Ribblestrop (39 page)

There were emergency phones nearby and, mercifully, the right messages got through. The Intercity London to Penzance service, that might have run straight into the vehicle on the tracks, was
alerted when it was just two and a quarter miles from the incident. This allowed the driver, who was by coincidence the very same driver involved in the terrible incident in the Ribblestrop tunnel, to bring the engine to a controlled halt.

Train services on that line would not resume for two hours.

*

“What was she thinking of?” said the headmaster, as the bulletin finished. “She'd been working so hard, all day. What in the world was she thinking of?”

“You really think Millie started the fire?”

“I don't want to, but . . . I'm racking my brains. What other explanation is there?”

“I'm not leaping to any conclusions. Millie Roads has been doing extremely well.”

“I agree! I'd pretty much decided, head girl next term. If there is a next term.”

“Oh, don't be defeatist, Giles. Routon will be fine and Millie and Anjoli will be found. They're probably sitting in the dorm even now, cocoa—”

“I don't mean all that. It's more serious even than that. Miss Hazlitt won't recommend our license unless I resign. She told me today and she showed me her report.”

Professor Worthington turned and stared at him. “That's outrageous! There's no question of you resigning, it's your school! It's your dream!”

“Well, my contract paints a rather different picture. Apparently I signed something to give her rather more power than I meant to. I didn't really read the small print, there were so many pages.”

“She's a menace. I cannot see that she's made any improvements at all.”

“She wants Routon out as well. Says he's a liability.”

Professor Worthington gasped. “That man is a hero! Did you see the way he leaped into Millie's shed? Not a thought for his own safety! I'm going to confront her in person, soon as we get back. Wretched woman . . .”

The two adults sat in silence. The headmaster noticed that at some point, they'd linked hands. They sat there now on the plastic seats, staring at the malaria posters. The radio played on.

“Clarissa,” said the headmaster, at last. “Why don't you go back?”

“And leave you here?”

“It's silly us both being here, isn't it? We've got two children unaccounted for—I'm uneasy. Miss Hazlitt is the only adult in charge and, well—call me uncharitable, but I'm not always sure she has the children's best interests at heart.” He swallowed. “Yes. I'd really feel much better if you were at school. I can have a snooze here while I'm waiting for the captain and I can ring you when I've got some news.”

“Are you sure, Giles?”

“Yes. The more I think about it, the more I think one of us should be back at Ribblestrop.”

As soon as he said it, Professor Worthington felt a need to move quickly.

She crossed the hospital car park at speed and felt anxious when the first taxi that she hailed swept past her. She had a feeling deep down inside that she was needed at school and she felt like running; she couldn't stand still. She moved briskly down the icy pavements, her head revolving as she searched for another cab. She saw one on the other side of the road, moving away from her, so she shouted loudly. She told the driver she'd double the fare if he made it to Ribblestrop in thirty minutes.

The roads were treacherous, but the driver put his foot down. Country lanes skimmed by and Professor Worthington gripped the headrest in front until her knuckles were white.

*

Deep underground, Tomaz released a catch and pulled a lever. Then he hauled on a rope. Nothing moved, so he came back to Millie and kicked the foot of the cage. He hauled again and the bars started to rise awkwardly.

“It comes down all right,” he said. “But putting it up, it's so hard. Lift, can you?”

They struggled together, though Millie had no strength anywhere. Soon the contraption rose to knee height and she managed to crawl out into the passage.

“Good,” said the boy. “At least it works coming down.”

He smiled. His teeth were white and even. His long hair was clean and his shirt was fresh, though it had been repaired and washed so often it looked like gray rags stitched together. It was tucked into shorts that were too big. His legs were pale and hairless, and they disappeared into army boots.

“Tomaz?” said Millie. Her voice was little more than a whisper.

“Yes?”

“Are you really the Tomaz that ran away?”

He looked at her, then glanced down. “I didn't go far,” he said, a little sheepishly.

“Why? Sanchez said . . . Sanchez said . . .”

“I'll show you. When you see, you'll understand. Listen.” Tomaz looked around, as if he thought he might be overheard. “Nobody has ever been here before. You are the first, I think—for years, apart from me. When I heard the phone, I couldn't believe it.” Millie went to speak; he cut her off. “I've got some clothes so I can get you dry. I've got a fire also. I'm so sorry about the trap, but . . . nobody must know, Millie. Follow me.”

The tunnel was smooth and ran steeply down, bending to the left as it did so. There were candles burning every few paces: as they passed, Tomaz snuffed them out with his fingers. His hair came halfway down his back.

Millie stumbled; he caught her arm and led her carefully. “We'll go slow,” he said. “Most of this I found. The tunnels go everywhere, as you know. I think they go under the lake: there's a way of draining the lake if you wanted to do it.”

Millie said nothing.

“I've mapped most of it, but I don't know how many miles there are. It's quite true what they say: you could be lost down here forever. You know the train tunnel, where the staircase came down?”

“Yes.”

“That was for smuggling. Okay, hold my arm—you're okay. Your feet, Millie! You're bleeding!”

“I'm okay, keep going. What about the staircase?”

“They had a railway that went from there right under the house. The trains brought the goods as far as the tunnel, or the center of the tunnel. Then the men would unload into a little one, narrow gauge. You saw the engine.”

“Did I?”

“It was one of the old steam engines. The track's good, but so many of the vents have collapsed, you couldn't run a steam train down here anymore. One day though, Millie! I would like to try; we could restore it! You know, the Vyner family were into so many things! Lord Cyril was the engineer. But others, wow! Smuggling guns, antiques—I found so many things! There are secret storehouses: cigarettes, machine guns, explosives. This way, we're nearly there.”

“You gave me all that food.” Millie had stopped.

“I told you,” said the boy, gently.

“Three meals, you gave me. Why didn't you answer when I called?”

The boy smiled. “You were going in circles: I thought you were going to go mad.”

“I thought it was a ghost!”

“He doesn't go there!” laughed Tomaz. “He stays in the Churchill Room. When you know the tunnels, Millie, you can double back very quickly. There are false walls, trapdoors, fox-holes . . . Some tunnels go under other tunnels, when you know where to look. I know I was scaring you, but the thing was I could
not
show myself. Could I? My house is totally, totally
secret
.”

Millie said: “But how do you live down here?”

Tomaz laughed. “I live like a king. You wait.” He went left, then right. They climbed briefly. He came to a patch of sand and brushed it: a wooden panel was revealed. It was the lid of a cleverly concealed box, which the boy opened. There was a powerful
flashlight inside. He moved into a recess in the rock and giggled. “You're my first visitor. I'm a bit nervous. Lucky you're thin.”

He grabbed something above his head and lifted his body. He swung his legs into a hole and eased his torso through, twisting as he went.

“Hold the flashlight. Trust me.”

He squirmed a little farther, chest and shoulders disappearing. Then his smile and his hair were gone too. No adult would ever fit: he was going through a rabbit hole. Millie passed the flashlight and followed, hauling her body in somehow. She felt her feet gently pulled and she too was through. It was pitch dark suddenly: Tomaz had turned off the flashlight.

“Where are you?” said Millie.

“I'm here,” he said. He was right beside her. She could feel him, leaning against her. His face was close to hers and his breath smelled of licorice.

“Are you ready?” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For my house.”

She expected him to turn on the flashlight, but he didn't. He pressed a light switch and a glittering chandelier came on. Millie felt her jaw drop and she squeezed her eyes shut; the shock was too great, the light and the vision simply too intense.

She opened her eyes and looked and looked. She tried to think of something to say, and failed. After a solid minute of looking, the only expression she could think of, in all its uselessness, was: “Oh my goodness.”

“Do you like it?”

They were on a ledge looking down. The chandelier hung from high up on a chain, lighting up the stone surfaces of a series of grottoes, carved into the rock. Millie could see the folding of the earth. The veins of crystal, the ripples of pinks, silvers, and reds. She let her eyes drop carefully, foot by foot. There were caves, columns, and bowls. Water must have carved most of it, but there were great shelves and cracks, as if massive heat had split and melted the world. It was a natural palace, with uncountable chambers interlinking. A potholer would explore such caverns for years.

The central chamber was the biggest and someone had laid carpets on its floor. She could see pale statues around it—fifty or sixty of them—and she thought of an underground church.

“What do you think?” asked Tomaz.

There were tapestries on the walls. Millie could make out hunting scenes: deer were leaping, dogs were chasing, trees were bending with berries and fruit. She could see birds breaking from their branches.

“Come down,” said Tomaz. “You won't believe it.”

He helped her to her feet and guided her. There were steps carved into the rock. They went together and she stepped onto a rug.

“Take off your socks, please,” said Tomaz. He was unlacing his
own boots. “I think some of the carpets are about a thousand years old. More, I don't know. Some are from Arabia, India . . .” He started to light candles—there were silver candelabra on chests and in alcoves; there were night-lights at the feet and in the hands of the statues. Soon they were all glimmering and the place seemed a shrine.

Millie went slowly and carefully. There were three vast armchairs and two leather sofas. There was a table laid up in white with a silver dinner service for a solitary diner. There was a fatbellied stove, with a roaring fire inside; it had a long chimney that elbowed its way up, zigzagging through the rock. There were stuffed animals in cases. There were vases, each holding carefully cut greenery, with sprays of red and white berries. On a pedestal stood a golden suit of armor, gauntlets resting on a glittering sword. It stared forward, like a guardian. There was a white rabbit on one of the sofas and it looked at Millie. There were bowls of fruit. There was another white rabbit on one of the rugs, a huge tiger skin. There was a bookcase full of leather-bound books and it led the eye to a farther chamber with hundreds more, towering upward—a complete library.

“Beautiful, uh?” said Tomaz, softly.

The room smelled of good food and woodsmoke. “You should eat,” he said. “I didn't know you would be coming, so . . . it's not special. Come and see my kitchen, you'll love the kitchen.”

Yes, there were passages off; Millie could see more of them now, half concealed by the overlap of tapestries and the slabs of interlocking rock. Tomaz clicked on more lights. She could see his wiring too, pinned to the rock, hitched over a picture and the antlers of a stag. It came from a wall of car batteries.

In the kitchen there was a fireplace, and the fire was small and compact. The pot that hung over it had been winched low: it was almost sitting in the ashes. Handmade bread sat on a stone nearby. There were baskets of vegetables, jars, and bunches of leaves. Knives and other utensils hung from a bar. Farther down, the room narrowed into a corridor: the light didn't get there, so
Millie could only just make out shelves disappearing. She thought she saw a rabbit hanging and a bird perhaps . . .

“It's just a stew,” said Tomaz, stirring the pot. “It's winter food now, I'm using up apples. Everything I cook now has to have apples in. I am lucky: I learned to cook in Uzbek, I was a kitchen boy. Now I improvise with what I have. Do you want to wash your hands?”

There was a toilet with a bath, a basin, and a jug. He had soap. He had a fresh, clean towel. “The water's cold,” he said from outside. “I can heat it on the fire, or you can wash with what's there.”

“I'll use what's here,” whispered Millie.

She peeled off her soaking, bloody clothing. The water was in fact ice cold, but she doused herself as best she could, head to toe. The stink of fire was all over her and her flesh was terribly scratched. She got up a good lather of soap and massaged herself. She needed to wake up, tempting as it was to give in to the dream. She poured a cup full of water over her head and gasped. More, down her back: she was dancing with cold. She wanted to be alert. If she was to leave—and she had to go, she knew that—if she was to escape, she needed to be wide-awake. She wrapped herself in Tomaz's towel and stepped back into the kitchen.

“Tomaz—”

“Oh!” he cried. “Sorry!” He turned away, instantly blushing. “I'm sorry, I brought you some clean clothes.” Comically, he would not look at her. He held out a shirt and a pair of shorts, masking his eyes.