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BEN LOOKED INTENTLY AT the girl as she waited under the arches of the main entrance to St Patrick’s. Bankim had returned and, after being asked to follow him, the old lady had instructed the girl in no uncertain terms to remain by the door. It was obvious the woman had come to visit Carter, and considering how lacklustre the head of the orphanage’s social life was, Ben assumed that any midnight visit from a mysterious beauty, whatever her age, must definitely be classed as unexpected. He smiled and concentrated once more on the girl. Tall and slim, she was dressed in simple though unusual clothes that looked as if they’d been made by someone with a unique personal style and obviously not bought in any old bazaar in the Black Town. Her features, which he couldn’t see clearly from where

he stood, seemed to be soft and her skin was pale and luminous.

‘Anyone home?’ Ian whispered in his ear.

Ben signalled towards the girl, his eyes still transfixed.

‘It’s almost midnight,’ Ian added. ‘We’re meeting in the Palace in a few minutes. Final session, may I remind you?’

Ben nodded absently.

‘Wait a minute,’ he added and started to walk resolutely towards the girl.

‘Ben,’ Ian called behind him. ‘Not now, Ben …’ Ben ignored his friend. The curiosity he felt was stronger than all the ceremonial delights of the Chowbar Society. He adopted the saintly smile of a model pupil and walked on. The girl saw him approach and lowered her eyes.

‘Hello. I’m Mr Carter’s assistant – he’s the head of St Patrick’s,’ said Ben. ‘May I help you in any way?’

‘Actually, no … Your … colleague has already taken my grandmother to see the headmaster,’ said the girl.

‘Your grandmother?’ asked Ben. ‘I see. I hope it’s nothing serious. I mean it’s midnight and I wondered whether there was something wrong.’

She gave a weak smile and shook her head. Ben smiled back. She was not such easy prey.

‘My name is Ben,’ he said politely.

‘Sheere,’ replied the girl, looking towards the door as if she expected her grandmother to emerge at any moment.

Ben rubbed his hands.

‘Well, Sheere,’ he said. ‘While my colleague Bankim takes your grandmother to Mr Carter’s office, perhaps I can offer you some hospitality. The head always insists we be polite to visitors.’

‘Aren’t you a bit young to be the headmaster’s assistant?’ asked Sheere, avoiding the boy’s eyes.

‘Young? You flatter me. I’m just blessed with an enviable complexion, but I’ll be twenty-three soon.’

‘I never would have guessed it,’ replied Sheere.

‘It runs in the family,’ Ben explained. ‘Our skin is resistant to aging. To this day people mistake my grandfather for an altar boy.’

‘Really?’ asked Sheere, suppressing a nervous laugh.

‘So how about accepting St Patrick’s hospitality?’ Ben insisted. ‘We’re having a party for some of the kids who are about to leave us. It’s sad, but a whole new life will open up before them. It’s exciting too.’

Sheere fixed her eyes on Ben and her lips slowly formed a sceptical smile.

‘My grandmother asked me to wait here.’

Ben pointed at the door. ‘Here?’ he asked. ‘Just here?’ Sheere nodded.

‘You see …’ Ben began, waving his hands about. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but … Well, I thought I might not have to. These things are not good for the image of the institution, but you leave me no option. There’s a structural problem. With the walls.’

The young girl looked at him in astonishment.

‘Structural?’

Ben adopted a serious expression and nodded.

‘Exactly. It’s regrettable, but here on the very spot where you’re standing, not even a month ago, Mrs Potts, our old cook, God bless her, was hit by a piece of brick that fell from the second floor and for two weeks she thought she was Moll Flanders. Imagine the scandal.’