Itch

by Simon Mayo

  They all milled around for a while waiting for Miss Glenacre, the biology teacher, to emerge. Many of the class pressed their faces against the glass to get a glimpse of what was in store for them, but the steamed-up panes frustrated all but the most keen-eyed students.

  After a few minutes the door opened and Miss Glenacre appeared, with Dr Nathaniel Flowerdew, the head of science, at her shoulder. The sight of the two of them was enough to trigger a few groans around the edges of the student gathering. Miss Glenacre was, by common consent, approaching her one hundredth birthday and had never had a charitable thought about anyone in her life. The truth was, she was indeed waiting for retirement, but only from the vantage point of sixty-four years, and had actually enjoyed teaching ‘until the paperwork and government took over’.

  By contrast, Flowerdew was an impressive figure. In his late forties, he was rakishly good-looking with a head full of well-cut, tight curls that had turned completely white. He had deep blue eyes, broad shoulders and the figure of a man who had gym membership. As there wasn’t a gym in the local area, everyone had concluded that he had the relevant equipment at home. He was wearing a dark blue suit, brilliant white cotton shirt and electric-blue silk tie. The jacket was undone and a brushed chrome watch showed from beneath his left cuff. His shoes were black loafers. Everything was expensive and somehow out of place in a school field outside a greenhouse.

  As a teacher, however, Flowerdew had proved instantly unpopular. Always seemingly in a sour mood, he gave everyone the impression that the academy was somehow beneath him. It was also clear that the rest of the staff didn’t rate him. His reputation, so everyone said, was as a brilliant chemist. The staff and pupils of the CA were waiting for the evidence.

  He addressed the students, his voice crisp and educated.

  ‘Shut up, Nine W, and listen. You will have one period with Miss Glenacre here, and when you come out you will not have fainted, you will have listened, and you will know what a Neomarica caerulea is. Don’t touch anything you are not asked to touch, don’t put anything in your mouth, Burnham, and for heaven’s sake drink water when you need it – you don’t need to ask permission. Miss Glenacre is pleased to be your guide; listen well.’ And with that he strode back round the old hall in the direction of his labs.

  Johnny Burnham, who had once put some magnesium ribbon in his mouth ‘to see what it tasted like’, flushed scarlet and shrank a little.

  They all trooped into the steamy confines of the greenhouse. Miss Glenacre marched to the far end and waited, hands on hips, for everyone to catch her up. She called out, ‘All bags to be left at the door. There isn’t room for swinging rucksacks in here.’

  Itch, Jack and half the class turned round and put their bags in a heap by the entrance. Itch wondered whether it was wise to leave his rucksack unattended, but he didn’t have a choice. He left it on top of the pile where he could see it.

  They trooped back past the bananas, tomatoes, cacti and other unrecognizable plants to where the glowing Miss Glenacre waited to start the lesson.

  ‘Why are we here?’ she said. Silence. ‘Anyone. Why are we here?’

  ‘An accident of evolution?’ chanced a very brave Ian Steele, standing near some peculiar dangly pink plants. Itch and a few others smiled; Miss Glenacre scowled.

  ‘Idiot boy, Steele. Not why are we on Earth, as you well know, but why are we in the greenhouse?’

  ‘Because it cost a fortune?’ tried Bruno Paul, smiling and nudging James Potts next to him.

  ‘If the point you are making is that we are very lucky to have such a splendid resource, you are quite correct. But that is not the answer. Anyone?’

  Itch knew the answer but kept his head down.

  ‘No one at all?’ sighed Miss Glenacre. ‘We are studying’ – and she said the next word very slowly, as if to five-year-olds – ‘pho-to-syn-the-sis. Turning carbon dioxide into sugar and oxygen using light.’ She tutted and, motioning for the group to follow her, turned and started her tour of the plants.

  They had only been in the greenhouse for fifteen minutes, but the temperature was 35ºC. Glenacre’s words were punctuated by the sound of water bottles being squished and emptied by the students of Year Nine.

  It was after about thirty minutes, just as Miss Glenacre was trying to pull down the top of a giant spiky green and yellow plant, that the first student vomited. It was Johnny Burnham – and it was spectacular. He had been swaying and staggering for a few moments. Then, with one hand over his mouth and the other pushing his classmates out of the way, he brought up his breakfast all over a plant labelled Eucomis pole-evansii. He knelt down on the floor, his hands gripping the sides of a large pot, his head deep in the foliage. It was clear he hadn’t finished.

  Then two girls fainted. Natalie Hussain and Debbie Price had turned horribly pale and collapsed on top of each other. There were screams from some of the other girls, and before Miss Glenacre had reached the door to allow some fresh air in, four more students had been sick. The stink of vomit filled the greenhouse within seconds.

  ‘Everyone out!’ yelled their teacher. ‘Tom, go and get Dr Flowerdew.’

  Tom Westgate ran out of the door. The class stumbled outside as quickly as they could, hands or tissues over their mouths and noses. Glenacre propped up Johnny Burnham and called for Itch and Jack to help Natalie and Debbie. Itch picked up Natalie by the shoulders and got her into a sitting position. She groaned, opened her eyes – and was sick over Itch’s trousers.

  ‘Nice shot, Nats!’ called a fleeing Darcy Campbell.

  ‘Feeling a bit bad myself, miss,’ said Itch, looking down at the dampness on his legs.

  ‘Same,’ said Jack, who had been struggling to help Debbie Price to her feet.

  Itch swiftly lowered Natalie back down and ran for the door. He almost made it too; he got as far as the pile of bags and was sick there instead. He stumbled outside and slumped down on the grass. He closed his eyes; everything was spinning. He could tell without looking that a good proportion of Miss Glenacre’s biology class were now in the process of being violently ill.

  When he opened his eyes again he saw Jack and Miss Glenacre helping a very wobbly Natalie, Debbie and Johnny out of the greenhouse. Itch tried to stand up, but felt so giddy he sat right back down again. It looked as though his teacher had been sick too.

  By the time Dr Flowerdew came running round the old hall, closely followed by Tom Westgate and a short, wiry girl from Year Ten, the entire class – and their teacher – were lying sprawled across the grass. Some were still throwing up, many were groaning with hands clasped around their stomachs, and at least half a dozen were crying quietly.

  Flowerdew pulled up sharply, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. It was like a scene from a disaster movie. ‘What the …? What on earth …? What has …?’ He looked around, trying to find Miss Glenacre. ‘Grace? Where are you? Grace?’

  She raised her hand. She clearly didn’t want to open her mouth just yet.

  Dr Flowerdew ran across to her, stepping over students and shouting at Tom to go and get the head. Tom Westgate turned and ran off again.

  ‘What the hell has happened? Grace! Talk to me! I only left you half an hour ago.’ Flowerdew managed to sound concerned and furious at the same time.

  Grace Glenacre’s long grey hair, which had been tied back, was now loose. A few strands were plastered to the side of her face. She put a hand in front of her mouth and tried to speak.

  ‘I don’t know …’ She sounded hoarse. She coughed and spat. Flowerdew looked away and she apologized, then tried again; her voice was stronger this time. ‘I don’t know – everything was fine. It was hot, of course, but everyone had their water. I think I had got as far as the Passiflora when Burnham started being sick.’

  ‘Burnham!’ said Flowerdew. ‘I might have known. Was he eating the plants as well as studying them? The boy’s a fool. And then hysteria took over, I suppose, and everyone joined in. What a mess this is.’

&nb
sp; Miss Glenacre looked incredulous. ‘Are you including me in the “hysteria”? Are you suggesting I just “joined in”?’ She sat up a little.

  ‘Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?’ said Flowerdew. ‘It’s very hot in there, you have twenty-seven students in an enclosed space, one of them gets ill and it’s easy for others to follow suit. Classic copycat stuff.’

  Grace Glenacre had forgotten that she had just been ill. Now she was furious. ‘How dare you? How dare you!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t think I have ever sworn at a member of staff before but I’m going to now.’ She swore at him. ‘I have no idea what just happened in there, but twenty-seven sick kids and one sick teacher is not hysteria.’ Her voice was rising now. ‘It’s not hysteria, do you hear me!’

  Flowerdew stood up. ‘You’re hysterical,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk later.’

  He went into the greenhouse, but the heat and the acrid stench that hit him forced him back. In front of him was an extraordinary scene. The plants were arranged in long, evenly spaced rows with a wide aisle down the middle. There were fifty different varieties of flora, some huge, green and nearly hitting the roof, others wide and spectacularly colourful. It seemed to Flowerdew that they were all somewhat more colourful than an hour ago. Everywhere he looked there were regurgitated lunches. He’d just realized he was standing in a small pool of gastric juices and sausage when he heard the unmistakable sound of the head arriving.

  Dr Felicity Dart was running fast. She was in her early fifties but she kept herself fit and trim, cycling to school and often jogging around the playing fields at lunch time. In general, staff and pupils liked and respected her but knew that she had a fierce temper and a voice like a foghorn. If she started a shouting session, everyone knew about it. Just as Dr Flowerdew had done, she pulled up short as she surveyed her pupils. A couple of them were still retching, and many were still flat out, but a few were now sitting up, texting. She looked beyond the Year Nines to where Miss Glenacre sat, visibly shaking. Then she turned to the head of science, who was still standing in the doorway of the greenhouse.

  ‘DR FLOWERDEW!’ she hollered. ‘IF YOU WOULDN’T MIND.’

  She ran over to Grace Glenacre, who said, ‘I’ll be OK. Check on the children – some have been very ill.’

  Felicity Dart turned to the still puffing Tom Westgate. ‘Tom, go and get Mr Littlewood and tell him to call for ambulances, please.’

  Tom glanced at his classmates, then headed off for the third time. Jim Littlewood was the new history teacher and a qualified first aider.

  Flowerdew came over, closely followed by a staggering, unrecognizable boy, his head down, his mouth covered by his hands. He gave a muffled groan, and Flowerdew turned. The head of science had just enough time to identify Craig Murray before the boy projectile-vomited over Flowerdew’s immaculately pressed trousers.

  Everyone froze for a moment as the contents of Craig’s stomach spread slowly towards the teacher’s polished shoes. Everyone, that is, except Sam Jennings, who was recording the moment on her phone.

  ‘If I see that on YouTube, Sam,’ called Dr Dart, ‘I’ll know exactly who to see in my office, won’t I?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ said a grinning Sam. (When it did indeed appear on YouTube, she claimed her brothers had taken her phone and uploaded the clip against her wishes. No one believed her.)

  Flowerdew wiped himself down with his handkerchief and some tissues which Dr Dart had passed over. He was red-cheeked and obviously uncomfortable as the dampness seeped into his trousers, but he spoke calmly.

  ‘Right, well, it’s a real mess in there, Felicity – vomit everywhere. Burnham ate a plant, I think, was sick, and then they all started. Everyone is OK now, though—’

  ‘Really? Are you seriously suggesting, with a whole class ill and prostrate after a lesson, that “everyone is OK”? Now, while we wait for the ambulances, we will need some water. Get as much as you can from the kitchen, please.’

  For the briefest of moments Dr Dart thought she detected an ‘isn’t there someone more junior than me?’ look, but then Flowerdew said, ‘Of course,’ and pulling the clinging fabric of his damp trousers away from his legs, he jogged away.

  Itch and Jack were sitting together; both had stopped being ill. The Year Ten girl who had arrived with Flowerdew and Tom Westgate introduced herself as Lucy Cavendish; she gave them both cups of water. Finishing his, Itch got up slowly and offered a hand to Jack, who shook her head and closed her eyes again. He went over to where the head was talking to some of the students.

  ‘Don’t know what happened, miss. I just started to feel giddy and I threw up on Matt’s head.’ This was Timothy Abbott, a rotund, normally cheerful boy. He sounded almost proud of his aim.

  ‘Johnny was sick first, miss, then we all got it,’ said Ian Steele.

  ‘I was starting to feel bad before Johnny was sick, miss.’

  Dr Dart turned round at that. It was Natalie Hussain. ‘Before Johnny? You felt ill before? How long before?’

  ‘About five minutes, miss. Debbie was looking awful, so we leaned on each other for a bit. And that’s all I remember. Next thing I was out here.’

  Felicity Dart found Debbie Price, who was now propping herself up on her elbows. Jim Littlewood, Dr Flowerdew and some of the catering staff bearing jugs of water were arriving now, along with assorted sixth formers who had been roped in to help.

  ‘Debbie, this is very important,’ said Dr Dart. ‘Natalie says you both felt ill before Johnny Burnham was sick. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, miss. Well, to be honest, I don’t know. I can’t remember him being ill – just Natalie told me she felt rubbish too and then we must have passed out.’ Debbie took a glass of water and sipped carefully.

  Itch was about to add to the story when Dr Dart looked at him and exclaimed, ‘Good heavens, Itchingham, you’ve lost your eyebrows!’ She glanced over at the greenhouse. ‘What happened in there?’ She put one hand under his chin and lifted his head, exactly as his mother had done last night. Maybe all women did it. ‘My goodness, they’ve gone completely! HAS ANYONE ELSE LOST THEIR EYEBROWS?’

  ‘Er, miss, no – it happened last night. I had, er, an accident at home and they, well … they’ll grow back, Mum says.’ Under other circumstances Itch felt sure he would have been questioned further, but it looked as though Dr Dart had made her mind up about something. She walked over to Miss Glenacre.

  ‘Grace, come and see me when you can face it. Do you have the keys for the greenhouse?’ The biology teacher reached into her pocket, produced a fob with two keys on it and handed them to the head. Dr Dart walked over to the greenhouse and looked inside without entering. She called Jim Littlewood and two other members of staff, and between them, with handkerchiefs over their mouths, they reached in and pulled out the bags. They were piled up in a sorry – and in a few instances soggy – heap. She then shut the door and locked it with both keys.

  Nathaniel Flowerdew came bustling over, about to question the locking of the greenhouse, but Dart cut him off.

  ‘It’s locked and out of bounds to everyone, staff included, until we know what’s happened. The ambulances will be here shortly. Come and see me when all the students have been attended to.’

  With that she returned to the pupils and escorted two of them back towards the main school.

  That afternoon, ambulances ferried the worst – affected pupils to the local hospital. About half of Miss Glenacre’s greenhouse class ended up filling the rows of the small outpatients reception. Itch was sitting with Jack and Johnny Burnham, who was still looking the greenest of them all. No one had actually been sick since arriving, but there were a few groaning noises coming from the direction of Bruno Paul on the other side of the room. He was sitting with Matt Colston and next to Miss Glenacre, who was still supposedly in charge but had had her eyes shut for ten minutes now.

  ‘I feel OK,’ said Jack. ‘I’m not sure why I’m here.’

  ‘Well, they did seem keen to bring us in,’ sa
id Itch. ‘They’ve seen Johnny, Natalie and Debbie for tests; they’ll get to us by midnight, I suppose.’

  Jack leaned in close. ‘Any theories?’

  ‘I should have, but no, not really. Some gas given off by one of the plants maybe? There are some pretty weird ones in there.’ He paused. ‘But they’ve been in the greenhouse for ages – that doesn’t make sense.’ He was annoyed with himself.

  ‘A dodgy batch of water, perhaps?’ said Jack. ‘Everyone was drinking the same stuff.’

  Itch shrugged.

  They looked up at the sound of running footsteps: parents were hurrying along the corridor towards the outpatients. The swing doors burst open as Craig Murray’s mother and Natalie Hussain’s parents burst in. As they looked around the room, Bruno Paul stood up, turned round to face the wall and vomited over the DON’T SWEAR AT THE STAFF poster. This was followed in quick succession by Ian Steele being sick into his cupped hands and Matt Colston being sick on Miss Glenacre, who then woke up. Six pupils dashed towards the toilets and three made for the car park.

  ‘Here we go again,’ said Jack, and she got up.

  ‘Are you …?’

  ‘No, I’m just going to help.’ She jogged off in the direction of the toilets, and Itch looked at Johnny Burnham who, remarkably, was eating a packet of prawn cocktail crisps. Nurses and doctors arrived from everywhere, and two porters appeared with mops and buckets.

  The flustered receptionist emerged from behind her desk and tried to raise her voice above the moaning, swilling and slopping. No one could hear what she said, so she gave up and sat down again.

  It was after five o’clock when Dr Dart emerged from one of the corridors, walking briskly with a senior-looking doctor at her side. She was pale but her face was set and she looked determined. She stood at the front of the outpatients area as though it was one of her classrooms.

  ‘I am being advised to close the school.’ There were gasps and an outburst of chatter, but she put up her hand for silence. ‘Early toxicology tests from the staff here suggest’ – she paused – ‘that the illness was, in some cases, caused by … incredible as this seems … a poison gas of some kind. Until they know where it came from, the school is closed for the rest of this week.’