Ribblestrop by Andy Mulligan

The second car was now unloading: a giant of a boy, elbowing his way out of a Mercedes that suddenly seemed toylike as it rocked under his weight. Hairy legs, hairy wrists, a satchel like a tiny purse in his fist, and a cap so dainty it might have been a skullcap.

  “Henry, my dear boy.” The headmaster gripped the hand of the giant. “Oh, you’re exactly punctual . . . Welcome, all of you. Cold drinks in the, er . . . conservatory. I’ll help you with your things. Oh, the joys ahead—the joy of an autumn term here at—”

  There was a sudden moan.

  “Henry?”

  It was a mixture of alarm and pain. The helicopter had gone. There was silence, broken only by birdsong. But Henry had seen something: he was looking upward, his face creased in horror.

  “Henry, please—what’s wrong?” The headmaster stepped toward him, then stopped. He turned and followed the boy’s gaze.

  Henry had seen what nobody else had noticed: the spectral form of Lady Vyner leaning out of the highest tower window, tea tray in hand. She dropped one side and let the tea service slide gently into space: cups, saucers, and spoons seemed to hang in the air. Then it all accelerated cartoon-style: doilies were shed, sugar lumps scattered. Smack! The tea service cracked into the center of the terrace, exploding china with a sickening crash. The shrapnel flew and everyone leaped backward, hands to their heads, eyes scanning upward for the next assault. Little Caspar was throwing scones, one after the other. Sanchez took one on the shoulder. Crumbs burst on a car roof.

  It was the headmaster who thought first: “Into the house, quickly!” he cried. A milk jug exploded at his feet. A biscuit glanced off his arm.

  “Pay me my money!” wailed a voice.

  Children scattered; an orphan screamed. Sanchez had catlike reflexes: he grabbed Millie and pinned her behind him with one arm, then he dragged her through the doors of the school building. The other children made a wide run, avoiding the center of the terrace. Only Ruskin and Sam seemed stuck, and it was Ruskin who made up his mind. Thinking only of his friend, he grabbed Sam by the shoulders and propelled him forward. “Move!” he was yelling. “Move, Sam!”

  Ruskin was a loyal, courageous boy and in that split second knew he had to put his friend’s life first. He could erase the horrors of spilt tea and lost shorts: he would save Sam whatever the cost.

  Sadly, the teapot was on its way: a good old-fashioned heavyweight, from the potteries of Staffordshire. Ruskin drove Sam forward straight into its path and the teapot landed squarely on the top of the boy’s uncapped head.

  He went limp in Ruskin’s hands.

  Ruskin lowered him to the ground, horror-struck. Blood oozed and formed a puddle. The puddle became a pool. Sam was smiling but his eyes were closed.

  Chapter Six

  “He’ll be fine with me! Give us a hand there, lay him out—off the trolley, that’s right. Light as a feather, isn’t he? Put him on the cooker, I’ll clear some space. Out cold. Let’s hope it’s a flesh wound. Flying teapots and whatnot, oh my word! Now then, let the dog see the rabbit . . . Fetch me some nail scissors, would you, girlie?”

  Millie delved in a basket nearby. “Nothing’s broken,” she said. “I felt all over his head. And his windpipe isn’t crushed, I did his airway.”

  “Did you, miss? That’s good.”

  “We had to do all that sort of stuff at my old school. People got beaten up every day.”

  Ruskin had gone, too traumatized to be any use. Millie and Sanchez had rushed Sam by tea trolley to the temporary hospital.

  It was actually a temporary kitchen. Once inside the walls of the school—which was an exact four-turreted square—Millie had been surprised at the extent of the fire damage. Beyond a single corridor, you came into the courtyard and . . . there was nothing really there except ruin. It had once been a dining hall, a library, and a chapel: it was now open to the stars but for a series of roped tarpaulins. There was the stink of damp fire damage still and, though the timbers had been stacked and the fallen stone organized into various piles, the space was still a chaotic mess of ropes, crates, pallets, and trenches. There were ladders and bits of scaffolding, a couple of cement mixers—and here, behind a wall of metal racking, a temporary kitchen.

  There was a cooker connected by a hose pipe to a large bottle of gas. Old wooden lockers held the rather battered pots and pans, and a bench on two trestles was littered with onion skins. A couple of desk lamps had been strung up overhead, the cables running over the mud to a long extension lead looping from a high window. Millie and Sanchez laid Sam on the bench, sweeping the rubbish to the floor. The chef, or the nurse, was a slim, powerful man of six foot four and he’d been kneading pastry when they hauled the trolley in. His cook’s hat made him seem massive, as did his enormous Wellington boots. He wore an apron so splattered with mud and food, you couldn’t see much cloth. It was drawn in around his middle by a carpenter’s tool belt, in which sat a couple of meat knives, an adjustable spanner, and a pair of pliers. He’d rolled his sleeves up and his forearms were covered in tattoos.

  This was Captain Routon and he was good in a crisis. “You’ve stopped the flow, miss, that’s for sure—we’ve got a nice little clot forming there. Let’s see if we can stitch him . . . give me the scissors. Boil up some water between you and let’s get this blazer off. I need to prop him up.”

  “Are you a doctor?” asked Millie.

  “In a manner of speaking. I’ve had to deal with a lot worse than this, that’s for sure. I’ve had to hold men’s brains in before now: this won’t be hard.”

  “Will he be okay?” said Sanchez. He had covered Sam with his own blazer and his hand still held the unconscious boy’s fingers.

  “The skull can take a battering and it’s a clean wound, far as I can see . . .”

  Sam’s hair started to fly from his head as the big man worked away with nail scissors. “That woman—my word, she’s a menace. I’ve been here a month and I warned him, this is no place for kiddies with that sort of maniac—”

  “I’ll do that if you want,” said Millie. “I did promise him a haircut.”

  “If you would I’d be grateful, and I can just throw the pastry . . . you’ll find my razor in the bathroom round the corner. What’s your name, son?”

  “Andreas Sanchez, sir.”

  “Ah, you’re the Sanchez boy, are you? Right, find a blanket and ask Dr. N. how many for supper. We’ve got a meat pie but I don’t know how far I can stretch it. Oh, and tell him that the ramble’s on for tomorrow . . . That’s it, my dear, shave it round. We need a good inch, quick as you can—that’ll be sore, that will. Friend of mine did that for me in a much more private place, I can tell you—bullet from a Legionnaire, North Africa. I felt every cut.”

  Sam remained unconscious. It was just as well, as there was no anesthetic and a dry shave is a painful experience. Millie snipped, then rasped away at the scalp: the wound was actually quite small and the skull was undoubtedly intact. A number of people had felt for fractures, including the headmaster himself. He had explained to the assembled students (gathered safely in the hallway) that the sphere, i.e., the skull, was indeed the strongest structure known to man, which was why the brain was kept there. “Stronger than the rib cage,” he said, “but of course that has to contract, which the adult skull never has to do. Interestingly, the most vulnerable part of the human anatomy is also the most precious. Gather round, have a look—can you see the blood congealing?” He sat Sam upright and pointed with a pencil. The orphans seemed particularly interested and were soon poking Sam with enthusiasm, twittering and laughing. It was Sanchez who took charge at this point, foreseeing a long lecture. He and Millie left Henry and the orphans listening politely to the headmaster, who had moved on to an explanation of how the human brain is actually afloat. They had carried and wheeled Sam down some steps, into the kitchen by themselves.

  “Now we can clean the wound,” said Captain Routon. “Alcohol’s right here, best thing you can use . . . paper towel by the side there, not
ideal, so soak it well.”

  Millie was quite surprised how easy it all was. Sam might as well have been a soccer ball or a cushion. She held him by the ears and the big man rubbed neat rum into the skin and then swished briskly in and out with the needle. It went in so smoothly, knotting the flesh, and soon he pulled the edges together like a pair of smiling lips. The blood was cleaned away and there was a nice little zip spreading five centimeters over the child’s cranium—and he had a new haircut too, which Millie vowed to finish as soon as Sam was awake.

  “He’s less like a geek already,” she said. “He’s like a little monk.”

  “Will you put it in the post?” mumbled Sam.

  Captain Routon smiled. “He’ll be fine. Bit of a headache, so it’ll be best if someone’s by when he comes round. Now, what I suggest—”

  “Twenty-one for supper, please, sir,” said Sanchez, under a pile of blankets.

  “Twenty-two, with Sam. Right . . .” He checked the boy’s pulse and lifted him into Millie’s arms. “He’ll be right as rain. Now wrap that round him and get him into bed. I’m going to talk to that woman, she wants taking away. We could have lost eyes, we could have had arteries cut. I’ve seen it! Friend of mine was in Londonderry when they let off a nail bomb—there’s some wounds you can’t stitch up.” He was back at the pastry, crimping merrily with a fork.

  “Are you a teacher or a chef?” said Millie. She’d managed to pass the sleeping Sam over to Sanchez, who was wrapping him as best he could on the trolley.

  “Oh, bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Jack of all trades, master of none—I lend a hand where a hand is needed. I did most of the science tower with the headmaster.”

  “I’m Millie.”

  “When we’ve got more time I’ll tell you about the shrapnel I saw in Cyprus.”

  “What are you teaching us?” said Millie.

  “Anything you want,” said Captain Routon. “First thing tomorrow, practical geography. Walking boots compulsory.”

  “I don’t have any,” said Millie.

  “Nor me,” said Sanchez. “I didn’t know.”

  “School shoes then,” said the captain. “Rule one, use what’s available. Now, listen, if the pain is too much, give me a call—we can knock him out somehow.”

  *

  “Sanchez,” said Millie, as they pushed the trolley down one of Ribblestrop’s long corridors. “Is this really a school?”

  “Yes,” said Sanchez.

  They had carried Sam out of the kitchen-cum-courtyard, up another set of steps made of fruit boxes. A plastic sheet concealed a doorway, where the stone was scorched black. Someone had hung some bulbs on a long, looping wire. It was a bright evening still, but no light got in here, because the windows were boarded over. The bulbs lit the way up a staircase.

  “It’s a ruin,” said Millie. “It stinks.”

  “Yes. We had a fire. A boy called Miles tried to kill everyone.”

  “Can you carry Sam? I’m going to drop him.”

  Sanchez took Sam again and they made their way to another door.

  “This can’t be safe,” muttered Millie. “Look at it, it’s half underwater! They shouldn’t allow kids here.”

  “Why not?” Sanchez looked baffled. “We make things better all the time. Me and Henry put the tarpaulins up, last term. This is the west tower; upstairs is our bedroom. It’s fine.”

  A winding staircase led upward.

  “What about this headmaster?” said Millie.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s insane, isn’t he?”

  “Millie, you’ve got it wrong—of course he’s not insane.”

  “He was showing everyone Sam’s head! The kid was bleeding to death and he’s doing a lecture on . . . anatomy!”

  “Yes, he takes the opportunity. He says that ‘Learning is about opportunities for experience,’ that’s what he does. I think he’s good.”

  Millie laughed. “I’ve just sewn up a boy’s head, in the school’s so-called kitchen. While I’m doing that, the teacher in charge of first aid and geography bakes a pie. Sam could have been killed.”

  “But he’s fine. Open the door, please.”

  “Is it a swindle? He takes money from the government, spends nothing on our education, and walks off with millions. You must have people like that in Colombia.”

  Sanchez stopped. He adjusted Sam into a more comfortable position, hoisting him higher over his shoulder. “All I can say, Millie, is that I was here last term—and yes, we had problems—but this is a good place.”

  “Well, it’s better than prison,” said Millie. “That’s where I thought I was going.”

  They were going through a low doorway now, which gave onto another, tighter spiral of steps. Sam gave a low whimper and struggled in his blanket. “I like it,” said Sanchez, after some time. “In Colombia, I was never at school.”

  “Why not?”

  “I had one teacher only, okay? Teaching me everything. Here it’s the same: one teacher and he teaches everything, but there’s nice people. And now there’s more of us and I think we have more teachers. It’s normal for me, so—yes, I think it’s a good school. And you should stop running it down.”

  “Where are we actually going?”

  “The dormitory.”

  “Whose dormitory? Where do I sleep?”

  “Millie, just open the door.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Why don’t you damn well knock?” said a voice.

  “Who are you?” asked Millie.

  Caspar Vyner was sitting on a bed, a snarl of dislike twisting his face.

  Sanchez pushed past Millie. Sam was beginning to struggle and Sanchez could feel his weight. “Hello, Caspie,” he said, as he moved into the bedroom. “You shouldn’t be in here, man. This is our room.”

  “You’re the one that’s trespassing. I own this house, remember? I was looking for your gun—is it true you have one?”

  They were high in the tower. The room was timber-paneled with five elegant windows. The park spread out around them, glorious in the sunset. Millie hadn’t realized how high they’d climbed. Five beds were set out like the spokes of a wheel, with five little lockers and five little rugs on the stone flagstones.

  “Another thing, Sanchez. I’ve told you before—don’t call me Caspie.” He stood and moved to the wall. His voice was reedy with irritation.

  Sanchez laid Sam gently down on the nearest bed.

  “Hang on a minute!” said Caspar. His eyes went from Sam to Millie. Back to Sam, then back to Millie. His nose lifted, as if he was trying to catch her scent. “Oh no. You’re the girl!” he shouted. “What on earth is a girl doing here? And in the boys’ room, that’s so not allowed!”

  Millie looked coolly at the child, her eyes narrowing with dislike. Caspar had a nasal voice; he was skinny, with bad skin, and his tufty hair didn’t seem to grow evenly. His school uniform was immaculate, but he had a wizened look, not unlike a little old man.

  “That’s my bed!” said Caspar, looking at Sam again. “Move him to another one, Sanchez, I don’t want a dirty oik dying on my bed. Is that the one we hit? Full-on strike with a teapot! That was me!”

  “Caspar, you don’t even sleep here.”

  “I can sleep wherever I want. If I want that bed, it’s mine. And, look—answer me. What’s a girl doing up here? That is so against the rules—and you let her come in! You must be the weirdo girl that the government’s paying for. My granny knows all about you!”

  “Who is this?” said Millie, moving toward him.

  “Caspar Vyner,” said Sanchez.

  “Lord Vyner, actually,” said the boy. “I inherit this place in eight years, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll damn well remember it.” He stood up and brought his right hand from behind his back. He had the flintlock pistol still, and the boy took great delight in cocking it and aiming with two hands straight at Millie’s face. Millie stood her ground. “How would you like to lose an eye? You wil
l if you don’t get out.”

  “Caspar!” barked Sanchez. “You don’t do that!”

  “Look at her, she’s a scaredy!” laughed Caspar, stepping forward. “A little sissy girl—now why don’t you turn around and beat it!”

  Millie stared at the pistol and at Caspar’s twisted face. Her adrenaline had been rising steadily for the last ten seconds and she knew enough about first encounters to know they were important. Moving fast, she slapped the gun to the side and punched Caspar hard, full in the face. He went backward, tripping over the bed and onto the floor. Millie followed, kicking, though the boy’s arms were protecting his head so she didn’t connect. She dropped to her knees instead, all her weight on his stomach. The pistol went skittering across the floor, and Caspar was gasping and twisting. Millie had him now, though. She went for his hair, but there wasn’t enough to hold on to. As the boy’s head came up, she had to content herself with slamming it back onto the flagstones with her open palm.

  Sanchez was yelling and Caspar had found the air from somewhere for a long, high-pitched howl.

  “Little swine!” hissed Millie. She grabbed the boy’s tie and looped it once round his bare throat, jerking it tight. He was half on his side, scrabbling to protect himself. Sanchez was between them, levering her backward, but she still managed a hard punch on the child’s ear. She was being dragged off now, and all she could do was kick at the backside that was curling away from her. Caspar got to his feet, his screams coming in furious panting sobs.

  “You cow!” he whispered. “You rotten, damn . . .”

  He stumbled from the room, clutching his head. He bashed into the door and nearly fell again. Millie went to kick him once more, but Sanchez had her from behind and was dragging her backward. “Let him go!” he was shouting. “It isn’t worth it, Millie, it’s just not—”

  “Get off me, Sanchez!” hissed Millie. Her voice was trembling. “Nobody asked you! Get your hands off!” She twisted out of his grip and stood ready, fists clenched.

  “I’m sorry, but it makes things worse! If he tells his granny, the headmaster has problems—”