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said Millie.
    â€œMillie also. Jacob—Ruskin. Sammy. Put your glasses in here.”
    Sam drained his glass nervously, then realized with delight that for the first time in his life he was drunk. It was instant. A hand snatched the glass. It joined Millie’s, Ruskin’s, and one each from Mr. Sanchez and his son. Five glasses. The man laid a serviette ceremoniously over the top. He tucked in the edges. From his pocket he produced a handgun.
    â€œMy son Andreas has one sister now. And two brothers. Yes?”
    â€œEr . . . yes.”
    â€œWe meet today, eat today. Today we become family. I don’t know your fathers, your mothers. But today, you have one more father—is me. Yes?”
    â€œThank you,” said Sam.
    Mr. Sanchez brought the butt of the gun down hard on the pile of glasses, once, twice, three times. The crunching of the glass seemed slightly ominous to Sam. He burped, loudly—nobody noticed. His wrists were grabbed and he managed to find his hands in his blazer sleeves. Everyone had linked hands as if for “AuldLang Syne,” but Mr. Sanchez continued, whispering intensely: “You look after Andreas and he looks after you. You understand me? Many people in this country, so many bad people—not enough friends. So it’s good to make the friend. You hold the friend; you keep the friend.”
    Sam rather liked being hugged and kissed. Millie was grinning and Ruskin was smiling again, as if bullets whipped past his ears every day.
    *
    In the Sanchez helicopter later, Sam tried to piece together the fragments of coincidence that had led him on and off trains, up and down escalators, in and out of taxis, and finally onto an aircraft that was now zipping over the countryside of Devon. He looked down onto brown fields and friendly green hills. They were all joined up cleanly like waves in the sea. He was flying over a map: there was the motorway, there was the railway. He was seeing double still—partly from concussion, partly from champagne—but he could see the way the land was divided. A settlement there, by the stream—someone had put a yellow crop there by a greeny-brown one, and there were a whole load of cows. All in all, despite the bruises, the day had been rather good: and it was still only half past five. He vaguely remembered, in his letter of acceptance to Ribblestrop, that they had to report to the headmaster between four thirty and six. So he was well on schedule, with new shorts and some very rich food slurping about with burgers, chips, and champagne. He was minus a cap and a pound coin, but that had been a very small price to pay really. And he still hadn’t cried. In fact, he was giggling.
    â€œLook,” said Ruskin. “That’s the viaduct near the school! There’s the train!”
    Mr. Sanchez was pilot and was yelling into his headset. Andreas Sanchez was trying to navigate—map on his knee, nose pressed to the glass.
    â€œOkay, okay,” shouted Mr. Sanchez. “I think we nearly there!”
    â€œLook!” yelled Ruskin.
    Millie and Sam looked.
    â€œThat’s the road from the station, I think. Yes—look, we turn right there, by the garage. Now, can you see that wall? That’s our wall, that goes right up to the gatehouse—there’s the gatehouse!”
    Mr. Sanchez came in low, and Sam caught his first glimpse of real Ribblestrop territory. A high stone wall and behind that mountains of spinachlike hedging, with a driveway through.
    â€œFly up the driveway, fly up the drive!” yelled Ruskin.
    Mr. Sanchez was enjoying himself as much as the children. The helicopter banked sickeningly and paused in the air. It dipped and it felt they were skimming the ground.
    The driveway was long and turned slowly to the right into open parkland. It passed a vast, glimmering lake.
    â€œThere’s Neptune!” shouted Ruskin. A huge white statue lay reclining on the bank, its feet in