance. We haven’t run tests on you, Millie, so to some extent we’re flying blind. You’ll be what’s known as a parallel study. Raise the boy.”

  Someone was wheeling a trolley, she could hear the rumbling of castors; then a bell was ringing, and the floor shook as more trolleys were wheeled around her. It was the robots again: they were the nurses. As Millie twisted and looked up, she saw one adjusting a dial; another rolled forward slowly. It had a gun in its hands.

  “Nobody’s going to hurt either of you,” said Miss Hazlitt. She was checking a screen, as a third robot passed her a tiny glass tube. “In a very short while you’ll be back at school . . . eating your breakfast. You’ll be different people, though. That’s for sure.”

  Another bell rang and something started to bleep. The noise was sharp and penetrating.

  Millie gulped some air and thrashed on the floor. She tried to kick but the hands that held her simply lifted her up, and the two guards in uniform were helping so she didn’t stand a chance. She found herself on a trolley, and thick restraints were going over her shoulders, chest, ankles, thighs. There was something in her mouth and a bright light in her face. One of the robots was moving, bringing the tray low, close to her ear: Millie saw scissors of all different sizes. Sightless eyes locked onto hers. She tried to scream.

  “After this, child, you’ll be so cooperative. You’ll give. You’ll work! And, who knows, Millie?”

  “I like to clean my shoes,” said a child’s voice, clear over the speakers.

  “Maybe your father will want you back.”

  Millie managed a howl, and the thing in her mouth was pressed deeper.

  “If we turn you into a good citizen . . . Look at me. If we burn the revolution out of you, you might find a family that wants you. Don’t you want to stop fighting, Millie?”

  Miss Hazlitt looked down over her and raised her hands to her head. The tight curls of hair were shifting under her fingers, as the children’s voices bleated on: “No! That’s against the rules!” The woman’s scalp was moving and suddenly, like a bathing cap, it was sliding to one side, revealing the mottled, gray skin of old age and a tangled mess of white hair.

  “This is about transformation, my dear.” The teeth were working loose and saliva dripped. Miss Hazlitt reached between her lips and out they came, handfuls of teeth, so that the skull shrunk and the cheeks flopped in. The makeup cracked like paint on rubber, and Millie was gazing into the eyes of a very old man. “What you’re listening to is the language of cooperation: ‘I do as I’m told,’ ” he said, as a child said the same thing. “My name’s Jarman,” he said. “Miss Hazlitt is no more, not until tomorrow. Shh, my dear, you have to relax now: everything changes. We can all be transformed!”

  The old man laughed and there was laughter fluttering round the room on enormous wings, the echoing laughter of children. The smell of cigarette and perspiration was unbearable as he leaned hard on the trolley, coughing and chuckling. She recognized him now—she’d seen that hair from above, and Sam’s stories of wartime research were clicking into place with the precision of dominoes falling. The lessons, the cameras, the tapes, and the medicals. Mis
s Hazlitt’s slow, insectlike movement along the corridors, locking doors, touching the children with those long slim, fingers—easing himself in, and edging others out.

  He’d put on glasses now, with great, buglike lenses, an inch thick. His posture had collapsed into the skinny, hunched thing she’d observed from above, a man in his nineties.

  “I must tidy up my room,” said a child. “I want to do good things! No—that’s against the rules, I mustn’t!” There was a robot at the old man’s elbow, hypodermic on its tray; from one of the steel sinks a second robot came slowly forward, bearing a pair of plastic gloves.

  Jarman reached behind Anjoli and took the gun from the third. But as he brought it close, Millie saw that it wasn’t a gun at all, it was more like a pen or a soldering iron. The old man raised it and took off its cap. There was an electrical flex attached to one end and at the other there wasn’t a nib. Jarman was holding a drill.

  “You ought to be proud,” he whispered. “You children really are pioneers—like the Wild West. Speed seven, I think. We don’t want to set him on fire.”

  There was a squeal of metal and out of the drill came a long, fine sting. It grew in length and Jarman moved a dial so the squeal rose into a scream.

  “Everyone ready?” he said. “We’ll do the boy first. It’s just five little holes, Millie. I’ll create perfection, with just five little holes.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  Back in the headmaster’s study, the chainsaw screech of grinders had obliterated hearing and the children were working by sign language. Asilah had done the locks on the grille, slicing through steel. They hauled it back and played flashlights into the well of the lift shaft. Black cables ran down into an impossibly deep hole. The flashlights illuminated black space and nothing more, but nobody hesitated. They all had gloves so, led by Sanjay, they leaped for the wires and slid down, down, down into the inky darkness.