'Yes?'
'Where on earth have you been?'
'Uh?'
'You've got to come quick.' It was Bianca.
'Bianca? What's up?'
'I'm in trouble. I haven't got much time. Can you come here now?'
'Why what's happened?'
'I've got the essay.'
The hair on my head would have stood on end if it hadn't been too tired.
'You've what?'
'The essay. I've stolen it, when Pickel catches me he'll —' There was a scream, and the line went dead.
When I arrived at her flat in Tan-y-Bwlch her front door was ajar. Furniture and fixtures were thrown across the floor, crockery was smashed, papers littered the carpet. There were bloody handprints on the wall and smeared down the gloss white of the door. I looked at the phone and knew I should call Llunos. Things had gone far enough. And for all I knew, the police could be on the way here right now. I looked at the phone. I really should call the police, but I didn't.
Chapter 14
I FOUND HIM sitting next to the cauldron in a belfry that smelled faintly of gin. Alerted by the sound of stair- climbing he was already looking at the entrance when I walked in.
'What do you want? This is private property.'
There was no wind, no sensation at all except the steady whirr of the clockwork, and the faint smell of gin.
'Where is she? And don't say 'who?''
'Fuck off.'
The floor was a series of boards suspended high up in the tower. In the middle there was a gaping chasm and beneath it the fabulous iron and brass monster of the clockwork mechanism. It was from here that Mr Dombey had fallen or been pushed into the shark's jaw of the cogs. And at the moment it separated me from Pickel. I started to walk round towards the other side.
Pickel picked up a brass rod from the floor. 'You stay where you are.'
'The deal is very simple, Pickel. Tell me where she is, or I throw you into the clock.'
He waved the rod uncertainly and took a step back. 'That's close enough.'
I continued walking and ducked under the horizontal spindle that turned the hands.
'I'm warning you!'
I took another step. 'There was blood on the walls.'
He stepped back again and shook his head. 'Not me.'
'If you've harmed her, I'll kill you.'
'You've got the wrong man.'
'Why don't you tell me who the right man is?'
I looked down at the precipice. Lying on the floor a few feet from the edge was an old blacksmith's anvil. Covered in dust and cobwebs now, but probably used at some point in the past to repair a piece of the machinery. Pickel's gaze landed on it at the same time and the same thought went through both our heads.
'No!' howled Pickel.
I smiled.
'Don't you dare!'
He made a jump towards me but stopped like a fly hitting a window pane the moment I rested my foot on top of the anvil.
'Don't what?'
He was standing on one foot, poised like a relay racer waiting for the baton. Immobilised by the terror that any movement of his might induce me to slide the lump of iron over the edge and into the teeth of his beloved clock.
'Don't do it,' he cried in a softer voice. 'Please!'
'Where is she?'
He held his hands out in supplication. 'I don't know.' It was a simple statement delivered in the beseeching, wheedling tone of a mother begging for her baby back.
I pushed the anvil a bit further until it was lying at the very edge of the precipice. The clock was well built, but still extremely delicate. An anvil crashing through it would do a lot more damage than the emaciated frame of Mr Dombey.
'I don't believe you.'
I could see fear in Pickel's eyes. If I had threatened to throw his mother out of the window, he probably wouldn't have batted an eye, but the prospect of seeing his clock destroyed was too much. I pushed the anvil even further until it was now teetering on the brink, held in place only by the slight extra weight from the sole of my shoe.
'Where is she?'
'Please, they took her.'
I looked at him impatiently.
'Lovespoon and his tough guys. She stole the essay from me, y'see - the stupid bitch. I mean I had to tell them. They'd have killed me if they'd found out; probably will anyway.'
His eyes were riveted on the anvil.
'Where did they take her?'
He shook his head. 'I don't know. Really I don't.'
I let the anvil swing a bit to refresh his memory.
He cried out. 'Why the fuck would they tell me, anyway?'
'Look, you pile of shit, I don't care what they will and won't tell you. I'm trying to find that girl before any of you monkeys harm her. Now either I leave this tower knowing where to find her, or your clock is fucked.'
He sank down on to the floor and supported his head in his hands.
'Lovespoon is up at the school.'
'What's he doing up there?' I asked in surprise.
'He goes there every night ... to his study ... to write ... and -'
He stopped.
'Yes?'
'And to look at his Ark.' He shrugged. 'That's where he goes.'
'Even at four o'clock in the morning?'
'He'll be there. He never sleeps any more.'
I pulled back the anvil and walked to the door. If you're lying, I'll be back with my own anvil.
Nothing had changed: the squeaky floor, the stale smell of feet and disinfectant, and the skeletal coat pegs, empty except for the occasional lonely anorak. But night gave it an alien, ghostly appearance. Breaking in was as easy now as it had been twenty years ago when we used to come and piss in the sports trophies in the assembly hall. I crept down the corridor, my shoes squealing on the tiles like birds in the rainforest. It was difficult to believe Lovespoon would be here at four in the morning, but Pickel was right. At the end of the corridor, across the foyer, I could see a shaft of light coming from the door of his study. The section where the senior masters had their offices was set off from the main foyer and used to be called the Alamo. A powerful Pavlovian reaction, dormant for two decades, was set in motion as I approached. Mouth went dry and ears began to throb in anticipation of being cuffed. I wrestled with the force inside me which was turning me once again into a subservient, defenceless schoolboy. A target for board rubbers, someone to be lifted bodily by the ear and pulled by the hair. To be upbraided with inferior sarcasm and terrorised into not answering back. How would I find the courage to stand up to him? To accuse him of murdering five of his own pupils? What business is it of yours, anyway, little boy? What if he had his cane? I hesitated outside the door and a voice came from inside: 'Come in, boy, don't stand out there dithering!'
He was at his desk, side-on to me, hunched over and marking essays. Without looking round he raised a hand
