by Simon Mayo
“The next station is Baker Street,” blared an announcement.
When the door opened, Itch and Chloe let a few passengers out first, then Chloe stepped off. She took a few steps along the platform to the next car, ducked around a policeman, then got straight back on again. Itch hurried after her with the duffle bag, hiding behind a vast American before getting in at the far end. He caught his sister’s eye through the crowd and she gave him a thumbs-up. She peered through the door between the cars at Lucy and Jack.
“Stand clear of the closing doors.”
Two more stops, and then Paddington. Lost in the middle of the crowd of strap-hanging passengers, Itch peered into the next car along.
And stared right into the eyes of a tall Nigerian. Who smiled.
Keep walking. Fast!” Itch led the way, marching along the platform at Paddington. “I think we’re being followed! Might be one of Flowerdew’s old Nigerian cronies,” he called to Jack.
Instinctively she turned and scanned the crowd heading for the station. Chloe and Lucy followed her gaze, not knowing what they were looking for.
They assembled at the ticket machine and Itch told them what he had seen. They all glanced around but saw nothing suspicious.
“How much money do we need to get to …?” Itch tailed off.
“Didcot,” said Lucy, choosing tickets on the machine. “It’s OK—I came prepared.” She fed it with bills and coins, then gathered up the pile of tickets. “Train in six minutes. Looks like a slow one, but at least we’ll be out of here.”
“I can’t see the guy from the Underground,” said Itch, still looking around. “Maybe I imagined him. Let’s just go.”
“Platform Eight,” said Lucy.
On the train they sat facing each other in the first group of seats they came to; Itch squeezed the duffle bag under his seat and Jack put Itch’s backpack beside her. The car was empty, apart from a family at the other end, arguing furiously over who should sit next to the window. Itch, Jack, Chloe, and Lucy waited anxiously for the train to pull out of the station; they were expecting their pursuer to board any minute. But no one came.
“Bet I know what you’re thinking,” said Jack.
“I bet you do too,” said Itch, and he described his train journey to Brighton for Lucy’s benefit. By the time he got to the part where he had been vomiting blood at the Fitzherbert School, Lucy’s eyes were wide and she had a hand over her mouth.
“I understand what you did with the sodium and the rocks back at the well,” said Jack. “Blasting them to the bottom was a neat trick. But explain what we are doing at this laboratory again? Does it blow them up?”
“Not exactly,” said Lucy, “and I’m hardly an expert. It’s just stuff I heard from Dad and his friends—they talked about this kind of thing all the time.” She stopped and looked out of the window for a few moments. The train had stopped again. “At this lab they have a vast number of huge tubes and magnets arranged in what they always used to call ‘target stations.’ Probably still do. They have a thing called a synchrotron and it shoves beams of protons down the tubes, and they look at what stuff is made of. At their atoms, I think.”
Itch interrupted. “So this is Cake—your dad—and the guys at ISIS. What were you doing there?”
“Just tagging along,” Lucy told him. “Some dads take their kids to football matches—mine took me to a particle accelerator.”
Jack was going to make a sarcastic comment but thought better of it, especially when she saw Itch’s look of rapt attention.
“They’d all sit around the control room telling dirty jokes about hot cells and interlocking tubes, and I got a bit bored. Then, one day, they were talking about a dangerous type of plutonium they’d found and how they were going to deal with it. My dad used the word spallation. I only remember because I asked him what it meant, and he said it was like firing a marble into a bag of other marbles. The plutonium was the bag of marbles, and the neutron beam was the single marble. It blows them apart into smaller pieces. And those small pieces are then safe.”
“And that’s what we can do to the 126!” said Itch, excited. “We’ll blast it with neutrons.”
“If they let us in.” Jack wasn’t convinced.
“If the old team is there, they’ll remember me,” Lucy said. “I used to be quite the golden girl there. But if it’s all new guys now, we’ve got a problem.”
“And how easy is it to get something into this target station and zap it with your death ray?” asked Jack.
“Jack, that’s hardly—” began Itch.
“No idea,” said Lucy, “but impossible sounds about right.”
The train pulled into Didcot, and they were the last to exit. They watched as the passengers headed through the station to the parking lot. Some were met by friends and family, a few got in taxis; there was no sign of the man from the Underground.
“OK, let’s go,” said Itch, and they set off along the platform.
They went into the station building, past a deserted coffee stall and a closed newsstand. They were near the ticket office when Itch stopped abruptly. Jack and Lucy almost walked into him.
“What is it?” asked Jack. “Oh …” They all smelled it now as they stood at the platform gate to the station, inhaling what felt like lungfuls of rotten garlic.
“What’s that stuff I put in Flowerdew’s whiskey?” said Lucy.
“Tellurium,” said Itch.
“And what’s it make you smell of?”
“Garlic. Very bad garlic.”
“Then he’s here. Flowerdew must be here!” cried Jack, horrified. “But how did he find us?”
“I guess that guy did follow us to the station after all….” Itch guessed. “And if he knows we’re at Didcot, he’s probably worked out where we’re heading.”
They all glanced around, looking into every corner of the station concourse, but they couldn’t see anyone.
“There are restrooms there,” said Chloe, pointing to a door beside the ticket office. Jack started to walk slowly toward it, sniffing.
“Wouldn’t go in there, son,” said a man behind the counter, speaking through the glass. “Gentleman been taken proper sick. Looks in a bad way.”
Jack let the “son” go. “Was he on his own?” she asked.
The ticket man shuffled some timetables and rearranged some hairs over his balding head. “No, there’s someone with him—a doctor, he said he was. Just as well really. And there’s a car too, I think; Range Rover Sport—big gray thing over there.” He pointed to the parking lot. Peering around, they saw the car idling in the taxi stand, the red-haired driver studying his phone. They hurried back onto the platform and tucked themselves in behind a large timetable board. Through the white-slatted fence they could see the Range Rover and hear its engine.
“Flowerdew must have been waiting for us,” said Itch.
“Then he was taken ill. What a shame,” said Jack.
“But we’re stuck,” said Lucy. “We can’t get out without the driver seeing, and any time now that monster will be coming out of the men’s room.”
“Got any fireworks left in your backpack?” asked Jack.
“Shivvi made me tip a lot of my stuff out, but some survived—chuck it over.”
Jack threw the backpack and Itch caught it.
“Still got the bismuth that Shivvi had….” He held up the sparkling stone.
“Great,” muttered Chloe. “You could throw it at someone. Anything else?”
Itch produced packets and jars with labels on them, while the others glanced nervously in the direction of the restrooms. “This would help, definitely,” he said, glancing at the B5 pocket and feeling inside. He drew out a small bag of powder and looked intently at it. “But this might be better!”
“Plan?” said Jack.
“Possibly …”
“What is it?” asked Lucy.
“Boron. Or, to be specific, boron carbide powder.”
“And?” said Jack. “Forgiv
e our ignorance …”
“It messes up engines,” said Itch. “But we need to get the driver out of the car first. Who’s the fastest runner?”
“Probably I am,” said Jack, looking at Lucy, who nodded.
“Your cough OK?”
“Getting better.”
“Ribs?”
“Painful, but OK.”
“Could you kick his car or something and not get caught?” asked Itch.
There was a slight pause before she replied, “Maybe. Yes, I suppose.”
“Right. Lucy and Chloe, stay here with the rocks and the backpack. Be ready to run for it. Come on, Jack.”
The two cousins went into the station entrance again, where the smell of rotten garlic was as strong as ever.
“We might not have long before they come out of the men’s room,” said Itch. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it now!”
Jack took a deep breath and walked toward the Range Rover, where the driver was still looking at his mobile phone. She found a coin in her pocket and, as she drew level with the Range Rover, dug it into the paint job. She scraped it along the side, the sound of metal on metal surprisingly loud, the silver-gray paint flaking off in small twists and curls.
Perfect, thought Itch. Now run for it.
As Jack took off, Itch saw the red-haired driver start. He leaned over to the passenger window but couldn’t see anything. He jumped out of the car, looked at the damage and, seeing Jack heading out of the parking lot, set off in pursuit. He was short but powerfully built and showed enough speed to worry Itch—but Itch had a job to do. He ran toward the unlocked Range Rover, opened the front door, and was assaulted by the smell of garlic.
Flowerdew had been there, all right.
He located the hood release and popped it. Running around the outside of the car, he lifted the hood and looked for the oil tank. He remembered that you weren’t supposed to take the lid off while the engine was still warm, but thought he didn’t have much choice.
Slowly, with the black plastic warm to the touch, he twisted and released the oil cap; there was a little hiss as it came away. From his jeans pocket he produced the bag of boron carbide and tipped it slowly into the opening. He knew it would destroy the engine—the granules scoring the cylinder walls—but he didn’t know if there would be a bang or smoke. He assumed not, but put the lid back on quickly anyway.
A taxi had pulled up behind the Range Rover; the driver looked angrily at the big car blocking his space.
“Not mine,” Itch mouthed to him, and closed the hood just as a cry from Lucy made him look up.
Jack was running back through the parking lot, the Range Rover driver barely ten feet behind. She looked scared and hot, and she was clutching her ribs. The red-haired man, his face a picture of crimson fury, was gaining on her all the time. Itch looked around desperately for inspiration.
“Itch!” shouted Jack as the driver reached for her. His fingers touched her jacket collar but she dodged out of the way.
They were just a few feet away now, and Itch, pointing at the red-haired man, shouted at the taxi driver, “It’s his! The Range Rover is his!”
The cabbie studied the chase in the mirror. As Jack flashed past him, he opened his door. His timing was perfect. There was a crunch of bone and flesh on metal and glass, and the man collapsed on the ground, blood pouring from a head wound.
“Yes!” said Itch, punching the air.
“Shouldn’t park in our space,” said the taxi driver, climbing out and checking his door for damage. “We keep telling them, but they don’t listen.”
Jack was standing bent double and holding her ribs. She was fighting for breath, but smiled at the sight of her pursuer knocked out cold. Lucy and Chloe came running, carrying the backpack and the duffle bag.
“Can you take us to the ISIS labs!” called Lucy. “I’ve got twenty pounds. Please, it’s urgent!”
The taxi driver, a young man with a stubbly beard and cropped hair, looked at her. “You in trouble?”
“Not really,” said Itch, “but we are in a hurry.”
The cabbie looked at them all and then at the twenty-pound note in Lucy’s hand. “OK, get in,” he said. “Bags in the trunk.”
“If it’s OK with you, we’d like to keep them with us,” said Itch.
The man shrugged. “Suit yourselves….”
They were dropped outside the ISIS reception. Inside, a small Christmas tree was shining brightly; a woman behind the desk was on the phone. They looked around the vast complex of buildings, which stretched, like a small town, in every direction.
“Looks like a university campus,” said Itch. “I went to see Gabriel’s once—it was a lot like this.”
“It used to be an airfield, I think,” said Lucy. “The D-Day gliders left from here. There are still old tunnels around somewhere.”
“Guys,” interrupted Jack, “can we get on with this? If he’s guessed where we’re headed, Flowerdew will make his way here somehow. Let’s find your death ray and blast these rocks to … whatever it is we are blasting them to.”
“I think you need to stop calling it a death ray,” said Itch.
She shrugged. “Well, whatever it is, let’s find it. Who are you asking for, Lucy?”
“The main guy was John Kett. I’ll see if he’s here.” Lucy went up to the desk and smiled broadly at the woman, whose badge said ANITA. “Hello!” she said.
“How can I help you?” said the woman.
“I’m looking for John Kett, please,” said Lucy. “He works in one of the target stations. Well, he used to, anyway.”
“One minute,” said Anita as she scrolled through a list of names on her computer. “Sorry—no one by that name here. What is the nature of your visit?” Her eyes moved from Lucy to Itch, Jack and Chloe. Both Itch and Jack were suddenly conscious of their burns, finger splints, and bandages.
We must look like a really bad group of people to let into a place like this, thought Itch. She might just call security and throw us out.
“My dad worked here a few years ago and his friends always said to drop by. So … I have.” Lucy smiled weakly, and they all noted a softening in Anita’s body language.
“I see. Is there someone else I can try?” she asked.
Lucy thought for a minute. “Well, there was a crowd of them. Bill Kent was one; Tom … er, Tom Oakes was another, I think. Could you try them?” Lucy turned to the others; they were all silent and tense. If they couldn’t get past this point, their plan was lost.
“Bill Kent is here,” said Anita. “I’ll try him. Who should I say is here?”
“Lucy Cavendish. Tell him I’m Cake’s daughter.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Cake’s daughter,” Lucy repeated. “He’ll remember.”
And remember he did. Within five minutes, an electric golf cart was pulling up outside the office and a young woman in a thick coat was beckoning. They trooped outside.
“Hi. I’m Tilly,” she said. “I work with Bill and Tom. Jump in—I’ll take you to them.”
Itch punched Lucy gently on the shoulder and she smiled. They climbed aboard; Itch and Chloe sat behind Tilly, the duffle bag at their feet, with Jack carrying the backpack, and Lucy at the rear, facing backward.
Itch twisted around to speak to Lucy. “Now, remember what we agreed—no mention of the rocks!” he whispered.
“But there’s a chance they might help us,” she pointed out.
Itch shook his head. “Are you nuts? Trust no one—that’s what your dad said. They might simply turn us in.”
“Dad would have trusted Bill and Tom. He did trust Bill and Tom.”
“But how long ago was that, Lucy? Seven years? Eight? They’re not going to blast our rocks just because we ask them to.”
“And we don’t have time to argue with them,” added Jack.
Lucy was quiet as they rolled silently along, following signs for TARGET STATION FOUR. “OK,” she said eventually, “but if we’re stuck, w
e ask for help.”
“Maybe …” said Itch.
“Here we are!” said Tilly. “Target Station Four! It’s pretty much brand new.”
In the large open doorway stood two men. The cart stopped in front of them, and the older of the two, gray and slightly stooped, waved.
“Hello,” he called. “I’d recognize that hair anywhere! Lucy Cavendish! It’s great to see you.”
They climbed off the cart and Lucy shook hands with him awkwardly.
Itch read the swinging ID card around his neck, which identified him as BILL KENT, with a photo taken before his hair had turned gray.
“Bill Kent,” he said, acknowledging their glances. “How do you do? You look like you’ve been in a war….” He was staring at Itch and Jack.
“These are my friends, Itch, Jack, and Chloe,” said Lucy. “They … had an accident.” She didn’t elaborate, and simply made the introductions.
Kent beckoned his colleague over. “And this is Tom Oakes—remember him, Lucy? He had slightly more hair when you saw him last, I’d wager.” He was younger, thinner, and blushed at the reference to his baldness.
“Lucy, hi.” The accent was American. “Last time you were here you sat on my glasses. Good to see you again.”
“What’s in the bag?” asked Bill Kent. “Looks heavy.”
Itch was staring at Lucy; both scientists studied the duffle bag.
“Oh, just some Christmas shopping,” she said, and changed the subject. “I was telling them about my dad’s work here and wanted to show them around. Would that be possible?”
“Well, normally it would need to be approved,” said Bill Kent, “but under the circumstances … I’m sure no one would object. Seeing as it’s you!”
Tom Oakes agreed. “Sure. It’s not as if letting kids in will get us into any trouble! Itch, it’s good to meet you.” He was staring at Itch with interest, and just nodded at Jack and Chloe.
“How is your father these days, Lucy?” asked Kent, ushering them inside. “We still talk about him, you know.”
Lucy hesitated, but before she could answer, she was distracted by a loud “Wow!” from Itch.
Tom Oakes had led the way into a vast, cavernous, fiercely lit building. Itch’s jaw dropped. High metal walkways crisscrossed above their heads, with bright red steel girders lining the ceiling. On the ground, a baffling maze of cubicles, offices, and steel cabinets were interspersed with pink, orange, and yellow blocks. And running straight through the middle of the building like a huge air-conditioning duct was a steel tube with a diameter Itch put at a little over six feet. It came into the target station a quarter of a mile away and then twisted around and ended at a huge pod just in front of them. At the far end of the building, a low arch bore the words, painted in enormous red letters: SITE INCIDENT. FIRE. EVACUATE HALL. DIAL 2222.
