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‘Sometimes the word is mightier than the sword,’ Ben declared. ‘I wonder, who said that?’
‘Voltaire?’ suggested Isobel.
Ben ignored her sarcasm.
‘And which powerful words might you be using?’ asked Ian.
‘Not my own, that’s for sure,’ Ben explained. ‘The words of Mr Carter. We’ll get him to speak to your grandmother.’
Sheere looked down and shook her head despondently.
‘It won’t work, Ben. You don’t know Aryami Bose. There’s nobody as stubborn as her. It’s in her blood.’
Ben gave a feline smile, his eyes shining.
‘I’m even more stubborn. Wait till you see me in action, then you’ll change your mind.’
‘Ben, you’re going to get us into trouble again,’ said Seth.
Ben raised an eyebrow and looked at each of them in turn, crushing any hint of rebellion.
‘If anyone has anything else to say, speak now or for ever hold your peace,’ he said solemnly.
Nobody protested.
‘Good. Motion approved. Let’s go.’
CARTER INSERTED HIS KEY in the hole and turned it twice. The lock clicked open and Carter entered the room, closing the door behind him. He didn’t feel like seeing or speaking to anyone for at least an hour. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and walked over to his armchair. It was then that he noticed a figure seated in the chair opposite and realised he was not alone. The key slipped from Carter’s fingers but didn’t hit the floor; an agile hand, sheathed in a black glove, caught it as it fell. A sharp face peered around the wing of the armchair, its lips twisted in a doglike snarl.
‘Who are you and how did you get in here?’ Carter demanded, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.
The intruder stood up and Carter felt the blood drain from his cheeks as he recognised the man who had paid him a visit sixteen years earlier. His face hadn’t aged a single day and his eyes still blazed with the ferocity the headmaster remembered. Jawahal. Clutching the key in his hand, the visitor walked over to the door and locked it. Carter gulped. The warnings Aryami Bose had given him the night before raced through his mind. Jawahal squeezed the key between his fingers and the metal bent as if it were a hairpin.
‘You don’t seem very happy to see me, Mr Carter,’ said Jawahal. ‘Don’t you remember the meeting we arranged sixteen years ago? I’ve come to make my donation.’
‘Leave this place immediately or I’ll call the police,’ Carter threatened.
‘Let’s not worry about the police for the time being. I’ll call them when I leave. Sit down and grant me the pleasure of your conversation.’
Carter sat in his armchair struggling to keep his emotions in check and appear calm and in control. Jawahal gave him a friendly smile.
‘I imagine you know why I’m here.’
‘I don’t know what you’re looking for, but you won’t find it here,’ replied Carter.
‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,’ said Jawahal casually. ‘I’m looking for a child who has now become a man. You know which child I mean. I’d hate to feel obliged to hurt you.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
Jawahal laughed. ‘Yes,’ he replied coldly. ‘And when I threaten someone, I mean it.’
For the first time, Carter considered the possibility of crying out for help.
‘If you’re thinking about screaming,’ said Jawahal. ‘Let me at least give you a reason to do so.’
As soon as he’d uttered those words, Jawahal spread his right hand in front of his face and calmly began to pull off the glove.
SHEERE AND THE OTHER members of the Chowbar Society had only just stepped into the courtyard when the windows of Thomas Carter’s office on the first floor exploded with a thunderous blast, and fragments of glass, wood and brick cascaded over the garden. For a moment the young people froze in their tracks, then they immediately rushed towards the building, ignoring the smoke and the flames issuing from the gaping hole that had opened in the facade.
