Itch Rocks

by Simon Mayo

  Her eyes widened and she tried to push him away, but her strength was gone. It took only fifteen seconds for Shivvi’s eyes to roll back in her head.

  Now, thought Itch, horrified. Absolutely now. He had just witnessed a murder, and if he didn’t move quickly, he’d witness another. The thought of Shivvi being thrown down the well on top of Jack was too terrifying, too appalling—he couldn’t let things go any further. It had been difficult even shifting the tubs but now, somehow, he had to tip them over. If Flowerdew, Loya or Voss had been looking, they’d have seen him run out in front of the sawdust, stick his foot at the base of the four-foot tub and, with his good hand, pull hard. It lifted a few degrees, and Itch risked his damaged hand to provide some extra leverage. The pain shot through his arm again, but he ignored it. Slowly the sawdust was falling toward him, and as he felt the weight of the tub shift, he stepped out of the way. With an enormous thud, the tub crashed to the floor. A cloud of fine sawdust mixed with titanium and aluminum powder billowed around Itch as he pushed the crate of cesium along with his foot, guiding it to a point just in front of the spilled sawdust.

  He risked a glance up. Flowerdew and Loya had been wrestling on the other side of the well, while Voss was writhing in pain on the floor; Shivvi’s body was still lying on the floor. It was a few seconds before they realized what was happening. Unable to believe their eyes, they seemed paralyzed. Itch had started on the second tub when a bellow of rage from Flowerdew made him look up again. This tub wasn’t shifting, so, in the few seconds he had left, Itch took the axe to it. With swift blows he hacked into the plastic.

  The haze of sawdust, aluminum, and titanium swirled around the corridor, the rays of the rising sun hitting the particles as they eddied through the air. Flowerdew, with Loya just behind him, raced past the prone body of Shivvi; he would reach Itch in a matter of seconds.

  One final blow to the tub, and Itch dropped the axe. Picking up a long glass and metal tube, he held it at arm’s length like the Olympic torch and shouted at the top of his voice, “Cesium! It’s cesium!”

  The onrushing Flowerdew skidded to a halt, putting his arm out to stop Loya from going any closer. Before they had time to recover, Itch skipped around them to the well plate. They turned just in time to see him take aim and, underarm, in the style of a ten-pin bowler, throw the cesium canister. It flew through the air and spun, end over end, through the clouds of wood and metal dust toward the tubs and the crate. The cesium slithered up and down through the oil as Flowerdew and Loya and Voss watched, transfixed.

  “Dust explosion …” mouthed Flowerdew as he realized what was happening and dropped to the floor, reaching for the duffle bag.

  The glass and metal tube of cesium hit the ground a few inches short of the second tub. It sent a small puff of sawdust up into the air. The glass fractured, then split open, the oil pouring into pools on the floor. As the freshly exposed cesium met air for the first time, it caught fire with a rush of bright blue flame. In a matter of seconds, the powdered titanium and aluminum ignited, and the brilliant white flames caught the billowing clouds of sawdust.

  Fuel, heat, oxygen, dispersion, confinement.

  The windows of the extension blew out, flames roaring through and engulfing the roof in seconds. The walls of the woodshop collapsed, creating further fuel for the fire, and the secondary explosion tore through the security doors and into the main school. The fire found tinder everywhere—dry nineteenth-century wood. The classrooms burned first: glue, pencils, books, desks, chairs, lost uniforms, and student artwork—all dissolved by the raging flames. In the office, the phones and computers popped and melted; in the lobby, the statue of Mary was felled by collapsing timber. The teachers’ lounge and the principal’s office were the next to go, generations of school photos hissing and spitting before being engulfed in the inferno.

  Within minutes, the whole school was ablaze.

  The firefighters, already wearing their specialist breathing apparatus, were on the scene in moments. They had had barely an hour to familiarize themselves with the dangers of cesium fires; two fire engines, with a rescue unit close behind, had raced up the school drive and pulled up as close as they could to the fire. As the flames spread through the upper floors, the first firefighters—the forward rescue unit—entered the Fitzherbert School extension.

  When the cesium hit the ground, Itch had been sitting on the edge of the well. As it exploded, he had slipped below the surface. Two rungs above Jack, he held onto the ladder with a fierceness that made his whole arm ache. The skin on his good hand had been scorched in the seconds that it had been above ground as his legs and other hand had found the ladder. He wrapped himself against it.

  Above the roar of the blaze he yelled to his cousin, “They were going to throw Shivvi down on top of you! I had to do something!”

  “Cesium?” Jack’s voice was weak with exhaustion and pain.

  “Yes,” shouted Itch, looking down to see what state his cousin was in. “And a bit of sawdust and aluminum. And some titanium.”

  The heat from the flames was building fast. The raging fire lit up the well, and now Itch could see Jack’s sweat-streaked face and trembling body.

  “I think we’ll be safe down here. They’ll come for us soon, Jack! I dialed the police ages ago on Shivvi’s phone. It won’t be long now!” In truth he had no idea how long it would be and guessed that Jack knew that. But he had had no choice but to act; returning to this hideous well was the price of saving Jack—a price he was happy to pay. He looked up at the seething flames and felt a wind pick up; the fire was beginning to draw on the air in the well. It was a thick, acrid wind, and Itch wondered if they might actually suffocate before they burned.

  He wasn’t sure how long he hung there. He called to Jack and shouted reassurances, but was getting fewer words back. He was just about to try edging closer to her when the well went dark. Itch looked up and saw a masked figure peering down at them.

  “Here! Down here!” he shouted up. “They’re here, Jack!”

  “You go,” said Jack feebly. “You can go now.”

  “We leave together, Jack—we leave together. And I can hardly walk through flames anyway, can I?”

  The masked firefighter stepped over the edge of the well and appeared to float downward—he was, Itch realized, being lowered on a line. Two more of the crew peered down at their colleague. Itch started to climb, and a protective blanket was passed to him. He wrapped himself in it as best he could and climbed closer to the raging heat. He could make out the face of the man in the suit now; he looked calm, impassive, as though he had done this a thousand times before. He was talking, but Itch couldn’t hear a word. The firefighter waved him upward and he climbed one more rung and felt himself being hoisted out of the well. He heard his hair crackle and squeezed his eyes shut. Suddenly he was enveloped in another blanket; the world went black and he felt himself being carried by many hands. He heard shouting above the roaring and hissing, as strong arms took him away from the school. Itch felt the temperature drop and, assuming they were clear of the fire, started to shout.

  “You have to get Jack! She’s still in there!”

  He felt himself being lowered to the ground, and the blanket was removed. The sight of the burning school shocked him; a fierce glow filled most of the windows as the flames ate their way through the building. On the lower floors the windows were starting to break, and the fire reached upward. Six fire engines were now outside, pouring their jets of water into the flames. The extension was fully ablaze and Itch, terrified, tried to explain that Jack was chained to the ladder. One firefighter pulled his helmet off.

  “We’ve got her. The line rescue team will sort it, son, we’ve got her. Don’t worry. Leave her to us.” The man’s face was covered in sweat, but he managed a reassuring smile.

  Itch watched as more firefighters entered the collapsing extension.

  “I’m not going anywhere until Jack’s out, OK?” he shouted above the noise.

 
; The firefighter nodded. “Don’t do anything stupid, all right? Stay here.” And putting his helmet back on, he ran back into the flames.

  Don’t do anything stupid? thought Itch. It’s a bit late for that now.

  One of the newly arrived ambulances stopped near Itch, and two paramedics jumped out.

  “Come on, pal—we need to get you out of here,” shouted the first.

  “We need to get you into the ambulance,” called out the second, who kept glancing at the inferno.

  “I’m not going anywhere until I know my cousin is safe!” yelled Itch. “OK? When she’s out, we’ll go.” He said it with such ferocity that the ambulance crew didn’t question him further; one dressed his burned hand and the other snapped the handcuffs off with wire cutters. Water cascaded down on the extension as clouds of steam and billowing black smoke drifted toward them—but there was still no sign of Jack.

  “Come on! Get her out! What’s happening in there?” he shouted.

  No one was listening. More fire crews were arriving all the time, and the school was encircled with high-rise ladders. But Itch didn’t care about the school.

  “I started the fire to save her, not kill her! What’s taking so long? Get her out of there!”

  A paramedic put her hand on Itch’s shoulder as they watched the conflagration.

  Then he heard a shout, and four firefighters emerged through the billowing flames and smoke, carrying a figure tightly wrapped in smoldering blankets.

  “Jack!” shouted Itch, but the paramedic held him back.

  “Let them do their work,” she said. “You’ll just get in the way.”

  Itch knew she was right and watched as his cousin was taken into another ambulance. One of the firefighters turned to look for him, and gave him a thumbs-up.

  Itch turned to his paramedic. “OK, I’ll go now,” he said.

  Itch and Jack were treated at Crawley Hospital in Sussex, then transferred to St. Thomas’s Hospital in London. Jack was treated for exhaustion, minor burns, badly bruised ribs, and smoke inhalation; her broken fingers needed resplinting. Itch too needed treatment for smoke inhalation and minor burns. The doctors who tended to his broken finger listened in horror as he described his escape from the handcuffs using nitric acid.

  “You are one lucky kid,” said a nurse as she escorted him back to his room.

  “I have to say, it doesn’t really feel like it,” said Itch.

  He wanted to visit Jack, who was in the room next to his, but was told she was sleeping. Instead, he had a visitor waiting. The familiar figure of Colonel Jim Fairnie stood looking out of the small window.

  He turned as Itch entered. His smile was warm, the relief evident. “Itch! It’s really good to see you.”

  The nurse left them, closing the door behind her. Itch stood there awkwardly, not knowing whether to shake the colonel’s hand, sit down, or get into bed. Then he wasn’t sure whether to return the greeting, apologize for running away, or ask about the team. So he simply waited and tried a smile.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to come all the way here,” Fairnie said, “but this hospital is one of the best in the country, and my bosses are just across the road. Quite a few of them want to talk to you.”

  “Are these politicians or spies?” asked Itch.

  “Both, I’m afraid. This is some security scare, Itch, and there’s a lot of interest in the men with Flowerdew.”

  “One was Spanish,” said Itch, “or South American. And a South African. That’s what it sounded like.”

  “Listen, Itch,” said Fairnie, who was uneasily stroking his moustache with thumb and forefinger. “I need to say … we let you down. We fell for Shivvi’s little trick and didn’t give you the protection you needed. I’m sorry. The whole team is sorry. We are just so pleased to see you alive.”

  Itch shuffled his way over to the chair and sat down, noticing now that his backpack had been put under his bed. “Not your fault. We ran away, remember?”

  “Yes; that didn’t help.”

  “I thought Mr. Watkins was in danger and I couldn’t get anyone to take it seriously.”

  “And you were correct,” said Fairnie. “He was in danger. It would have been better to wait but … I understand why you felt you had to take matters into your own hands.”

  “Thanks,” said Itch. “Bet Mum isn’t quite so understanding.”

  Fairnie smiled. “I think that’s a fair summary of her position,” he said. “And Mr. Watkins will be OK—but only just. He had a very bad concussion.”

  “All my fault,” murmured Itch.

  “No,” said Fairnie firmly. “Shivvi’s fault.”

  There was a brief silence before Itch said, “You know Shivvi found the rocks—dived to the bottom of the well, and somehow brought them up. You’ve got them by now, I imagine?” They held each other’s gaze, then the colonel looked away.

  “When the—” he began.

  “Please tell me you’ve got them. They’re not still there? And wait, you said, This is some security scare. It’s still going on?” Itch was leaning forward now, his voice suddenly tense.

  “When the school building was safe to enter, our teams scoured the extension,” said Fairnie. “There was no sign of the radiation box. Or Flowerdew. I’m afraid they’ve gone, Itch.”

  Itch sat with his hands over his mouth, speechless.

  Fairnie continued, “The police have played back the footage taken from the supermarket parking lot. They sent me this—I think you should see it too.”

  Handing over his phone, Fairnie watched as Itch pressed PLAY. The screen showed the school extension in the moments after the explosion. The initial blast could be seen burning through the windows of the labs, and then the secondary explosion blew the windows and fire door out. A few seconds passed before a tall figure appeared at the door, his jacket and white hair on fire. He was struggling to carry a bulky duffle bag, which was also burning. He fell to the ground and rolled around on the grass, eventually putting all the flames out. He then half ran, half hobbled out of the shot, swapping the bag from hand to hand.

  The film stopped, and Itch stared at the final frozen image. He enlarged it with his fingers. Flowerdew, his face blackened and burned, teeth gritted, and hair smoldering, was glancing around to see who had noticed his escape. No one had.

  And in his hands … a charred and smoking bag containing the eight pieces of element 126.

  Itch was in despair. “I might just as well have handed them over back at school! Why bother with the kidnap, the escape, and the radiation poisoning? What was the point of it all? The sickness. The bone marrow transplant! All useless. A maniac in charge of the world’s most powerful rocks. A psychopath who has just become a nuclear power. Stop me if anything I’ve said is wrong, please …” He stared at Colonel Fairnie, but the man just shook his head sadly.

  “No, all you’ve said is true. Airports and ports are being watched, and all Flowerdew’s known contacts are under twenty-four-hour surveillance; given what happened before, the Nigerian embassy, in particular, is under observation. That’s where we expect him to try first. He needs help—probably medical attention too, judging by the burns on his face. All hospitals in London are being monitored, and his picture has been sent to every police officer in the UK. He’s going to find it very hard to move anywhere, Itch, but I know that doesn’t count for much—”

  “No, it counts for absolutely nothing,” said Itch, “and you know it. You failed, I failed, he won. And that’s pretty much it. What happened to the others?”

  Fairnie shook his head. “Shivvi is dead; she was suffocated. We found her with tape covering her mouth and nose. The other two men were badly burned. They can’t talk yet, and we don’t know when they’re going to be able to, but they are in custody in a burn unit on the other side of town. Fire teams got to them just in time. They’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t say I care either way,” said Itch, and he stormed out, determined to see Jack.
>
  A policewoman was sitting outside her door. “She’s still sleeping,” she told him.

  “Well, I’ll wake her up then,” he said, and he opened the door.

  Jack had been washed and her wounds dressed. She lay on her side; like Itch, she had anti-burn ointment smeared over her burned skin. Her face was red and blotchy. Itch went over to the mirror and saw that he had burns on his forehead, and his hair was singed; with a sinking feeling, he noticed that his eyebrows were gone again.

  Mum is going to go ballistic. Really, properly nuts, this time.

  He sat down on the chair next to Jack’s bed, and she opened her eyes.

  She smiled. “Hi …” She started coughing, and Itch put his hand up.

  “Don’t speak, Jack. It’s the smoke…. Just listen.” He got to his feet and paced around the room. Jack sat up, rearranging the pillows, and watching him as he walked.

  “Flowerdew got the 126. And disappeared. He’s gone—they lost him.” Jack croaked a few words, but Itch put his hand up again. “Really. Save your voice. After everything …” He felt tears well in his eyes, but he wasn’t going to let Jack see, and he went over to stare out across a bleak, wintry London skyline. He was about to continue when Jack spoke.

  “Itch, you saved my life.” She broke off to clear her throat. “If you hadn’t done that thing with the cesium, Shivvi would have been thrown down the well and we’d both be dead. So let’s start there….”

  She coughed again and Itch passed her some water. “Shivvi’s dead, by the way,” he said. “Flowerdew killed her.” Jack looked stunned.

  “Fairnie just told me,” added Itch, and they sat there in silence, both wondering if it was OK not to feel sad.

  “She was the worst,” said Jack, “wicked, cruel, evil … but I’d rather be able to visit her in prison to tell her so.”