by Simon Mayo
‘Of course,’ he said, putting down the beaker. ‘Last two.’
Between them they poured and folded the white slurry into the remaining beakers.
Nervously Chloe picked up one; Itch the other two.
‘On our way,’ said Itch.
‘One minute . . . or less,’ warned Leila.
Chloe led the way, arms outstretched. Itch followed a few paces behind, his exhausted arms straining under his half-kilo of explosive. The ship rolled, but they walked across the deck with the fierce concentration of tightrope walkers. Sweat streamed into Itch’s eyes. He blinked, but dared not risk wiping them with his sleeve. His focus was on the wet crystals in each hand. He was sure the grains were becoming more defined by the second. The drying-out process – and the increased instability that followed – was happening right in front of his eyes.
‘Where are you?’
In silence they climbed the steps to the bridge, where Sade was waiting for them. Itch handed over a beaker so that he could use the handrail for the last ascent.
‘You first,’ she said. ‘This is your bit.’
The last few steps to the helipad were an agony of drying explosive and screaming muscles. Itch knew that he had only seconds to finish the job: the urge to hurry was overpowering. He tried to take two steps at once, but his foot caught the tread. He grabbed the handrail, his knee crashing into the step, and he gasped in pain. The flask tilted sharply, the explosive sliding up the glass. He righted it quickly but some white slurry slopped over and splashed onto his trousers. He swore loudly.
‘Slow down, Itch!’ cried Chloe behind him.
Alarm now from all the divers:
‘What just happened?’
‘Everyone OK?’
‘Itch, talk to us!’
He steadied himself, blinked away the pain and continued climbing. ‘I’m fine. I’m here.’ He emerged slowly onto the helipad, both hands holding the flask in front of him. He paused, looking up at the scene in front of him. Flowerdew and Wing were handcuffed and tied together, back to back on the large yellow H. Aisha, Dada, Chika and now Sade stood around; Leila was still aiming her gun firmly at Flowerdew’s head.
‘The confessions went well,’ she said. ‘We only got a fraction of what they’ve been up to, but it’ll do. Enough to send them away. We strapped the camera to the deck.’ She indicated a small package covered in black masking tape a few metres away. Leila then pointed at the flask. ‘Is it going to work?’
Itch knew there were ships around – he could see them in the distance – but he only needed two minutes. Just two minutes to stop Flowerdew and say what he needed to say. Sade handed him the spatula and, ignoring the pain in his knee, he knelt in front of Roshanna Wing. She was now in jogging gear, her eyes closed against the rising sun and the faces of her accusers. Itch’s shadow fell across her face and she opened her eyes and stared at him, then at the flask of white slurry in his hand.
‘You hunted Flowerdew,’ said Itch. ‘You knew what he was like. And yet you still wanted to be a part of his future . . . Well, congratulations – you’re tied to everything coming his way now.’
‘I’m not the same as him!’ Her voice was croaky and desperate. ‘I could get you—’
‘Not interested – it’s too late!’ shouted Itch.
He dipped the plastic spatula into the silver fulminate and started painting it onto the deck. He applied it in a broad stripe around Wing’s feet, her legs, then followed the curve of her body. As he came to Flowerdew, he dipped the spatula in again.
‘What are you doing, Lofte?’ he whispered. ‘You know this makes you a criminal, don’t you? These girls are just crooks in wetsuits—’
‘Shut up, Flowerdew,’ said Itch, applying the paste around his legs. ‘They wanted to kill you. Actually, they still do. And maybe they still will . . . But this’ – he waved the dripping spatula in Flowerdew’s face – ‘is so much better. I am proving to you – how did you put it? – that I have won, you have lost, and why.’ He painted around Flowerdew’s stockinged feet. ‘If you hadn’t been such an arrogant cretin of a teacher and scientist, you might not be sitting here, humiliated. If you’d been a better oilman you wouldn’t have killed those seventeen men in the oil spill. If you’d been a better teacher – any kind of a teacher – you’d have stayed at the Cornwall Academy. If you’d been a better scientist you wouldn’t have tried to sell the 126 for millions.’
Chloe passed him another flask of the silver fulminate; Itch circled round Wing again, adding to the layer of explosive.
‘But you’re none of those things. So this silver fulminate is for Mr Watkins – a better, nobler man than you have ever been. It’s for the hurt and misery that follow you everywhere. It’s for my parents’ marriage, for Jack lying in that boat, and for Chloe and Lucy.’ Itch’s hand had started to shake. He breathed deeply.
‘And for Shivvi,’ said Sade, handing him the final flask.
‘OK – and maybe,’ added Itch, ‘even for the Greencorps bosses you killed. Look at this . . . Look at each crystal surrounding you now . . . See it drying? See it cracking? You and Wing had better not move, better not talk. The slightest movement . . . And I know you’re not worried about the crew, but feel free to make the silver fulminate go bang. They’ll be safe in their quarters, though the platform would probably fall into the sea. The divers here knew who to call. There’s a ship on its way from Morocco. They have an extradition treaty with Nigeria. The Lagos police will look forward to renewing their acquaintance with you. A prison cell in Ikoyi is where you belong.’
There was no doubting the fear in Flowerdew’s eyes now. He started to struggle against the handcuffs, but Wing hissed, ‘Keep still, stupid,’ and he stopped, slumping slightly against the ropes that held him.
Itch stood up to check his work. A white, crusty stripe followed precisely where Flowerdew and Wing’s bodies touched the deck. He scraped out the last of the fulminate, painting it under Flowerdew’s legs.
‘If you are lucky enough to be rescued,’ he said, ‘there’ll be information on how to neutralize the silver fulminate. But for now—’
‘Out of time,’ called Aisha. ‘There’s a nosy ship heading our way.’
‘Well, that’s the last of it.’ Again, Itch waited for eye contact. Slowly Flowerdew looked up, his face twisted with hatred and defeat. Itch stooped till his face was centimetres away, and spoke; his voice firm and clear – it carried to everyone on the platform. ‘So, the great scientist is beaten by science,’ he said. ‘Trapped by chemistry. AgCNO, isn’t it, sir? This element hunter catches you with silver, carbon, nitrogen and oxygen.’
Applause from the divers; then a running hug from Chloe, who took the flask from him.
Itch reached into the zip pocket of his wetsuit. Retrieving the small stone, he placed it in front of Flowerdew. ‘And I’m sure you know what this is. It’s monazite from your rare earth mine in South Africa. It contains a strand of europium. The element that for ever more will declare your total failure. It’ll look pretty as the sun rises.’
Flowerdew howled and screamed his rage – but then Itch took the flask from Chloe and placed it on the deck. He dropped the spatula from head height, and as Flowerdew and Wing watched, it hit the drying silver fulminate. The glass exploded, small shards landing all over the helipad.
‘RIB in position,’ called Tobi in their headsets. ‘Time to jump, everyone.’
The divers had already disappeared down the stairway. As Itch and Chloe reached the steps, he turned and called out, ‘So long, sir. Don’t forget to keep still.’
They made it to the deck in time to see Aisha and Chika jump from the starboard rail, swiftly followed by Dada and Leila.
Sade appeared at their side. ‘You’re next, guys.’
Itch looked at Chloe.
‘I’m not even thinking about it,’ she said, and led her brother towards the edge . . . Two steps and they were both balanced on the top bar.
Thirty metres belo
w, Aisha and Chika were climbing on board the RIB; Dada and Leila were close behind.
‘Well, look at this,’ called Tobi, still at the RIB’s steering wheel.
Itch and Chloe saw Lucy waving; next to her, one hand clearly raised, sat Jack.
‘She’s awake! She’s OK!’ called Chloe. ‘And your wetsuit’s on fire, Itch.’ He looked at the flames emerging from the patch of spilled silver fulminate. ‘Time to go,’ she said.
She took Itch’s hand and they jumped.
32
As reunions go, it was a memorable one. Back on El Hiero, Itch, Chloe, Jack and Lucy were taken to the surgery. Chika had explained that she and her team would disappear before they got arrested, and they had done just that. Itch was telling their story to a young nurse when, mouth falling open, she recognized him. In fact, she recognized all of them. Pointing to their photos in the local paper, she called the police, then, with increasing excitement, everyone in her phonebook. By the time the police launch arrived, it seemed that the whole island had turned out to see them.
Using the nurse’s phone, they had all called home. They were brief, ecstatic conversations, with promises to call back as soon as possible. Then, on the police launch to Tenerife, the captain had let them use the satellite phone.
At the port of Santa Cruz, the huge crowd of onlookers forced the launch to delay its arrival. Police reinforcements, and then a van with blacked-out windows, helped them get safely out of the harbour. In spite of Jack’s protests – ‘They checked me out at El Heiro! I feel OK!’ – the others insisted that she go straight to the hospital.
‘Jack, you actually died out there,’ said Lucy. ‘Of course you’re getting checked over.’
They were still in the Hospital Universitario Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria when their parents arrived. Itch, Chloe and Lucy were standing waiting in the corridor when Nicholas and Jude, then Zoe, Jon and Nicola came tumbling out of the lift. In the sprint that followed, a bellowing Nicholas reached his children first, followed by Jon and Zoe who ran straight into the room to find Jack. Then came Nicola and Jude, both with tears already coursing down their cheeks. After a series of wordless embraces with their children, they all traipsed into Jack’s room.
It was a five-bed ward, but Jack was the only occupant; she was sitting up, beaming, and holding her parents’ hands. Around the room were assorted doctors, police officers and a thin, perfumed man who introduced himself as a representative of the British ambassador.
‘Callum Nave at your service. I can offer you the full support of Her Majesty’s Government.’ Itch and Chloe both suppressed a laugh, and Jack and Chloe were smirking. ‘I know you want to get home as soon as possible, but maybe I can act as your translator in the meantime . . .’ he said. ‘Once Miss Lofte here has been given the all clear, a local five-star hotel has offered to put you all up until your plane lands. And when you’re strong enough, a press conference would be a good idea . . .’ There were loud protests from everyone at that, and the embassy man held up his hands. ‘They are outside already! Give them the story, and then ask them to leave you alone . . . It usually works . . .’
Lucy hooked her arm through Itch’s and whispered in his ear, ‘The adults are deferring to us, Itch. It’s our call . . . But we have a few things to say about the divers, don’t we? You say it worked before.’
Itch and Lucy sat opposite Jack and he waved Chloe closer.
‘Lucy suggests we tell everyone the truth about the divers,’ he said. ‘If you’re strong enough, Jack . . .’
There was a second’s hesitation, then she nodded. ‘Of course. If you guys do most of the talking . . .’
Callum Nave rubbed his hands together. ‘Lovely! Super! I’ll set it up . . . Erm, just one thing . . .’ He looked around, then approached Itch, suddenly speaking quietly. ‘Her Majesty’s Government’s position is that you discovered some plutonium, er . . .’ He consulted an email on his phone. ‘Some plutonium 238, but that no one knew how it came to be in Cornwall. How does that sound?’
‘Honestly?’ said Itch. ‘It sounds ridiculous. Plutonium 238 is used as a thermoelectric generator on space missions. But the truth sounds ridiculous too – so why not, if it keeps everyone happy.’
Nave rubbed his hands together even more vigorously. ‘It certainly will. Excellent!’ He almost bowed before leaving.
‘What a clown,’ said Itch.
It turned out that there were two press conferences. At Itch’s suggestion, the police and parents did one and they did another.
‘No mayors, no officials. We learned that last time. Just us,’ he said.
Waiting in the hotel lounge for their turn, the four of them watched as their parents talked about the ordeal of the last few days. Television got the pictures they wanted – there were tears from everyone – and radio got the quote they wanted: Nicholas’s ‘We think our kids are the most extraordinary and brave people we have ever met, never mind that they’re family,’ made it into all the news bulletins.
The police answers were all in Spanish, apart from one to a British reporter. ‘Yes – thanks to these children, our currency is safe now. You British should be proud, you have saved the euro!’ Everyone laughed at that. Two further answers from the chief policeman included the word plutonio, and Itch realized that they had all been fed the same story.
But it was Itch, Jack, Chloe and Lucy that everyone was waiting for, and when they climbed onto the makeshift platform, everyone applauded. They shuffled to their seats, embarrassed, stealing brief glances at the throng of journalists.
Jack did, after all, have to answer questions: ‘Yes, apparently my heart stopped. I don’t remember much, I’m afraid.’
Chloe had the hall captivated with her story of how they had left the element-based clue in the car after their kidnap. ‘If anyone understood what it meant, I knew it would be my brother!’
Lucy was asked about the news that Flowerdew had been captured alive and was awaiting extradition in a Moroccan prison. ‘I hope he rots in the darkest cell. Lock him up for a hundred years.’
A British journalist shouted, ‘Are you Itch’s girlfriend, then?’ Lucy flushed a deep scarlet, smiled awkwardly but said nothing. A murmur of disappointment ran round the room.
Itch received the most questions, but he waited his moment and picked his man. When he saw a familiar well-coiffed figure raise his hand, he stood up. A volley of camera flashes hit him as he pointed at the journalist.
‘You!’ he said. ‘You’re the reporter I shouted at on the bridge!’
The man with the waxed hair nodded and smiled enthusiastically.
‘Right then, this is for you . . .’ Itch aimed all his comments straight down the man’s camera lens. ‘We wouldn’t be here, and we wouldn’t have stopped Flowerdew, if it hadn’t been for the divers. Aisha, Leila, Chika, Tobi, Dada and Sade . . .’ He laughed. ‘I don’t even know their surnames. I’ve said before that they didn’t kill the Greencorps bosses, and now you know that they saved our lives. Flowerdew is in prison because of them. All charges against them should be dropped. As soon as that happens, they’ll come and talk to you. But don’t annoy them – they don’t like that.’ Itch smiled and shrugged to show he was joking. ‘Oh well, that’s it.’
He turned to leave the stage, the others rising to their feet, when one more question was shouted from the back.
‘Might there be more of this plutonio somewhere?’
Itch heard the question well enough, but he just shrugged and followed the others off stage.
Jack took his arm. ‘That’s the question, isn’t it? That’s where we started, back in the library. Is there any more?’
‘No idea,’ said Itch. ‘Hope not. Who knows?’
‘Flowerdew was convinced there was.’
‘Flowerdew was mad,’ said Itch.
Back in Cornwall, there were more journalists, then more police visits. No detectives or sergeants this time – Itch lost track of which chief superintendent had apologized for
which error; he just wanted them all to go away. The CA principal, Dr Dart, had visited and offered a week’s extra recovery time before they were expected back. A handwritten letter from Colonel Fairnie had arrived, saying how relieved he was that they were all OK, and how it gave him no pleasure to have been right about Greencorps.
But the thought that stayed with Itch day and night was: Flowerdew was right. He may well have been mad, but he was surely right about the 126. Somewhere, there would be more. With a start, Itch realized that this was clearly what Mr Watkins had been thinking too. If Flowerdew and Watkins had both come to the same conclusion, he had to take it seriously.
He recalled Flowerdew’s admission that the whole Meyn Mamvro idea had been his (a source of some embarrassment now amongst those who had claimed it as a revolutionary motto). His theory – that if the rocks of 126 had been discovered before, they may well have been considered ‘magic’ and buried somewhere significant – seemed plausible to Itch.
On his laptop he returned to the photos of the Hurler stones, the damage at St Michael’s Mount and the vandalized carns. Nothing found there, then. The next image was a still from the video they had taken in the churchyard, disturbing the Greencorps vandals. He shuddered, remembering how stupid he’d been, and Jack’s anger. Taking a deep breath, he pressed PLAY.
What was I doing? he thought as he watched the surprised, then frightened, men drop the spray cans and run for their van. He was about to press STOP when he noticed the stone they had been digging around – an old ‘magic’ logan stone, according to the vicar. It had been turned over and was now propped up against a tree. Itch zoomed in on the damage, then peered at the inscription. He read it aloud twice, took a screenshot and emailed it to himself, then bolted for the door.
Itch ran for the library. He had pulled a cap low over his eyes in an attempt to avoid the stares and comments, but to no avail. Even though he was sprinting along the cliff path, he was still the most famous boy in the country, and he met with countless greetings and requests for photos.
He welcomed the peace of the library; he nodded breathlessly at Morgan the librarian as he walked past her desk and headed again for the local history section. He found Mining Tales and slumped at a table. He flicked through the pages at speed, finding the pages with Mr Watkins’s annotations. The sight of the familiar handwriting brought sudden tears to his eyes; he blinked quickly and reached for his phone. He noticed he’d missed a few calls, but texted Jack, Chloe and Lucy: