The homework that night was to write an account in symbols and words of the process of laying out bisected rectangles and inserting radii of different lengths. It was to be accomplished with pencils, string, and a drawing pin—and every child scored full marks.
The headmaster beamed as he served the nighttime cocoa. They had moved to the dining hall and two bright braziers flamed away to take the chill off the air. The wind tugged at a tarpaulin and there was the feeling of an army gathered. Sugar had run out as rations were low, so he distributed boiled sweets, which were dunked for a few minutes in the scalding china cups. Millie had been made hot water urn monitor and had taken great care in filling them, especially as so many of her customers were almost too tired to hold the handles. The orphans had a knack of using each other as furniture: before nine o’clock the smaller ones were leaning fast asleep on the older ones.
“Another fabulous day,” whispered the headmaster. “Just time for an evening prayer.”
Millie looked up. “I thought this wasn’t a religious school.”
“Well, it isn’t, Millie, you’re right.”
“You said,” said Millie, challengingly, “that you didn’t believe in God. You said you were a rationalist.”
Sanchez looked down and put a hand over his eyes. “Millie,” he said, “must you always be the one to embarrass everybody?”
“I’m asking about religion, why is that so embarrassing?”
“Man, because maybe it’s personal?”
“You’re not religious, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Really? Hindu?”
“Just how ignorant are you?” snapped Sanchez. “I come from a Catholic country, don’t you even know that?”
“I’ve been asked to say a prayer by Captain Routon,” said the headmaster. “He was a little dismayed by soccer practice this afternoon. Not dismayed at the effort or the . . . enthusiasm. But he does feel we might appeal to a higher power, and out of plain courtesy I think we should assist him.”
“Do you need a prayer mat?” said Millie, to Sanchez.
“Shh!” said Asilah.
The headmaster stood up and leaned on the table. “You can keep your eyes open if you want to. I’ll ask everyone to bow their heads.” He was thoughtful a moment; then he looked up and said to the ceiling: “Thank you, God, for what makes us different and thank you for what makes us the same. Thank you for all the awkward questions in the world and the honesty in asking them. God . . .” The headmaster paused. “Please look down on us all in your mercy and if you can consider assisting us, that is . . . offering us some guidance in the rather everyday matter of ball control . . . we would be most eternally grateful. We ask for no unfair advantage, nor do we ask for miracles. Just a sense of direction.”
Amens rattled out among the snores.
Then, in the peace and quiet—that lovely moment of meditation—a voice creaked out from the darkness. “Headmaster?”
Those who were awake turned abruptly. The voice came again, urgent and impatient: “Where is the headmaster, please? I’m looking for the head—”
“Oh, my word—Miss . . . this must be Miss Hazlitt!” The headmaster’s voice was full of warmth, and he leaped to his feet. “Is that really you?”
“Nine thirty, you said. It’s nine forty.” The figure emerged from the doorway, clutching the wall for balance. Now the light caught the black fabric of its dress and the whiteness of its face. Tall and thin, so easy to overbalance, the figure rocked from side to side, unsteady on a plank. Little arms and legs jutted from the long body as if a child had sketched them; a high collar supported a face that was all sharp angles. Millie recognized her immediately: the woman from the train, complete with metal briefcase. She managed to step down to one of the duckboards on the mud. Yes, it was the same sharp discus of a hat, throwing the woman’s face into shadow as she looked down. When she looked up, her lipstick was red as a wound. “I’m very keen to meet the pupils,” she said. Miss Hazlitt brought her voice down to a whisper and there was a soft growl to it. “Could you bring them to the office, perhaps—one by one? It’s the uneven ground, I’m not finding it easy.”
“You can meet them here, my dear! Come on in!”
There was an urgent chirruping sound from a bag or a pocket. Like a gunfighter, the cell phone was drawn in a blur of long, slim fingers, and was at her ear. “What?” she said. “No, no, not right now, no . . .” She was bent over like a hook and the voice rasped with impatience. There was a gust of sweat and cigarette. She looked even more buglike than Millie remembered—elbows out, head forward on a surprisingly long neck. “Try again,” she said, angrily. “Contact him, get an estimate, and run it past the major; keep me in the loop . . .” She cut the line and came farther still into the wreckage of the hall, picking her way, holding walls then tables for balance, the briefcase now under her arm. She licked her lips eagerly, keying a number into the phone. “Item for agenda,” she said quietly. “Health and safety in eating area; request survey of facilities and double-check all insurances.” She looked up and tilted her head to one side, trying hard to smile, stretching her lips. She put out a hand and took an orphan by the tie. It was Anjoli. “Uniform, headmaster? We agreed on a dress code, I thought. What’s your name, little one?”
“Anjoli,” said Anjoli.
“Miss Hazlitt, we were just relaxing, we were—”
“We can’t call this a uniform, can we? Not according to the diagrams we exchanged. A little street urchin perhaps, but oh—look at this . . .” She ran her hands around the boy’s head, her thumbs exploring and pressing. “Does this child not have a comb? What kind of hairstyle is this?”
“Well, it’s the evening,” said the headmaster, moving toward her. “After a day of sport, things get a little casual, and we’ve all been running around! Anjoli, for example, plays midfield.” He drew Anjoli out of the woman’s grip.
“Sport?” she said. “Today’s Friday. I could have sworn . . .” She’d found a pair of spectacles and was looping them over her ears. They flashed as she turned her head this way and that. She had a paper in her fingers and peered through thick lenses. “Tuesday is sport,” she said, trying to chuckle. “Tuesday!”
“Yes, but there’s been a bit of good news—”
“You see,” she cried, “exercise must never be random. I drew up the timetable weeks ago and it distinctly says—I have it here—sport on a Tuesday. A structured program, children—that is the key.”
“I think I need to update you on a few developments, Miss Hazlitt,” said the headmaster. He clapped his hands. “Children! Can I have your attention?” The orphans were sitting up uneasily. Anjoli had moved well back, toward Millie. She put an arm round him and was surprised to feel his heart beating rapidly: the boy was terrified. “Miss Hazlitt has come all the way from London,” said the headmaster. “She used to work with a number of very important people and she even did work for the government. So, we are very lucky, and very glad to have her here until . . . well, Christmas at least!”
“Stand up, all of you,” said Miss Hazlitt. She had at last managed to stretch her lips into something resembling a smile: at least, you could now see her teeth. Millie saw at once that they were false. The makeup was thick and the hair couldn’t be her own—was it attached to the hat?
“Do you want the names?” asked the headmaster. Everyone was standing, so Millie got to her feet as well.
“No, no, I have the list,” said the woman. “Why don’t I go down it? It won’t take a moment. I’ve been dying to put faces to names. Tack, Sam Arthur. Which one’s he?” Sam raised his hand. “Ah, now you’re a newcomer, aren’t you?” said Miss Hazlitt. “Put your hand down, child. Roads, Millicent . . . also new, special arrangements according to my list. Which one is the Roads girl?”
“That’s me,” said Millie. “Hello.”
Miss Hazlitt’s head swiveled and her neck seemed to get yet longer. She locked onto Millie’s eyes, her spectacles two little discs of light. Millie’s adrenaline was pumping and she knew enough about situations like these to steal immediate advantage.
“Welcome to Ribblestrop,” she said, in her friendliest voice. “We heard your train was delayed; that must have been so tiresome.”
“Ha!” barked the headmaster. “She’s with us now, aren’t you, Miss Hazlitt? That’s what matters.”
“My train was delayed,” said Miss Hazlitt. Her voice had fallen to a rasping hiss and Millie thought of rattlesnakes. “It was most extremely delayed, due to criminal behavior and theft, which is being investigated. Massive inconvenience, massive delay, and a potentially dangerous injury. Ah . . . You appear to be wearing makeup, my dear.” The woman came closer, tilting her head and peering into Millie’s eyes. Her cell phone chirruped again.
“So do you,” said Millie.
“Hello, Hazlitt? Jewelery too, I see you’re wearing . . . earrings. Are they new?” Her hand reached out to touch one of them and Millie drew back. She had long, fine fingers and the nails were carefully trimmed.
“Yes,” said Millie. “My mother gave me the bracelet, whereas—”
“No, no, no. Ask them to revise the schedule and send it to me, we can’t assume anything. Good.” She looked from Millie to the headmaster, her fingers poised. She was so close to Millie, Millie could smell her. The clothes were old; they had a jumble sale, stored-away-for-decades odor. The scent she wore would not cover it. “I wear makeup,” she whispered, staring hard at Millie, “because I’m an adult. You, my dear, are a child and you’re breaking an important school rule.” Her cell phone rang again.
“Ah . . .” said the headmaster.
“Give them to me, please. The earrings. No, no, no—he’s got to be involved—we’ll have to set up a video link. Talk to my secretary, call me back.”
“You know, I haven’t read that rule,” said Millie. Her heart was beating faster, just like Anjoli’s, but she managed to keep her friendliest voice. The woman’s hand was so close to her cheek, and Millie fought the urge to bite. “I’ve been trying to get hold of a new rule book for some time,” she said. “I lost my copy and I feel rather at sea without it.”
“Oh, I’ll find you a rule book,” said Miss Hazlitt. Her voice had dropped still further. It was a poisonous whisper. “Don’t you worry about a rule book, child. We’ll be looking at the rule book, line by line. We shall learn it by rote if necessary, because routine and regulation are the cornerstones—the pillars—of any great construction, which this school will be. A school to change history.”
The headmaster laughed softly. “Ah, yes, construction is the word. Though, as you know, Miss Hazlitt—hah!—we have a very relaxed approach here. Now, why don’t you meet the orphans? Children, Miss Hazlitt was instrumental in smoothing the way for you boys, so I know you’ll want to make her welcome. Come along, now, out of the shadows!”
Miss Hazlitt’s eyes left Millie’s. She turned away, her gaze shifting from child to child. She moved from cluster to cluster, peering hard. Now and then she touched a chin or a shoulder, or turned a head to see the child in profile.
“Sit,” she said, at length.
“Some of you may wonder,” said the headmaster, “why Miss Hazlitt is here. Well. It’s for many reasons. Administration and finance are two of them.”
“Health,” said Miss Hazlitt. “Safety and discipline.”
“Yes, indeed. So? A round of applause, I think, to welcome a most important member of staff.”
Everybody clapped and the cell phone chirped again under it. The woman’s thumb was a blur as she dealt with the call. “I’ll start tomorrow with the one-to-one interviews,” she said to the headmaster. “I need to cross-reference my own notes with your filing system and I need to conduct medical examinations, as a priority. There seems to be very little information about any of them, so that will have to change . . . I will also be teaching, children. So I will have the opportunity of getting to know you intimately. Think of me, if you will, as both teacher and friend.”
“Yes,” said the headmaster. “I suppose—”
“Note to self,” said Miss Hazlitt, into her cell phone. “Address timetabling issue re: personal-conduct classes and ensure exercise is part of an appropriate program—double-check timetable. A lot of red meat, Headmaster. I don’t see any balance in this diet.” Miss Hazlitt’s eyes flicked over the ranks one last time. “I’ll see you all tomorrow,” she said. “Ties properly worn. Shirts buttoned at the neck and tucked in smartly. Blazers done up.” She held Millie’s eye a little longer. “Doctor, I think you and I need to talk.” She tried to turn and a plank shifted under her. She grabbed a bench for stability—nearly dropped her briefcase—and righted herself. She tried once again to smile. Everyone saw her dentures shift. She picked her way across the hall to the corridor, the headmaster following.
“Wow,” said Millie. “What a cow.”
*
The hall emptied. Millie was on washing-up duty and she worked at it slowly. Her mind was buzzing. There were two bags full of stolen goods she had to conceal, and she wondered how long she had. The woman had recognized her, and cross-referencing the credit card records with the goods in her shed would be all too easy. There was a very conspicuous fur coat that had been ridiculously expensive and the earrings had nearly been taken. Everything would have to go, she knew it. She could wrap it in plastic and hide it in the woods, maybe. Reclaim it before Christmas? How infuriating . . . Millie was so engrossed in her plans that she didn’t hear Captain Routon behind her, didn’t notice him even as he leaned in next to her.
“Millie,” he said, softly. Millie started and swung round. “I know why you’re wearing makeup.”
“What?”
He had a flashlight in his hand, but it wasn’t switched on. He was looking at Millie hard, in the candlelight. “I’ve seen those sores before,” he said.
“What sores?”
“The ones you’re trying to hide. The sores on your face.”
He spoke gently and sympathetically. There was no threat.
“I’m not trying to embarrass you, Millie. The fact is I know they’re not cold sores—that’s what the headmaster thinks they are. That’s what we told him.”
“What are they?” said Millie. Her mouth had gone dry.
“You’ve been near acid.” Captain Routon paused. “You’ve been near something with ammonia, and quite a dose. I was speaking to Professor Worthington and we think you’ve had a blast of something nasty, unless you’re allergic to bleach.”
“Are they on your feet?” said another voice. Millie saw a shape in the shadows of rubble and timber. It was Professor Worthington, cocoa in hand. “You often get them where the skin is stretched,” continued Professor Worthington. “Ankles, scalp. They don’t clear up with a bit of moisturizer, Millie. The captain’s right.”
Millie discovered her hands were shaking. Her fingers were up at her mouth, hovering over the little pustules.
“Captain Routon said bleach, but it’s not, is it? I think it’s something more serious. I’d like to know where you’ve been, Millie.”
“Nowhere. It’s just eczema, I always get it. It’s fine.”
“Millie. I need to look at your skin.”
Both adults came toward her. She was desperately aware of the darkness all around and the fact that every other child in the school was high up in a tower, a long way from where she stood now. Captain Routon switched his flashlight on and the powerful beam flicked madly over the makeshift kitchen. There was a knife block close to the taps. Six knives stood ready: she could reach them if she needed to. They knew she’d been in the cellar, they must do. Was it their laboratory she’d found?
“Can I see?” said Professor Worthington.
Millie’s mind was racing faster. She knew what was causing her sores, she had no doubt at all. It was the white powder from the bottle she’d broken, the stuff she’d so stupidly touched. Professor Worthington had recognized it and wanted to be sure. That meant . . . that must mean it was her laboratory. If it was her laboratory, she now knew Millie had been inside. The child closed her eyes. What choice was there? The teacher held the bright light centimeters from her; she felt the breath of Professor Worthington on her cheek.
As if the woman could sense her fear she said, gently: “I’m not going to touch you, Millie. I don’t need to touch you. The captain’s here because he’s seen this before and I wanted a second opinion. Don’t be frightened.”
Millie flipped an eye open and the light was merciless. She closed it again. For a split second she imagined herself in a dentist’s chair, tilted to the light.
“Where have you seen them before?” she asked the captain. Her voice was a strange, grating squeak.
“Pakistan,” said Captain Routon. “Some of the local boys used a thing called myelin.”
“Heard of that, Millie?” asked Professor Worthington.
Millie shook her head.
“It’s a nerve agent,” said Captain Routon. “Developed in the Second World War, liquid form. They’d put drums of it in a car and get some madman to drive it into the barracks. Grenade goes off, you’ve got a blast that takes the skin off your bones. Now the gas . . .”
“Hold your collar open, Millie. I’m not going to touch you. They’re all over your gums as well, aren’t they?”
Millie nodded.
“The gas is different,” said the captain. “Anyone sniffing the gas knows about it. The sores they get are just like what you’ve got.”
“I would say,” said Professor Worthington, “that you’ve been exposed to a sulphur-based acid compound. It could contain myelin. It’s not been a severe dose, or you wouldn’t have any skin left. It’s stored in powder form, to keep it stable. If it touches water, you get the vapor. You’ve been somewhere dangerous.”
“I haven’t been anywhere,” said Millie.
“Millie,” said the captain. “Why don’t you tell us, love?”
He waited with patience. He turned off his flashlight. All three stood in the candlelight, and the silence went on, and on. Someone had to speak, or it would be midnight.
“Nowhere,” said Millie.
Professor Worthington sniffed. She felt in her pocket and brought out a squat bottle. There was a paste inside, like mayonnaise. She said: “Rub this on tonight. And tomorrow morning, lunchtime, and night. If you run out, come and see me. I’ll give the treatment three days to work and if your skin hasn’t cleared up, we’ll take you to hospital. And I’ll need to tell the police, because that stuff is illegal unless you’re licensed. You may have to tell them something, Millie.”
“The police?”
“Chemicals like that are controlled, you need a police certificate just to store them. Now rub this onto the skin, right into the sore. I’m not going to press you, because that’s not my nature. But I’ll say this: if you are getting into places where somebody’s playing with myelin, you must have a death wish. There is no more painful way to die.”
“Are you listening?” said Captain Routon. Millie nodded.
“It destroys brain cells. It was developed as a nerve agent, to destroy memory. It attacks the brain and leaves you without a mind.”
“I understand,” whispered Millie.
“Good.”
“We’ll see you in the morning,” said Captain Routon.