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As he did so, another figure emerged, and this one was spluttering and coughing as much as he was. This one lunged for him and caught him by the shoulder. A torch came out of the water and Miles
saw Henry’s huge face, racked with fear and desperation, the staring eyes made all the more mad by his slicked-back hair. They trod water together.

After some time, Miles said. ‘I don’t know the way.’

Henry pointed with his torch and they saw together that there were no options. The cave they were in tapered to a tunnel and, after ten metres or so, that tunnel submerged. They would have to
swim blind, hoping that the roof would rise before they ran out of air.

Miles smiled at Henry and shook his head. ‘Suicide,’ he said.

Above ground, Darren was making his move. He had realised that the level of the lake was going down. This exposed some of the pipework around Neptune and he could see a small,
concrete platform, which had not been there before. There was a stone wall next to it, circular – it looked like a well. As he stared, trying to work out what it might be for, he saw a
rowing-boat float up out of it and he was able to recognise three hunched figures.

He looked about him, stealthily. As far as he could tell, he was alone. The children he’d seen had gone down the Neptune statue: he’d heard nobody for a long time. He was bitterly
cold and horribly bruised. Breathing was painful and he felt he had very little strength in his right arm. Still, he had done his duty by waiting; now, at last, it was pick-up time.

He lifted the oar of the speedboat – wincing as he did so – and pushed off from under the bridge.

D.C.C. Cuthbertson saw him and waved frantically.

Asilah crouched on the bank, observing everything.

‘Come in, Sanchez,’ he said.

There was no reply.

‘Sanchez, are you receiving? Over.’

‘Asilah, it’s not Sanchez. It’s Ruskin.’ The boy’s voice was cracking. ‘We’ve lost Miles and Henry. They jumped in! They just went and
jumped!’

‘There’s movement on the lake, Ruskin,’ said Asilah. ‘There’s a boat coming over the lake. Over.’

‘Who’s in it?’

‘I can’t see who’s in the little one,’ said Asilah. ‘There’s no hurry – they’re not going anywhere. They’re . . . moving towards each other.
I don’t think it’s kids – they’re too big. Unless one of them’s Henry . . .’

‘It must be Cuthbertson,’ said Ruskin. ‘Get him.’

‘What are you thinking, boss?’ said Anjoli. He had slunk up beside Asilah and they watched together as the two boats came together. Vijay was on the bridge and waved an arm. Two more
boys ran silently to him and knelt by his side.

‘What are we waiting for?’ said Anjoli. ‘We gotta take ‘em.’

‘What do you think, Israel?’ said Asilah.

Israel chuckled. ‘He wants to fly, you let him fly. We’ll lose them if we don’t move.’

‘You sure?’ said Asilah. ‘We never did this in water.’

Anjoli said, ‘I’m Icarus, man.’

The decision made, the three boys moved back to where the concrete pipe stood ready, the charge packed in a watertight skin. Anjoli put on a crash helmet and buttoned up his blazer. Then he took
up the asbestos tray and clambered up the pipe. Seconds later, he was folding himself into its aperture. He got the tray under his backside and hugged his knees.

‘Ready,’ he said. His voice had a strange echo, emerging from a gun barrel.

Israel took a bearing and shoved the pipe sideways. He jammed a rock into the soil to stabilise it.

Asilah knocked on the pipe. ‘Anjoli – I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Light the fuse! It’s what I was born for.’

Israel grew impatient – he was a practical boy. Most of the orphans carried cigarette lighters and his had a healthy, five-centimetre flame. He touched it to the fuse and watched it burn,
fast. Asilah heard the hiss and moved away: it was a ten-second delay, and that gave them time to get a little distance and crouch with their backs to the pipe.

The detonation rocked the peace of the night and was bounced back from hill to hill. The pipe itself burst, sending several shards of concrete zipping over the grass. Anjoli, however, was borne
up in the most beautiful of trajectories. The tray saved his flesh and as it fell away, he was a diver rising in the starlit night, somersaulting higher and higher. He saw Orion’s belt and
opened his arms to swing on it. For several seconds he seemed to hang in the air and enjoy weightlessness.

He got his bearings and sighted the two boats beneath him. They were touching. Anjoli gritted his teeth and became a weapon, pure and simple. He drew his knees to his chin – Flavio had
coached him, so he knew the drill. His elbows gave him some control over direction and he fixed his eyes on the target.

‘My God, what was that?’ cried the headmaster.

He was standing in the deserted east tower dormitory; everyone crowded to the window. They missed the flash of fire, of course. All they saw was a black speck rising.

‘I’m very concerned,’ said Professor Worthington.

‘Let’s get down to the lake.’

Before they reached the door, Anjoli had smashed between the Cuthbertsons, turning their rowing-boat to matchwood. He plunged almost to the lake’s bottom, lucky that he’d hit a deep
patch, as the level was falling fast. He revolved, got his bearings, and struck out for the surface. Through the murk he saw a pair of kicking legs and he knew someone was in the water.

It was Father O’Hanrahan.

The Cuthbertsons were grabbing at the speedboat – the policeman had the precious sword and managed to pass it to Darren. Gary Cuthbertson rolled himself into the boat and went straight to
the engine, to yank at its cord. Father O’Hanrahan managed to grab the policeman’s leg and then he too had the side of the boat.

Anjoli hauled at him, but he desperately needed air, so he couldn’t hold on for long. He kicked away and burst onto the surface, laughing and gasping at the same time.

Then, from the other side of the lake, came the children’s own rowing-boat, concealed for counter-attack. Nikko was in the bows and his thin voice came floating over the water:
‘Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!’ The oarsmen were pulling hard and still the speedboat’s engine would not fire.

‘Get in!’ roared Cuthbertson, and by superhuman effort and a great deal of luck, the old man hauled himself up; the policeman wrestling him onto the boat’s floor.

All at once, there was fire in the air. Kenji was throwing fire-bombs and one hit the side of the speedboat, splashing burning rum across the gunwale.

‘Stroke! Stroke! Faster!’ yelled Nikko.

Gary Cuthbertson almost fell, for the craft was rocking more madly than ever. He leaned heavily on Darren’s shoulder, which elicited a hideous scream, and tried once more at the engine
cord.

‘My goodness,’ said the headmaster, pausing on the lawns. ‘They’re on the lake! This is an outrage!’

As he spoke, the speedboat came to life and its chainsaw screech blotted out further comment. Gary Cuthbertson was an adequate climber, but he was no boatman. He dropped the propeller way too
fast, before he had control of the rudder, and the boat spun in dangerously fast circles, the flames now fanned by the breeze and taking hold.

Anjoli dived out of the way for safety.

‘Hard to starboard!’ shrieked Kenji. He had one more bomb to lob and aimed it at the engine. The rowing-boat was moving at speed, though, and it was an impossible shot. It fell
harmlessly into the water.

The rowers were tearing at the rowlocks. Their vessel had been patched up with bits of timber and canvas, but there was no way it could stand the strain it was under: holes were appearing where
their feet were braced. They hoped to ram the villains broadside and then, like marauders of old, they might have jumped onboard for a total rout. Sadly, it was not to be. The policeman grabbed the
tiller and righted his craft. The engine howled and the boat swept forward out of the smoke. The boys’ boat rushed by, just grazing the motor. Israel lunged at the policeman with an oar, but
the blow glanced off the side of his head and Cuthbertson stayed upright. They pulled Anjoli out of the water and sank in the wake of the disappearing speedboat.

‘Damn!’ cried Asilah. ‘We need that gun, man! Why did Miles take it?’

‘They’re getting away!’ wailed Israel. He was up to his knees in water.

Sure enough, Percy Cuthbertson – even whilst clutching his ear – had brought the boat under control and was turning it in a graceful curve. Somehow they’d put out the fire and
were on their way.

‘What
is
going on?’ cried Professor Worthington. She too was in the water and was panting hard. Flavio and Routon were soon beside her.

‘They’re getting away,’ said Anjoli.

The speedboat was almost out of sight and the misery of defeat rolled in like a fog.

Then a curious thing happened. The speedboat appeared to stop.

‘It’s stopped,’ said Asilah.

‘What’s it doing?’ said Kenji.

Flavio’s eyesight was good. He peered into the moonlight, the white of the boat vivid against the dark water.

‘I think they’re grounded,’ he said. ‘They’re just standing there.’

Anjoli gasped. ‘Of course!’ he cried. ‘The water level’s dropped, man. They’re stuck in the mud.’

At this point, the head of Neptune opened and the rest of the children poured out onto his shoulders, led by Brother Rees. The old monk saw the teachers and clambered through the mud to get to
them. He nearly fell into the headmaster’s arms. ‘There are two children, sir!’ he gasped. ‘Underwater.’ He fell to his knees and the headmaster crouched beside him.
‘There’s another one . . . lost, sir. Millie, I think.’ His eyes were wild and the headmaster could only stare. ‘You’re going to need divers!’ cried Brother
Rees, finding a last morsel of energy. ‘Fire crews, sir! Air ambulance. I’ve afraid you must expect casualties, sir. I did what I could – I tried to . . .’ Brother Rees had
started to cry. Sobs were choking him, as he saw again the black water and Miles’s face as he dived.

The headmaster, meanwhile, started to run. He reached his study in record time and snatched up the telephone receiver. ‘Emergency . . .’ he shouted. ‘Emergency!’

Above his head, two parrots woke up and flapped angrily. One let off a volley of gunshots, whilst the other roared like a tiger.

The headmaster swore and dialled firmly: nine-nine-nine. ‘Ambulance,’ he cried. ‘Fire crews too! Police!’

‘Everyone in the lorry,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘We’ll go round!’

‘No!’ said Asilah. ‘We stretched a wire across. We can walk.’

Flavio saw what he meant and his eyes bulged with wonder. They had fired a wire right across the island and used the truck to stretch it. It was secure and tight, and they could simply stroll
into the middle of the lake.

Imagio led and soon there was a queue of schoolboys making their way behind him.

The water level had risen to Millie’s shoulders.

She stood on the top platform, her eyes fixed on the pump-room door that remained so completely closed, just ten steps away. When the level rose to her neck, she started to pray. When it got to
her nose, she lost her footing on the platform and had to float. She tried to keep calm.

There was less than a metre of air above her, and when she kicked to locate the platform, she couldn’t find it – it was out of reach. She bobbed in the water, her nose just above the
surface, still hoping. Soon, the effort was unbearable and she was gulping river water. She had to cough it out and replace it with air – air that was becoming fetid and thick. She needed all
her strength to do that and yet her real strength was needed to keep herself afloat.

She tried to lift herself up and stretch out in a star shape. When she did this, it was a little easier, but the horror was looking only at the ceiling, as it came closer and closer. She
realised she was crying and she thought of Sanchez.

Miles was also floating.

The tunnel had seemed endless and, again, it had been like swimming in oil or ink – the blackness seemed to get thicker. He knew, like Millie, that panic of any kind burned up oxygen, and
he knew that to get into difficulties now – to suddenly lose confidence – would kill both him and Henry. The thought of dying, though, had become too attractive to resist and he knew it
was why he was here. He would not panic: in a strange way, he was in slow-motion, and the fact that he had no idea of his direction and therefore could not worry . . . it kept him calm. Then he saw
himself again, but the phantom boy was underneath him now, and it was younger. This one was wearing baggy red swimming trunks, which Miles dimly remembered were the ones he learned to swim in, when
he was six years old. He saw his mother, then, at the far end of the tunnel, stretching out her arms to him, because it had been she who had taught him. She was laughing, he was laughing.

He kicked once more and the six-year-old rose so that Miles could get his hand on his shoulder. He was drawn through and the little boy pulled him into a new cave, down through rock, and over a
ridge that scraped his belly. His mother loomed closer and she was calling out to him as his face broke the surface. Air cascaded down upon him and there was light from somewhere as she hugged
him.

Henry was there again too, though Henry’s face was unrecognisable. Something had happened to Henry’s face. Maybe he’d caught it on the rocks as he swam, but his jaw seemed to
be dark with blood and he looked like an old man. He’d lost an eye and he was wearing a suit and holding Miles up. The light swung away and Miles knew he was in the arms of Lord Vyner and
that he had to dive again.

Tomaz swam with him this time. It was the Tomaz he had known at the start of last term – the shy Tomaz, who spoke very little English. It was the Tomaz he’d looked after and they
swam well together. They could hear Sanchez’s voice calling them and they raced towards it. Miles felt stronger and when he kicked his legs, he seemed to shoot forward at amazing speed. He
followed Tomaz, who was quick as a tadpole, and when the cave divided into two, he had no choice to make – he followed the racing boy. He just had to hope that Henry was following.