Professor Worthington and the headmaster were in the hospital waiting room. Routon’s wounds were being dressed and they sat there gray with worry. In the background, a radio was playing. It was a local station so, among advertisements for Christmas sales and some very mellow seventies music, there were regular news and traffic bulletins. News was breaking of a car crash on the M4 motorway. The pileup was affecting traffic in both directions and the intercity line, westbound; it was a delay that was to have a major impact on Ribblestrop Towers.
The problem had been caused by a contraflow system that was in place due to resurfacing between exits sixteen and seventeen. An elderly couple were using this very stretch of road; they had decided to visit the west country, driving overnight to avoid the congestion. They had received a postcard from their young son. Though hard to decipher, it seemed to suggest that he would be representing his school in a soccer match the following day. Knowing the boy’s passion for soccer, they had decided to support him on the touchline. A bonus had been the recent arrival of his black-and-gold school cap—a cap they had feared lost forever and a cap they knew he was keen to wear. The railway company had finally located it, so this meant the parents could present it in person.
Sam had confused the dates of the game, of course. The game he was referring to had already happened and, had they got there, Mr. and Mrs. Tack would have been in for a major disappointment. However, at this point in the journey—11:20 pm—they were crawling along at fifteen miles per hour, Mr. Tack at the wheel, looking forward to a sporting delight the next day.
Mrs. Tack was dozing; Mr. Tack didn’t want to wake her. He did, however, want to know if he could get out of this slow-moving traffic. Was there, for example, anything to be gained from leaving the motorway at the next junction and cutting down toward Wells? They’d discussed the route at length and that had been an option. He turned the interior light on and groped for his RAC Routefinder in the glove compartment. As he leaned, he tilted the wheel and his car hit a cone.
His eyes were off the road, but he felt the bump and swerved. He had just one hand on the wheel, of course, so as he tried to right the vehicle, he oversteered and clipped a post office truck that was slowly overtaking him. Sadly, the post office truck driver, who’d been driving for years and was highly competent, was at that moment unwrapping a Kit Kat: he too had one hand on the wheel and he too swerved at the jolt. Seeing the lights of oncoming traffic, he instinctively swerved to the left, which meant he crunched back into Mr. and Mrs. Tack and sent them onto a whole bank of cones, barriers, and bollards. Mrs. Tack screamed. Mr. Tack braked hard and the car behind slammed into his offside taillight. Mr. Tack lost control totally and ploughed over the hard shoulder onto grass. The car bounced over a curb and down a bank. Mr. and Mrs. Tack came to rest on a railway line.
The post office truck careered helplessly into the resurfacing works, the driver stamping on the brakes and skidding wildly. Thankfully the resurfacing gang was alert and highly trained. The men leaped to safety and then moved in to rescue the stranded Tacks. But they couldn’t shift the car, the chassis of which was wedged onto the rails.
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?”
“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.”