by Simon Mayo
“Itch, don’t be mad! I thought … you were going to die, Itch. I really thought I’d never see you again.”
Itch’s head was spinning. “Wow. Wow,” he said softly, and looked at Jack. “You saved my life. You actually saved my life. I’d still be down that well if you hadn’t made that call.”
Jack smiled a wobbly smile. “Yes, I think so.”
They sat there for a moment, aware of the hum of adult conversation downstairs.
“Does Chloe know any of this?” asked Itch.
Jack shook her head.
Slowly and painfully, Itch told Jack the full story of how he had traveled to Brighton and got the element 126 rocks to the bottom of the Woodingdean Well.
Jack listened in silence with wide eyes and a hand over her mouth. “I think that’s the most amazing story I’ve ever heard,” she said quietly when he had finished. “I guessed it had been rough, but I never knew … I never realized….” Her voice trailed off, and neither of them said anything for several minutes.
Eventually Jack said quietly, “You know Cake would be proud, don’t you?”
Even in the darkness, she could see Itch’s eyes glisten as he thought of the man who had first found the rocks.
Then he smiled. “I hope so. He told me to get rid of them, and I did my best.”
“How deep was it?”
“1,285 feet.”
“What’s that in meters?”
“391.668,” said Itch, and Jack laughed.
“That’s a very Itchingham Lofte answer!”
“Well, it’s just the answer to the question,” replied Itch, “and I had a long time to work it out.”
“Is that it then?” asked Jack. “End of the story?”
“Doesn’t feel like it, does it?” said Itch. “And you realize you’re in danger now too, don’t you? And my dad. And Watkins,” he added.
Jack dropped her voice even further. “Only if anyone realizes that we know where the 126 is. But I’m glad of my protection all the same.”
“Watkins has nothing, though. Nobody’s watching him,” said Itch. “Maybe we should talk to him.”
The sound of a large car arriving interrupted their conversation.
“Fairnie’s back,” said Itch.
A few seconds later they heard him enter the kitchen, exchange a few words, and then bound up the stairs. A single knock on the door, and there he was, still grimy from the beach fight, his face smeared with grease, sand on his trousers and boots.
“Thought you’d still be up. I’ve spoken to your folks and your school principal. You need to sleep, but you’re going to school tomorrow. Same as usual. OK? Nothing changes.”
“Really?” said Jack. “I thought they’d want us out of there….”
“No,” said Fairnie. “The school just thinks it was a prank that went wrong. And I have given your parents certain assurances.” He wiped his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. “We are tightening our security. And they are fine with that.”
And before they could ask about Sam and Tina, he was gone.
Want some company?” Alejandro, the sometime–oil rig barman approached his patient.
Eyes closed, his face blue and green with bruises, Nathaniel Flowerdew barely moved his lips. “Do I look like I want company?” His voice was weak and he coughed, wincing at the effort.
“No.” The Argentinean smiled. “Doesn’t mean you’re not getting it though.” He pulled up a chair, placing fresh water on the bedside table. “I suppose the thanks-for-saving-my-life stuff can wait.”
“Fair enough,” said Flowerdew. “Thanks for saving my life. Where am I? I’m afraid to open my eyes in case I’m still on the rig with that lunatic woman.”
“You’re on the north coast of the Malvinas—or the Falkland Islands, if you prefer. Little place called Green Cove. You’re safe.”
“Safe from whom?”
Alejandro laughed. “It’s remote here. So, safe from the British. Safe from Greencorps. Safe from everything except the Rockhopper penguins.”
Flowerdew managed to open one eye a fraction of an inch. “But you’re just a barman.”
That laugh again. “Yes! The barman who saw you being thrown off the rig; the barman who got the helicopter crew to pull you out and transfer you to Port Stanley; the barman who made you disappear under the noses of your bosses. And the barman who figures you’re the scientist who had some rocks to sell.”
Flowerdew was silent for a few moments. “It’s … Alejandro, isn’t it?”
“I’m flattered you remembered my name; that must have taken some effort.”
Flowerdew closed his eyes again. “I didn’t know the Spanish did sarcasm.”
“It’s Argentinean. I’m Argentinean and my name is Alejandro Loya. We hear enough sarcasmo from you Brits to get quite good at it ourselves.”
Flowerdew opened both eyes now and looked around. He was in a small, neat room with a wood-burning fire at one end and a curtained bay window filtering sunshine at the other. The room was sparsely furnished but it was clean. The smell of bacon wafted in from somewhere.
“OK, let me guess,” he said. “You have to be Secretaria de Intelligencia. Am I right?”
The Argentinean smiled.
“Well I never …” Flowerdew attempted to whistle but failed—his swollen lips just made a wet, blowing sound. “The notorious SI. The Argentinean secret service on an oil rig off the Falklands? What were you doing there?”
“What do you think?” said Loya, peering through the curtains. “We watch what is ours and what we want to be ours.”
“Don’t think you’re getting the oil. There was a war, remember?” Flowerdew shut his eyes again and tried to sip some water.
“I don’t need a history lesson,” said the Argentinean, “and I don’t mean the oil. I mean you.”
Flowerdew opened both eyes once more. “Well, well. Two surprises in one morning. So you saved me for a reason, not just because you felt sorry for me. I’m grateful, of course …”
The bedroom door opened, and a stocky, bearded man came in, balancing a tray laden with bacon sandwiches and a teapot and mug. “Good morning, Dr. Flowerdew. I am Peter Voss. I’ve got some food here, if you fancy something to eat.”
Loya produced another chair, and they both sat down facing Flowerdew.
The Englishman was frowning. “That’s a South African accent … Afrikaans. This is one strange international operation.”
“We work with many agencies and individuals around the world to get what we want,” said Loya.
“And what does Peter bring to the party?” said Flowerdew. “Apart from breakfast.”
“My history is in mining, Dr. Flowerdew, but I have learned many new skills that may assist us all.”
“So you’re not a South African agent?”
“I was once.”
“Thrown out?”
“We had our disagreements.”
“I’m sure you did. So, Alejandro, what is it you want? I’m listening.” Flowerdew leaned back on the pillows and removed the bacon from the sandwich, nibbling it carefully.
The Argentinean and the South African nodded at each other.
“We have admired your skills over many years, Dr. Flowerdew.” It was Loya who led the conversation. “You combine a flare for finding oil and other valuable deposits with a certain—shall we say—enthusiasm for results.”
“You mean ruthlessness. The word you’re looking for is ruthlessness.”
Both agents nodded. “Thank you for helping me with my English,” said Loya, straight-faced. “Ruthless is good—despiadado! We were planning an approach anyway, but when your former colleague kicked you off the rig, we had to move quickly. The chopper got you out fast, but I thought you would be dead.”
“I remember nothing after hitting the water,” said Flowerdew. “Did I sink?”
“You kicked around for long enough for the helicrew to reach you. We had you Med-evac’ed to Port Stanley, and then I ma
de the detour to this cottage owned by Peter here. It’s a safe house we’ve used before. It’s fine but limited. Greencorps will realize you’re not in the hospital and will come looking for you. The weekly flight to Santiago leaves in three hours; you need to be on it.”
“And in return?”
“I think you know what we want,” said Loya.
Flowerdew rubbed his white curls. “Ah—you’ve heard about the 126, I assume.”
Voss smiled. “We have a client who is very interested in acquiring it.”
“So I get to Chile … then what?”
“You wait,” said Voss. “Then we put you on a flight to London. A passport will be with you shortly.”
“And then? Once I’ve done all this waiting?” Flowerdew sounded impatient already.
Alejandro Loya leaned in close. “You get the rocks for us.”
Flowerdew sipped some more water. “But I don’t know where they are.”
“We’ll help you find them.”
“My delightful ex-colleague Shivvi Tan Fook—the woman who pushed me into the sea—is already on the case. I told her about the 126.”
Loya and Voss exchanged glances.
“Then we need to be fast,” said the South African.
Flowerdew, his voice steady, said, “OK. What’s the deal?”
“You’ll get a generous percentage of what we make,” said Loya.
“Define generous.”
“Twenty percent. And you’re hardly in a position to negotiate.”
Flowerdew looked in pain again and closed his eyes. Then he nodded.
The Argentinean stood up. “Good. Let’s get you out of here.”
Whatever Fairnie had said, the school run was different now. At Jude Lofte’s insistence, Itch, Chloe, and Jack all went to school in the security van with Danny and Chris, and Colonel Fairnie went with them. There was silence as they left the house—none of the usual joking around.
They drove past the golf course, the sites of the twin explosions marked by deep holes in the ground and police tape cordoning off the area. Sand and charred logs were scattered across the lower part of the course. In the light of day, the wreckage was all the more stark and shocking. Small groups of onlookers stood around; they looked up as the van passed by.
“Loads of people heard the explosions,” Jack said, peering out of the tinted rear window. “Natalie, Sam, Jay, and Matt have all changed their Facebook status to things like The golf course exploded! and Whoa! Who’s attacking us now? Then there’s loads of comments; some people said they went down last night to see what had happened.”
Fairnie swiveled around. “What else was posted? Anyone hear the shooting on the beach?”
“Yeah, a few,” Jack replied. “Did anyone hear the gunfire? What was happening on the beach? That kind of thing.”
Fairnie swore quietly.
“What are the chances that this will be picked up by the local news? Or in the paper?” asked Itch.
“Now that it’s on Facebook, I would say every chance. They’ve been cooperative so far, but nothing has been this public until now.”
“What do you mean, they’ve been cooperative? Do they know about me?”
Colonel Fairnie ignored Itch’s question. “The police are saying it was just a bonfire that got out of control, and that should keep it quiet for a while. But if evidence of the gunfight gets out, that might be … a problem. Fireworks will take the blame for most of it, so let’s hope that’s good enough.”
He looked at Itch in the mirror. “Where did you say you’d hidden the rocks?” He smiled, and Itch managed a laugh. This had been their joke back in the military hospital in the summer, when everybody had been trying to tease the location out of Itch.
Itch and Jack avoided each other’s gaze.
The van swung into the academy parking lot, where Kirsten, Moz, and Rachel were waiting for them.
“Feels like we’re arriving at a movie premiere,” said Chloe.
In the mêlée of the reception area, a familiar face caught Itch’s attention.
“Hi, Itch.” It was Mary Lee, the new girl he had met in the science club. “Did you hear the explosions last night? Isn’t the golf course near you? Are you OK?”
“Oh, thanks,” said Itch, blushing already. Chloe and Jack moved away a little, grinning at each other. “Yeah, I’m fine. We were at home; I think it was some fireworks that went wrong or something.”
“So it wasn’t that eleventh grade girl trying to blow you up?” Mary smiled.
“Oh—Lucy, you mean?” said Itch. “No, she’s just mad at me for some reason. What’s that … ?” His raging embarrassment was overcome by curiosity. Mary held a small cardboard box in her hand.
“Oh, well, I guess the cesium really is too dangerous for school, so I brought this in instead.” She held out the box, but before Itch could take it, Moz was beside him.
“Can I see that, please?” He grabbed it, and Mary looked irritated.
“It’s perfectly safe, you know.”
“So you say,” replied Moz. “What is it?”
“Show him; he’ll know.” Mary pointed at Itch.
Moz removed the lid and looked at the large crystal sitting inside on some cotton. He showed it to Itch, who grinned.
“Wow, it’s beautiful,” he said, reaching forward to pick it up. He held it to the light. It was about one inch square and seemed to be made up of thin layers of metallic pinks, blues, and yellows. Its neat square edges made it look like a missing piece of a futuristic building kit.
“Safe?” asked Moz.
“Pretty much,” said Itch. “It used to be the last of the stable elements.”
“What is it now, then?”
Itch smiled. “It’s fine, Moz. Really.”
Mary clapped her hands. “Told you! You got it!” She smiled at Moz. “You haven’t a clue though, have you? Tell him, Itch.”
Itch glanced at Mary, uncomfortable with her treatment of Moz. “It’s bismuth,” he said. “Number 83 on the Periodic Table. If she’d brought in the next one along, Moz, then you’d have had a problem.” Moz raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Polonium. Ten one-billionths of a gram could kill you. But this is fine. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s quite pretty if you like that kind of thing, I suppose,” he agreed. “Now, can we move along? You have class, I think….”
Itch put the crystal in the box and handed it back to Mary.
“No, you keep it for a bit.” She pushed it back at Itch. “My dad won’t miss it. He’s off traveling again anyway. See you around, Itch!” And she turned and jogged away down the corridor.
Itch watched her go.
“Stop staring,” said Moz quietly in his ear. “Let’s go.”
All morning, Itch kept looking at the crystal. He had seen pictures of bismuth, of course, but had never been tempted to buy any. He hadn’t realized how beautiful it was and wondered how much the crystal was worth.
“Does it have I Love You inscribed on it?” asked Jack at the start of computer science class.
Itch punched her lightly on the arm. “Oh, ha ha, Jack. You are so funny. It’s just a crystal….”
“From her dad’s collection!” laughed Jack. “And you only met her yesterday.”
“Jack, she’s a senior. It’s definitely not me she’s interested in. Use your head.” He put the crystal back in its box. “It’s just that there aren’t exactly many element hunters around, so when you find one—even the daughter of one—you have stuff to talk about. That’s all.” He felt himself start to blush again and pushed the box deep into his backpack.
Jack leaned over again. “Anyway, if you can tear yourself away from your new rock friend, don’t forget my hockey match at lunchtime,” she whispered. “Bit of support would be nice…. It might be quite a tough one.”
“Sure,” said Itch. “I’ll be there. And I’ll flash my bismuth crystal to blind the opposition if they dare to score.”
The explosions on the
golf course were the only topic of conversation at school that morning. Itch heard a number of theories, including a car running into the bonfire, a hidden cache of fireworks going off, and—from an excited seventh grade boy—a terrorist rocket attack. Although no one seemed to have been an eyewitness, most assumed that it was something to do with Itch. After the lectures from the MI5 agents about the dangers of online discussions about him, this wasn’t surprising.
Potts and Campbell were keeping well away after the previous day’s run-in with Moz, but on the way out to the playing fields at lunchtime, huddled against a fine drizzle blowing in off the Atlantic, Itch had more than Moz for company.
“Was that you on the golf course yesterday?” asked Tim Abbott. “Did you blow up the bonfire? Bet it was you! That’s so cool!”
“I think it was your bodyguards,” said Craig Murray, pointing at Kirsten, who was, as ever, thirty feet in front of Moz. “They probably saw someone hiding in the woodpile and just took him out.”
“Maybe the whole golf course is covered in land mines. Under every bunker and green.” This was Matt Colston’s theory. “Whaddya think, Itch? They know you walk across the golf course, and eventually you’ll step on one, and … boom!”
Everyone laughed, including Itch.
“Yeah, thanks, Matt. But no, I was at home. As were my bodyguards.”
“Then why was the ambulance called?” asked Tim. “I heard some of your guys got taken out. Is that right?”
“I … I don’t know actually,” replied Itch.
As they approached the hockey field, Itch saw Chloe coming over; she too appeared to have a gang of followers firing questions at her. She waved at her brother and shrugged.
A decent crowd of around thirty students had come out for the match—a practice match: sophomores versus juniors. Both teams had important games coming up, and this was the warm-up—a tryout too for some new hopefuls. There was scattered applause as the two teams ran out onto the field. Rachel Taylor was, as usual, just behind Jack, looking like she was about to referee the match. The players warmed up, flicking hockey balls at each other and hitting shots goalward; the well-padded goalies threw themselves about theatrically.
