by Simon Mayo
Running back to the opened hatch, he found a short length of metal pipe and rammed it into one of his pockets, then climbed back into the tunnel. Flat on his stomach, he pulled and pushed his way along the tube. It wasn’t easy; as soon as he tried to get a grip on the walls, his spine cracked against the roof. Slowly, pushing his backpack along in front of him, he closed in on Flowerdew. He had no idea what he was going to do when he caught up with him, but he had to stop him.
Sixty feet away, Flowerdew was prying the last rock out of the guide tube.
“Time to give up, Flowerdew!” shouted Itch. “The rocks aren’t yours. Put them back. Go and get some medical help; your face is a mess. And did anyone tell you that you stink?”
The last rock rolled into Flowerdew’s canister and he turned slowly, filling the tunnel. What light there had been from the pod disappeared. Now the only illumination came from the hatch door behind Itch, and he was blocking most of that.
“That’s Dr. Flowerdew! Dr. Flowerdew! You never got that, Lofte, did you? Always the cocky know-it-all with the idiot sister and cousin.”
Itch heard the clang of metal on metal as Flowerdew felt his way along the tunnel with, he assumed, the canister in one hand. The smell of garlic was getting stronger.
“You’re a criminal, Lofte. A thief, a poisoner, an arsonist—you tried to kill me back at the well. You deserve a long stretch in prison.”
“You killed Shivvi and were going to throw her down the well!” shouted Itch. “On top of Jack! You’re a monster, Flowerdew…. I know what you did in Nigeria. All those people died because of you; you should be the one in jail!”
“Losing your cousin down the well would have been the best thing for her, Lofte. That’s how we got rid of our garbage in Lagos, you know.” Flowerdew was breathing heavily, and Itch knew he couldn’t be far away; the clanking and the garlic stench were both getting stronger. “You find something useless, you get rid of it.”
Itch was shaking with anger. The pain and anguish of the last six months were boiling up inside him. The kidnapping, the radiation, the bone marrow transplant, the beachfront attack, the cesium—all of them were Flowerdew’s fault. He crawled along faster, grazing his elbows and knees. He was about to launch himself at Flowerdew when he was struck, hard. A flash of metal—the canister, he realized—and he was hit again—heavy blows to his forehead. He tried to back away, but a third blow hit him above his right eye, followed by a fourth. He felt blood start to run down his face, and lights started to pop in front of his eyes.
“Not so pretty now, Lofte,” cried Flowerdew, breathing heavily, “and I haven’t even started yet. When I find your cousin—”
Itch’s vision cleared and, leaving the backpack, he launched himself at the shape in front of him. He pushed with his feet, bounced off the tunnel roof, and his head cracked against Flowerdew’s. The sound of skull on skull was shockingly loud, and they both fell back, stunned.
Itch was still trying to clear his vision when a bright light shone in his eyes. Flowerdew had a small flashlight between his teeth, and before Itch could react, Flowerdew reached out with a bandaged hand and grabbed him by the hair.
“This is what I have been dreaming of doing,” he said through gritted teeth, “what I should have done a long time ago. I had a chance back at the academy, but this time it’s for real.” With his fingers tightly wound in Itch’s hair, he slammed Itch’s face into the tunnel wall. Itch heard the crack of his nose and the clang of steel as pain flooded his head. Flowerdew flung him left, then right, each time smashing his head against the walls.
Itch blacked out before Flowerdew’s fingers had let go of his hair.
When he came to, he heard Flowerdew say, “That was fun,” and felt himself being hauled, inch by inch, back toward the pod.
As the light grew stronger, Flowerdew dropped the flashlight. “You’re in bad shape, Lofte. Such a shame.”
As he was pulled and jolted down the tunnel, Itch opened his eyes. He gasped in pain as his split ear rubbed along the side of the tunnel. He could tell his face was a mass of blood, and when he tasted it flowing into his mouth, he coughed and spat it out.
“Welcome back, Lofte,” said Flowerdew. “This will be so much more fun if you’re awake.” He carried on crawling backward and dragging Itch with him. “The proton beam, as you appear to know, will break things down. If it’s a metal like tungsten, it’ll work on that. If it’s a person like—oh, I don’t know … you, maybe—it’ll work on that too. When the particles hit, they’ll cause a complete breakdown of your central nervous system. Instantly. I don’t know if it’s painful, as no one has survived to tell the tale. Probably not, unfortunately.”
“You’ll never get the beam to work.” Itch was coughing and spitting again.
“Oh, I think I will. Don’t you worry about that,” said Flowerdew.
They had reached the pod. At least, Itch thought, the pain was waking him up. He realized that Flowerdew was planning to leave him here, then turn on the beam. He had at last learned something from his old science teacher—the neutron beam in this tunnel would kill you if you were in the way. He had to get out.
Flowerdew was still holding Itch by his collar. Itch was face down, his right hand resting on his back, his left hand trying to ease his passage toward the pod. His arm rubbed against his jacket pocket, and he felt the hard steel of the pipe he had picked up; the fingers of his left hand closed around it.
“You’re going to have to stay here, Lofte.” Flowerdew was breathing, and now speaking, through gritted teeth. The stink of the tellurium garlic was stronger than ever. “I’m glad you woke up so I could tell you what I was doing. I’m going to destroy your central nervous system, and then, when you’re dead, I’m going to sell the rocks. I’ve tried to do this before, but you got in the way. That won’t happen again.”
To his surprise, Itch started to laugh. “But I have got in the way. I am in the way. You can’t get past me. This tunnel is too small. You’re trapped.”
“But that, dear Itchingham, depends on whether you’re conscious or not, doesn’t it? I’m sure you’ll flatten out if I hit you hard enough.”
Itch felt Flowerdew move and heard the rocks rattle around in the canister. His “club” was ready again. Itch realized he was going to have to do something now—before Flowerdew did. Pulling the steel tube out of his pocket, he rammed it into the first part of Flowerdew he could find. He heard the soft squelch as the tube skewered Flowerdew’s inflamed ear—and then a howl of pain.
Flowerdew swung wildly with the canister, barely missing Itch’s head and hitting the steel wall. A sound like a vibrating gong filled the tunnel, and somewhere Itch registered that it was odd no one had come to check what was going on. Flowerdew missed again. He was flailing blindly now, and Itch smashed the pipe down onto one of his damaged hands. Flowerdew dropped the canister and, in one movement, Itch caught it and rammed it into Flowerdew’s forehead. His head bounced against the wall and he lay still, out cold.
His pulse racing and his whole body trembling, Itch grabbed the canister and put Flowerdew’s flashlight in his mouth, nearly gagging on the saliva that was still on the ribbed handle. He could see his old teacher’s slumped form against the pod glass, blood and body fluids smeared in an arc where he had collapsed. But he was still breathing, and Itch knew the man might not be out for long. Itch had the rocks, but Flowerdew had fallen precisely where the 126 needed to be placed. He couldn’t destroy them without destroying the man too.
“I want you in prison, not dead,” he murmured.
Itch banged the wall of the tunnel in frustration, then tried to move Flowerdew. He tugged at his jacket, then pulled at his arm, but soon realized that he couldn’t shift him. He was wedged there, and Itch’s strength was spent. He paused to get his breath back, and heard the drip drip of his blood hitting the steel floor.
“I need help.”
Retreating back along the tunnel, Itch put the canister in his backpack and opene
d the hatch. The light outside was blinding, and he waited a few seconds before jumping to the ground. As he landed, the jolt reverberated through his smashed nose, broken finger, and every cut and bruise he had just received from Flowerdew. He gently dabbed his face with his sleeve; the fabric came away soaked in blood. Itch took a deep breath and hobbled away toward the control room.
By the time Itch had made his way up the stairs with his backpack, he could barely limp along the high walkway. Each step seemed to echo and crash through a deserted building.
Where is everybody? he wondered. Surely the others would be wondering where he was. He looked down at the beam tunnel, half expecting to see Flowerdew stagger out of the hatch, but nothing was moving. He reached the control-room door.
NO ENTRY. RADIATION HAZARD.
“You don’t say,” said Itch and, pressing gently on the handle, opened the door a few inches. Silence. Nobody. As he eased it farther he saw only empty chairs and unmanned control panels. Itch knew something was wrong. Hesitating, unsure, he listened. There was a swallowed, gulping cry, and he swung the door open. Itch gasped.
Jack, Chloe, and Lucy, together with all the terrified scientists and technicians, were on their knees, hands behind their heads. Five men with guns stood over them—men he recognized. There was the short red-haired man who had chased Jack at Didcot station and had gotten a door in his face—the bruise on Jack’s forehead indicated that he had already exacted revenge for that humiliation. There were the three men who had attacked them at Waterloo, and the one Itch had thought was Nigerian, who had followed them in the Underground. They all stared at Itch, but it was the Nigerian who spoke.
“Where’s Dr. Flowerdew?”
Itch looked at Jack, Chloe, and Lucy. They attempted to smile at him, but their eyes were red-rimmed and they were clearly terrified.
“So good to see you,” said Jack quietly.
“You look terrible,” cried Chloe.
“Shut up!” ordered the Nigerian. “Where’s Dr. Flowerdew?”
“Who are you?” asked Itch.
The man grabbed a gun from one of his associates and flicked off the safety catch. “You don’t seem to realize who’s in charge here,” he said, then walked down the line of kneeling hostages and pointed the barrel at Lucy’s head. The technicians tensed, and Lucy bit back a scream, her eyes wide, her whole body shaking. “Last time. Where’s Dr. Flowerdew?”
“OK! OK! I get it!” said Itch. “He’s in the tunnel. Down there. He’s … not very well.”
The gun lowered slightly. “Does he have the rocks?”
Itch swallowed. “Yes. He has them. He took them from me. We fought but I managed to escape.” He didn’t look at Jack, Chloe, and Lucy, in case they realized he was lying. He just stared at the Nigerian and hoped he believed him.
“Show me.” The man waved his gun toward the door. “Show me where the rocks are. Girls come too.”
Itch watched as his sister and cousin helped each other up, then Chloe helped a still-trembling Lucy to her feet.
“Go!” shouted the Nigerian, and Itch led the way out, glancing briefly at the haggard faces of Bill Kent and Tom Oakes.
The American nodded slightly as Itch headed back out onto the walkway.
They walked along in single file. The Nigerian had left only the red-haired driver in the control room; all the other men were following behind, their heavy footsteps echoing around the building.
Itch slowed so that Jack was within earshot. “They’re in my backpack. In a canister,” he whispered. He had no idea if she’d heard him.
Now they were on the steps leading down to the pod and the tunnel, and the empty radiation box was being inspected by the Nigerian.
“So where are they then?” he snapped. “Where’s Flowerdew, and where are the rocks?”
Itch knew he was running out of time and had run out of choices. He pointed at the beam tunnel.
“Get in there!” came the shouted command. The Nigerian waved his men toward the open hatch. “I want the rocks and Dr. Flowerdew.”
As the men clambered in, Itch stepped back and reached for Chloe’s hand. Startled, she soon realized what it meant: they were in serious trouble. She in turn found Jack’s hand, and Jack held Lucy’s. The four of them stood there together, not moving.
When they find out Flowerdew hasn’t got the rocks, thought Itch, that might be that. They won’t need us and they won’t want witnesses. He squeezed his sister’s hand and closed his eyes. Failed. Failed. Failed.
There was a shout as one of the gunmen emerged from the tunnel again. “He’s here! We’ve got Dr. Flowerdew but he’s in a bad way! Out cold.”
Flowerdew’s feet appeared, and he was pulled out of the tunnel.
“What about the rocks?” snapped the Nigerian. “I need the rocks!”
Flowerdew, bleeding from his ear and his hand, was laid down on the floor and his pockets were checked. “Nothing. And nothing in the tunnel.”
Flowerdew coughed, then spat blood. He tried to sit up but fell back, cursing viciously. “Where are you, Bello?”
The Nigerian crouched down beside him, trying unsuccessfully to hide his revulsion at the sight and smell. “We were just looking for the rocks, Dr. Flowerdew.”
“Do you have the children, Bello? Do you have the children?” Flowerdew croaked.
“Yes, all four. They’re here—my men have guns on them.”
“Then you have the rocks. The boy has them. Search him!”
Bello turned to face them. He noticed for the first time that all four were holding hands. A flicker of a smile crossed his face.
“Of course.” He walked up to Itch. “You have them. Do you give them to me or do I have to put a bullet in your sister’s head?”
Itch sensed defiance flowing from the others, but he knew it was time to stop. He glanced at them: Lucy, her hair as wild as ever, was staring ahead, not trusting herself to look at anyone. Jack caught his eye, scared but angry too—her face flushed. She mouthed something, but he couldn’t make it out. Chloe, he could feel, was shaking but trying hard not to show her terror. He tried a smile, but he knew it was unconvincing. She smiled back anyway.
Itch slowly took off the backpack, the guns following his every move. He placed it on the ground in front of him.
“Open it,” ordered Bello.
“You open it,” said Itch, and a pistol grip hit him on the back of the head. It was Tongue Stud from the Underground; he was grinning wildly.
“Next time it’s your sister,” said Bello. “Open it.”
Itch bent down and opened the backpack. Even now he wondered if the bismuth might help; whether he could use his sample of tin, or his iron filings … but looking at guns pointed at him, even Itch had to concede defeat. He pulled out Flowerdew’s large canister, set it down on the ground in front of him, then retreated.
There was a pause before Flowerdew spoke. “Count the rocks, Lofte. I need to know they’re all there.”
“But you know they’re all there,” said Itch. “You put them in the canister in the first place.”
“But then you took them, you see.” Flowerdew had clambered to his feet. “And who knows what you did with them!” Even though it made his face bleed, he was smiling. “Let’s see them! I want to see all eight!”
Everyone knew what Flowerdew was asking. The boy with the bone marrow transplant, who couldn’t afford any more exposure to radiation, was being asked to handle eight pieces of 126.
“Come, come—why so slow?” Flowerdew stepped forward as his mouth started twitching. “They may be the most radioactive rocks ever seen, and you may think you’ve pushed your luck already”—his voice was quieter, more menacing now—“but I think you can cope with just a teensy bit more.” Another leer; more blood seeped from his cracked lips. “Let’s give that new bone marrow of yours something to work on, shall we?”
No one moved.
“Now, Lofte!” Flowerdew was shouting. “On the floor. Count them!”
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Itch looked at the gunmen. “It’ll expose everyone here to dangerous levels of radioactivity. Everyone. You want me to take the top off?” He stepped over to the canister, putting his hand on the cap. “Really, you want this?”
Bello and the others stepped back, unsure.
“It’s not their call, Lofte, It’s mine. Remove the lid and count the rocks,” Flowerdew repeated.
Itch picked up the canister again. He held it out in front of him, its astonishing weight straining his tired arms. If I open this, it will probably kill me—and maybe make everyone else very sick. Not good. “No thanks,” he said, putting it on the floor again.
Everyone tensed. Flowerdew stepped closer, his eyes narrow slits. “You’ll do as I say, Lofte.”
“I’ll count them.” Jack had stepped forward.
“Excuse me?” said Flowerdew.
“If you need them counted—which you don’t—I’ll do it. Give me the canister, Itch.”
Then Chloe and Lucy stepped forward too. “We’ll count them too.”
Itch was dumbstruck.
Flowerdew walked along them as if inspecting a military parade. “Very touching, but you all miss the point. This has all been about Itch. His rocks, aren’t they? You’re in trouble because of him. I could let you three go—that wouldn’t matter because it’s all about him.” He spat the last word as he picked up the canister and slammed it down on the floor in front of Itch. “You open the canister—you count the rocks.”
“It’ll kill him!” cried Chloe.
“You’re a monster,” shouted Lucy.
“You’ve got five seconds,” said Flowerdew.
Itch stepped toward the canister and crouched down.
“Five.”
He picked it up again.
“Four.”
Bello stood behind Chloe, the muzzle of his gun against her head.
“OK, I get it!” shouted Itch.
“Three.”
It was as if he could feel the heat through the canister. His head was spinning. How long would it take for the radiation to affect him this time? Well, he was about to find out….
