Ribblestrop (43 page)

“Police,” said Vijay. He barked at Israel in his own language and the boy slid under the dashboard for a quick hot-wiring.

“I don't think that's a police car,” said Ruskin. “No, that's a taxi cab.”

A figure had stepped out of it and Professor Worthington's voice came loud and clear: “Open this gate!”

“Oh no!” said Ruskin. “We're for it now.”

“Open it!
What
is going on?”

“She sounds upset,” said Sam. “I suppose it's way past lights-out.”

They heard the gates rattling and the voice again: “Who's in that van? Show yourselves!”

Then, as they watched, they saw an amazing thing. Professor Worthington was climbing. She was remarkably good at it too, picking hand and footholds with absolute instinct and swinging a long right leg up over the top of the gate. She clambered halfway down, then launched herself onto the van roof with a crunch. The vehicle rocked under her. Then she was on the hood, staring at the boys with a look of absolute ferocity.

“Professor Worthington,” said Ruskin, leaning out of the window. “Can we give you a lift?”

“Get out of the van, Sam, you're not driving anywhere!”

“You don't understand, miss!” cried Sam. “We're on a mission!”

She jumped to the ground and yanked the door open. At that moment, Israel made the connection and the van rattled into life.

“Move over, both of you!”

“Miss, please!”

“I'm on the same mission and
I'm
driving. Now get out of the way!”

*

“Come in, Millie?” said Sanchez, softly.

He pressed the radio's call button again. “Come in, Millie—where are you? We're in the lift. Where are you? Over.”

“Let's go,” whispered Asilah.

“Millie!” hissed Sanchez.

Podma pulled at the cord of the grinder. It didn't catch.

Sanchez pressed his ear against the metal, hoping to hear something. Maybe it was the noise of the engines earlier, but all he could hear was the high-pitched whine of what sounded like a drill.

Asilah said, “The grinder's dead. Shoot the lock.”

“If I shoot the lock, the bullet could bounce back—”

“
Shoot the lock
. Then, Henry?” He was talking so softly. “You get the door open.”

Henry would barely fit through the hatch, but with pulling and pushing from above, they got him in. He filled the car. He pressed his back to its wall, hung from the hatchway, and lifted two giant boots. He would kick the lift apart.

“What are you waiting for?” said Asilah to Sanchez. “Shoot the lock!”

Sanchez flicked the safety catch and put the muzzle at the first bolt.

*

Millie had heard a soft gasp of metal and for a moment she thought of the lift. She dreamed it might be rescue, but it was simply the hydraulics under Anjoli's chair because it was rising and tilting at the same time, bringing the child closer to the surgeon's chest.

Jarman pulled a mask down over his mouth, his toe tapped a switch, and the drill moved to a new speed. A high-pitched whine filled the air as if some hornet was loose and furious.

Millie cried out, but she was inaudible. Anjoli, she saw, was blinking and licking his lips. Was he straining in the chair? She couldn't tell. She saw his fingers move.

Jarman laid a gloved hand upon his cheek and held him firm. The noise of the drill soared yet higher, until the glassware was vibrating.

It was at that precise moment that Sanchez pulled the trigger.

The bullet passed straight through the lock, bursting it to pieces. It sang across the laboratory and ricocheted through two metal cabinets. In the fountain of breaking glass and ringing steel, everyone froze. The drill was poised at Anjoli's forehead and two more gunshots followed in quick succession. Sanchez destroyed the final bolts and Henry started to kick.

Anjoli would explain what he saw later, many times, to anyone who would listen. He would explain how, at the first gunshot, it had all seemed like a dream. The noise jerked him awake, just as the hand holding his face tightened. When Sanchez fired a second and third time, Mr. Jarman swung round and some of the crowd
around him dived for cover. Anjoli said he saw somebody fall over, bleeding, but that was never confirmed. He said that immediately security guards started to move people out, shouting into radio sets, and a huge door was pulled back—he said he glimpsed a train.

Who was in that laboratory? How many, and what were their roles? None of that was ever confirmed. In the confusion, one thing definitely happened, and Millie witnessed it. In fact, both children were able to describe it in exquisite detail, and Anjoli later drew a picture for the school magazine, a picture that had to be rejected because it was so disgusting. As the doors burst inward, Mr. Jarman turned and lost his balance: he tripped on the foot switch and nearly fell. Anjoli saw the man's froglike, panic-stricken eyes looming over him. He felt a thumb pressing against his cheek where the old man's hand rested, trying to steady himself. In the terror of the moment, some instinct took over and Anjoli opened his mouth.

The man's thumb slipped between his teeth.

Unluckily for Mr. Jarman—who was still off-balance—his thumb was in up to the second joint, close to the palm. The boy bit hard. He sank his teeth in and squeezed with all his might.

Millie knew, and dimly remembered telling someone or being told, that the jaw is the most powerful muscle in the whole human musculature; it has a ratio of something or other that lets the teeth apply enough sheer pressure to crack nuts, branches, and bones. Back to our days as vegetarian leaf-grinders, mixed with our years as flesh-tearing carnivores, Anjoli had evolved with lethal jaws. He bit so hard, he was down on the cartilage in a second. Mr. Jarman writhed like a fish on a line, gasping, and then—in what seemed like sudden silence—he screamed. There was a great scattering of tools and bottles. Henry was kicking by this time, battering the doors that would not give. Anjoli just bit harder and harder, till the surgeon ripped his own hand from the bloody mouth and fell against the counter, a geyser of blood not oozing but pumping from the mutilated stump.

Cuthbertson had dived forward to assist, but now he ran. The doors were giving way. Crowbars and screwdrivers were scratching and levering. Hands, then elbows, then shoulders. There was Sanchez, there was Sanjay and Asilah, and above them all—forcing the doors apart with his mighty hands—was Henry. He was purple with exertion, his haggard face shining with sweat.

Jarman was screaming, like an alarm that could not be silenced. The crowd had gone—vanished! The gate to the underground train was just closing. Still, metal was clattering as the old man fumbled and fell about, his white coat now splattered with red. The monitors played on, as a montage of children tied shoelaces, stood in line, worked at desks, put their hands up, and combed their hair.

Israel grabbed the gun from Sanchez and fired two more shots at random, which brought parts of the ceiling down.

There were orphans everywhere and they made straight for the chairs. The struts and straps were undone, the bonds that held Millie were cut. Asilah had Anjoli in his arms and went to crush him to his chest, while Sanchez was lifting Millie and trying to embrace her.

“They're getting away!” she shouted. “Get them!”

Anjoli spat the thumb from his mouth. It hit the floor and lay there like a slug.

Sanchez got his gun back and everyone raced toward the double doors.

Mr. Jarman and Cuthbertson managed to flee before the lift doors were fully open—and that, no doubt, saved them being torn into pieces. They skidded on blood and glass, but stayed upright. Another tray of bottles and jars went skittering under their feet and a robot was knocked onto its back. Then they were out.

Which one of them slammed the door shut? It wouldn't have been Jarman because he was still groaning over his ruined hand, so it must have been the inspector. He even had the presence of mind—or the survival instinct—to whip out his key and lock it. Just in time: as the men paused to get their breath, they both heard the first smack of a child piling into it, smashing against it. Yes, the children were pounding after them. They pumped against each other and Sanchez fought for the space to level his gun. He feared a bullet would bounce off and maim the children around him, so he shouted for the grinder. It was burned out, so it was Henry again, who saved the day. He got the edge of a crowbar under the lock, and the children watched in amazement as metal peeled apart around the bending weapon. He exposed the lock and kicked hard.

Everyone spilled out into the tunnel, and there was the great flurry of sandy footprints, clear as an arrow: left turn.

The children ran like they'd never run, but the fugitives were too far ahead. Asilah was in the lead with Tomaz, zigzagging right and left as the footprints—and the trail of blood—led them.

Jarman was getting weak. His run had become a drunken stagger and he was whimpering in pain. He'd wrapped his mutilated hand in a handkerchief, and that was now so wet and red it couldn't stem the flow. He stopped and leaned against the wall. The shock was taking hold too: he was shivering uncontrollably. He tore off his belt and wrapped it just above the elbow, pulling it so tight he gasped. “Help me,” he shouted.

The inspector was in shock too and didn't respond. He'd run on ahead, but was cautious now, aware that he didn't know the route as well as Jarman. His career was flashing before his eyes. The suspension, the inquest . . . was it time to move to the backup plan?

“My arm, Cuthbertson! I'm bleeding to death!” The inspector went back and took some weight.

“They're behind us, they're following.”

“I don't know the way!”

“Please, go left! There's a staircase to the left . . .”

It was like some awful three-legged race, the crazy staggering waltz down the tunnel. They found the stairs, but it was a long climb. When they got to the iron door they could barely work the keys, and they could hear the children.

They staggered into the car park.

“Get me in. I can drive, if you get me in.” Jarman threw himself into the driving seat; he screamed again as his damaged hand fumbled with the controls.

Cuthbertson backed away. He had to take his chance and be very, very clever now. His own car was round the side of the building; Jarman could make it alone from here and had his own support structure. The engine revved; he heard the cries of children and dived for the corner of the building.

Meanwhile, Jarman could hardly see for the pain. He reversed at such speed he lost control and smashed a taillight on the wall, scraping one whole side and losing a mirror. The wheel spun between his hands and he cried out again, his thumb stump burning, pulsing, bleeding until the wheel was sticky-wet and sliding
between his fingers. Revving hard, he cannoned forward in a blizzard of gravel.

Tomaz was first into the car park, Asilah behind him. They just touched the bumper as the car turned. Asilah launched himself at the windshield, glimpsing the terrified face of an old man, and was bounced off in a somersault. He landed, catlike, on his feet and the rest of the children piled out into the car park behind him.

“It's her,” said Millie. “She's him!”

*

“Shut up, Ruskin!” said Professor Worthingon. “I was a semiprofessional driver! I drove for seven years—”

“All I meant was—”

“Three years on the rally circuit, four on the track: so don't give me advice about driving.”

“No, I was just observing the speedometer—”

“Get your belts on if you have them; brace yourselves if you don't. Get that gear stowed under the seats, Vijay. Why didn't you come to me, you
stupid
boys?”

They'd reached sixty miles an hour. She'd heard the boys' garbled stories as they set off, and she didn't try to understand. Enough details rang with truth. The fire. The endless measuring, the pills, and the sacking that the headmaster had referred to. Memories of that chemical on Millie's face, a controlled substance she should have reported—meant to report—but when the child's skin responded to treatment, it slipped from her mind. More than anything, the fears and feelings of the past fortnight.

“Oh, my,” cried Ruskin. “Lights up ahead, please slow down!”

“I recognize that vehicle,” said Professor Worthington. “I'd say that was our friend, Miss Hazlitt.”

“You'd think there'd be a police car by now,” said Sam. “She said she phoned some time ago.” As he spoke, a blue light flashed from round the side of the building.

“There you are, Sam!” said Ruskin. “Professor Worthington, how fast are we going?”

“Fast,” said the professor. “But not fast enough. Come on, come on . . .”

She had her head down and knew the van couldn't last much longer. It was time to do something drastic. Memories of the track in South London: if she went for the broadside, then flipped her tail around she could block the Land Cruiser before it left the courtyard. The driver had misjudged the exit and was reversing again. She could see children around the headlights, so the driver was panicking badly, maybe she'd stalled? Every second counted now.

“Honestly, I'd slow down. Captain Routon said the brakes on this thing are—”

“Shut up and brace.”

Ruskin said, “I really think we should slow down. I'm not one to—”

“I'm going to ram her. They're getting away, and I'm taking the nearside. Brace, everybody! Here we go! Brace!”

*

Jarman saw the van coming, but couldn't believe it would hit. He'd maneuvered out of the little parking area and was coming round the front of the school, aiming for the drive. He was aware of a blue, flashing light; he was aware of children and stones or fists hitting the car. Now he'd missed the exit because of the vehicle coming at him, the full beam of its headlights blinding his tired old eyes. It wasn't going to stop. In slow motion it swerved, and its rear end came round like a hammer. Jarman jabbed the throttle in the nick of time, otherwise he would have been crushed where he sat. His Land Cruiser leaped and Professor Worthington spun a full circle. She caught the other vehicle a glancing blow, tearing the bumpers off and smashing the other taillight. Then the van crunched up onto the fountain and came to rest on the great marble surround, front wheels spinning in the air.