Itchcraft

by Simon Mayo

  ‘Hire van,’ said Itch. ‘Two Greencorps men. We met them before, at the mining school. Hacked them off by escaping with the 126.’

  ‘I remember the story.’ Gabriel felt his bruise and shook his head slowly. ‘This is all my fault! If I could have protected them somehow . . . if I’d stayed with them, none of this would have happened . . . They must be so scared . . .’ He trailed off.

  ‘Yes,’ said Itch, ‘but they’re tougher than you think, Gabe. And they’ve got each other.’

  Gabriel closed his eyes together as if in prayer, but there were more tears running down his cheeks. ‘I know that, you guys have been through a lot. But what do we do now?’ said Gabriel. ‘We have to do something. Do we all hold a press conference? Can we help the search somehow?’

  Itch went to rummage for some snacks – and to hide his feelings. Gabriel was asking him what to do next! It had never, ever been like this. Growing up, he had always deferred to his older brother, and always assumed he would know what the right course of action would be. Now Gabe was as lost as everyone else.

  Lucy and her mother stayed the night. Once the media had set up camp outside Itch’s house, neither of them fancied battling their way through. Jon and Zoe had faced a barrage of cameras and lights when they left, and Nicola was horrified.

  ‘We’ve got lots of room,’ said Jude. ‘Please do stay. It would be nice to have some company. With Nicholas away, there’s strength in numbers. It’ll be no trouble, really.’ She smiled sadly.

  ‘Lucy can have my room,’ offered Itch. ‘I’ll sleep on Gabe’s floor.’

  ‘If you’re sure that’s OK,’ said Lucy.

  ‘I might need to tidy a few things,’ he said, ‘but that’d be great.’

  ‘I’ll make up the spare bed,’ said Jude, and she disappeared upstairs.

  Itch was clearing the table, but he suddenly stopped and listened to the creaking of the floorboards. He could tell that his mother had crossed the landing to Chloe’s room. He waited for her to move on. He imagined her looking around at the posters, the make-up, her still packed bag from Spain. It was quite some time before the boards creaked again and Itch resumed putting the plates away. The house had plenty of people in it, and many more outside, but it was the missing Chloe who seemed to fill the house with silence.

  While Jude and Nicola talked late into the night, Itch and Lucy moved bedding and elements around.

  ‘I’m not bothered about your collection, Itch, really,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s just for one night, and if there’s some iodine or sulphur knocking about with your pyjamas, I can live with that.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Itch, ‘but they’re better put away.’

  While he worked, they listened to the muffled voices of their mothers talking downstairs. Itch froze each time he heard Jude sobbing.

  ‘I’m glad we could stay,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Me too.’ Itch stuffed some jeans into a drawer, then sighed and leaned his forehead against the wall. ‘I can’t stop thinking about what might be happening to Jack and Chlo.’ He banged his head a few times. ‘I didn’t want to mention it to Mum, but I’m really scared for them, Lucy.’

  She came and stood next to him. After a moment she put her hand on his shoulder. ‘OK, stop. This is not helping. We’re all thinking the same stuff, but here’s the thing – we don’t know anything. Not for certain, anyway. So it’s laptop time again.’

  Itch handed it over and Lucy looked at Itch’s Facebook page.

  ‘Two hundred thousand notifications. Roughly. Still five thousand friend requests.’ She clicked and read, clicked and read. ‘Support from all over the world, Itch. Tons from Spain – literally tons. All after Madrid, I suppose. Loads apologizing for their burning money and the riots. They’re saying they’ll watch out for Jack and Chlo. You should accept all these requests, Itch. Who knows who might be able to help? Oh, and a message from Mary Lee again. Or Leila, as she says she’s called.’

  ‘Saying what?’ said Itch, looking up.

  ‘Sympathies Itchingham,’ read Lucy. ‘We tell everyone about Greencorps. We hope your family is reunited soon.’

  ‘They haven’t been caught, then,’ he said. ‘Still evading the Nigerian cops.’

  ‘Corrupt as hell, you said. Must help a bit.’

  ‘Guess so.’

  ‘And loads from school. Chloe’s friends; Jack’s friends. And that vicar from Mr Watkins’s funeral says she’s praying for them.’

  ‘I think we’ll take help from anywhere,’ said Itch, yawning. ‘Whether it’s the vicar or Facebook. So yes to the friend requests.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘OK, I’ll sort it. Now you need to sleep,’ Lucy insisted.

  ‘I don’t want to, I really don’t. Feels like I should stay awake. Just in case something happens.’

  Lucy pushed him to the door. ‘Your dad’s back tomorrow, Itch. Go to sleep. I promise I won’t mess up your room.’

  He hesitated a moment, then nodded and headed for Gabriel’s room.

  Itch had always been an early riser, but when your family is the lead story on the news, you wake when the first Breakfast TV lights go on. An unusually fierce brightness was shining through the curtains of Gabriel’s room at 5.55 a.m. and, with a sinking, squirming stomach, Itch knew that his day had started.

  Realizing that his brother was already up, he bounded down the stairs to find the kitchen already full. Jude and Gabriel were sitting with Jon and Zoe, neither of whom appeared to have slept a wink. DCI Underwood had returned, along with a policewoman he hadn’t seen before. Lucy was there too, wearing one of his old T-shirts; she smiled at him and gave a ‘flatten-your-hair’ gesture.

  ‘Any news?’ asked Itch. ‘What’s happening?’ He permitted himself a micro-second of anticipation, while at the same time knowing full well that if Chloe and Jack had been found, he would have been woken. And people wouldn’t be looking so tense.

  Jude shook her head slowly. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid, Itch, no. This is PC Jade Greaves – she’s a family liaison officer or something. She’ll help with dealing with the press and—’

  ‘Tell us about the search,’ interrupted Itch. ‘Where are you looking? Two people can’t just disappear into thin air.’

  PC Greaves had been about to speak, but now deferred to DCI Underwood. For a moment he looked uncomfortable at being questioned by a fifteen-year-old, but then produced a sheaf of notes.

  ‘Well, as I said yesterday, Interpol is aware of Jack and Chloe’s disappearance—’

  ‘Kidnap,’ said Itch and Gabriel together.

  Underwood appeared to weigh the word for a moment, then accepted it. ‘“Kidnap” is the most likely scenario, yes. OK. But there have been no ransom demands to date. The CCTV at the hospital doesn’t appear to have been working in the corridors we checked. The van the two men used has been searched and tested. It’s covered in fingerprints, as you might expect, including those of your sister and cousin. There’s no doubt they were there, just no clues as to where they were taken afterwards. It’s been cleared of all papers, emptied of evidence. The hire company is accessing the documents this morning; we should have that information soon.’

  Itch looked disappointed: the van had been the best chance of a clue.

  Almost as an afterthought, Underwood added, ‘We did find two numbers scratched into the plastic seats, but we don’t even know how old they are. So they might mean nothing.’

  ‘What are they?’ said Itch.

  Underwood accessed an email on his phone and found the attached photo. He passed it to Jude first. Everyone leaned in to see.

  ‘Is that a 41 and a 19?’ she asked, passing it on to Jon and Zoe.

  They squinted at the numbers. ‘Could be,’ said Zoe. ‘They’re a bit on top of each other.’ She handed it to Itch.

  He looked at the numbers – a series of indentations made by what could have been a sharp fingernail. And Itch knew exactly what they were.

&nbs
p; ‘It’s not 41 and 19.’

  ‘What?’ said Lucy.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Underwood.

  ‘It’s not 41 and 19,’ repeated Itch. And, to the bewilderment of everyone in the kitchen, he sprinted for the door.

  23

  Itch ran up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

  ‘So you did listen after all!’ he shouted when he reached his room. He grabbed his bag and hurtled back down the stairs, jumping the last six and almost crashing into his uncle Jon. ‘She did listen, Uncle Jon!’ and he pulled him into the kitchen. Sweeping away numerous cups and mugs, Itch spread the Periodic Table poster Hampton had given him out on the table. ‘They’re in Spain!’ he announced.

  There was silence in the kitchen – looks of incredulity from the police and astonishment from the family.

  ‘How do you work that out, then?’ asked Gabriel. Jude and Zoe came over to get a closer look.

  ‘Before we left for Madrid, Mr Hampton explained that some elements have different names in Spanish. When we were in the science museum, Chloe found a T-shirt with the same design. I was showing her, but I thought she wasn’t paying attention.’ He pointed to two elements Hampton had circled on the poster. ‘Silver and gold. The elements I was telling her about. In Spanish, they’re plata and oro, but obviously still on top of each other on the table: numbers 47 and 79. That’s what she’s carved into the car. Chloe must have heard where they were going and written the only thing she could think of which wouldn’t alert the Greencorps men – it almost didn’t alert you guys, either.’

  He noticed Lucy and Gabriel wince at his final comment, and wondered whether he’d overstepped the mark. Jude inspected the photo on DCI Underwood’s phone again.

  ‘Well, you’re right, Itch – it’s a 47 and a 79. And they’re clearly on top of each other. And Chloe has the nails.’ There was a spark to his mother’s voice which the others caught.

  ‘Why else would you write 47 over a 79?’ Zoe was looking over her sister-in-law’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s not much to go on—’ began Underwood.

  ‘But it is, though,’ said Lucy. ‘It absolutely is. She couldn’t have written Gone to Spain because her captors would have seen it. Chloe did the only thing she could. In four numbers. These are smart girls you’re dealing with here; if they had a chance to get a message to us, they’d have taken it.’

  Underwood looked again at the photo from the car. Sensing a quickening in his interest, Lucy leaned forward across the table and waited till he looked at her.

  ‘It is just too much of a coincidence, and you know it – 47 over 79. Silver and gold, plata and oro, English and Spanish. Chloe and Jack are telling you where they are.’

  There was a slight pause before the policeman nodded. ‘I’ll make a call.’

  When the mayor of Madrid found out that the girl carried unconscious from the Toledo bridge was believed to be one of the two kidnap victims, he sent his expressions of regret to the Lofte family. When he found out that she and her cousin might have been forcibly brought back to Spain, he sent his private jet. A wealthy man, he had an eye on the forthcoming crisis-induced elections and saw himself as a future prime minister; Spain’s saviour. The chaos caused by the burning money had been compounded by thousands of notes in circulation turning out to be fake. Taken to banks for testing in the wake of the recent conflagration, they had failed the teller’s tests and been confiscated. Within hours the panic was nationwide. The demonstrations that had only just subsided ignited again. In cities and towns across the country, protest marches turned into riots. The police were overwhelmed, and there was talk of the army taking to the streets to restore order.

  The Bank of Spain had performed the same tests as Jacob Alexander at the mining school. They too discovered picric acid, and wasted no time in saying so. The governor, along with the Prime Minister – who was hanging on until fresh elections were held – denounced the sabotage as an act of terrorism. The euro plunged all over the world, but in Spain the collapse was spectacular.

  The mayor believed that, in the absence of a proper working government, he had the opportunity to show that he could run things. With the Chief of Police, he invited the Loftes to come to Madrid and make a public appeal for help in finding the missing British girls.

  It had taken a while to convince the Cornwall and Devon Police that the numbers 47 and 79 were a massive clue, but when the credit card used to hire the kidnapper’s van turned out to have been issued by a bank in Spain, the arguments were over. By the time Nicholas returned from South Africa, grimfaced and pale, the Guardia Civil had already been contacted.

  ‘Who’s going to listen to us, Dad?’ said Itch as they boarded the Cessna Citation. ‘They have enough going on without helping us find Chlo and Jack.’

  ‘No idea,’ said his dad, ‘but this mayor seems to think it’s a good idea. And at least we’ll be doing something, not just sitting on our backsides or being hounded by the moronic press outside the house.’

  They strapped themselves in for takeoff, and Itch realized that his father was right: anything was better than staying at home.

  The suggestion had been to send over as many family and friends as could fit in the plane. He twisted round and saw Lucy talking to his aunt Zoe, and Uncle Jon talking to his mother. Everyone looked exhausted and strained, but there was a buzz to the conversation that had been missing since the kidnap; a genuine belief that they were flying closer to Chloe and Jack.

  As his father typed furiously into his laptop, Itch noticed that the email subject was ‘Thorium’ and chanced a question.

  ‘Was the trip to Cape Town worth it, Dad? I was going to ask you before, but . . .’

  Since his father’s return, Chloe and Jack had been the only topics of conversation, with endless visits, phone calls and meetings. As each day passed, they had become more urgent, more frantic. All other concerns had disappeared.

  Nicholas looked up. ‘You’re right – everything’s been too hideous, hasn’t it? And it was bad in Palmeitkraal too, I’m afraid. I was hoping to rescue the Hewitt mines sale, but a new company’s been snapping up anything and everything they can get their hands on. Gold, platinum, rare earths – you name it. But the worst thing? It’s not just losing the mine, though heaven knows that’s bad enough . . . it’s that I’m partly to blame.’

  Itch was astonished. ‘You, Dad? That can’t be right . . .’

  Nicholas shook his head, and spoke quietly. ‘You remember I shouted at Themba after the, er, incident with Chloe at the Hewitt mine?’

  ‘Which you obviously haven’t told Mum about.’

  Nicholas nodded. ‘I also lost it a bit with him afterwards, and used some language which could have been seen as insensitive and patronizing. Apparently Sammy particularly felt that his father had been humiliated. He told Themba it sounded like an old white mine owner talking to his black staff. So when another buyer came sniffing around, Themba didn’t fight it or tell us until it was too late. So we lost the mine, along with the lanthanum, terbium, europium and neodymium that came with it.’

  ‘But the spoil heaps were dangerous—’

  ‘Yes, they were, and he messed up, big time. But I got angry and made a mistake. So we keep looking. We still need to find new energy sources. It’s just that, next to finding Chlo and Jack, it all seems utterly meaningless.’ He slammed his laptop shut.

  ‘I didn’t mean to stop you working, Dad . . .’

  ‘It’s fine. My heart wasn’t in it anyway, and I know we’re going to have to do a big press conference. You ready for that?’

  ‘No – but if it helps find them . . . Had to do one when we came back from the riot. Maybe it’ll be like that.’

  His father shifted in his seat. ‘I have a feeling it’ll be a bit bigger than that.’

  Nicholas was right. They were met at the airport by the mayor – a powerful, broad-shouldered man with a bald head so shiny Itch thought it could almost be polished rhodium – and their every m
ove was recorded, photographed and filmed. He greeted them all individually, fully conversant with who was who in the Lofte family, and that Lucy – or ‘Miss Lucy’, as he called her – was a friend who had been caught up in the original Madrid riot.

  ‘I am so sorry for your distress,’ he said first to Jude, then Zoe, and then the others in turn, as a camera crew took close-ups of his concerned face. ‘Maybe the people of Madrid, the people of Spain can help find your girls. Maybe you could tell your stories and we can see what sort of girls they are?’ He performed a small bow, and Itch saw his father bridle; this was the sort of unctuous man that he knew he couldn’t stand.

  ‘They basically want us to cry for the cameras,’ he snarled to Jude.

  ‘That might not be difficult,’ she said.

  They were shown to a minibus and transported, with a police escort, to the Cibeles Palace in the centre of Madrid. It looked more like a cathedral than a town hall, which prompted the mayor to chuckle about ‘our humble office’ as they drew up beneath its huge white Gothic arches. No one said anything.

  They were ushered into a small ornate lounge, and Itch spotted a familiar face: Félix Blanco, the Spanish agent who had rescued him and Chloe from the bridge, was making his way over.

  ‘I hope we can help find your sister,’ he said as he shook Itch’s hand. ‘The press conference won’t be easy, but once you’re done, I wonder if you and your school friend’ – he pointed at Lucy – ‘can help me? I’m still working on our little euro problem and you might be able to be of service.’

  Itch shrugged. ‘Can we see how this goes? Might need to help Mum and Dad.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Blanco. ‘I’ll wait. Buena suerte. Good luck.’

  The smiling mayor was ushering them through to another room which was buzzing with people. Itch’s stomach tightened: this could only be grim, he thought. He saw Jude grab Nicholas’s hand – something he hadn’t seen in years – and then felt his own hand gripped in turn. Lucy had hung back, not wanting to intrude in the family procession, but now, as they approached the pandemonium, she reached for Itch’s hand.