Ribblestrop

by Andy Mulligan

  A police car was overtaking them, siren wailing, the driver’s arm waving from the window, the stop sign shining bright red over the trunk. Professor Worthington ignored it.

  “Go, go, go!”

  She jammed her foot down and Ruskin got a leg through and slammed his foot on top, to be joined by Tomaz again: three drivers and they were off again, their chassis dragging sparks from the tarmac.

  “He’s turned off his lights,” said Sanchez. “I can see the car though. Dead ahead, keep going.” His gun was loaded and he managed to get an arm through the shattered windshield. He shot once, wildly, hoping it would frighten the driver into stalling.

  “What’s that police car doing?” yelled Millie. “Go round it, go round!”

  Cuthbertson had got his vehicle onto the driveway, well ahead, and sat there with lights flashing. His siren was wailing; he could see the van swerving toward him in his mirror, so he opened his door and moved into the center of the road. He raised his hand, palm flat, and stared bravely into the lights. The van smashed past him, tearing the door from its hinges. He watched in disbelief as it bounced across the lawns. He was aware of cheering and then the stink of a burning engine.

  “We’re going to kill him,” said Asilah. “I want to kill him, myself, just me! Give me the gun!”

  “No!”

  “Come on! Faster, faster!”

  The boys on the roof were pounding the metal, but everyone was aware of the clouds of smoke billowing from exhaust and hood.

  “Where is she?” said Professor Worthington.

  “It’s a him,” said Tomaz. The dashboard gauges could rise no higher—the radiator was still in the fountain, and the oil sump had been ripped out. The engine was melting under her.

  “Faster, please,” said Asilah, quietly. “We’ll get him. I want the head, I want the heart . . .”

  The bus was losing speed. The vehicle was disintegrating and any bolt not welded forever in the furnace of metal was shaking loose or sheering off. An offside front tire had burst, so the metal rim was rasping. They reached the phone box and the steering went. They hit it hard and the engine simply seized. As the panes of glass burst and the telephone swung, a new set of headlights came round the corner.

  The headmaster pulled up gingerly, handbrake on. His interior heater had broken some time ago, so he was wrapped in an overcoat, gloves, and hat. He wound down the window, paler than frost: “Boys. What on earth’s going on?”

  His door was opening. So were the others. Hands were lifting him and there were children on the hood. His little car was rocking and he didn’t know who to look at, or who to talk to.

  “Move, Giles—get out of the way!”

  “Professor Worthington . . .”

  Hands were picking up his car. It was turning, like a boat upon the sea. He was facing the opposite direction.

  “Go!” shouted the children.

  “But what are we doing? Where are Millie and Anjoli?”

  “Here, Giles, on the roof. Move over.”

  Professor Worthington revved hard and checked the side mirrors. Boys were still clambering, she had to wait another few seconds. Sam was being carried and packed neatly in the trunk. Then hands were drumming and the chant started: “Go! Go! Go!”

  “What’s happened, Clarissa? There’s a police car back there . . .”

  “Now’s not the time, Headmaster—it’s got incredibly complicated. Trust me, we know exactly what we’re doing. Hold on, everybody!”

  First gear into second. The car wobbled along at fifteen miles per hour and she knew she’d be lucky to sustain that. This chassis was also scraping the road, but they were moving . . . twenty miles per hour. She saw the Land Cruiser in the distance, accelerating away toward the school gates.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Of course, Jarman did not know that his exit was sealed. Numb with pain, he concentrated only on losing the lights behind. His cell phone bleeped, and answering it was so hard, he moaned with the pain. It was Cuthbertson.

  “I’ll try and hold cars off you; that’s about all I can do.”

  “I’m nearly at the gates,” rasped the old man.

  “They’re still in pursuit. I’ve never seen anything like it. Get on the road, and get clear.”

  “I’ll aim for Bristol, can you radio London?”

  “Too dangerous, it’s police frequency. You’re better getting off the road and calling yourself. I’ve got to think, there’s no way I can—”

  “I can’t do anything, Cuthbertson! He’s ruined my hand! Scupper the lab, scupper me. Now, before anyone goes down there—”

  “They’ll be doing that now, sir, you can guarantee it!”

  “Cuthbertson, the gates are closed. Why are the gates closed? Cuthbertson, help me!”

  The inspector hung up and closed his eyes. Blunder through, he said to himself. Brave it out and blunder on. An urgent voice, a desperate voice was needed. Keep it crisp though: urgent but efficient. He reached for his radio. “Charlie-yankee, one-zero.”

  The click of static. “One-zero, go ahead.”

  More urgent, with a note of fear—fear for children at risk: “Cuthbertson, here, reporting. Priority, please.”

  “Thought you were on leave, sir—priority’s yours.”

  “Undercover and requesting assistance. Major incident, Ribblestrop Towers; request immediate backup, all available units.”

  “Roger. Confirm Ribblestrop, that’s the school, sir? Over.”

  “Ribblestrop Towers, we’ve had attempted kidnap, suspects have flown, are heading to the B3022—units toward. Children at risk, repeat, children at risk.”

  “Confirm details, sir: suspects have children with them?”

  “No, I’ve rescued the child. I am in pursuit, but unit damaged—requesting units toward.”

  “Understood.”

  Inspector Cuthbertson drove slowly up the drive.

  *

  Jarman was nearly defeated. The school gates were shut, which was insane because he knew they usually stayed open day and night. With his hand in the condition it was, he wondered if he could swing them back, but he staggered out of the Land Cruiser, determined to try. That’s when he saw the chain, shiny and black in the headlights. When he went to untangle it, he saw the welds. He pulled at them with his one good hand and moaned with disbelief, falling against them. Clearly, they would never move. Panic beat around his head, the pain was making him drunk and faint. “Think fast,” he muttered. “Stay ahead, stay ahead of them.”

  He got back in the car and did a quick three-point turn. His thumb had settled into a deep, sickening throb, which went right up to his shoulder, but he was learning how to avoid disturbing the wound. So lucky he had a sturdy car and a tank full of gas. Anyway, the road ahead was going to be full of children—and they had a gun.

  He came over the rise, beam up full, and saw the headmaster’s car crawling toward him. It was a parade-day stunt, it had to be—either that or a hallucination. How many children can you fit on a car and still drive? The acrobat team of Ribblestrop Towers, the human pyramid on wheels . . .

  He laughed again and suddenly there was a bullet hole in his windshield. He heard only the mildest snap, but a silvery web of cracks spread all across his vision. A hole had been drilled straight through the glass, and freezing air was rushing in. The bullet had missed, gone straight past his head: but the next one wouldn’t!

  He heaved the steering wheel right, then left, and his thumb jarred again on the spokes of the wheel making him sob with pain. The Land Cruiser rocked horribly as if waves had picked him up to capsize him. He was bumping over grassland and the low branches of trees were whipping his vehicle.

  *

  Professor Worthington slowed down and eased gently off the tarmac too. She could see the Land Cruiser bobbing madly, its headlights swaying through the wood. She drove to intercept it, but had to go slow. Some of the boys had jumped and were now running alongside her. They were moving faster than she, fann
ing out like a pack of hunting dogs. They ran like they’d never give up, as if the marathon had only just started. In fact, when she looked around, she saw that it wasn’t just some children—everyone had deserted. Only she and the headmaster remained bunched into the front seats: the trunk and every door stood open, and one of them now smacked against a rock and slammed shut.

  The two adults huddled together.

  “How did you get in, Giles? The gates were sealed.”

  “I came through Mr. Johnson’s farm. Who sealed them?”

  “Our children.”

  “Oh. What happened to Miss Hazlitt?”

  “That’s who we’re chasing. But I think she’s a he.”

  *

  Jarman was lost. There was a ditch and next to that a barbed-wire fence. His offside wheel dropped and he knew he was in the ditch, stranded. No he wasn’t! Fool, he hadn’t even been in four-wheel drive! He snapped the transmission and the whole vehicle lurched up with a new strength. Foot pressed hard down in first gear, he was away again, sobbing and laughing, the sweat running into his eyes. The trees opened into a bit of park, so he fought the wheel and lurched into it. Then, by pure miracle, he swung round again over a hillock and his tires found a track. It was stony and rough, like a farm track: he got into second gear and zoomed up to fifteen, twenty miles per hour. But, oh! The little car was on his tail again, its headlights locked onto his mirror.

  The track led deep into trees, his speed climbed, and suddenly he knew just where he was. He could have sung! He could have cried out! It was the track to the signal man’s hut. Of course it was, he knew this part of the park after all, and had his bearings.

  “The old road,” he muttered. “We can do it. It’s through the tunnel, and you’re out. There’s no gate, they can’t have blocked a train tunnel!”

  The Land Cruiser gathered speed, faster and faster. The engine sounded sick and there were noises he’d never heard before, but he was on his way. There were no lights in the mirror now and he realized he must be a good ninety seconds ahead of them. And that was all the time he needed, because once in the tunnel he’d be on the smugglers’ route, the one old Cyril and all the Vyners before him had used so successfully. He was at the north entry; all he had to do was drive through the tunnel, and at the far end—the north end—he’d pick up the B3113, which led—if you took two lefts and a right—to a sleepy little village called Ringsbury. The old Bristol Road. He could hide out there, make a call, and London would send a car and a doctor. They’d do that fast and fly him out. There was so much at stake.

  “You can do it!” he muttered. “There’s the tunnel, on you go!”

  He eased toward the rails and butted against them. In a moment, a front wheel was over and he was turning. He nudged the throttle and felt the steady bumping of the sleepers. It was past three o’clock in the morning so there was no fear of trains. He decided to stay in a sensible low gear. The tunnel was less than half a mile: in minutes he’d be safe. His headlights revealed the beautiful brickwork and the metal tracks stretched away to vanishing point. Then he braked and rolled to a stop.

  By coincidence, he was at the exact spot that the children had reached when they’d been exploring, all those months ago. It was the site of the smugglers’ pit and it was wide open. To drive over it would be tricky. He could see light from underground; he could see the stone steps leading downward. Cuthbertson had sealed it shut—yet here it was, yawning open.

  More surprisingly, and more worryingly, there appeared to be a man climbing up the steps. It was an elderly gentleman, and he was wearing black evening dress. Jarman could see him rising up out of the pit, the headlights picking out every detail. First his head, then his shoulders, and now his chest, rising slowly. He was carrying a tea tray. Jarman let the engine idle. He was blinking and blinking, but the hallucination wouldn’t go away. The man walked on, into the headlights, and got brighter and brighter. Up close there was no doubt about it at all—it was Cyril Vyner. He wasn’t dead, he was standing there large as life. But half his head was missing.

  “I shot you,” whispered Jarman.

  The old ghost was staring with his one remaining eye. He smiled and licked his lips, as if about to speak. Jarman sat there, stunned, and the seconds passed. The two old men looked at one another through the buckled windshield.

  “I shot you,” whispered Jarman, again. “You’re dead.”

  The ghost looked at him and its sad mouth twitched and twisted. The lips stretched, and it was as if the poor thing was smiling. But Jarman’s eyes were blinking again, because he was becoming aware of a new and terrible light, sweeping toward him. It was accompanied by the most awful sound. There was a vibration, too, and it was making the whole car tremble. Cyril Vyner’s ghost didn’t move. Behind him, shadows were curling on the tunnel walls. The noise was building faster and faster—a sound of thunder boiling down the tunnel. The light got mercilessly bright and a headlight appeared, so white it scalded your retina. It was brighter than the sun and, as it raced toward Jarman, it seemed to him that the ghost of Lord Vyner simply burst into flames and was gone. Was that possible? Or was it simply the impact of the speeding train and the subsequent explosion of fuel?

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Had you been in the cab of the seriously delayed 20:05 Queen of Devonia from London Paddington to Penzance, you would have heard the following conversation:

  “Hello, Arthur. Everything all right?”

  “No, Darren. There’s a lot of very unhappy people back there tonight and they seem to think it’s my fault.”

  “Well, we’ve lost hours.”

  “I’ve had the same conversation again and again. I’ve told them, there’ll be taxis at St. Austell. We’ve dished out tea and coffee, and I’ve said it’s nobody’s fault—these things happen!”

  “Though, technically, Arthur, if you do want to point the finger of blame it has to be at that couple in the car. He was admitting it, he was reaching for a wretched map.”

  “I realize that, but an accident’s an accident. You can’t blame an old boy for getting confused. What worries me is how a little vehicle like that breaks through the fencing and ends up on the track.”

  “Now we’re getting to it, aren’t we? We’ve lost men on maintenance, we’ve lost men on signalling. Ten years ago—no, five years ago—this wouldn’t have happened. I tell you, there are accidents waiting to happen round every bend. He wasn’t hurt, was he?”

  “More in shock than anything else. You did a very nice stop, Darren, I hope that’s acknowledged.”

  “I was taking it easy, actually, because we’d come through Reading a bit quicker than usual. It’s lucky that’s a straight bit of line.”

  “Very lucky. Blow your whistle, mate.”

  “You do it, will you? It’s above your head. I can get a bit of speed up here, make up a bit of lost time.”

  “Sixty-five’s the limit.”

  “I think we can risk a bit more than that . . . This is the Ribblestrop Pass again.”

  “I know where we are. I wasn’t going to mention it.”

  “I’ve put it behind me, Arthur. I had two weeks’ leave over it and the wife was very good. Her attitude is if it happens once, it won’t happen again—lightning doesn’t strike twice. Gave me time to sort the garden out as well.”

  “Careful, Darren, you’re touching ninety . . .”

  “Let’s get these people home, Arthur!”

  “What’s that light?”

  “Where?”

  “There’s two. Two lights.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Slow down a bit.”

  “I am.”

  “It’s a car.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “Darren, it’s a bloody car, it’s a car in the tunnel! And a man!”

  *

  The children heard the devastating crunch and saw the fireball. They too had found the track, so they’d piled back onto the headmaster’s car, and Professor Worthing
ton had nosed it carefully forward in pursuit. Alas, they’d had a flat tire within sight of the train tracks and, having no jack in the trunk, there’d been no way of changing the wheel and continuing the chase. They had sat on the roof and hood, rather forlorn, Anjoli in the arms of his brothers, cousins, uncles, and friends. Israel had just started to sing a song—one he’d learned from a Himalayan nomad celebrating the birth of a new llama—and it had a rousing chorus. The children were just joining in when the wreckage burst from the tunnel and passed them at about sixty miles per hour.

  “Wow!” said Sam. “I just saw colors! That blow on the head’s cleared my vision.”

  Ruskin was next to him. “It often works that way,” he said. “A bang on the head’s a cure for a lot of things. My father swears by it.”

  They sat there, transfixed. The blazing vehicle sent up gouts of black smoke. Soon there was a minor forest fire. They could hear the muffled cries of train passengers. Then, from behind, lumbering carefully down the track, came a flashing blue light and the moan of a siren.

  The white police car pulled up by the headmaster’s taillights, and a purposeful, desperate-looking man climbed through a nonexistent door. He panted up to the headmaster.

  “Thank goodness I’ve found you, sir. Is everyone accounted for?” Inspector Cuthbertson bristled with concern. His face was wracked by worry, but there was a grim professionalism there too: he was a man with a job to do. “I’ve got a fire crew at the gates, ambulances on their way. Is everyone safe here?”

  “I think so, Inspector.”

  “Then I want you to get them back to the school, sir. I’ve uncovered a very shocking plot. Get all the kids back to school and do a roll call. We must not expose them to further risk.” He moved down toward the track. You could hear the static of his radio. “Come in, control. Charlie-yankee, one-zero: priority, please. The kids are safe, repeat kids are safe. We need all ambulances, all fire crews. Major incident, Ribblestrop Pass. Looks like an intercity 125, in collision—repeat, in collision. I want helicopters, I want hospitals on standby, multiple casualties expected.”