by Simon Mayo
At first pupils had reacted with a mixture of excitement, fear, and curiosity. They had been warned about posting anything to do with Itch on Facebook or Twitter, and the threat of “dire consequences” had been enough to scare most of them into silence. They had also been told not to speak to the “special policemen,” as Dr. Felicity Dart, the principal, had called them. But the agents had begun to give an occasional word of greeting or thanks to the students, and the tense atmosphere of the first few days had relaxed somewhat.
The morning arrival of the Loftes and their security detail was, however, still a novelty. Moz and Tina led the way into the building. Faculty and students scattered in all directions. With brisk efficiency, the team made its way through the corridors to Itch and Jack’s homeroom. Moz entered first, and the buzz and chatter died away instantly.
A quick visual sweep of the room was followed by an examination of the storage closet. As Itch and Jack’s homeroom teacher, John Watkins, was the academy’s head of geography and geology, his closet contained nothing more threatening than a selection of weather instruments, maps, and tea bags. Satisfied that the room was secure, Moz beckoned the Loftes inside.
They went into the recently hushed classroom while Moz took up position by the door. He would stay there while Mr. Watkins took attendance, and then follow Itch and Jack as they moved around the school. Assembly, gym, math—whatever it was, they were watched. If the cousins were apart, Jack’s bodyguard Rachel would appear and continue her surveillance. The remaining team members roamed the school grounds.
The academy had been built on cliffs above the Atlantic, with the science labs backing onto the footpath that marked the school boundary. The coastal walk was spectacular—popular with hikers and a distraction for pupils. Dr. Dart had had a six-foot fence erected to run the length of the academy’s grounds; this was now patroled hourly.
“Good morning, boys!” bellowed John Watkins as he arrived in his classroom; he didn’t really mean to ignore the girls—it was just what he always said, and everyone had given up correcting him. “My, how lovely and quiet you all are!” He took attendance at top speed, as he always did, aiming to get through it in under thirty-five seconds, which was his record. “Right, a busy day ahead. Mr. Logan is ill, I’m afraid, so no math from him in third period. I will nurse you through, however.” He beamed.
“But, sir, you hate math!” shouted Ian Steele.
“And you told us you’re terrible at it too!” said Sam Jennings.
“Indeed! So I did. We can all pool our ignorance then. Class dismissed! Itch—a word, if I may.”
As the class got up to leave, Itch shuffled to the front. “Yes, sir? If it’s about the flour mill explosion project, it’s nearly finished. I’m just drawing the spark from the conveyer belt that lights the dust….”
Watkins laughed. “No, no, it’s not that. I was just wondering if everything was all right, Itch. How are you taking to your, er, new friends?”
“Fine, I guess,” he replied.
“Really?”
“Well. Given that terrorists and criminals from around the world supposedly want to kidnap me, I’d rather Colonel Fairnie and company were here, yes. Life at home isn’t much fun, and making friends isn’t easy, but if the pieces of 126 are to stay”—he thought carefully about his next words—“out of sight … then I don’t really have any choice.”
Itch had disposed of the eight rocks down the Woodingdean Well near Brighton, and now his old backpack, with its extremely radioactive contents, lay 1,285 feet below ground and under 885 feet of water.
“No, I suppose you don’t,” said Watkins. “And so neither do we.”
“And I still don’t know who pulled me out of the well. Which is kind of important really …”
“Of course. Yes.” Watkins gathered his papers together. “How are you getting on with Mr. Hampton?”
Over the summer, an American named Henry Hampton had been appointed head of the science department, replacing the disgraced Nathaniel Flowerdew.
“Fine,” said Itch. “Only had a couple of lessons with him, but at least he doesn’t appear to hate us. So that’s an improvement.”
Watkins laughed uneasily. Dr. Nathaniel Flowerdew had made no secret of his dislike of his pupils. “Fair point, Itch, fair point. Anyway, this science club is his idea, and I think he’s hoping you’ll attend. Only a few keen souls made it last week. He asked me to remind you.”
“How does he know I like science? I deliberately didn’t answer any questions in class and I haven’t handed any homework in yet.”
“Oh well, teachers talk, you know. And you are, by some distance, the most talked-about pupil right now.”
Itch shrugged. “Well, it sounds OK, I suppose. I’ll give it a go—he’s guaranteed to have one of my armed friends along too, isn’t he? Two for the price of one! Tell Mr. Hampton I’ll be there.”
“Right-o, good lad. Run along then, or you’ll miss Mr. Littlewood’s excellent lecture on Weimar Germany.”
Itch hoisted his new backpack onto his shoulder. Its 118 pockets had been a Fairnie joke. The colonel had taken a standard model and had asked one of his team members to sew on an extra 109 compartments, one for each element of the Periodic Table, and label them accordingly. H1 was for hydrogen, He2 for helium, and Li3 for lithium—they were the first pockets on the outside of the backpack—running to As33, which was arsenic. Inside, around the circumference of the bag and across its partition ran pockets Se34 to Uuo118. As everything above element 92 was unstable, the last twenty-six pockets were just for show, but the end result was a backpack with many hiding places. There were zippers, snaps, Velcro, and webbing all over the sturdy nylon fabric.
As Itch left his homeroom, he found Jack waiting for him outside; Moz was at the end of the corridor, ready to escort them both to history. As they approached, he turned and began climbing the stairs.
“Everything OK? What did Watkins want?” asked Jack.
“Just making sure I go to the science club thing at lunch. Want to come?”
Jack laughed. “Not likely! I’ve had enough science to last me a lifetime, thank you very much. You and radiation were made for each other. I’m even avoiding the microwave if I can help it.”
Itch was laughing when he heard steps behind him. Before he could turn around, he recognized the familiar leering voice of James Potts.
“Well, well, it’s the weirdo cousins again,” he said. The horselike laugh of Darcy Campbell indicated that Potts had brought his favorite stooge with him. Potts leaned close to Itch’s ear. “You think you’re so special, don’t you? Everyone says you’re some kind of secret agent, but I know you’re nothing, Lofte. Apart from a freak, that is. The radiation’s made you grow even taller than you already were.”
Itch slowly turned to face him. “Leave me alone, Potts.”
The bully’s grin widened. “Or what?” he replied, prodding Itch in the chest with his history folder.
That was a mistake. In a flash, Moz had jumped down eight steps. While the abuse stayed verbal, he had been prepared to let it go. But with the use of force, he went into action and landed, perfectly balanced, right next to Potts and Campbell. The transformation was startling—even for Itch, who knew Moz’s background in the Royal Marines. He had appeared relaxed—sloppy even—in his jeans, sweatshirt, and boots. Now, as he grabbed hold of Potts with one hand and Campbell with the other, he was every inch the trained soldier. He pulled their faces toward his; so close there was no way they could miss the winged tattoo showing above his collar.
“Was there something you wanted to say to Mr. Lofte?” he said quietly.
The ensnared students looked absolutely terrified. Campbell just whimpered and shook her head; Potts managed a “N-no—it’s nothing,” and went limp.
Moz slowly released them. “I really, really wouldn’t try that again. And you can tell your nasty little friends—in case they’re so dense they hadn’t realized—that we are here to protect Mr. Lo
fte. We are authorized to use force against anyone who threatens him. Anyone. I hope that’s clear. Now, off you go….”
Potts and Campbell took off up the stairs without looking back.
“Wow,” said Jack, “that was cool! But how does Potts know about the radiation? That’s all supposed to be secret, isn’t it?”
“My bone marrow transplant seems to be known about, somehow,” said Itch, “and the rest must be guesswork. With you and Chloe getting treated too, that’s a lot of people to keep quiet.”
“Presumably those two are some of the kids you told us about?” Moz nodded in the direction of the departing Potts and Campbell.
Itch sighed. “Yeah. Thought it might ease off this term, but maybe I was wrong.”
Moz grinned. “Well, the message will get around. They’ll leave you alone now. I can’t abide bullying. Saw enough of it in the army. Come on—let’s get you to history class.”
At lunchtime Itch made his way to the chemistry lab. A gang of sixth graders flattened themselves against the wall as he walked past; some girls from the seventh grade took one look at him and made a U-turn, disappearing into the nearest classroom. Head down, Itch tried to ignore them all.
As he entered the lab, he was still half expecting to see Dr. Flowerdew behind the long wooden bench at the front of the room. But instead of the curly white hair, athletic build, and permanent scowl of his former teacher, Itch was greeted by the genial smile of the short-haired Henry Hampton—the new head of the science department.
“Hi there!” Hampton’s American accent echoed loud and clear through the lab. “Itch, you’re very welcome. Do come in. Does your friend want to join us too?” He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and gestured at the huge figure of Moz, who had taken up his post by the door.
“No, he’ll be fine outside,” said Itch.
Hampton looked disappointed but smiled a welcome anyway. “Well, come in, come in! So glad you’re joining us.”
Itch looked around. He counted twelve others, most of whom he didn’t know. The only other boy from his class was Craig Murray, who had famously vomited on Flowerdew after Itch had accidentally poisoned his class with arsenic. There was Lucy Cavendish from the tenth grade, who had always been friendly to him and who was the last student to talk to him before he was kidnapped by Flowerdew. There were a couple of boys he thought he recognized from Chloe’s class and a lot of people he was sure he’d never seen before—some seniors, he guessed.
“I was just suggesting a few things for us to look at over spring break,” continued Hampton. “What do you think?” He stood by the whiteboard, marker in hand. “Did you know that the smallest motor in the world is just six atoms long? How about that! So I thought we could do some nano-technology.” He wrote nanotechnology on the board. “There’s a lot of interest in rare earth mining at the moment. I can tell you all about my time at the Mountain Pass mine in California….” Rare earths appeared on the board. “And what else, guys? Any suggestions?” He waved his arms expansively, as though addressing five hundred students, not twelve.
There was a brief, embarrassing silence before one of the sixth graders, a round boy with equally round glasses, said, “Sir, Henderson was wondering if we could we look at the effects of methane in a small room….” He dissolved into giggles.
Itch rolled his eyes. This is going to be a waste of time, he thought.
“Hilarious, Cox!” said Hampton. “We can, of course, study methane. It is a fascinating gas but, you should know, odorless. I imagine you are talking about breaking wind, yes?” More giggles and nodding from the sixth graders. “A whole lunchtime to play, and you want to talk flatulence. My, my. Well, if you really want to know, the gas you are talking about is mainly nitrogen and hydrogen, with smaller amounts of carbon dioxide and, yes, methane. It is called flatus. If you wish to learn more, may I suggest you continue on your own time and at home … ?” The other pupils laughed. “Now, who else has something for us?”
He glanced around, and one of the older girls—a slight Asian girl who looked old enough to be a senior—put her hand up. Her hair was cropped short, and Itch noticed three empty piercings in each ear. Cool, he thought.
“Yes, Mary,” said Hampton. “What do you have for us?”
The girl leaned forward and smiled. “My dad works in the petrochemicals industry and he’s always bringing home interesting stuff. He just came back with a big glass tube that has some shiny, silvery metal in it. It’s solid most of the time, but when it’s hot it turns liquid. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind—”
“Sir, that’s cesium!” shouted Itch, suddenly paying attention. “That’s amazing! Where did he get it?” Itch asked, turning to Mary.
“No idea,” said Mary, “but it’s got CCCP stamped on it.”
Henry Hampton looked impressed. “That’s interesting, Mary. That’ll be cesium from the old Soviet Union, by the sound of it. CCCP is Russian for USSR, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The Soviet Union fell apart at the end of the 1980s, but some samples of their extraordinary array of chemicals do turn up from time to time. I do hope your father has kept it safe. Cesium is fantastically reactive. It’ll explode if it gets wet. In fact, it’ll burst into flames if any air gets to it at all.”
“Well, the glass is pretty thick,” said Mary. “So as long as no one drops it, I’m sure I could bring it in. I’ve got a photo somewhere …” She scrolled through some pictures on her phone. “Here we are….” She held up a photo of what looked like a glass torpedo, about three feet long, with a white label and a red wax seal stamped on it.
Itch whistled his appreciation, and Hampton wrote Cesium, Cs, atomic number 55 on the board.
“I’ll need to speak to Dr. Dart about it,” he said. “I’m not too sure she’d want a highly explosive metal in her school.” He shot a glance at Itch. “I think she’s had her fill of, er, unnecessary chemistry. For quite a while.”
“But, sir, if Mary’s father says it’s OK—” Itch began.
“Oh, shut up, Itch,” said a scornful voice. Itch turned around, puzzled, and saw that it was Lucy Cavendish from the year above him. “It’s not that exciting.”
“Really? Cesium is cool! Don’t they use it in clocks, sir?”
Mr. Hampton nodded. “Yes, Itch, they do. Cesium fountain clocks are the most accurate in the world.”
“See?” Itch said to Lucy “I told you it was interesting.”
But Lucy had her arms folded and was staring at the floor. Itch thought he heard her say “loser.”
“Any other suggestions?” asked Hampton. He looked at Itch expectantly. Itch sighed. I thought this might happen. He was about to shake his head, keen to talk to Mary, when he remembered his work for Mr. Watkins.
“Could you do something on dust fires maybe? There’s a mill in Kentucky that blew up….”
“Oh sure,” said Hampton. “Those explosions are terrifying. We can do that. No one thinks of flour as an explosive, but dispersed as a fine powder, that’s exactly what it is. That’s how the Great Fire of London started. Good call, Itch.”
They spent the rest of the lunch break talking about the Higgs boson and the Large Hadron Collider, with Mr. Hampton showing them some photos he had taken while visiting the world’s largest particle physics lab in Geneva. When he had finished, Itch made a beeline for Mary. Although she was clearly older than Itch, she was several inches shorter. But then, most people were.
“That cesium sounds amazing,” he said. “Does your dad bring home other stuff like that?”
“Yeah, quite often.” She smiled. “How come you’re so interested?”
“Oh, I’m an element hunter. I collect—”
“Don’t tell me! The Periodic Table, right?” Itch looked astonished, and Mary laughed. “That’s what my dad calls himself. That’s why he brings all this stuff home. Our house is full of it.”
Itch didn’t know where to start. “Really? He’s an element hunter? You’re kidding, right? He’s got more of �
� ? Where did you say he … ? I’ve never—sorry, I’m not making any sense.”
Mary laughed. “That’s OK. I hope I’ll be able to bring some of it in. I’ll find something less scary that won’t give Mr. Hampton a fit.”
“I think it’s the principal who’s the problem, really,” said Itch. “We had a few … well, problems, last term.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“Are you new?” Itch realized he had no idea who he was speaking to.
“Yes. We just moved. My dad’s job means he has to travel, and we follow him around. He likes it that way.”
“Where were you before?”
“Stockholm. We loved it there, but Cornwall is so much warmer! We’ll be fine here as long as I pass all my final exams.”
“Are you a senior?” asked Itch.
“Yeah, the end of school is in sight!” She picked up her bag and was about to leave when she turned and said, “Did Mr. Hampton just call you Itch? Is that a nickname?”
She didn’t say it unpleasantly, but Itch still flushed with embarrassment and shrugged. “No. It’s just a name. What’s yours, anyway?”
“Mary Lee.”
“OK. Bye, Mary Lee. Tell your dad there’s an element hunter at school.”
Mary laughed. “OK, I will. And I’ll try and bring something interesting for next time. Bye!”
Itch watched her go, his head buzzing.
“Found someone who’ll talk to you?” Itch turned to see Lucy Cavendish with her bag over her shoulder. It looked as though she had been waiting around to speak to him.
“Well, I—”
“Once she’s found out what you’re really like, she’ll join the rest of us.”
“What do you mean?” Itch was starting to turn red again, thoroughly confused by Lucy’s cruel tone of voice. What did I ever do to her? he wondered.
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “It’s only a matter of time before she finds you totally embarrassing. The biggest, stupidest jerk in the school. She’ll join us in hating you, Lofte.”
The “home run” was at 4:15. With the exception of those with after-school clubs, the students had all left by the time the Loftes gathered in the academy’s main lobby. Itch, Chloe, and Jack all had to leave at the same time.
