Itch

by Simon Mayo

  Chloe suddenly leaned back in her seat with her eyes closed, her hands resting on her stomach.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Jack. ‘You’re not looking so hot.’

  ‘Not fantastic, no. A bit sick. It’ll pass.’ If Chloe had seen the look that passed between Jack and Itch, she would have been worried. They had both been waiting for signs of sickness. Cake’s caravan had shown them what happens when you have radiation poisoning. They each held one of Chloe’s hands, sent another text home, then sat in silence.

  The Cornwall Academy came into view. All its lights were on, which confirmed that there was indeed something going on there tonight. As the bus slowed, five people stood up and gathered their things together. Itch, Jack and Chloe alighted just behind them and followed them into the school.

  ‘Let’s just go straight in,’ said Itch. ‘I bet Mr Watkins will be near the front.’

  Jack put her hand on his arm. ‘Do we all need to go in? Seems unnecessary, doesn’t it?’

  At the entrance to the hall, the last parents were buying their programmes and being shown to their seats by unusually smart-looking Year Tens.

  ‘OK, I’ll go, you wait here. Er …’ He paused, looking at the canvas bag.

  ‘It’s OK, leave it here,’ said Jack.

  Itch put it down and ran inside. There was an expectant buzz of conversation as parents and friends waited for what the poster said was An Unmissable Evening of Jazz and Blues. The hall held around four hundred, and most of the seats were taken. Some in the audience read the programme, others were talking to their neighbours or twisting round to speak to friends behind. Out of sight, backstage, the sound of the school band warming up could be heard.

  Standing by the door, Itch scanned the hall. In the front row he saw Dr Dart and her guests. Just behind was the teachers’ row – he could see heads belonging to Mrs Jennings, Mr Hopkins and the Brigadier, but no Watkins.

  ‘Hi, Itch – didn’t expect to see you here. Want to buy a programme?’ It was the smiley Year Ten girl, Lucy Cavendish.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ said Itch. ‘Sorry, no. Have you seen Mr Watkins?’

  ‘He’s just arriving. There.’ She pointed to the second entrance at the front of the hall. ‘How’s things? Are you staying?’

  ‘Er, sorry, no.’ Itch sprinted round to intercept his teacher before he could take his seat, and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Sir! You have to come with me! It’s important. It’s urgent!’

  John Watkins looked at Itch, his face showing first surprise and pleasure, then irritation. ‘Oh, come come, Itchingham – what on earth can be more important than an evening of light jazz with the Cornwall Academy’s award-winning jazz band led by the very able Julia Nettles of Ten S?’ He started to make for his seat, but found his way blocked by Itch, who had stepped into his path.

  ‘Seriously, sir, please come outside.’ Itch sounded desperate. ‘We are in a lot of danger. And trouble.’

  At this Mr Watkins stopped. ‘Trouble? Danger? What’s happened, Itchingham?’

  Itch had his full attention now. ‘Follow me, sir.’

  Mr Watkins apologized to his fellow staff members and followed Itch out of the hall. Outside they found an anxious Chloe and Jack, who had moved round the corner of the hall to look out across the playing fields towards the sea. The sun was still high but the shadows were beginning to lengthen. John Watkins stood looking at them.

  ‘Well? Speak, someone!’ He looked from Jack to Chloe to Itch, then noticed the bulging canvas bag. ‘What’s in there? Itch, explain please.’

  Itch didn’t know where to start. ‘Well, sir. It’s like this. You know … You remember the rock that produced that reading on the Geiger counter?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Watkins. ‘It started all this nonsense. Massive reading. Huge radioactive activity. In Switzerland … or not, apparently. What of it?’

  Itch pointed to the bag. ‘Well, it’s in there, sir, along with seven others.’

  Watkins’s mouth dropped open. ‘Excuse me, what did you say? Seven others? Please tell me they aren’t radioactive too!’

  Itch nodded. ‘I think so, sir. They killed my friend, Cake, who had them in his caravan. He left us a note. But some people saw us and think we killed him, but we didn’t – it was the radiation. We have to get these rocks put away somewhere safe, sir.’

  Mr Watkins was a good teacher. His pupils liked him and his colleagues loved him. They had come to admire his eccentric clothing style, enjoyed his generosity in the canteen, and he was respected for his deep knowledge of geography. His world revolved around his pupils and his subject. But in all his teaching career, nothing had left him so completely bewildered. His mouth was open again.

  ‘Sir?’ prompted Itch.

  The head of geography closed his mouth. Then he said, ‘We’ll sort out your story in a minute. What are the rocks in?’

  Itch described the lead tube he had put together and the lead apron Cake had wrapped his rocks in.

  ‘Well, it’s a start,’ said Watkins, ‘but goodness knows how much radiation is leaking. We have to get them to the mining school. It’s not far, and they will have the kit we need for this. Itch, come with me – you two stay here with your parents.’ He started off in the direction of the car park, but Itch protested.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but our parents aren’t here. And we are all together, really.’

  Watkins hurried on. ‘Right! Everyone in the car! That’s fine, we’ll sort this out on the way.’

  They ran in single file to the car park, with Jack and Chloe arriving last. ‘Pile in,’ said Watkins when he’d unlocked his Volvo. ‘All rocks in the boot!’ The canvas bag went in with the spare tyre and tool kit, and the rucksack was passed over to Itch again. He sat in the front with it at his feet, his sister and cousin in the back.

  Watkins accelerated out of the car park, turning south. ‘Safety first: we need to get the rocks locked up, then call the emergency services.’ He threw his phone at Itch. ‘Call Jacob Alexander and hold the phone to my ear.’

  Itch found the listed phone numbers and pressed ALEXANDER, DR JACOB. It started to ring and Itch held the phone to his teacher’s left ear.

  ‘Jacob, it’s John Watkins … Where are you …?’ He listened as he sped along the country roads. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to make your apologies and leave. Meet me at your office as soon as you can … Yes, it is an emergency. I have hugely radioactive rocks that need a safe house … Now. Can you do that? They might be responsible for one death already … Yes, really … Thanks, see you in a bit.’ Itch removed the phone and cut the connection.

  ‘Right now, you three. Ring your parents and explain what’s happening and where we are going, please. They aren’t going to believe it, but you need to tell them anyway. Say I’ll call them from the mining school. Now, please.’

  Itch and Jack took out their phones and were greeted by a string of beeps and squawks indicating a large number of texts and voice messages.

  ‘Parents who need talking to by the sound of it,’ said Watkins.

  ‘Can we stop?’ came a faint voice from the back.

  In his mirror Watkins looked at Chloe who, even in the dark of the car, looked white as a sheet. ‘Not really, Chloe, it’s just— OK, maybe we should.’

  The Volvo screeched to a stop and Chloe leaped out. She had been sick on the grass verge, wiped her mouth, blown her nose and turned round to get back in before Itch could even find a tissue for her. She fastened her seatbelt and Watkins drove off again.

  ‘I’m stupid, of course,’ said Watkins, sounding annoyed with himself. ‘You must all be suffering from the radiation. I should have left you at the academy. Anyone else nauseous?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Itch.

  ‘I’m fine so far,’ said Jack.

  They drove on at speed. With barely any traffic on the road, the teacher was taking the corners extraordinarily fast.

  ‘Don’t normally drive this fast,’ he told them, ‘but maybe it’s
just as dangerous to linger. No one seems to have rung their parents yet, so I will. Your phones, please – Itch, you know what to do.’

  Jack passed her phone to Itch, who dialled her home number, waited for it to ring and held the phone to Watkins’s ear. He waited. ‘Answerphone,’ he said, then, ‘It’s Mr Watkins from the Academy. Your daughter, Itch and Chloe are safe and with me at the West Ridge School of Mining. Please call when you get this.’ He left his own number and hung up.

  Itch passed him his own ringing phone, and heard his mother answer.

  ‘Mrs Lofte, good evening, it’s John Watkins from the Academy. Your son and daughter are here with me, along with their cousin. You will need to pick them up from the West Ridge School of Mining this evening. Itchingham is fine, though Chloe has been a little unwell. Please be reassured that I will call you when we get there.’

  Itch could hear his mother asking question after question – to no avail.

  ‘I agree this is unusual, Mrs Lofte,’ Watkins said. ‘I only met the children at school tonight; they needed help and I am doing what I can. I will call you to say when you can pick them up.’

  Itch removed the phone from Watkins’s ear and ended the call.

  ‘Your mother’s not happy,’ his teacher said, ‘and I don’t blame her.’

  He still had time to dictate a text to Dr Dart explaining where he was going and why.

  ‘She’s going to go mental,’ said Itch, typing the words into the phone.

  ‘That is a distinct possibility,’ said Watkins. ‘Now, explain how we got here. We have about seven minutes till we are at West Ridge – tell me everything.’

  So Itch, and occasionally Jack, related the whole story, from the first rock purchase to the raid on Flowerdew’s house (this produced a whistle of astonishment from Watkins), and then to the discovery of Cake’s body.

  There was silence in the car when the story was finished. Itch wasn’t sure what his teacher’s reaction would be. Eventually he said, ‘I understand why you didn’t call the police immediately, but call them again you must. They will want to question you. If this Cake chap died from radiation as you say, it will be obvious that you are innocent. We will ring as soon as we, and the rocks, are safely in the West Ridge labs. I imagine the ambulance boys will want to check you out.’

  The car slowed down as they approached the outskirts of the old mining town of West Ridge. They had only passed a few of the outlying buildings when they saw a sign to the School of Mining. They turned left into a car park which led to a series of low-level, one-storey buildings.

  The mining school was housed in an old further-education college built in the 1960s, and although from the road it appeared small, it was a warren of interconnecting rooms, lecture halls and labs. The car park was empty, bar the one vehicle parked by the front door. The college was in darkness apart from the reception area, where some neon lights illuminated the double doors and an enquiries desk. Watkins parked next to what they guessed was Jacob Alexander’s car.

  ‘Everyone out, and let’s get this sorted.’ Itch went to open the boot but Mr Watkins raised his hands. ‘No, no, Itch – that’s enough for you. Inside, and let’s find Jacob.’

  Itch hesitated. He hadn’t gone through all this just to leave the rocks unguarded in a car park on a Saturday night, even if West Ridge was a quiet town. ‘I’ll watch the car – you find your friend,’ he said.

  19

  JACOB ALEXANDER’S OFFICE WAS immediately behind the welcome desk and they could all see that the light was on and the door open. Alerted by the sounds of their arrival, he came out to meet his late-night visitors. He was a man of around sixty, broad and thick-set, with his remaining dark grey hair shaved close to his scalp. He was dressed in a suit with his recently removed tie draped around his neck. He smiled when he saw Watkins.

  ‘John! Good to see you – even if you have taken me away from a dinner with my wife’s book club.’

  Mr Watkins hurried over and shook his friend’s hand. ‘Apologies and all that, but we need to get some very interesting rocks out of the boot of my car. Can you robe up for us?’

  Dr Alexander looked over at the three cousins, who were watching the car.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll explain later, but essentially the rocks belong to Itchingham Lofte there – the tall lad. And that’s his sister Chloe and cousin Jack.’

  ‘Ah, the Lofte clan. Of course,’ said Alexander.

  ‘Oh, you know them?’ asked Watkins.

  ‘Well, not exactly.’

  ‘Anyway, please hurry, Jacob,’ said Watkins. ‘We’ve got eight rocks, and when I took a Geiger reading on just one of them, it gave me a reading of ten thousand clicks per second.’

  The director stared at him. ‘Heavens! Are you sure? From just the one rock? I’ll get dressed.’ And he disappeared back into his office.

  When he reappeared, he was covered from head to toe in a white fabric suit, and carried a protective helmet under his arm – he looked as if he was expecting a chemical attack. He came over to the cousins.

  ‘I feel a bit daft getting all this on, but if what John here says is right about the radiation count from your rocks, it seems a wise precaution.’

  Itch, Jack and Chloe looked at their own flimsy clothing and wondered how much radiation they had absorbed. Chloe hadn’t been sick again, but she still looked extremely pale.

  Disappearing into another room, Alexander emerged with a large, heavy, white container like an oversized toolbox. ‘This is what we use for our radioactive rocks – not that we’ve ever had eight here before – but it should do the trick. It’s got a lead shield within thick high-density polythene. What are your rocks in?’

  Itch, sounding almost apologetic, told him, ‘Well, we had to make it up as we went along. One’s in a lead tube, and the other seven are wrapped in a lead apron from a hospital.’ He thought he’d leave out the word ‘stolen’ for now.

  Dr Alexander nodded, put on his helmet and went outside. Watkins popped the boot with his key fob and watched as his friend placed the box on the ground, took off the lid, then lifted the boot and peered inside. With gloved hands, he picked up the canvas bag and placed it carefully in the lead box. He replaced the cover, tested its weight and shut the boot. Leaning heavily to the right, he carried it through the reception area. He paused to turn on a new set of lights, then called through the helmet, ‘You can follow me,’ and disappeared down a corridor.

  They followed him down a number of corridors with darkened classrooms on one side and notice boards on the other. Itch checked out the posters and hand-written A4 sheets advertising ENGINEERING SOC, METALLURGY 2ND YEAR RESULTS and LITHIUM MINE TRIP TO BOLIVIA! SIGN UP!

  They came to a T-junction, with labs running across the corridor. They turned left towards Labs 3, 4 and 5, and followed the lights as Alexander switched them on, going through two labs before arriving at their destination.

  Alexander called out, ‘Wait here!’ loudly through his protective helmet. They all stood in the doorway and watched as the director stopped by a shed-sized container. It was made of white painted metal, its walls corrugated, with a door taking up one half of its front. He put the box on a workbench and pushed down on the compression door lock: the door swung open a few centimetres and he pulled it the rest of the way. He picked up the lead box and placed it inside on the middle of three shelves. From where the cousins and Watkins stood, it appeared that there were only two other boxes inside, one on each shelf. Alexander swung the door shut, and then lifted the handle. The heavy locking mechanism echoed through the lab. He turned round and removed his helmet before coming over to them.

  ‘They are safe and we are safe, depending on how much radiation you have already been exposed to.’ He beckoned them through to the adjacent lab. ‘Sit down and tell me everything you know about these rocks that have so spooked my friend here.’ He smiled at Watkins – who smiled back somewhat nervously.

  ‘First I’m cal
ling an ambulance,’ the teacher said. Alexander nodded and they sat in silence as Watkins gave details of what had happened and where they were.

  The director jumped up. ‘I’ll have a word.’ He took the phone and, explaining who he was, walked out of the lab, pulling the door shut behind him.

  ‘That doesn’t feel good,’ said Jack.

  ‘They’re on their way,’ said Watkins.

  ‘How long?’ said Chloe.

  ‘Didn’t say, I’m afraid.’

  After a few seconds Alexander strode back in and returned Watkins’s phone.

  ‘They understand the situation, I think. So …’ He spread his arms. ‘Begin.’ And between the four of them, Itch, Jack, Chloe and John Watkins, sitting on stools, told him what they knew and told him fast. In under two minutes, they had finished their story.

  ‘Right. Extraordinary. But you don’t need me to tell you that.’ Jacob Alexander had been pacing around the lab, but now he stopped in front of the cousins. ‘My hunch is that you will get sick, I’m afraid. If the seven new rocks are as powerful as the first one and decaying in the same way, the lead apron wouldn’t have been effective enough to protect you all. Chloe’s sickness is probably caused by radiation.’

  Jack put her arm round her cousin as she started to cry.

  Alexander continued: ‘We aren’t equipped with any decontamination gear, I’m afraid. I can get some sent, but it will take a few hours. This is way outside what we would normally be dealing with here. Obviously.’

  Itch said quietly, ‘I’m so sorry, Chloe.’ He looked at his sister, who was normally so strong and spirited, but now, in the harsh fluorescent glare of the laboratory, looked really scared.

  Alexander smiled kindly, his tanned face creasing around his eyes. ‘The hospital will sort you out, I’m sure, Chloe. You two will need to be checked as well, and I guess the police will be here shortly, once they’ve put everything together. And your eyebrows, Itch … Have they just fallen out? Because if so …’

  ‘No, no, that was something else,’ said Itch. ‘It was an accident with some phosphorus a week or so ago.’ He looked at his sister, but she wasn’t listening.