by Simon Mayo
“Wasn’t I pretty radioactive by then?” asked Itch.
“No, you weren’t. You’d been exposed to acute external radiation, which made you so sick—Jacob had told me how toxic that 126 was—but I had brought a radiation suit from the London labs anyway.”
“You pulled me out of the well wearing a radiation suit?” Itch was astounded.
“Had to leave the helmet behind—but yes; I didn’t know where all the rocks had ended up. And you weren’t taking questions. Luckily, you’re skinny—I carried you out over my shoulder, no problem.”
“I’m amazed those rungs held.”
“Some of them didn’t,” said Nicholas, “but enough did.” He smiled. “You did an astonishing thing, you know, Itch. Truly astonishing. Stupid too, but most riggers I know would not have had the guts …”
“Do you understand why, Dad?”
“Why you did it? I think so. The rocks aren’t safe—too dangerous to be trusted to anyone. Something like that?”
“They killed Cake. He didn’t realize the power in those rocks until it was too late.”
“That mineral seller? Really? My God, I didn’t know,” said Nicholas. “No wonder you ran. I didn’t know …”
“He was dead, Dad. And he left me a note saying I had to get rid of them. So I did. Don’t know what happened to him. I went back to the spoil heap out at St. Haven, and his camping trailer was gone. There was no sign he’d ever been there.”
There was a silence in the house. Father and son sat staring at Itch’s poster of the Periodic Table. Nicholas stood up and, taking a pen from Itch’s bedside table, added 126 under the middle column.
“Nice one,” said Itch.
Back at the house next door, he started to gather his things for school the next day. He was filling Jack in on the conversation with his father when his hands closed around the box holding the bismuth crystal.
“You should give that back,” said Jack, “or Mary might think you’re keeping it. To remind you of her.” She laughed, and Itch blushed.
“Shut up, Jack. I will give it back, of course. You know she’s got some old Russian cesium which is seriously rare and—”
“Boring.”
“Actually, it’s anything but boring.”
“Boring. Stop now,” said Jack, smiling. “Really. If you want to see her dad’s collection, get Fairnie to arrange it. Then you can bore each other for as long as you like.”
Fairnie took Kirsten with him to see Lucy Cavendish and her mother. Sam and Tina would rejoin the team the next day—the doctors had reluctantly given permission—but until then, Kirsten was a must-have. He had decided to let her take the lead in the questioning; she was less threatening and more approachable than he was. He had spoken to Dr. Dart, the principal of the Cornwall Academy, about Lucy. She had been shocked about the fight on the hockey field and had gasped when told of the language Lucy had used.
“She has been difficult this term, it is true,” she admitted, “but nothing like this has happened before, as far as I know.” Dr. Dart was unhappy to have the disciplinary measures taken out of her hands, but had been given no choice in the matter.
Fairnie and Kirsten took the steep and dark narrow road out of town that headed east and inland. On the outskirts of town, they found the small cul-de-sac of modern semi-detached houses they were looking for. A thickset woman in her mid-forties answered their knock.
Through the small crack allowed by the security chain, she peered at her visitors through black-rimmed glasses. “Not more missionaries! I told the last lot we were—”
Kirsten held up her ID. “I’m Kirsten Jones; this is Jim Fairnie. Mrs. Cavendish, we are government agents working at the Cornwall Academy. Can we speak to your daughter, please? It’s important or we wouldn’t trouble you tonight.”
“Are you police?”
“No, we are MI5 actually, but we are working with the local police. Can we—”
“MI5? What like in Spooks, you mean?” Lucy’s mother looked incredulous. “Here? Is this a joke? Are you students?” She glanced at Jim Fairnie, who smiled, and then nodded to herself. “No—too old.”
“Could we come in, Mrs. Cavendish? I’m sure we won’t take up much of your time. Please. We just need Lucy to clear up a few things.”
Mrs. Cavendish slid the chain off the door. The agents followed her into a cozy living room: the TV was on mute, and a steaming bowl of pasta sat on the table.
“Sorry to interrupt your meal, Mrs. Cavendish. Is Lucy in?” A thumping bass line from upstairs suggested the answer was yes.
“Just call me Nicola, please. And I’m not Mrs. That’s her noise upstairs. She in trouble?”
“Well, there was a fight at school today, during hockey actually. She might have told you about it …?”
Nicola Cavendish sat down at the table. “No. She said everything was ‘fine.’ Everything is always ‘fine,’ even when things are clearly not fine.” She ate a mouthful of spaghetti. “Actually, I’m not surprised to hear she’s been in a fight. She’s pretty angry most of the time these days. I get her meals and keep clear.” She looked up at Kirsten and Fairnie as though expecting a rebuke. When she didn’t get one, she continued eating.
Now Fairnie spoke. “Has she always been like this, Nicola? I mean, I know teenagers can be difficult, of course …”
“Been bad since the summer, really. A phase, I hope, but … she used to be so sweet and thoughtful. And affectionate! Now she barely says a civil word to me.” The thumping from the bedroom upstairs cranked up a few decibels.
Kirsten looked at the smiling school photos and mother-and-child shots from sunny beaches and campsites. “Excuse me for asking, but is there a father around at all …?”
“Ha! He didn’t hang around long. Took off soon after Lucy was born. I don’t think we were quite what he was hoping for.” Nicola cleared her plate away. “Shall I get her down? It might take some time, that’s all.”
She took the stairs two at a time, and Fairnie and Kirsten heard a loud knocking. The music stopped, and muffled voices went back and forth before Lucy emerged slowly, peering down the steps as she came. Fairnie stood up as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
Lucy spoke first. “It was an accident. Really it was.” She spoke fast and sounded scared. “I was running for the ball, but I just … got my feet wrong, that’s all. When she fell, I … I couldn’t help it. I knew she was badly hurt, but then they all went crazy and everyone was fighting.”
Kirsten nodded. “I know hockey can be vicious and these things happen. But according to Jack you said something to her afterward. While she was lying on the ground. Do you remember what that was, Lucy?”
Fairnie and Kirsten both noticed Lucy redden.
“No. I think I just asked her how she was. Or something like that.”
“So you didn’t use a particularly cruel and vicious word and tell her, You had that coming?”
Nicola gasped. “Lucy?”
Lucy’s face grew even redder, but she just shook her head.
Kirsten told Nicola what Jack had reported hearing and Lucy’s mother put her hand in front of her mouth. “You’d never say anything like that, would you, Lucy?” she said in a voice that suggested she thought otherwise.
“I told you what I said! What’s the point of asking if you don’t believe me!” Lucy turned and stormed off upstairs. Her bedroom door slammed, and the music started again.
The adults stood looking at each other, and then Fairnie went toward the stairs.
“Nicola, with your permission I’d like to have a final word with Lucy. Would you lead the way?”
Nicola Cavendish laughed. “A final word? Best of luck! I haven’t managed that for three years.” Without knocking, she went upstairs and pushed her daughter’s door open. “Be my guest …” And all three of them walked in.
Lucy was sprawled on her unmade bed, with an open laptop in front of her. The carpet was barely visible through piles of discarded clothes an
d shoes. The closet doors were ajar and a knocked-over chair lay under a desk that was covered in magazines, notebooks, and seven or eight tumblers of water, as well as soda cans and juice bottles. Flasks and jars of colored powder littered the shelves, and an overflowing wastepaper basket sat at the end of the bed. Nicola marched over to the speakers and pulled out the plug. Lucy opened her mouth to protest, but Fairnie got in first. He spoke quietly but firmly; he was clearly not expecting any interruption.
“Lucy, my team has a job to do. We are here to look after Itch and Jack. Certain threats have been made, which we take very seriously. So do the police. And the government. And the Prime Minister. So, when we hear of another threat, we have to investigate it. Even if it was on a sports field. Do you understand? I imagine that if anything like this were to happen again, someone somewhere might think the threats were connected. And want to make arrests.”
There were sharp intakes of breath from Lucy and her mother. Fairnie let the words hang for a few moments. “I hope that’s clear.” He glanced at Nicola, then back at Lucy. “Sorry for interrupting your evening. We’ll show ourselves out.”
Fairnie drove. “Well? What do you think?” he asked Kirsten.
“Guilty as charged, your honor. But we still don’t know why she said it,” she replied.
“Agreed, but she won’t be so foolish again.”
“That was a strange smell in her room, didn’t you think?” said Kirsten.
“I was trying not to pay too much attention to it,” said Fairnie, laughing.
“Didn’t it remind you of anything?” Kirsten was still serious.
“Teenage bedrooms the world over, maybe? What are you saying?”
“Oh, probably nothing. It was just … the smell—it reminded me of something, that’s all. Just can’t remember what. But it’ll come to me….”
Lucy Cavendish allowed herself three minutes for breakfast. Her alarm had given her longer, but she chose to spend more time under the covers instead. At the last moment, she rolled out of bed and into the shower. Retrieving a school uniform from under one of the piles on the floor, she was washed, dressed, and at the kitchen table before her mother was up. She used to take the bus to the academy, but had missed it so often she now preferred to cycle.
From upstairs, her mother shouted, “Have a good day, darling,” which Lucy pretended not to hear—and then she was gone.
Retrieving her bike from the side of the house, she forced a helmet over her wild and wiry hair and slung her school bag over her shoulders. In moments, she was coasting down the hill and picking up speed—this was her favorite part of the journey. The hill was steep, and the high-hedged, twisty roads made the speed all the more exhilarating. Lucy rode standing on the pedals, her hands poised on both brakes, and she felt the cold and damp morning air on her face and legs. This was the way to wake up.
Blood pumping, she sped toward the T-junction at the bottom of the lane. Her routine was that if she could hear any other vehicle approaching, she would slow enough to gauge what it was and how fast it was moving. If there was silence, she would take the left turn as fast as she could, often sending up a spray of loose stones into the road with her rear wheel. From there, the main roads into town required a more cautious riding style.
As she stood higher on the pedals to listen for traffic, she caught the sound of another set of tires on the tarmac behind her. Craning her neck around, she was astonished to see another cyclist, crouched low and closing on her fast. Helmeted and wearing tinted goggles, whoever it was looked more like a downhill skier. Lucy found herself braking instinctively—she was unnerved and didn’t want a race. If this cyclist wanted to beat her to the junction, that was fine by her.
As Lucy slowed, so did the other cyclist. Lucy had just taken in her slim, black-Lycra-clad frame when she suddenly disappeared. Lucy wanted to turn around to find out what exactly this cyclist was doing, but the main road was approaching and she needed eyes front. She squeezed her brakes harder, and for a second they worked. Then she felt a jolt from behind, and her bike picked up speed again. Spinning around in her seat, she saw that the other cyclist’s front wheel was up against her own back wheel and her pursuer was pedaling hard; the result was that Lucy was now heading for the crossroads at an uncomfortably fast speed. Lucy turned her handlebars and drew away momentarily before she felt a hand grab her jacket, holding and pushing her. She was squeezing both brakes as hard as she could, but knew she couldn’t stop in time.
Screaming wildly, she was propelled across the junction. Two cars slowed and blew their horns. Lucy, realizing the hill was steeper here—both bikes were accelerating dangerously—took one hand off the handlebars to push her attacker away. But the Lycra cyclist had been expecting her move and instantly leaned back, leaving Lucy’s hand flapping uselessly in midair. Frantically steering around the twisty, potholed road, Lucy realized she was going to have to jump. She tried to stand up in the seat but felt herself held firmly. As she glanced over her shoulder, the rider smiled broadly and mouthed some words. Lucy barely had time to register what was happening before a Lycra-clad arm swung toward her. Lucy felt head-exploding pain as the palm of her attacker’s hand smashed the bones in her nose and she crashed to the ground, her bike sliding ahead of her down the hill. Lucy rolled across the tarmac and into a ditch, branches cutting through her clothes and into her face and legs. She lay motionless, blood pouring from her face onto the rotting leaves.
Itch and Jack were the last into homeroom that morning. After attendance, Jack nudged Itch.
“We really should talk to Mr. Watkins about getting security.” Itch looked up at their homeroom teacher, dressed today in a green shirt, yellow tie, and khaki chinos.
“You’re right. And dressed like that, if he’s a target, they’ll spot him from miles away. Let’s do it now.”
They both picked up their bags and hesitated by Watkins’s desk.
“Ah, Jack! Itch! How are things?” He beamed at them. He would never be so unprofessional as to have favorite students, but after he had signed the Official Secrets Act, forbidding him to talk about the radioactive 126, he always enjoyed catching a few private words with the Loftes. “What did you make of your mega-cities lesson yesterday? Not sure everyone was quite, er, fully participating. Young Darcy was asleep until I asked her to point out Singapore on a map. She pointed at Sydney, poor thing. Bit sleepy.”
“Bit stupid,” said Jack.
Mr. Watkins pretended not to hear Jack’s comment and started collecting his books together.
“I thought it was, er, fine, sir. Really,” said Itch. “But we wanted to talk to you about you.”
“Me? Nothing to discuss, really. What’s up?”
Itch and Jack both glanced at the door, where Moz was waiting.
“You need someone like that,” said Itch, pointing at him.
“What? Really …? I mean …” Watkins colored slightly, but Jack clarified matters.
“You need some security, sir,” she said softly. “Itch knows I called you from Victoria Station.” Itch nodded.
“Ah, I see. Well, I’m quite happy as I am, thank you. No one knows what I know, and I like my freedom to come and go, you see.”
“But, sir, you’re the only one who’s on his own. If Colonel Fairnie realized what you know—”
“Yes, but he doesn’t, and you’re not going to tell him. I appreciate your concern—really I do—but I’ve seen how the team works and I don’t think I could bear it.”
Jack protested, “But, sir, it wouldn’t be like that—”
“My mind is made up, Jack. And it’s a no.” Watkins smiled. “But thank you again—and you’re late for Mr. Logan’s marvelous math lesson. Off you go.”
“Well, we tried,” said Itch as they rejoined the security operation that swept them along to math. Mr. Hampton’s science club meeting that lunchtime had fewer members than before. Itch counted nine in total before the head of the science department bustled in, calling out a cheery �
��Hi there, folks!” and sitting on the desk at the front. He smiled, removing his wire-rimmed glasses and cleaning them with a cloth.
“You’ll have noticed we have lost a few of our younger friends. I thought maybe they could have their own … club some other time.”
“No great loss,” muttered Craig Murray, who had been sitting next to Lofte-baiter James Potts when Itch arrived. Now that Itch had taken the seat on Craig’s other side, Potts got up and sat on his own. After his embarrassment at the hands of Moz Taylor, he wasn’t going to try anything bolder. He managed to pull a face at Itch, but then quickly shot a glance at the back-on-duty Tina Greaves. She was standing in the doorway, watching the lunch-time hall activities and didn’t notice.
“Ah, Mary, welcome!” called Mr. Hampton as Mary Lee jogged in, taking the seat right behind Itch. Itch faced the front and tried to listen to the science teacher but found it hard to concentrate.
“Is Lucy coming today? Anyone know?” asked Mr. Hampton.
“Not here today, sir,” called another eleventh grade girl.
Mary leaned in between Itch and Craig. “Got some stuff to show you!” she whispered. “Got five minutes after class?”
Itch nodded, blushed, and gave her a thumbs-up, all at the same time. Mr. Hampton was telling them about his time working at the Large Hadron Collider at CERN in Switzerland, but the only thoughts in Itch’s head were: Why did I do that ridiculous thumbs-up thing? That was so lame. She’ll think I’m an idiot. I’ll just talk to Craig afterward. Does the back of my neck turn red?
“We were all working to understand the science behind nuclear power,” continued Henry Hampton.
She’ll probably never talk to me again, Itch told himself.
Hampton showed a presentation of images he’d taken inside the maze of underground tunnels at CERN, but Itch wasn’t watching; he was too busy mentally kicking himself.
When Mr. Hampton had wrapped up, Itch quickly started talking to Craig Murray. The conversation wasn’t a long one, as Craig immediately looked up and nodded over Itch’s shoulder.
