Return to Ribblestrop by Andy Mulligan

up. The children did their best to raise their caps, which caused several pile-ups.
They rang their bells almost constantly.
    As they sailed back past the police station, Henry was last in line, on a bike that looked like a toy beneath him. They turned left at the lights, down a gentle slope – a flock of birds
tinkling towards the snowy fields.
    Behind them, a car braked sharply, the driver leaning on the horn. It was a bright red Porsche and it was itching to get past. The children moved over and it accelerated off in a burst of snowy
gravel. Only Tomaz recognised the grinning face that peered out of its passenger window. He saw the hand waving and he promptly fell off his bike. He recognised the eyes, but he knew that it had to
be a hallucination. The eyes had shone and a hand had pushed back long, floating hair. Tomaz lay in the snow, blinking with wonder, as the boy got the window down. He was leaning out of it, waving
harder and shouting – and it looked just like his old friend! It was the image of ex-Ribblestrop pupil and expelled arsonist, Miles Seyton-Shandy – the same hair, the same voice . .
.
    It couldn’t be true! Tomaz lay in the snow knowing that it could not be true. The school would never agree to re-admit Miles – no school would ever take him – because . . .
    Because Miles was insane.

Chapter Twelve
    In the south tower, Lady Vyner was putting on her coat.
    ‘You delivered my letter?’ she said to her grandson.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You gave it to the headmaster? In person?’
    ‘Yes, Gran.’
    ‘No reply, of course,’ she muttered. ‘No manners. No discipline.’
    ‘They’re too busy playing with the animals. This place is a zoo!’
    ‘Totally, completely illegal – it breaks every rule and he will pay for it. He’s late with the rent again and he thinks I don’t know why. It’s because he’s
spending every penny on a circus! Every clause in his contract, broken in a week! What’s that noise?’
    Caspar went to the window. ‘Bicycle bells,’ he said, with a sneer. ‘And there’s a posh car down there too.’
    ‘I’ll give him bicycle bells. I’m seeing my lawyers next Thursday – he won’t have a leg to stand on! The worst school in the world . . .’
    ‘So why have I got to go to it?’
    Caspar was also wearing a black-and-gold blazer.
    ‘Because we can’t afford anything better, Caspar!’ She stared at him, rigid with dislike. ‘How many more times? You don’t pay fees, so you might as well get some
crumbs of an education. Instead of sitting there all day getting more stupid!’ The old lady shuffled over to her shoes and kicked her feet into them.
    Moments later, Lady Vyner clumped off down the stairs. She’d booked an interview at two o’clock and it was her habit to be utterly punctual. She had two solicitor’s letters in
her hand. The first listed a week’s worth of complaints; the second was an aggressive threat of instant prosecution and it had a big, red seal on the envelope.
    Turning the final curve of the staircase, she emerged slightly dizzy into a connecting corridor. The light was dim and there was ice on the windows; she put her hands deep in her pockets and
struggled on in the gloom. Somewhere off to the right, she became aware of running feet. In fact, they were pounding, getting louder and louder, and a shrill shriek was gathering force and volume.
The bicycle bells were getting nearer too and she snarled with irritation. Cycling inside the building! It was just the kind of nonsense she hated most. So – bracing herself and getting ready
to grab whatever child was hurtling towards her – she stepped round the corner, right hand upraised.
    She was just in time to be knocked, reeling, into an oil painting. Lady Vyner saw a blur of grey shirt spin and zoom off. It seemed to flip and was all hands and feet, zipping down the corridor.
The picture she’d dislodged came away from the wall and she was pressed to the floor under its weight.
    The