Itch

by Simon Mayo

  ‘Nice bike,’ said Flowerdew to the courier, who had removed his helmet and was shaking his long blond hair out of his eyes.

  ‘Thanks, Dr Flowerdew. I’m Dougie. You have a package for me, I think.’

  ‘Indeed. I’ll get it. I used to have a Ducati Monster – beautiful machines, aren’t they?’

  Dougie smiled. ‘I could bore you senseless, Dr Flowerdew, on the eleven hundred here – but this package of yours has to be on a plane at midnight. A swift turnaround needed. You’ll need one of these …’ He held out a plastic-coated steel chain with a small lock at one end.

  ‘Of course. One minute,’ said Flowerdew; he took the chain, turned and went back into the house.

  ‘Too late! Hide!’ Jack saw Flowerdew approaching, grabbed Itch, who was still shutting the clips, and pulled him onto the floor. They shrank back against the bench drawers, the bag between them. Reflected in the window, they saw Flowerdew stride into the lab and lift the box by its handle. He stopped abruptly when he noticed that one clip was open.

  The cousins held their breath. There just hadn’t been time to shut them all. Flowerdew shook his head, closed the last clip and wrapped the black chain around the box. It went round twice, and he clicked the two ends of the lock together, then left the lab. If the Ducati hadn’t been making its beautiful noise, he would have heard two fourteen-year-olds release long-held breaths.

  ‘Here you are. Guard it well. It’s very precious,’ he told the courier.

  ‘I will, Dr Flowerdew.’ The man snapped a plastic seal around the lock, lowered his cargo into the specially fitted box on the side of the Ducati and locked it. He put on his black helmet and opened the visor. ‘Goodnight, sir.’ He waved a salute and spun the bike round, spraying gravel in a neat arc.

  Flowerdew watched as the bike roared down his drive and turned right onto the road. Its acceleration really was something to behold, and he stayed watching and then just listening as the bike disappeared northwards.

  Itch and Jack had already reached their bikes when the sound of the Ducati disappeared from the cove. The sun was setting and they knew they needed to be back at Itch’s house soon. They wheeled their bikes to the road and, without looking back, pedalled quickly up the hill, Itch with the radiation glove still on his right hand. Neither had spoken since fleeing the conservatory. This was partly because they had been running and were now cycling, but also because they were both struck with the enormity of what they had done.

  They had stolen the rock back.

  They had actually broken into a teacher’s house and taken it. And with every passing minute, Itch was also increasingly aware that he had a dangerously radioactive stone in Jack’s bag. The towel was no protection at all. Before he reached the top of the hill, he had come to the conclusion that he couldn’t take it home. It was dangerous, and he didn’t want it in the house.

  He pulled over to the side of the road and hitched his bike onto the grass verge. He took Jack’s bag off and placed it on the ground a couple of metres away.

  ‘What’s up, Itch?’ asked Jack.

  ‘We haven’t thought this through. We can’t take it home – bringing it into the house would be madness. We need to hide it, don’t we?’

  ‘We don’t know what to do with it because, well, we had no idea we were actually going to steal it back in the first place. You’re right about hiding it, though. Where do you reckon?’

  Itch considered. ‘There’s this lay-by … the beach hut … the golf course – anywhere really …’ Every conceivable hiding place between here and home flashed through his mind. I’ve got to get this right, he thought. This matters.

  ‘We need to decide quickly,’ said Jack. ‘It feels very exposed here.’ She pointed at Itch’s hand. ‘Can we use that glove?’

  ‘Of course! It’s not much, but it’s better than a towel. Don’t know how much lead you can get in a glove – let’s hope it’s enough,’ said Itch. He peeled off the glove and went over to the bag. Reaching in, he grabbed the rock, still wrapped in the towel, and lifted it out. Jack held the opening of the glove wide as Itch let it drop inside. She felt it fall as far as the fingers, folded the glove over and handed it back. Itch wrapped it in the towel again and put it back in the bag. ‘Let’s put it in the shed tonight and move it when we think of somewhere better.’

  Jack picked up the bag and put it over her shoulder as they walked back to the bikes. Itch suddenly found his eyes prickling. After their argument last week he had wondered if they’d still be friends. Well, here was the answer: Jack knew the rock was radioactive, she knew it must be dangerous, but she carried it all the same.

  ‘I’ll take it, Jack. Give—’

  ‘Shut up, Itch. Let’s just get to your shed before we start to glow!’

  11

  THE LEAD-LINED, RADIATION-PROOF and empty box was in the Ducati top-box for just over two hours before the courier arrived at a private airfield. A Cessna twin-engined plane was waiting at the far corner of a triangle of runways, its lights glowing and flashing in the gloom; the bike headed straight for it.

  The man leaped off the Ducati, unlocked the container and lifted out his cargo with both hands. He marched briskly over to a young Asian woman in a dark blue skirt and white shirt who had appeared at the door of the plane. She took it with only a brief nod to acknowledge the driver, and disappeared inside, strapping it into a seat next to her and calling to the pilot. Within a few minutes the Cessna was climbing into the night sky.

  The pilot flew south-east, setting a course for Zurich. Below, the lights of Cornwall soon disappeared and the darkness of the Channel filled the plane. Roshanna Wing, the woman who’d taken delivery of the box, knew only that she had to hand it over to either Mr Revere or Mr Van Den Hauwe. No one else. She had been working for the Greencorps executives for two years, and these errands had become an increasingly common part of her job. They trusted her: she was efficient, and had a reputation for ruthlessness – an attribute that quickly led to promotion at Greencorps.

  She dozed for most of the flight, so missed the lights of the French ports, the French interior and the mountaintops of the Alps as they crossed the border into Switzerland. The change in engine tone alerted her to their imminent landing, and she adjusted her seat and rearranged her hair. Instinctively she held out a hand to hold the box in position as they touched down.

  A couple of hours later she was being driven through a small, deserted town. The car came to a halt at what appeared to be the old town hall, and she opened the door and climbed the steps to a large dark oak door, which opened as she approached.

  Inside, the impression was of luxury – the carpet, furniture and paintings were top of the range – but the air had a chemical, metallic tang, and the light was harsh. She walked briskly past the abandoned offices and work stations. Every computer, every lamp, every machine was on. She walked straight into her office, throwing her jacket on the desk and, with the lead box in her left hand, knocked on a glass door with her light.

  She could see the blurred outlines of the two men sitting at a long table. They appeared to be ending a video conference call, and Roshanna waited for them to call her in. She knew to knock only the once.

  After less than a minute Christophe Revere opened the door and Jan Van Den Hauwe greeted her. Together they headed for a small laboratory, where she handed the Frenchman the lead box. He placed it on the table, and Van Den Hauwe took a key out of his pocket, snapped the plastic seal and unlocked the chain.

  Two technicians in protective suits came in and carried the box through to a brightly lit, glass-walled booth. On getting a nod from the Dutchman, they undid the clips together, opened the lid together, and looked inside together. Then one of them pulled out the polystyrene case.

  Taking the two halves apart, he found … nothing. He dropped both halves onto the table and tipped the box up. A few polystyrene chips fell out. The other technician rearranged some of them but, finding nothing, looked at the Greencorps bosses and s
hook his head. Removing his helmet, he brought the box out so that Revere could inspect it for himself.

  After a brief glance the Frenchman picked up the box and hurled it through the glass door Roshanna had just closed behind her. She recognized some of the Dutch and French swearwords. Before all the glass had crashed and splintered onto the floor of the office, Revere was on the phone to England.

  12

  CHLOE WAS FINISHING her breakfast when Itch came down the stairs. He hadn’t slept well, his mind full of the events of last night. They could both hear their mother in the shower. For the moment it was safe to talk; Itch and Jack had briefed Chloe as soon as they got back.

  ‘You can’t leave it in the shed, Itch. Last night I Googled “radioactivity”. It’s scary stuff – you really need to take a look. The whole garden might be poisoned by now.’

  Itch sat down at the table. ‘I know that. Like I said, we never intended to take it back. We just saw our chance – that’s all. And it is in a lead glove – that should protect us for a bit.’ He got up to make some toast. ‘You measure radioactive decay in Curies or Becquerels, I think. It sent the Geiger counter crazy, but how far the radiation spreads I’m not sure. I don’t have the kit for that. But you’re right about not leaving it in the shed. I’ll move it before school.’

  ‘Is there a safe way to carry it?’ asked Chloe.

  ‘Sure. All you need is a lead-lined box like the one we left behind.’

  ‘So …’ Chloe faltered. ‘Moving it is pretty dangerous too, then?’

  ‘Yes, I reckon so.’

  She stood watching her brother make his toast. ‘You need to tell Mr Watkins. He could get a box, couldn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been wondering about that. He could get one and then take it to his friends at the mining school. It’s just that Cake said to keep quiet and tell no one.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe Cake’s wrong on this. Let’s not fill the garden with Be— whatever you said …’

  ‘Becquerels.’

  ‘Right. Them. They sound nasty.’

  The noise of the shower stopped, and Itch spoke more quietly. ‘I’ll get it on our way out. You haven’t got an empty tin I could use, have you?’

  ‘Got an old Hannah Montana pencil-tin, if you can face it.’

  Itch grimaced. ‘She’s almost as toxic as the rock. She might even cancel out all the dangerous Becquerels.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘But that’ll do, thanks.’

  ‘Where are you going to put it?’

  ‘Beach hut, I think. It’ll just be for a few hours if Watkins can help us.’

  ‘Is that any safer than the shed?’

  ‘No one lives close to the huts, so yes, probably.’

  ‘I’ll go and get Hannah Montana.’ Chloe went up to her room and Itch finished his breakfast.

  Jude Lofte came into the kitchen wearing jeans and an old T-shirt, a towel round her hair. ‘Morning, Itch. How’s things?’

  Itch wondered for a moment exactly how ‘things’ were. He could say: Well, I broke into my chemistry teacher’s house last night and stole my radioactive rock back. And it’s currently wrapped in a glove and a towel – also both stolen – in our shed. But he just said, ‘Fine,’ then added, ‘No work today?’

  ‘Got a paper to prepare – twenty thousand words – so I might as well work from home today. I can actually cook for you and Chloe tonight. How about that for a novelty?’ She filled the kettle and found a tea bag. ‘Any requests? I’m going to walk into town in a bit.’

  This had Itch stumped for a moment. What did his mother cook best? ‘One of your pies would be nice – you haven’t made those for a while.’

  ‘No, you’re right. Not for years, I reckon. Dad always liked them, didn’t he? OK, I’ll see what the butcher’s got.’ She looked at the clock. ‘You and Chloe should get off.’

  While Chloe waited outside the front door, Itch headed for the shed with his sister’s pencil-tin. He realized he was holding his breath and squinting, as though that might reduce his exposure to the radiation, which he pictured pouring all over the garden. He retrieved the towel and glove-wrapped rock from the empty paint pot he had put them in last night. Using a trowel, he tried to drop the whole lot into the pencil-tin, but the towel was far too bulky. Carefully, as if it might explode, he unwrapped the glove with the edge of the trowel, scooped it up and dropped it into the tin. He had no idea if that made it safer, but it seemed logical. He put on the lid and stowed it in his rucksack. He left the shed door open in case that helped get rid of the radiation – like it was some kind of bad smell.

  He made Chloe walk twenty paces ahead of him, which she thought looked ridiculous – though she didn’t complain. She stood guard while Itch opened the beach hut and hid the tin in a small saucepan they used for heating soup. He locked up and they walked past the other huts and onto the cliffs.

  Chloe glanced at her brother. He looked pale and tired. His hair was a mess and his school shirt looked as though it was yesterday’s. ‘You OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, not bad, considering …’ After a few paces he completed his own sentence: ‘Considering I spent half the night wondering what Flowerdew might do next. I have him periods three and four.’

  They were looping around the golf course now, quickening their pace – the beach-hut detour had cost them a few minutes.

  ‘There is no way that he can connect you to the stone disappearing, though, is there?’ said Chloe.

  ‘Not unless he has CCTV in his house,’ said Itch, ‘and we didn’t see any cameras.’

  ‘I wonder if you’re radioactive.’

  ‘Thanks, Chloe. Let’s hope not.’

  Itch was sure Mr Watkins was the man to speak to. In fact, he was the only man to speak to. He knew his stones and he knew Flowerdew. In his many waking hours that night, Itch had decided that despite Cake’s warning to tell no one, he had to get help, and his form teacher was the only candidate. He and Chloe arrived just as the 8.45 registration bell was ringing and they ran to their respective classrooms. Maybe he could get a word with Watkins before first period? He pushed open the classroom door but found Mr Littlewood taking the register.

  Itch shuffled round to his desk and said quietly to Jack, ‘I put it in the beach hut. Where’s Watkins?’

  ‘Invigilating an exam. Free at lunch time, I guess. You going to tell him?’

  Itch nodded. He handed Jack her history books. ‘Thanks, I didn’t copy too much – honestly!’

  Jack smiled. ‘Let’s hope not. Shall I test you on German foreign policy just to see how much went in?’

  Itch laughed. ‘Yes, that would go well!’

  Suddenly James Potts shoved his head over Jack’s shoulder. ‘Some book-swapping going on in weird cousin-land, is there? I wonder if Mr Littlewood would like to know about that?’

  ‘Go away, creep,’ said Jack. ‘Let me think now. Your last essay was a C-minus, wasn’t it? Maybe you should try borrowing someone’s work – if you can find anyone stupid enough to lend you anything.’

  She got a sharp elbow in the ribs for that, but at least Potts went back to his bench and didn’t say anything to Littlewood.

  During break that morning, word spread of an interesting first two periods in Flowerdew’s chemistry lab. The Year Eights were reporting that he hadn’t turned up and that a whole period had passed before anyone came to sit with them. In the end Miss Glenacre had arrived to help out, and then Dr Dart. Apparently, they didn’t know where he was, either. As Itch and Jack had chemistry next, they decided to turn up early to see what happened. Heading for the lab, they realized that the rest of the class had had the same idea. For the first time anyone could remember, every pupil was at their bench before the bell went.

  As they waited for Flowerdew, Sam Jennings volunteered to be a lookout and stood by the door, poking her head out every ten seconds. After five minutes she flew back in, calling, ‘Brigadier!’ and had just reached her seat when their English teache
r marched in. He put a pile of marking on the desk and was greeted by a forest of raised hands and a chorus of: ‘Sir, where’s Dr Flowerdew? Is he ill? What’s happened to him, sir?’

  Gordon Carter raised both hands for silence. ‘The answer to all your questions is: “I have no idea.” Sorry, but there it is. Now, I have a pile of marking to do, and intend to get on with it. I’m sure you have a chemistry textbook or something you can look at.’ General groans greeted that. ‘Or I could always set you a lovely essay … We could recap some of our Merchant of Venice if you prefer?’

  Everyone opened their chemistry books at once, and the Brigadier smiled appreciatively.

  Itch leaned towards Jack. ‘This doesn’t feel good, does it?’

  Jack shook her head without looking up.

  As period three ended and period four began, the Brigadier was replaced by Craig Harris, one of the games teachers. He was in his usual Scotland rugby top and tracksuit bottoms, and put a cup of coffee and two apples on the desk in front of him.

  ‘I’m giving up my break for you guys,’ he announced. ‘And I know even less about chemistry than Mr Carter, so whatever it was you were doing for him, please feel free to continue doing it for me.’

  Itch had started writing a bit more on his German foreign-policy homework; what he had done after their raid of the previous night was pretty sparse. They had history that afternoon, so this was a heaven-sent opportunity to add a paragraph or two. But he worked slowly, as he always did in history, and still had a few paragraphs to write when the bell went for the end of the period. Everyone got up to leave, but Itch told Jack he was just finishing off and would catch up with her at lunch.