Itch

by Simon Mayo

  ‘That figures,’ said Itch. ‘And why they got rid of the old miners as guides.’

  Watkins said brightly, ‘And now I’ve had to sign the Official Secrets Act, so you and Jacob are the only people I can ever talk to about any of this! I shall, as you can imagine, find that quite a challenge.’

  ‘Do you expect more of 126 to be found, sir?’

  ‘Yes, but nothing about this is normal. All rules appear to be … in the balance, shall we say. This isn’t normal – none of it is.’

  ‘I’ve been hoping,’ said Itch, ‘that instead of the first of a new strain, it turns out they were like the last of an endangered species. That they had existed since for ever but had all gone back into the centre of the Earth and got melted down again.’

  ‘Except that from what I’m hearing, the guess is that the rocks weren’t as old as that. Certainly tens or hundreds of thousands of years old, but no more.’

  ‘So how come they came out of a mine?’

  Watkins smiled. ‘Who knows, Itch, who knows? Earthquakes can move things around quite a lot, you know. Maybe they’ve been thrown away before.’

  There was silence in the room.

  ‘That would be quite a story, sir.’

  ‘Indeed. And if you put that in an essay I’d have to put a red line under it. Preposterous. Anyway, Jacob says the HazChem boys have been everywhere. They’ve followed the trail your rocks left from South-West Mines to a spoil heap in Dorset, then back to us. Before they were put in Jacob’s radiation box they left quite a trace, those rocks of yours.’

  Itch shook his head. ‘Not mine now. Nothing to do with me, sir, nothing to do with me.’

  Watkins got up to go, but Itch had one more question. ‘Did I do the right thing, sir?’

  Watkins thought for a while and Itch jumped in again. ‘I messed up with the arsenic in the greenhouse and let everyone down, so I—’

  ‘Yes, yes, we know all about that – we pieced it together in the end.’ Watkins waved a hand dismissively. ‘Itchingham, you did what you believed to be right. It was I who told you to get rid of them back at the mining school. I share in your decision – though have none of your bravery.’ He smiled kindly. ‘Yes, I think you did the right thing. Let’s hope so. We shall have to wait and see.’

  In the days leading up to Itch’s release from the military hospital, there was a marked increase in activity and change in security. Itch asked Jim Fairnie what was happening.

  ‘Two things. Firstly you’re going home, and secondly …’ He hesitated for just a second. ‘Secondly, Flowerdew’s escaped.’

  Itch put down his magazine and stared, open-mouthed, at Fairnie. ‘You are kidding me, right?’

  ‘Sorry, Itch, I’m not. He was sprung while on his way to a new detention centre. An Audi pulled out in front of the prison van and a woman threatened to spray everyone with gunfire. They handed him over. Our security sources believe they had access to a private plane which was thought to be on course for Tashkent.’

  ‘Remind me …?’

  ‘Uzbekistan.’

  ‘Oh. Well, good luck there. Expect a dive in chemistry results from Uzbek schools very soon.’

  Jim Fairnie laughed, but not for long. ‘He’s another part of the problem now. We seriously considered moving your whole family into hiding, but that was deemed inappropriate. You are about to become the most protected boy in the world. Your security detail won’t be far off the US President’s. We believe there will be active threats against you for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Maybe I’d better just stay here.’

  Itch was joking, but Fairnie wasn’t. ‘We considered that too. The general vetoed it. Instead we have bought the house next door to yours and are in the process of moving our people in.’

  ‘What happened to the Cole family? I liked them.’

  ‘They quite liked our offer and have moved closer to the golf course. Apparently Mr Cole was very keen.’

  ‘I bet he was. When do we go?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow.’

  ‘It’ll be nice to get home,’ said Itch. ‘I was wondering, Jim, before we go, if you could help me with something.’

  ‘Sure. You seem very calm about everything, Itch. I’m impressed.’

  ‘I’m just happy to be alive. I’ve been through some bad stuff, met some bad people who hurt me and my family. I … had a rough journey, I suppose. And after all that, I’m not sure I’m too worried about anything. Not yet, anyway. I do wonder every day who found me and took me to the hospital. I’ve gone through everyone I know and like, and none of it works out. No one knew. Jack was in London, sick, being followed by burned-hair man. Watkins and Alexander were miles away and in hospital. My family knew nothing.’

  ‘Which leaves the people you don’t like.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Itch. ‘But Flowerdew and Kinch were gassed and then locked up. I’m sure the Greencorps team couldn’t have found me. I was the last one on the train, Jim, and in the last carriage. I’d have seen any of them get on, I’m sure of it.’

  There was a silence before Itch shrugged.

  ‘Getting sloppy, Itch. You haven’t told me about a train before,’ said Fairnie, smiling.

  Itch looked horror-struck, his mouth open.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. It’s hardly a revelation. We’d guessed that much, anyway. Now, where did you say you left them?’

  Itch was too cross with himself to smile at the joke this time.

  ‘Look,’ said Fairnie. ‘It could be that your rescuer might just stay hidden. Maybe we’ll never know.’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe someone is waiting for the right moment to get in touch.’

  ‘In which case we’ll be there to help. OK?’

  Itch nodded.

  ‘Good man,’ said Fairnie. ‘Now, what is it you needed me to help you with?’

  Itch, with a smile back on his face, handed him his magazine.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The element hunter is back.’

  ‘What else would I do, Jim? I’ve got to rebuild the collection. I thought while I was here … you might be able to get your hands on some thallium. It’s just that it’s quite difficult to—’

  ‘Ah, there was one more thing,’ Fairnie interrupted. ‘Our chief scientist reports that if we do find the rocks and the fuss ever dies down, it is quite likely that element 126 will be given the name lofteium. Its symbol will be Lt.’

  Itch’s face flushed as his jaw dropped. No sound came out.

  ‘Just thought I’d mention it.’

  The most protected boy in the world had a slightly different trip to school. He still walked out of his house, down the hill and across the golf course into town. He still walked with his sister. It was just that he did so surrounded by four very tall men wearing earpieces and bulging jackets. A car tailed them, and a van with blacked-out windows was always in the school car park.

  The most protected boy in the world had a slightly different time when he was at school. He still took chemistry, English and French. He still struggled with history. It was just that every lesson had a security man at the back of the room, and another by the door. All teachers reported less disruption and better grades.

  And on his back the most protected boy in the world appeared to be sporting a brand-new rucksack.

  With 118 pockets.

  Sussex, England

  June

  The worn black carpet was back in position underneath the notice board. It had resumed its job of hiding the bare floorboards from inquisitive children. The eighteen planks had been glued together again and laid carefully in the space cut from the old lino. The steel cap that fitted into the plate had been replaced and screwed down.

  In the darkness of the well, the dry Sussex brick descended into the chalk and soil. A white rim of caustic soda had appeared three hundred feet down, indicating a recent high-water mark. Just below, the iron ladder was broken and five rungs were missing.

  The water that filled the horizontal tu
nnel and the final 885-foot drop was perfectly still, unmoved by even the smallest eddy or current. It was a mixture of rain water and lye solution – sodium hydroxide, evidence of a recent sodium explosion. This had blown much of the weed, mud and loose brick out of the tunnel, and it had settled in the nooks and crannies of the deep well, or bounced and continued its descent in slow circles.

  At a depth of 900 feet, the bricks were still holding together.

  At 1,100 feet the water had worked its way into the cement and started to pull away at the rock.

  At 1,200 feet the walls were starting to collapse, the bricks crumbling and dissolving with age.

  And at the bottom of the well a polythene and lead radiation box, closed and sealed, lay in a metre of mud. It was surrounded by rusted winch machinery, rotten wooden planks and pieces of melted rucksack.

  Inside the box a small dark cluster of rocks lay together, 1,285 feet below the school notice board.

  And waited.

  Coming in 2013:

  The story continues in a new

  exciting adventure featuring

  Turn over for a taster …

  Ikoyi Prison, Lagos, Nigeria

  July

  She lay motionless on her iron bed. Any movement would trigger a series of metallic creaks and scrapes, and she needed to listen. It was never quiet in prison, not even at three a.m., but she filtered out the usual sounds of crying and snoring. She was listening for footsteps. Her eyes were open but her head was turned to the wall in case one of the others noticed she was awake. There were nine of them in the cell, but she was the one they would be watching.

  She had earned the right to the bottom bunk. She’d broken a few noses to get there but no one questioned her position as wing ‘president’ now. Most of the other prisoners did as she said, and if they resisted, her friends would quietly explain the rules. Remind them that she could get cross very quickly.

  So she stared unseeing at the damp and peeling wall, and cursed the occupants of the bed above her. They had started to stir, and the old springs were creaking loudly. The beds were stacked on top of each other, and there were no mattresses to muffle the sound. The whole cell seemed to fill with noise, and she kicked the metalwork above her, hard. The restless movement stopped.

  ‘Sorry, Shivvi,’ said a tiny voice no more than a metre overhead, quickly followed by another.

  ‘Yeah, sorry, Shivvi.’

  ‘Get to sleep, Johanna, you’re driving me mad. You too, Olufemi. Last warning.’

  From the slight, moving indentations, Shivvi Tan Fook reckoned that the two twelve-year-olds lying above her had just curled into a ball and probably wouldn’t move till sunrise. She was annoyed with herself for letting the whole cell know that she was awake; how long before they were all asleep again? Thirty minutes, she reckoned, maybe more. The heat was unbearable again tonight. Even after three years inside, the combination of thirty-five-degree heat, the stench from their toilet – a hole in the ground – and the constant whine of mosquitoes meant that sleep was always a difficult task. Her long dirty nails picked at the wall as she ran through her plan again. She was ready, she knew she was ready; she just needed to hear those footsteps.

  She sat up after five minutes, her usual patience deserting her. The two bunks above her were silent and the stack of three opposite were still too, save for an occasional grunt and mutter from deep in someone’s dream. The three new arrivals slept on tattered mats on the floor, their arms and legs tangled with a number of plastic bowls. The mouldy remains of beans and cassava were scattered everywhere.

  She was about to make for the door when she heard a key in the lock. She held her breath as it turned slowly and the ancient pin-tumbler mechanism strained and then clicked. It seemed deafening to Shivvi and she tensed, glancing around the cell, but no one stirred. She counted to twenty, then moved to the door, pushing against its steel panels. It opened slowly, and light from the prison landing fell on one of the new arrivals. A squinting face looked up at Shivvi who, turning round, drew her finger sharply across her neck. The girl understood the threat well enough and lowered her head to the mat. Shivvi slipped out of the cell.

  She had memorized her route to the outside world so many times. She knew the corridors she had to slip down, the rooms she could hide in and the doors and gates that would be open. She had paid enough. The bribes were at last coming good and soon she would be free. Crouching low to avoid being seen from any of the cells, she ran towards the two metal doors at the end of the corridor; she could already see that they were slightly ajar. Her bare feet were noiseless as she sprinted and then slowed down, slipping through them both in a second.

  Her wing was on the fourth floor of a block that ran parallel with the front gates of the prison. But as she flew down the flights of stairs – the steel doors stood open at each floor – she knew she was heading in the other direction. There were three staff entrances: one for the caterers and cleaners at the side of the prison, and two for the wardens and guards. She had paid for the nearest one to be unmanned and unlocked. She would be there in one minute; the deal was that it would be locked again in three.

  The stairs came out at a courtyard which was at the centre of the prison. The air was warm and humid, but in comparison with the fetid stench of the prison, Shivvi thought it was the freshest thing she had ever smelled. She inhaled deeply. She had exercised here many times, but as she looked across to the far side where her open door would be found, she realized she had never seen it empty before. As she checked her route around the cobbled periphery, she briefly caught a familiar stale perfume and whirled round. The vast bulk of Zuma, one of the senior guards, was hurtling towards her. Shivvi jumped sideways – but not quickly enough to escape Zuma’s grabbing hands, which closed around her ponytail. Attempting to throw her to the ground, the guard pulled down sharply, but Shivvi had been here before. In countless street fights and prison battles she had found herself attacked by bullies and thugs who assumed that because of her 1.6-metre, 45-kilo frame, she would be a pushover. They were wrong. As Zuma tugged her down, Shivvi smashed her palm into the guard’s face, splintering her nose instantly. It was her speciality. Zuma let go and put her hands in front of her face, gasping as blood poured between her fingers. Shivvi ran behind her and kicked at her knees. Zuma’s legs buckled and she fell to the ground, groaning.

  ‘Lie down. Lie down, Zuma, or I’ll smack your nose again,’ she half whispered, half shouted in the guard’s ear. Zuma did what she was told. ‘You stay here for ten minutes. You don’t make a sound.’ Shivvi bent down and looked her in the eye. ‘You made my life a misery for three years. I hope you go as mad in here as I have.’ And using Zuma’s head as a starting block, she sprinted for the gate.

  The altercation in the courtyard had cost Shivvi some crucial minutes, and as she approached staff entrance A, skipping round open doors and ducking under lit windows, she recognized the silhouette of the guard who had been unlocking the doors for her. With keys in hand, she was about to close up.

  ‘No!’ called Shivvi, closing fast, and the guard, looking up, stood aside. They exchanged the briefest of glances, and the former Greencorps oil analyst, convicted polluter and killer squeezed her way out of the prison and onto the dark back streets of Lagos.

  Hiding behind a garden wall, Shivvi Tan Fook retied the band in her black hair and produced a pair of sandals from under her shirt. She slipped them on and looked around, smiling. If anyone had been watching, they would have marvelled at the effect that one smile could have on a face. Despite her twenty-five years – the last three spent in one of the most notorious prisons in Africa – she could still look like a teenager.

  ‘Now,’ she said out loud. ‘Dr. Nathaniel. Flowerdew.’ She spat the words. ‘I believe we have an appointment.’ And she started to run through the still dark streets, away from the prison and towards the harbour.

  Author’s Note

  I know that many people hate science. I hated science. It took me till
my forties to realize I was wrong. While writing about Itch, Jack and Chloe, I was constantly aware of readers who just want to get on with the story and may just skip the elements stuff. Fair enough really. If, however, you could do with a bit more background to some of the ideas in Itch’s world, here are a few top facts.

  THE PERIODIC TABLE/TABLE OF ELEMENTS

  The heart and soul of Itch’s world and this book. The somewhat baffling lines of boxes, letters and numbers are indeed everything that there is in the known universe. And unknown universe, come to that. You can see from the chart that it is a bit like the castle that Jude observes, with hydrogen and helium being the turrets and the rare Earth elements as the moat at the bottom. If you can think of a better description, please let me know!

  It was all put together in this form by a Russian chemist called Dmitri Mendeleyev in 1869. The elements are listed in order of increasing atomic number (the number of protons in the atomic nucleus – this gets tough quickly!). The ‘period’ bit refers to the horizontal rows where there are recurring or ‘periodic’ similarities between the elements. The vertical columns or groups are more important, and often the elements in these ‘families’ have very similar properties. When Alexander is checking his charts and figures, he would have found that element 126 fits under the Fe, Ru, Os, Hs column (iron, ruthenium, osmium, darmstadtium).

  Of the 118 elements, 92 are found naturally on Earth; the rest have to be made in labs, with expensive things like particle accelerators. Chances are your school won’t have one. And if it does, keep it a secret.

  The island of stability

  Yes, it really does exist! Or at least, I didn’t make it up – it has been talked about for many years. All the elements at the top end of the table are fantastically unstable and some have only existed for seconds or fractions of seconds. There are scientists who think that there may be some, as yet undiscovered, elements that will be sufficiently stable and courteous enough to hang around for long enough to be quite useful; element 126 would be one of them.