Ribblestrop (45 page)

“I shot you,” whispered Jarman, again. “You're dead.”

The ghost looked at him and its sad mouth twitched and twisted. The lips stretched, and it was as if the poor thing was smiling. But Jarman's eyes were blinking again, because he was becoming aware of a new and terrible light, sweeping toward him. It was accompanied by the most awful sound. There was a vibration, too, and it was making the whole car tremble. Cyril Vyner's ghost didn't move. Behind him, shadows were curling on the tunnel walls. The noise was building faster and faster—a sound of thunder boiling down the tunnel. The light got mercilessly bright and a headlight appeared, so white it scalded your retina. It was brighter than the sun and, as it raced toward Jarman, it seemed to him that the ghost of Lord Vyner simply burst into flames and was gone. Was that possible? Or was it simply the impact of the speeding train and the subsequent explosion of fuel?

Had you been in the cab of the seriously delayed 20:05 Queen of Devonia from London Paddington to Penzance, you would have heard the following conversation:

“Hello, Arthur. Everything all right?”

“No, Darren. There's a lot of very unhappy people back there tonight and they seem to think it's my fault.”

“Well, we've lost hours.”

“I've had the same conversation again and again. I've told them, there'll be taxis at St. Austell. We've dished out tea and coffee, and I've said it's nobody's fault—these things happen!”

“Though, technically, Arthur, if you do want to point the finger of blame it has to be at that couple in the car. He was admitting it, he was reaching for a wretched map.”

“I realize that, but an accident's an accident. You can't blame an old boy for getting confused. What worries me is how a little vehicle like that breaks through the fencing and ends up on the track.”

“Now we're getting to it, aren't we? We've lost men on maintenance, we've lost men on signalling. Ten years ago—no, five years ago—this wouldn't have happened. I tell you, there are accidents waiting to happen round every bend. He wasn't hurt, was he?”

“More in shock than anything else. You did a very nice stop, Darren, I hope that's acknowledged.”

“I was taking it easy, actually, because we'd come through
Reading a bit quicker than usual. It's lucky that's a straight bit of line.”

“Very lucky. Blow your whistle, mate.”

“You do it, will you? It's above your head. I can get a bit of speed up here, make up a bit of lost time.”

“Sixty-five's the limit.”

“I think we can risk a bit more than that . . . This is the Ribblestrop Pass again.”

“I know where we are. I wasn't going to mention it.”

“I've put it behind me, Arthur. I had two weeks' leave over it and the wife was very good. Her attitude is if it happens once, it won't happen again—lightning doesn't strike twice. Gave me time to sort the garden out as well.”

“Careful, Darren, you're touching ninety . . .”

“Let's get these people home, Arthur!”

“What's that light?”

“Where?”

“There's two. Two lights.”

“I don't know.”

“Slow down a bit.”

“I am.”

“It's a car.”

“It can't be.”

“Darren, it's a bloody car, it's a car in the tunnel! And a man!”

*

The children heard the devastating crunch and saw the fireball. They too had found the track, so they'd piled back onto the headmaster's car, and Professor Worthington had nosed it carefully forward in pursuit. Alas, they'd had a flat tire within sight of the train tracks and, having no jack in the trunk, there'd been no way of changing the wheel and continuing the chase. They had sat on the roof and hood, rather forlorn, Anjoli in the arms of his brothers, cousins, uncles, and friends. Israel had just started to sing a song—one he'd learned from a Himalayan nomad celebrating the birth of a new llama—and it had a rousing chorus. The children
were just joining in when the wreckage burst from the tunnel and passed them at about sixty miles per hour.

“Wow!” said Sam. “I just saw colors! That blow on the head's cleared my vision.”

Ruskin was next to him. “It often works that way,” he said. “A bang on the head's a cure for a lot of things. My father swears by it.”

They sat there, transfixed. The blazing vehicle sent up gouts of black smoke. Soon there was a minor forest fire. They could hear the muffled cries of train passengers. Then, from behind, lumbering carefully down the track, came a flashing blue light and the moan of a siren.

The white police car pulled up by the headmaster's taillights, and a purposeful, desperate-looking man climbed through a nonexistent door. He panted up to the headmaster.

“Thank goodness I've found you, sir. Is everyone accounted for?” Inspector Cuthbertson bristled with concern. His face was wracked by worry, but there was a grim professionalism there too: he was a man with a job to do. “I've got a fire crew at the gates, ambulances on their way. Is everyone safe here?”

“I think so, Inspector.”

“Then I want you to get them back to the school, sir. I've uncovered a very shocking plot. Get all the kids back to school and do a roll call. We must not expose them to further risk.” He moved down toward the track. You could hear the static of his radio. “Come in, control. Charlie-yankee, one-zero: priority, please. The kids are safe, repeat
kids are safe
. We need all ambulances, all fire crews. Major incident, Ribblestrop Pass. Looks like an intercity 125, in collision—repeat,
in collision
. I want helicopters, I want hospitals on standby, multiple casualties expected.”

There was a burst of urgent crackling.

“Yes, I am
alone
at the scene. I'm going to attempt rescue and first aid, I'm going in.”

“Inspector, this is control—please await support!”

“Negative, control—lives to be saved. Over and out.”

Within fifteen minutes, a police helicopter was hanging low
over the school, its searchlight trained on the disaster. Luckily for Inspector Cuthbertson, there was a pregnant woman in carriage four, and when she went into early labor, he was able to assist with the safe delivery of her child.

He was quite a hero.

As for Jarman, four hundred and seventy tons of speeding train had shoveled his Land Cruiser back down the line at eighty-three miles per hour. The driver had brought the wreckage to a halt in less than a mile. But could the old man be identified? He hadn't been to a dentist for years, so there were no dental records. In any case, only three teeth were ever found.

The next few days were spent among swarms of police, detectives, TV camera crews, security guards, men in suits, and sightseers. The train smash was big news. Helicopters came and went, and the driveway was jammed with vehicles. Tents were erected over the site and teams of engineers spent days in the tunnels with cutting equipment. The school car park was roped off, and the children watched as bits of door and lift were brought up and laid on the lawn. They waited to see bits of the laboratory and the big black chair, which Anjoli had claimed for the orphans' dormitory. It never appeared. Nor did the robots, which Sam wanted. They'd have to be content with George, the only survivor.

Anjoli and Millie went to the ventilation shaft, hoping to get down to take a look, hoping to get involved. The area was cordoned off. A truck and a JCB were at work, filling the hole with rock and concrete. They had better luck through Neptune, but when they got close to the lab, they found a brick wall had been constructed from the floor to the ceiling.
Government Property
, read a notice.
Strictly Private
.

One of the saddest things was the removal of the red phone box and the filling of the shaft under that. Millie watched them take it away, thinking how it had saved her life. Lady Vyner was furious
and put in a massive claim for compensation. This claim was honored within twenty-four hours and she stopped complaining.

*

The headmaster hardly left his office. The phone rang incessantly and there were so many visitors. He assumed he would be sacked, but wondered who was going to sack him. Ribblestrop had no board of governors. He couldn't be fired, except (he assumed) by the government department that Miss Hazlitt had worked for. He looked through the contract he'd signed and was amazed again at how many powers he'd accidentally given away. But when he phoned the department he'd once dealt with, whoever answered found it hard to recall the school's existence or find any previous correspondence. He was assured that no government department had ever officially been interested in or involved with Ribblestrop Towers; no application for a license had been made, because his school was exempt from the legislation that department handled . . . and he was asked to stop calling.

Then he reminded himself that the Hazlitt “woman”—or the man, this Jarman—had been
imposed
on him. He phoned again, determined to speak to a manager. But the office he'd once dealt with had suddenly had its phones disconnected. In a strange way, it was as if she or he or whatever it was had never existed.

He waited to be arrested.

He waited for Inspector Cuthbertson. Inspector Cuthbertson appeared only once at Ribblestrop Towers, and then very briefly for a photo shoot. He had appeared in national newspapers, the hero of the train disaster. It turned out that the pregnant woman had been a minor celebrity, and there were photos of him carrying her to safety. His grinning face even appeared next to the newborn baby's, and it was predicted that he would be a godfather. The children didn't see him again and there was a rumor he was taking a few weeks' leave.

Everyone got used to big black cars and important-looking people, but one Friday morning a little convoy arrived. A man in
a soft trilby, pulled low over his eyebrows, slid quietly into the headmaster's office. He wore a thick mustache and a heavy overcoat. He brought two secretaries, a bodyguard, and a special dog. A great deal of time was spent setting up some kind of satellite telephone, and then a video screen so that a man in a gray suit could be part of the conference. The first man didn't explain exactly who he was and his business card had only a number. He was quietly spoken and had immaculate manners; he seemed to enjoy listening rather than speaking. But after some time and a great deal of nodding, he leaned forward and presented the headmaster with a check.

“This is a little gesture, old boy,” he said. “Call it an investment in your
infrastructure
. We feel . . . the powers-that-be feel, that you have been pretty badly inconvenienced. It's important we anticipate and go beyond any claim for damages, were you to make one—you'll find the settlement is more than generous. Were you to sue for compensation, old chap . . .” The man leaned forward, and smiled. “You would find that we were obliged to find
legal representation
; the case would be
vigorously
contested through a counter prosecution, and all monies would be frozen pending the outcome of the case. The case would be lengthy, I'd say. Lengthy. Do you understand?”

“Not entirely,” said the headmaster.

Both secretaries were tapping furiously into their laptops and paused when he said that. A miniature printer squealed and papers uncoiled.

The man in gray on the screen said, “What did he say?”

The headmaster said, “I understand.”

The man with the check said, “I am also empowered to issue Ribblestrop Towers with a license to continue trading . . .” Another sheet of paper was laid on the desk, stamped and signed. “This is valid for a year; I just need you to sign
here
and
here
. The press has been briefed, so you'll find certain events are likely to be dealt with sensitively . . . all the lurid material about doctors under the ground . . . ha!” There was a thin smile under
the mustache. “The media have been encouraged to focus on the railway incident, where there's a bit more human interest. Oh, and I should just draw your attention to paragraph 14C—just there—clause two. We're urging you to confine any press statements to simple expressions of
relief
.”

“Certainly,” said the headmaster. “I
am
relieved. What about Miss Hazlitt, though?”

“I don't understand your question, sir?”

“Miss Hazlitt. Mr. Jarman. Would I be right in assuming that—”

“Questions about deceased persons heretofore employed would require notice. You would have to make
formal application
for any response to any such question. These matters are being investigated and it would be . . . unhelpful for me to comment in a forum such as this.”

“What about Cuthbertson?”

“He's in good shape, I believe. The Caribbean, in fact. Soaking up a bit of sun.”

“What's happened to him, though? It seems he was part of a . . . well, a
conspiracy
, though I hate to use the word.”

“No, no, no. Ohhhh, no. Undercover. Different thing entirely. Friend Cuthbertson has been commended. His work was exemplary and many lives were saved. He dealt with events in the most professional way and his work underground, as I understand it, was
bold
. Foolhardy, some would say—but that's what good policing is all about: a duty of care, the preservation of life must come first. He'll be honored in due course, sir.” The gentleman paused. His eyes hadn't left the headmaster's and his voice had remained firm yet polite. “Friend,” he said. “I have to trouble you to make a decision. If I could have your signature
there
and
there
?”