Ribblestrop by Andy Mulligan

Author:Andy Mulligan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Beach Lane Books

Chapter Twenty-five

The survivors gathered that evening in the dining hall. Captain Routon had cooked another handsome meal and the rum bottles were out, everyone allowed a tot to keep spirits up. But the cold wind of failure blew and stripped the building back to what it was: a semiderelict stone box, smelling of ash.

Eleven-two, the final score.

Amazingly, there were no broken bones. There were cuts, bruises, and sprains. There were black eyes. And there was Sam, deep in a coma, with a tube down his nose. He was breathing, but only just. Captain Routon had set up a primitive ventilator using a desk fan and one of Professor Worthington’s electric timers, but everyone knew it was a dangerous situation. He was under blankets in the west tower, and the headmaster was with him.

The rest of the children sat at their tables like an army, routed and cheated. An army that had been trodden underfoot: rabbits in a stampede of buffalo.

“There’s always the return game,” said Professor Worthington. She was on the little stage of crates, balancing as best she could. Her hair was wild; her scarf looked ridiculous. “We’ll show them next time,” she whispered.

It was not the thing to say. Nobody wanted another meeting with the high school unless it was with crowbars and shotguns. The sense of fair play had been snuffed out like a night-light.

“It could have been worse,” continued the doctor. “There were some cracking saves, weren’t there, Miss Hazlitt?”

“Sanchez can hardly walk,” said Millie. “Ruskin can’t talk.”

“Oh, Millie. Don’t despair!”

“We need wheelchairs and morphine. Not fantasy. And by the way, our loyal deputy headmistress wasn’t even watching.”

“What you need,” said Miss Hazlitt, “is a little bit of discipline.” She rarely ate with the children, but had chosen to do so tonight. Her black dress gleamed and she hunched over her food, long and thin. Her face was startlingly white. “I was watching, as a matter of fact. The reason you lost was because you don’t work together.” She allowed herself a rare smile. “Every man for himself. I’ve seen it in class; I see it round the school—the dominant ego seeking gratification.”

“Where have you seen that?” said Sanchez.

Her voice took on a strange chuckle. “In your lessons,” she said. “You can’t take orders. Rebellion has become—” Her cell phone shrieked and she snatched it to her ear. “As I predicted, instinctive. You’re an interesting case study, Millie. Look at the way you dress and speak to your elders. Hello?”

Ruskin tried to protest, but his jaw was locked in distress.

Asilah stood up. “We practiced hard! Sam was . . . amazing!”

“Wait a minute,” said Miss Hazlitt into her phone. “Don’t shout out, Asilah, you can see I’m talking . . .”

“We worked together,” cried Sanchez. “We always work together!”

“Yes!” said Israel. “So what you said is not fair.”

There were murmurs of support and one of the littlest orphans leaped to his feet. “Ha!” he shouted.

“I’ll call you back, run it past my secretary.” Miss Hazlitt snapped the phone away, and let herself smile again.

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