Panicked, I wriggled back the way I had come. In the Quad below, the security lights popped on, and I ducked down to escape the harsh illumination, cursing helplessly.
Everything was wrong. I had disabled the alarm in the Library wing; but in my panic and confusion I had forgotten that the Bell Tower’s alarm was still on; and now the siren was screaming, screaming like the golden bird in Jack and the Beanstalk, there was no way my father could miss it, and Leon was still up here with me somewhere, Leon was trapped—
I stood on the balcony and jumped across onto the walkway, looking down as I did into the illuminated Quad. Two figures stood there, looking up, their giant shadows fanning around them like a hand of cards. I ducked into the shelter of the Bell Tower, crawled forward to the edge of the roof, and glanced down once again.
Pat Bishop was watching me from the courtyard, my father at his side.
9
“There. Up there.” Radio voices across a far distance. I’d ducked back, of course, but Bishop had seen the movement, the round dark head against the luminous sky. “Boys on the roof.”
Boys. Of course, he’d assumed that.
“How many boys?” That was Bishop; younger then, tense and fit and only slightly red-faced.
“Don’t know, sir. I’d say at least two.”
Once more I dared a glance below. My father was still watching, his white face upturned and blind. Bishop was already moving fast. He moved like a bear; heavy, all muscle. My father followed him at a slower pace, his huge shadow doubled and trebled by the lights. I did not bother to watch them anymore. I knew already where they were heading.
My father had turned off the burglar alarm. The megaphone was Bishop’s idea; he used it on Sports Days and fire drills, and it made his voice impossibly nasal and penetrating.
“You boys!” he began. “Stay where you are! Do not attempt to climb down! Help is on the way!”
That’s how Bishop spoke in a crisis; like a character from some American action movie. I could tell he was enjoying his role; the newly appointed Second Master; man of action; troubleshooter; counselor to the world.
In fifteen years he has hardly changed—that particular brand of righteous arrogance seldom does. Even then he thought he could put things right with nothing but a megaphone and a few glib words.
It was one-thirty; the moon had set; the sky, never quite dark at that time of year, had taken on a sheer translucent glow. Above me, somewhere on the Chapel roof, Leon was waiting; cool, collected; sitting it out. Someone had called the fire brigade; already I could hear sirens in the distance, Dopplering toward us. Soon, we would be overrun.
“Indicate your position!” Bishop again, wielding his megaphone with a flourish. “Repeat, indicate your position!”
Still nothing from Leon. I wondered whether he had managed to find the Library window on his own; whether he was trapped or running silently down the corridors, looking for a way out.
Somewhere above me a slate rattled. There came a slithering sound—his trainers against the lead gutter. And now I could see him too—just a glimpse of his head above the Chapel parapet. As I watched he began to move—so slowly that it was almost imperceptible—onto the narrow walkway that led toward the Bell Tower.
It made sense, I thought. He must have known that the Library window option was impossible now; that low, slanting roof ran right alongside the Chapel building, and he would be in plain sight if he tried. The Bell Tower was higher, but more secure; up there he would be able to hide. I was on the other side, however; if I joined him from where I was standing, I would be instantly visible from below. I resolved to go around, to take the long way across the Observatory roof and join him in the shadows where we could hide.
“Boys! Listen!” It was Bishop’s voice, so highly amplified that I clapped my hands over my ears. “You’re not in any trouble!” I turned away to hide a nervous grin; he was so convincing that he almost convinced himself. “Just stay where you are! Repeat! Stay where you are!”
Leon, of course, was not fooled. The system, we knew, was run on such platitudes.
“You’re not in any trouble!” I imagined Leon’s grin at that perennial lie and felt a sudden pain in my heart that I was not there with him to share his amusement. It would have been so fine, I thought; Butch and Sundance trapped on the roof, two rebels defying the combined forces of St. Oswald’s and the law.
But now . . . It struck me then that I had more than one reason for not wanting Leon caught. My own position was far from secure; a word, a single glimpse of me, and my cover was blown forever. There was no getting round it—after this, Pinchbeck would have to disappear. Of course, he could, quite easily. Only Leon had any inkling that he was anything more than a ghost; a fake; a thing of rags and stuffing.
At the time, however, I felt little fear on my own account. I knew the roof better than anyone, and as long as I kept hidden, I might still escape discovery. But if Leon spoke to my father—if either of them made the connection—
It wasn’t the imposture that would provoke the outrage. It was the challenge. To St. Oswald’s; to the system; to everything. I could see it now; the enquiry; the evening papers; the squib in the national press.
I could have lived with punishment—I was thirteen, for God’s sake, what could they do to me?—but it was the ridicule I feared. That, and the contempt; and the knowledge that in spite of everything, St. Oswald’s had won.
I could just see my father standing, shoulders hunched, looking up at the roof. I sensed his dismay; not just at the attack on St. Oswald’s, but at the duty that now awaited him. John Snyde was never quick; but he was thorough, in his way, and there was no doubt in his mind as to what he should do.
“I’ll have to go after them.” His voice, faint but clearly audible, reached me from the Quad below.
“What’s that?” Bishop, in his eagerness to play the man of action, had completely overlooked the simplest solution. The fire brigade had not yet arrived; the police, always overworked, had not even looked in.
“I’ll have to go up there. It’s my job.” His voice was stronger—a St. Oswald’s Porter has to be strong. I remembered that from Bishop’s lectures We count on you, John. St. Oswald’s counts on you to Do Your Duty.
At a glance, Bishop measured the distance. I could see him working it out; clocking the angles. Boys on the roof; man on the ground; Head Porter in between. He wanted to go up himself—of course he did—but if he left his post, who would wield the megaphone? Who would deal with the emergency team? Who would take control?
“Don’t spook them. Don’t get too close. Take care—all right? Cover the fire escape. Get on the roof. I’ll talk them down.”
Talk them down. There’s another Bishop phrase, with its action-man overtones. He, who would have liked nothing better than to climb up onto the Chapel roof—possibly abseiling down again with an unconscious boy in his arms—could have had no inkling of the effort—the astonishing effort—it took for my father to agree.
I’d never actually used the fire escape. I preferred my less conventional routes; the Library window; the Bell Tower; the skylight in the glass-fronted art studio, which gave access onto a slim metal joist that ran from the art block to the Observatory.