Millie knew that she would not survive the night without shelter, but she didn’t know where to go. She was by the lake, with vague thoughts of hiding under one of the bridges—but her mind was full of fire, arrows, and shotguns, and everything swirled in her head until the thoughts became soup. A revenge attack, for the bathroom assault? That was Caspar, of course. But the fire? That was someone who knew she’d been underground.
She winced as another spike of something in the ground tore her foot. She was walking now, damp with perspiration and freezing dew, and there was ice all around her. She wore a thin shirt and shorts, and that was all. She’d die if she didn’t find shelter.
She thought of Sanchez. She’d hit him, hard! She’d punched her friend, she’d been out of control. And now she was alone and the cold was so deep, her teeth were chattering. Something cracked, off to her left—a stick or something—and she cried out, turning wildly and crouching. It was silent again.
She had to get to London now, there was no debate. She had to keep moving and find a place to hide, then get to the phone box and the road. If those people from the laboratory came looking for her, she’d be easy prey. But then Sanchez would come looking for her too; he wouldn’t forget her, however hard she’d hit him. He’d organize a search party and the orphans would sweep the area, so it was a question of who got to her first and if she could stay alive in this bitter cold.
“Oh!” she moaned aloud, and she could hear her own voice shaking. Her feet were so numb they felt like wooden blocks. She stifled a sob, but another one broke through and she started to shake all over. She was by the water’s edge and the first of the bridges was close.
“Millie?” said a voice.
She gasped and swung round. It was too dark. She stepped back and her feet sank into freezing water.
“Where are you, love?” She stepped back wildly, away from the voice, and stumbled. One foot scraped on a rock and she was on her backside in the lake, its dreadful coldness crushing her thighs and spine. She cried out with the shock of it and the voice came louder, “Millie! Stay where you are!”
She knew the voice, and the terror was like paralysis. She tried to stand, but overbalanced and fell flat. The water seemed to tear the skin from her bones. The shivering came in such a terrible spasm, but she hauled herself upright. She stumbled—and saw the shape of a large man moving toward her. It was a big, black shape coming out of the blackness, emerging from the mist with a policeman’s cap and an outstretched arm. He was breathing heavily and walking unsteadily.
“Stay where you are, love,” he said. Reassuring. Kind, even—the voice to talk suicides off high bridges. “It’s all right now, Millie—no need to worry . . .” The mist broke and there he was, striding forward fast. He had a hangman’s step, his arms were out, and his hands were huge.
Millie stepped backward into the lake, up to her knees in water, poised for flight.
“It’s me, love! Panic over!”
“No,” she croaked.
“What’s the matter? You know me—just give me your hand.”
He was so close—his boots were in the water. She couldn’t back away any more and there was nowhere to go. A second passed, maybe two, as child and policeman stared into each other’s eyes. Then Cuthbertson lunged for her, and it was what she needed to locate that last bit of life. She leaped and didn’t slip. He dived for her again and there was an almighty splash and he tripped into the water. He rose up at once, cursing, and slipped in the mud.
Millie ran, and she was faster than she’d ever been. In fifty meters the rough ground was smooth again and she could run more easily. There was one light ahead, not so very far, and she pelted toward it. Oh, thank God! It was the telephone box. If she could make that, she’d be safe. He wouldn’t dare touch her once she’d made a call, he’d know he could not. Her father? But he wouldn’t be there. The emergency services? The police were here, but he wasn’t the 999 service. Just to log her voice on to the operator’s system, that would mean survival: they taped and logged everything, prank calls, accidental calls. Nine. Nine. Nine.
She was slowing down, stumbling. She managed a steady, limping jog, and got to the drive. Running on tarmac was easier, even with wounded feet. There was the phone box, gloriously safe and red. The door so heavy you needed both hands. The black telephone snug in its cradle; that musty smell as if someone slept in it. The number of the box was inked confidently in the center of the dial and everybody knew the emergency procedure. When you dialed that magic number, everyone came running.
Of course, Millie hadn’t heard the slamming of a car door. She didn’t hear the car engine either, as a wet Inspector Cuthbertson slipped his vehicle into gear and eased it over the grass behind her.
From his point of view, she was easy meat. She was running in the right direction, so she’d miss her rescue party. If she was making for the drive, he’d pick her up without a problem. He wouldn’t use his headlights, because he didn’t want any witnesses. He’d get her when she tried to use the phone. Soaked as he was, Inspector Cuthbertson found himself chuckling. The thought of Millie in a disused, broken phone box, dialing for her life . . . It came into view and, sure enough, there she was, just a little black silhouette.
Millie stood with the phone in her hand, unable to believe what she was hearing.
“The number you have dialed has not been recognized. The number you have dialed has not been recognized.”
She put the receiver down and waited three seconds. It was not a difficult number, but she might have misdialed. She put the receiver back to her ear and dialed again.
The same voice. “The number you have dialed has not been recognized . . .”
She tried to keep calm. There was an operator’s number: 100. She dialed that, and waited. She had no coins, so there was no chance of trying anyone else. She heard the clicking of possible connections and then the robot voice again, so frank, so earnest, so apologetic.
“The number you have dialed . . .”
Millie put the receiver down and leaned her forehead on the cold plastic. There was no other number to try.
Inspector Cuthbertson couldn’t resist putting his headlights on: he wanted to see the girl’s face. A swathe of whitening grass was lit up in front of him, a great swinging triangle that caught trees and the lawn rising to the driveway and then, best of all, the red phone box and the little girl caged inside. She was looking right at him.
He jabbed the accelerator and felt the back wheels skid. But he got the extra speed and was climbing nicely from twenty to twenty-five miles per hour, closing in. He put the lights up to full beam and there she was huddled up in panic, scrabbling at the dial.
He chuckled again. Everyone knew the box was purely decorative and hadn’t been serviced for years. Lady Vyner insisted it remain and occasionally there were complaints from frustrated members of the public who tried to use it.
He had a mad idea of ramming the box. He was picking up speed and the child was blinded by his lights. Sheer terror! He’d just pluck her out and drive her back to the water. He could even hear his own voice at the inquest, charged with emotion: “I did everything I could, sir. I dived three times but it was just too cold.”
He slowed and brought the car to a halt. The poor thing was still holding the phone, waiting for an answer. She was gazing into the lights and her mouth was a little round zero.
As the headlights blinded her, Millie’s mind blanked out. Then, from that random mix of stories and numbers Sam had passed on, she remembered Lady Vyner’s advice: 1939, the start of the Second World War. One nine three nine. She was shaking so much that she misdialed the first time and got the voice again. But the second time, forcing herself to slow down, she got it right. There was a different kind of buzzing. No voice. The clicks of connection and then, magically, as if a magician had touched the kiosk, a phone was ringing.
Millie’s breath was coming out in hoarse gasps. Nobody would answer.
The car was getting closer and it didn’t seem to be slowing down. She closed her eyes. She knew she should run, but she had no running left, and the phone just rang and rang, even when she whispered “Please” in her sweetest, mud-choked voice. A minute must have passed, because the car had slowed after all and was drawing up alongside her. She was caught. She could see that the inspector was in no great hurry. He opened his door and climbed out, as wet as she was.
“Hello?” said a voice.
“Oh!” sighed Millie. “You’re there!”
The voice said nothing.
The inspector had his hand on the phone box. He couldn’t see which side the door was on and he’d gone to the wrong one. He had it now.
“Mr. Winston, please,” gasped Millie.
“Who is it?” The voice was young.
“Millie Roads. For Mr. Winston, please. Help me.”
Inspector Cuthbertson hauled open the door, just in time to see his prey simply drop away through the floor, down a dark shaft. The telephone was left hanging from its cord and, as he stared, the steel plate slid back into place, so the phone booth was just as it had been. Millie had disappeared.