by Simon Mayo
Jack’s team of tenth graders had only played one match that term, a 3–0 defeat to Launceston College, so they were all eager to improve. Itch studied the eleventh graders, who looked so much bigger, and hoped it wasn’t going to be embarrassing. Lucy Cavendish was the only player he recognized on their team, and he remembered how mean she’d been the previous day. He was still puzzling it over when Craig Harris, the P.E. teacher, blew his whistle. A few shouts of encouragement came from the students spread thinly around the field. Itch noticed that Mary Lee had come out to watch, standing on her own behind the tenth grade team’s goal.
Both sides were in the academy colors of black and white, with the tenth graders wearing diagonal yellow sashes to distinguish them. In the November gloom and mud, the match soon became a messy affair; Mr. Harris had to warn both teams about their tactics and language. Fiona Bones, the eleventh grade captain, had a nasty tangle with Darcy Campbell in the tenth graders’ goal and had to be held back by her teammates. Itch found himself hoping Bones would thump Campbell and get them both sent off; he guessed Jack was thinking the same.
The most combative player on the field was Lucy Cavendish. Playing in the eleventh graders’ midfield, she was at the heart of everything her team did. She was ferocious: on two occasions tenth grade players lost their grip on their sticks after a crunching Cavendish tackle. She yelled at her teammates and trashed her opponents. Itch tended to watch Jack more than the ball, so he spotted Lucy yelling quite a lot at her, particularly when Mr. Harris wasn’t watching.
Jack seemed to be ignoring Lucy—the usual Lofte response to verbal abuse from classmates, though they’d never had trouble with older students. As he watched, Lucy ran past Jack and let a trailing stick catch Jack’s shin. Jack cried out, and Lucy put her hands up in apology, but Itch was sure she’d done it on purpose.
The tenth graders thought so too. Debbie Rice, playing in their defense, pointed at Lucy. “Mr. Harris! Sir!” she called. “Cavendish fouled Jack! Watch her!”
Jack was rubbing her leg where the stick had broken her skin, but was playing on.
The eleventh graders had a short corner, and as the ball was played to Lucy, they rushed out to defend their goal. Lucy swung her stick at the ball, missed, but found the head of Izzy Batstone—a new tenth grade girl—instead. As the girl dropped to her knees, Natalie Hussain pushed Lucy and grabbed hold of her ponytail, but Fiona Bones, the eleventh grade captain, charged over and smacked Natalie in the face.
This was the cue for a fight that involved almost every player, apart from the eleventh grade goalie, who couldn’t get there in time. Jack had scratches on her face and was pushing an older girl away by the time Craig Harris finally got control. This was due in no small measure to agents Kirsten and Rachel jogging over “to see if they could help.”
With tempers calmed, Mr. Harris gave them all a final warning and allowed play to continue.
Itch hadn’t watched a hockey match for years—maybe ever—but he was surprised how violent it was. “You OK?” he called as Jack ran past.
She nodded quickly as she faced up to another attack. Being fast and tricky made her a useful player; being as tall as an eleventh grader made her invaluable. Itch still sometimes felt weak after his bone marrow transplant in the summer, but Jack appeared to be going at full steam again.
After fifteen minutes Darcy Campbell, in the tenth graders’ goal, kicked the ball clear, and Izzy Batstone flicked it through to Jack. Pushing the ball past a stocky eleventh grade girl sixty feet out, Jack had a clear sight of the goal, with only the goalie, Jackson Baker, to beat. As Baker came rushing out, Lucy Cavendish and another girl on her team closed in on Jack from behind, one on each side. Running without the ball, they were soon within tackling distance.
Itch heard Lucy shout, “She’s mine!” and as Jack ran wide to find an angle to shoot from, she barged into her. Losing her balance, Jack shortened her stride but found Lucy’s stick between her feet. Realizing she was falling, Jack dropped her stick to break her fall. As her hands hit the turf, one of Lucy Cavendish’s cleats stomped hard on her fingers. The crunch echoed around the field.
The players raced toward Jack, who was lying on her side, cradling a damaged right hand. Led by the huge padded figure of goalie Darcy Campbell, the tenth graders surrounded Lucy, and the slapping, hair-pulling, and scratching started up again. Mr. Harris waved his hands and blew his whistle, but it was Kirsten who restored order. She pulled a bloodied Lucy Cavendish out from under two tenth graders—her shirt ripped at the neck and her ear starting to swell.
“Go away. Now. And take your team with you,” Kirsten yelled at Lucy. No one argued, and Mr. Harris was grateful for her help.
The tenth graders then turned their attention to their stricken teammate. Jack was lying in the mud sobbing quietly when Itch got there, but Rachel, kneeling beside her, asked everyone to keep back. She was quickly joined by Kirsten.
“You need to show me the damage, Jack. Let’s see your hand.”
Jack shook her head, her eyes and mouth squeezed shut as she tried to block out the pain.
“OK. Hold still. Got some painkillers on the way.” Rachel took off her padded coat and draped it over Jack, who had started to shake from shock.
Itch noticed that Mr. Harris was jogging after the departing eleventh graders, and he ran to catch up. The P.E. teacher shouted, “Lucy, a word please.”
Flushed and bloody, Lucy Cavendish turned and trotted over to him, her hockey stick over her shoulder. “Sir?”
“Well, what do you think, Lucy? What happened there?”
“Just an accident, sir. She fell and I tried to avoid her, but we were running so fast, I couldn’t get out of the way in time and I stepped on her hand. Sorry, sir.”
“You may well be sorry, but that was the worst-tempered match I have ever seen, and you were part of the problem. I couldn’t see what was going on through the tangle of legs, but I’ll talk to Jack when she’s in less pain. You’d better go and clean up. Don’t go home until I’ve spoken to you.”
Lucy nodded, and had turned to go when Itch stepped in front of her.
“Excuse me,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I need to go and shower.” She managed a smile which succeeded in being sweet and dangerous in equal measure.
“But I saw you! I saw you.” Itch knew he was shouting, but he didn’t care; he was furious. “I saw you and I heard you. You said, ‘She’s mine,’ then pushed Jack over. And you could have avoided her hand; in fact, I think you stomped on her hand on purpose!”
Mr. Harris pushed him away. “Itch, leave it for now. We’ll sort this out in school once everyone has calmed down. Lucy, go and shower. Itch, walk away. We have to get Jack to the hospital, then we can deal with … all of this.”
Kirsten was coming toward them. “Jack is clearly suffering from shock as well as broken bones; Rachel has called an ambulance—she’ll go with her. My guess is three broken fingers, but we’ll find out soon enough. She’s asking for you, Itch, by the way.”
They both ran back to where Rachel crouched beside Jack. Most of the members of the tenth grade team were still standing around, incensed about what had happened to their teammate. Itch knelt down in the mud next to Jack, who managed a weak smile for her cousin.
“Hospital again?” Itch smiled.
“Looks like it,” she said hoarsely. “Did you hear the crack?”
Itch winced again. “Everyone did. You’ve got noisy bones. Can I see?”
Jack slowly raised her right hand, which she’d been cradling in her left. It looked as though Lucy’s cleats had crushed every finger—they looked like badly cooked sausages. She whispered something, but Itch didn’t catch it; he leaned in closer.
“She spoke to me, you know. After she stepped on my hand. Lucy. It must have looked like she was just seeing if I was all right, but you’ll never guess what she said.” Itch leaned in closer, and she clutched at his sleeve with her good hand. “She said, ‘You had that co
ming, bitch.’”
He recoiled and gasped at the same time.
“You all right?” asked Rachel.
“Er, yeah … sure.” Itch was reeling with shock. “You … are … kidding … me … right?” he whispered to Jack. It didn’t make sense. What had happened to turn Lucy against them? he wondered. “Why would she say that?” he whispered.
“No idea,” said Jack, closing her eyes.
She seemed to be shutting off the conversation, and Itch thought he’d better let the painkillers do their work before trying again. The sound of an ambulance siren suggested that the questions would have to be resumed in Stratton General Hospital.
Sam Singh and Tina Greaves were recovering well. Sam had burns to his face and neck, along with a concussion and bruised ribs. Tina had been hit by flying debris—splinters and nails had embedded themselves in her legs and torso. Both agents, eager not to be replaced, insisted that they were well enough to rejoin Fairnie’s team. The colonel had said he would talk to their doctors and see; but as it turned out, he had another patient to attend to.
Jack traveled in the ambulance with Rachel, while Moz, Chris, and Danny raced ahead in Moz’s Alfa Romeo. Itch followed in the van with Fairnie and Kirsten.
“Nothing like organizing a simple trip to the emergency room,” said Itch. He was getting used to the complicated arrangements that followed him everywhere, and after the attack on the golf course was glad they were in place. But he would have preferred to be in the ambulance with Jack. Her injuries were all Lucy’s fault, but Itch still felt responsible.
It was the rocks. It all came back to the rocks. The priceless element 126, lying at the bottom of the Woodingdean Well. He thought again of his old backpack, now under 1,285 feet of water, and smiled at the thought that it was his father who had found him. There were still so many questions he needed to ask as soon as everything calmed down.
The rolling gray clouds streamed inland from the Atlantic as Stratton General received its string of unusual visitors. Avoiding the main doors, Jack entered via the emergency entrance and from there went straight to X-ray. Afterward, she was shown to a private room. Kirsten was standing guard, and Itch was waiting for her.
They grinned at each other. “How’s the hand?” asked Itch.
“Dunno yet,” said Jack, holding her right arm, now sporting four finger splints and a fresh white sling. “But the guy taking the X-ray said ‘Ouch’ when he looked at my hand.”
They both sat on the bed. “I’ve been thinking, Jack. We should probably tell Fairnie what Lucy called you.”
“I was wondering about that,” said Jack, “but she’s hardly a terrorist or a criminal, is she? Just a horrible little creep.”
“Agreed. But she’s a horrible creep who set out to hurt you and chose the only place she could get near you. On the sports field. If she’d tried that in school, one of the agents would have been onto her in a flash.”
“But when did this all start, Itch?” asked Jack. “She was OK last year. Always smiled, said hello to me, that kind of thing.”
“Same here,” said Itch. “In fact, looking back, I think she was trying to be friends with us. I don’t pick up on that sometimes, I know, but in comparison with how she is now …”
The door opened and the small room quickly filled up with Fairnie, Jack’s father, Jon Lofte, and two doctors, one of whom removed X-rays from a brown envelope.
Jon—tall and stooped—embraced his daughter gently. “Let’s have a look at you, my girl! The colonel here says it’s broken fingers….”
“Well, the doctor here agrees.” The doctor with the X-rays shook Jack’s good hand. “I’m Dr. Haddington and this is Dr. Hepworth.” He held the film up to the window. “Three fingers broken, four breaks in total. You see, your index finger has two small fractures, just above and below the knuckle. We’ll give you a proper splint before you go, of course—Dr. Hepworth here will sort you out. Don’t think you’ll be writing much before Christmas, though. Any questions?”
“Yes. I have one,” said Jon Lofte. “How much pressure would be needed to do that amount of damage?”
“A lot,” said Dr. Hepworth. “I’m surprised it’s just a hockey boot that did this—must have landed with some force.” Everyone looked at Jack.
“Lucy’s got big legs, if that helps,” she said, and everyone laughed.
After the splint had been fixed, Jack was free to go. Her father had to return to work, so she opted to travel back with Itch in the van, as they had decided they wanted to tell Fairnie about Lucy. He and Kirsten listened intently as Jack described what had happened on the hockey field and what Lucy had whispered in her ear afterward.
Fairnie whistled.
“Wow,” said Kirsten. “She’s got issues.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what we think,” said Itch.
Kirsten was driving slowly along the twisty roads. “Why would you have had that coming? What did she mean?” She glanced at the cousins in her rearview mirror; they both shrugged.
“Haven’t a clue,” said Jack. “We’ve barely spoken to each other. But when we have, it’s been really friendly.”
Fairnie looked at Kirsten. “Maybe we should pay Miss Cavendish a visit. Find out what she has to say for herself …”
Kirsten nodded. “Good idea.”
“Really?” said Jack. “Is that necessary? We were just telling you ’cause you said you need to know this stuff. Didn’t realize you’d go to her house.”
The colonel turned around to face them. “Our job is to keep you safe until the threat to you has receded. If that threat is from men with guns and boats like yesterday, we’ll deal with it. If it’s from schoolgirls with hockey sticks who can’t keep their cool on the field, we’ll deal with that, too. Don’t worry. We’ll just … calm her down a little.”
Kirsten smiled.
The temporary move next door meant that Jude Lofte was no longer in charge of her own house. In fact, she wasn’t in charge of anything anymore, and she didn’t like it one bit. With the imminent return of Sam and Tina, the agents would be at full strength again and the Loftes could return to their respective houses. But this evening saw another crowded meal around the kitchen table, and yet more pizzas eaten out of cardboard boxes. Jude’s irritation was temporarily forgotten as she fussed over her wounded niece.
Jack explained what had happened again, leaving out Lucy’s final comment, and Jon described what the X-rays had shown.
“This family!” exclaimed Jude. “What has happened to us? It’s one thing after another.” She looked at Chloe’s bruised face and Jack’s splinted hand.
Please don’t say this is all my fault, thought Itch. It’s what I’m thinking anyway, but I don’t need you to say it.
Jude looked at him, but just smiled her tired smile.
I know what that means, but at least you kept it to yourself. Itch caught his uncle and aunt glancing surreptitiously at him.
“Well, I think this family is actually cool,” Chloe said. “People might think we’re weird, but I think they’re just boring.”
Jack high-fived her cousin with her good hand, and Nicholas and Jon Lofte led a small round of applause.
Itch nodded and smiled. “Thanks, Chloe.”
“Apparently we can start moving stuff back,” said Jude. “If we all grab a few things we’ll be ready when Sam and Tina return tomorrow.”
“Itch and I will do it,” said Nicholas, clearing away the pizza boxes.
Itch took his cue. “Sure. You stay here, Mum, watch some TV. Do some work or something. Dad and I can take care of it—there isn’t much, anyway.”
“OK,” said Jude suspiciously, “if you say so.”
She watched as Itch and Nicholas collected cases and bags of food. Watched over by Moz, they walked across the now-adjoining yards to their own back door. The lights had been left on and were shining out into the gloom. They quickly dropped the bags in their appropriate rooms, and Itch, back in his own room, starte
d to unpack some clothes and get a clean uniform from his dresser.
His father came in and sat on his bed. He sighed. “So where were we …?”
“I’ve spoken to Jack, Dad. She told me what happened. She said she followed me at the station and called Mr. Watkins when she realized I was going to Brighton.”
“Yes. I already knew you had stumbled onto something because Jacob had called me from the mining school. Told me—ha!—told me he’d take good care of you and the girls but to get to the labs in London because you’d brought in something very special. But then Watkins called me in a panic, so I went straight to Victoria Station instead and caught the next train to Brighton to find you. Watkins told me how to locate the Fitzherbert School, and I followed your tracks. You made quite a mess in there! There was blood and vomit everywhere—it led me to the woodshop and that extraordinary well.”
Itch shuddered as the memory of the aching, exhausting, desperate sickness returned.
“You OK?”
“Yeah, go on.”
“I could hear you down there, but it was impossible to see anything much. With my two flashlights I could just make you out—”
“Wait!” said Itch. “Five lights! I remember now! There were five lights at the top of the well and I’d only left three! I couldn’t really think straight though, and then … it all went black. Don’t remember anything more.”
“It was the most terrifying sound I’ve ever heard,” said Nicholas quietly, “and I’ve heard some bad ones on the rigs. It was a muffled shuddering to start with. Then the walls of the well started to move—actually move; I thought it was about to collapse in on you. I was panicking really, but there was
nothing I could do. I heard the water rush before I saw it—a gushing, sucking noise. As soon as I saw the water level started to rise, I knew it would reach you and … I have to say, Itch, I thought that … would be that, really.” He swallowed hard. “When the water had gone down, I saw that you’d been thrown back onto the ledge. I knew I had to go down there and get you out somehow.”
