Free Ribblestrop by Andy Mulligan Page A

and her instinct took over. She tried to pull away, but Sanchez was in control. “I don’t want you in here,” said Sanchez. He was moving her to the door. “He’s sick, Millie! Please!”
    Millie bent forward slightly, aware that Sanchez was close behind her. She clamped the cigarette firmly in her lips and smashed her head backward, hoping to crunch it into Sanchez’s face. The next moment, she stamped with her right foot, aiming at the boy’s ankle. Sanchez was fast, though, and he just avoided both blows. Now she was twisting, and she knew he couldn’t hold her for long. He put his arms right round her, but Millie was all elbows and kicking feet and in a second she had one arm free. She grabbed the cigarette from her own lips and plunged it forward. Sanchez ducked clear, so she pushed it into his shoulder, burninghis shirt. He had to leap back, she’d caught the skin and he was gasping. He was better than she’d thought, though: he knew to come in under her arm, and she was in a headlock suddenly, bent backward and round. Then she was on the floor, the cigarette gone. She thrashed with her legs and got one good, heavy kick in somewhere: then she was pinned down hard, both arms wrenched up again behind her back. Sam was wailing and Sanchez was panting furiously; Millie could hardly breathe. She could hear Sanchez at her ear, muttering in Spanish. Then his arms were under her again, and she was lifted and steered toward the door. She bent and writhed, but his hands had her wrists, folding her over. She tried to spin round but Sanchez pushed hard and her head cracked into the open door: a white light dazed her. She kicked out, but was thrown.
    Suddenly it was all over: she was in the passageway. The door slammed shut and a bolt clicked into place. She sat down heavily on the floor and waited for the world to stop spinning.
    â€œDamn,” she said. Her nose was bleeding.

Chapter Eight
    Downstairs, the headmaster was making a speech. He’d chosen the makeshift kitchen area in the central courtyard, as he considered it the heart of the school. This is where the children would eat, under the tarpaulins and the ruined roof. This is where the building would rise, and the grandeur of hall, chapel, and library would all be restored.
    He wanted the children to smell the history.
    In the olden days, fine tapestries had covered these walls. Whole pigs had been roasted in a giant fireplace, and minstrels had piped and tooted in a gallery. According to history books, chandeliers with a thousand lights had cast their glitter over rows of elegant lords, ladies, dukes, and duchesses—Henry the Something had visited, or promised to visit. Now, alas, it was mainly ash and soot.
    It was eight o’clock, and the glorious sunlight had made way for a deep, purple nighttime. A handful of stars were out already.
    Candles stood in bottles and jars. The children perched where they could: there were a few plastic picnic stools, some chairs from a classroom, and a deck chair. Three orphans balanced on a scaffolding plank, and two on the top of a stepladder. Dr. Norcross-Webb, in Wellington boots and the long black gown of authority, stood on a pile of wooden pallets. He raised his hand for silence. The children were warm, full, and happy.
    â€œA vote of thanks, first of all, to our chef. Captain Routon: thank you.”
    There was loud applause. The captain waved his spatula and took a bow.
    â€œPlease look at the lists on the notice board, as washing up rotas start tonight. Note also who is on cooking duty tomorrow. Here at Ribblestrop, all burdens are shared. Every chore is a learning opportunity and tomorrow night I will be teaching the art of the vegetarian lasagna. Be aware, please, that we have an early start—lessons begin first thing, with practical geography. Let’s hope for a dry day as you will be exploring and charting the grounds with our expedition leader. Our chef will