Itch

by Simon Mayo

  ‘Really? What did he make of your collection? I hope you took him through it and told him all about atomic weights and electronegativities and so on. We’ve had to suffer – I don’t see why a thug like Kinch shouldn’t.’ They both smiled and Jack added, ‘Though I have to say the phosphorus did prove rather useful back at the mining school.’

  Itch suddenly stood bolt upright, staring straight ahead.

  ‘What is it, Itch?’

  ‘You, Jacqueline Lofte, are a genius.’

  23

  DR NATHANIEL FLOWERDEW, IN THE lounge of the end cottage, had three customers interested in his business. One stood out from the others. He had sent each of them the documented results of his tests on the rock, but only one, a Nigerian businessman and politician called Agu Osiegbe, had delivered the million-dollar down-payment. Flowerdew knew that with more time he could demand any price he wished, and from any number of clients, but he didn’t have that time, and only Osiegbe had delivered up front. He smiled to himself as he recalled how calls from Greencorps had been flooding in as the news spread, and he had simply ignored them – they had had their chance. Now they could just stand by and watch him succeed where they had failed.

  ‘A pleasure doing business with you again, Nathaniel,’ said the Nigerian down the phone now. ‘I thought our trading days were over after the, ah, unfortunate oil spill.’

  Flowerdew chuckled. ‘Me too, me too, but then I never thought I’d be able to offer you anything like this. You’ve seen the stats I sent you from the tests. Nigeria can be a nuclear power – and under your leadership, Agu. As I recall, that was always your intention, was it not? You didn’t spend all that time with the President’s crooks and gangsters without craving power yourself.’

  There was a second’s delay on the line from Lagos. ‘Who does not want such things?’ said Agu Osiegbe. Then, ‘And this is nothing to do with Greencorps, Nathaniel? I’m told they cut you loose. Just like they did your old friend, Shivvi. She’s still in prison, of course. How did you get her to take the rap? She was just the diver, after all.’

  Flowerdew spoke slowly. ‘The issue here is okwute’ – he used a Nigerian word for rocks – ‘that is all – nothing else. And no, it’s nothing to do with Greencorps. Except, of course, they want them too, and have armed thugs looking for them. But they had their chance and they blew it. Soon the rocks will be yours, and you will be the talk of the world.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the Nigerian. ‘You have the down-payment. If the product is everything you say it is, we agree to a billion dollars and a thirty-per-cent stake in future earnings. And a bullet in the head if you’re lying.’ Osiegbe found this funny, but Flowerdew was silent. ‘We are working on the transfer plan. I’m making arrangements for the pick-up. Do you still have that flat by the Thames? The “secret investment” you invited me to all those years ago?’

  ‘Yes, of course. A good investment, and still secret.’

  ‘Good. We’ll speak later today. So long.’

  Flowerdew stood up and walked around the room. He was both irritated and elated by the call, but if his old Nigerian colleague was true to his word, in a few hours all the loose ends would be tied up. He weaved a coin between his fingers as he paced. He noticed the coffee Kinch had brought in earlier, now stone cold, but he didn’t want to talk to his driver, and he certainly didn’t want to talk to the kids. As Kinch had pointed out, they had become a problem – one with only one solution. As he considered what the next few hours would bring, it occurred to Flowerdew that all he had to do was ‘oil the wheels’ of a reaction that was already underway. Extensive exposure to radiation led to death sooner or later, and with the eight rocks in his possession he could make sure that it was sooner. He smiled.

  Feverishly, with his painful, burned hand, Itch was emptying his rucksack. It seemed an eternity ago that he had filled it with his collection for safekeeping, but now his elements could stop being a hobby and start doing some work. The phosphorus had bought them time in the mining school, allowing them to escape. Maybe what Kinch had called his ‘weird boy stuff’ could help them again.

  ‘Here’s to being weird!’ he said out loud.

  Plastic bag followed plastic bag, as one by one Itch’s elements were assembled on the dining-room carpet. Jack watched as her cousin turned each over in his hand, muttering a stream of numbers and words to himself.

  ‘You all right?’ she asked.

  ‘What? Oh, sorry, yes. Old habits …’

  ‘Found anything useful? What’s that you’ve got?’

  ‘Sadly, a useless piece of titanium that used to reside in Gabriel’s ear.’ He picked up some other bags. ‘Manganese – no; copper coins – no; chromium forks … maybe. At least they’re pointy.’

  Jack looked unimpressed. ‘Come on, Itch – we need some magic from somewhere! Anything! We haven’t got long, it’s getting light. Look.’ The first real sunshine of the morning was brightening their room but bringing with it a growing sense of fear about the day ahead. ‘From the top, Itch, just start— Oh, help.’ Jack stopped and looked at her hand, which had been in her hair. Clumps of it had just come away and she held it out to Itch. Tears pooled in her eyes, then streamed down both cheeks. ‘Last chance, Itch. Find something,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll take the fork, but it’s hardly a plan of action, is it?’

  Itch looked at his cousin. Her face was deathly white and sweating, and her hair was matted; two small bald patches had appeared above her left ear. He nodded and opened his mouth to say something supportive, but nothing came. So he just smiled and went back to his elements.

  The last item out of his bag had produced from Itch what his dad would call an ‘oil-rig word’. In his hand was a brass-coloured capsule with a pointy end. Bullet-shaped but about four times as big.

  ‘What is it, Itch?’

  ‘It’s xenon. Number fifty-four. Atomic weight 131.293. Density five point nine. Melting point minus 111.8 degrees Centigrade, boiling point minus 108 degrees Centigrade …’ He paused and looked up. ‘You’ve normally stopped me before I get this far.’

  ‘Yeah, well, this time I’m quite interested in what you’ve got say,’ she told him. ‘What can it do?’

  ‘Well, if I remember correctly, Jack, it’s an anaesthetic.’

  She looked at him with her tired brown eyes. ‘Now that sounds like a plan of action,’ she said.

  Christophe Revere and Jan Van Den Hauwe had told Roshanna Wing that the word was out about the new element 126; and that it was, as they had suspected, rocks they were now looking for, not just one rock. They knew it was many, but not how many, and they also knew that the rocks were now in the hands of their old colleague, Flowerdew, who was no longer answering their calls. The questioning of Alexander, Watkins and Chloe Lofte was being held in secret; the reports were highly confidential but, as ever, the information was available for the right price.

  Greencorps could pay that price and so, it seemed, could many others. The Frenchman and the Dutchman warned Wing that news of the rocks had spread globally. Soon that corner of south-west England would be home to any number of crazies who fancied nuclear energy in a bag.

  They had explained all this after Wing had told them what had happened at the mining school and how Itch and Jack had got away. After much cursing she had been put on hold. She paced the motorway service-station car park where they had holed up. She knew that losing the rocks, the Loftes and Flowerdew was bad, and it was only the bleep every five seconds that told her she was still connected. Two minutes passed before contact was resumed.

  ‘You’ve a head start on the crazies,’ said Revere. ‘It’s not much, but it’s something. We want those rocks, Roshanna – you know that. That’s priority one. But if you can’t get them, it may suit us if the mad guys win the race. What mustn’t happen – what absolutely mustn’t happen – is for the authorities, the police, the government, the scientists, the establishment to get their huge grabbing hands on them. Then we really will be sunk. Am I
clear?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Revere, absolutely.’ Roshanna knew she hadn’t entirely kept the surprise out of her voice and was annoyed with herself.

  Van Den Hauwe clearly thought more explanation was needed and came on the line. ‘You know how it is, Roshanna. Ideally we’d place a rock or two with a group we can trust. They’ll go and commit some outrage somewhere and no one will trust 126 again. Our company, our industry needs this, Roshanna. Oil is what matters to Greencorps, and oil is what will always matter if we get this right.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Van Den Hauwe, I do understand. Obviously we still don’t know where they are at the moment. We could trawl the minor roads if you wish, though I feel certain Flowerdew will head for London. Do we have help there?’

  ‘Absolutely. We agree with your analysis. Flowerdew can’t stay holed up down there – he needs to get to where the players are. Preparations are in hand. Go to the London office and we’ll talk then.’ They hung up.

  One Audi now sped to London; the other was left in the service station. Berghahn still couldn’t drive – his eyes needed more time to recover from the phosphorus flash – and Wing planned to spend the journey phoning, emailing and messaging all her London contacts, building up a picture of who the players were in this increasingly dangerous game. Where would Flowerdew go? Who would he sell to? And what would he do with the children?

  The sign said: LONDON 120 MILES.

  The stench in the cottage’s dining room was overpowering, the heat of the new day working its way into the contents of the tablecloth and filling the room. However, the only occupants were oblivious to it, talking and planning. Itch and Jack sat with their backs to the armchair, passing the xenon canister between them. They handled it gently, as though it was a bomb, despite the fact that it had been thrown around in the rucksack for hours and survived without a scratch. It was ten centimetres long and about the thickness of a large candle. It was a dull brass colour with small, smudged lettering around the bottom. They had both tried to read it but it appeared to be in a foreign language – Russian was Jack’s guess. It had the feel of an aerosol can but without any operating instructions.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ asked Jack.

  ‘A medical suppliers in Antwerp – they were getting rid of stuff, I think. Closing down.’

  ‘And they sell this stuff to kids?’

  ‘Not knowingly, no. I said I was a medical researcher working on a PhD in bio-sciences. I ordered a bunch of stuff, but this was the best thing they sent.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure how anaesthetics work. More to the point, I don’t know how to make this particular anaesthetic work. There’s no button to press, no ring-pull and no screw top. It’s obviously supposed to be used in a machine connected to breathing apparatus and so on. Stuff we don’t have.’

  ‘Doesn’t look very big, either, does it? Will there be enough gas in there to take out two men? And how can we make sure it doesn’t take us out at the same time?’ Jack sounded scared again.

  ‘You’re right, it doesn’t look like much. We’ll need a small space. The smaller the better. And, to be honest, I’ve no idea what we’re going to do with it, but it’s all we have, Jack. It’s better than just having a fork, anyway.’

  Hearing footsteps in the hall outside, they scrambled to their feet and hastily repacked the rucksack, leaving the xenon canister near the top. They sat down again, expecting Kinch or Flowerdew to appear, but the footsteps carried on into another room and then stopped. Itch and Jack heard a knock and then a distant, ‘Yes.’ So it was Kinch going to see Flowerdew. The day was beginning.

  Kinch had expected to find Flowerdew asleep in an armchair or on the sofa and was surprised to find him sitting at a small desk, typing furiously with the index finger of each hand. He was scowling, his face pale and drawn, his eyes puffy. He didn’t look up, speak, or acknowledge Kinch’s presence in any way. Kinch shuffled his feet but there was still no reaction, so he started to look around: wall-to-ceiling bookshelves; a small, old-fashioned television; and a flowery three-piece suite. The canvas bag containing the rocks sat on an armchair.

  Nathaniel Flowerdew suddenly glanced up from his laptop, looking surprised to see Kinch.

  ‘I was, er, just wondering what the plan was today. And would you like some tea or breakfast or something?’

  ‘Yes, tea would be good.’ Flowerdew held out his mug, which was still full from Kinch’s last visit.

  ‘Are we staying here or moving on?’

  ‘We are waiting.’

  ‘Right.’

  Kinch returned with a mug of tea and hovered, wondering where to put it. Flowerdew took it from him with one hand, continuing to type with the other.

  ‘What shall I do with the kids?’ asked Kinch. ‘They could do with some food, I guess.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ said Flowerdew.

  ‘Will they be coming with us when we do leave?’

  ‘If they’re still conscious.’

  Kinch turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him. He went over to the dining room and turned the key. As he opened the door, the smell made him recoil. Covering his mouth, he peered in. He saw Jack and Itch sitting together, the rucksack between them and the sodden tablecloth stuffed into a wastepaper basket.

  ‘Stone me,’ said Kinch. ‘Why didn’t you call me? You could have done that in the bog, not here. Bring it out.’

  He held the door open, and Itch and Jack slowly got to their feet. Itch took the rucksack and Jack the wastepaper basket and they filed out into the kitchen, where Kinch then shoved the soiled tablecloth into the bin. He offered them both tea, which neither of them usually drank but they took anyway. Kinch’s breakfast appeared to be a tube of BBQ Pringles, which he did not share, though he tossed a packet of cheese biscuits at them. They were stale, but they both ate a few.

  Flowerdew called out from the lounge and, checking again that all doors, windows and shutters were locked, Kinch left the kitchen.

  ‘Is this room small enough?’ whispered Jack. ‘It’s pretty airless. If we could get them both in here …’

  ‘And then stab the canister with a fork? I don’t know, Jack – it still looks too big a space for one can of xenon to be effective. And there are draughts from doors and windows. I think xenon is much denser than air, so it’ll stay low. The kitchen won’t work.’

  ‘How about the car, then?’ suggested Jack, and she could tell from the look on Itch’s face that she might be on to something.

  ‘Yes, of course, the car! It’s big, but it’s the smallest space we all sit in, assuming we’re not staying here. And the air con will circulate the gas around it … Brilliant work, Jack!’

  Easily observed against her pallid skin, Jack flushed slightly. ‘So now all we have to do is open the can and get out of the car without inhaling any ourselves,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, that’s pretty much it,’ said Itch.

  ‘We move now,’ said Flowerdew, gathering his papers together. ‘And assuming the radiation hasn’t finished off those meddling Loftes, we’ll have to take them too. But I want them tied up and gagged; they’re bound to try something stupid. OK?’

  Kinch nodded. ‘Sure. Where are we going?’

  ‘The deal’s come good, Kinch, the deal’s come good! It wasn’t supposed to happen till tonight, but everyone suddenly seems in a frightful rush. We meet Comrade Osiegbe at an address in Paddington at one p.m. He and his people have a lab there to confirm my tests. And you know the sweetest thing, Kinch? You know the sweetest thing? They give us the money, and we give them the rocks and the kids. They’ve agreed to take them as part of the deal. Makes it all so much … neater, don’t you think?’

  ‘What will they do with them?’

  ‘Well now, let’s just say you’d be surprised how much you can sell a child for these days. And leave it at that.’

  24

  FLOWERDEW HAD INSISTED that Kinch dump the Range Rover and find another car. They needed
to use the motorways, but everyone would be looking out for the Range Rover, so a suitable alternative needed to be pressed into action. Kinch trawled round the village and finally chose a silver graphite Lexus RX 450H, which had proved the easiest to spring. It also had the advantage of a silent hybrid engine, meaning it was able to leave the quietest road in the quietest village, disturbing no one at all.

  Flowerdew sat in the front with the bag and his briefcase at his feet. Jack and Itch sat in the back, hands tied in front of them with black masking tape. Kinch had advised against gags, given that they’d been sick, and Flowerdew had reluctantly agreed. The rucksack, with its canister of xenon anaesthetic just under the top flap, lay at Itch’s feet.

  It was a hot day and the air conditioning was already working hard. As they pulled onto the M5, Itch was counting the number of air vents and noting where they were pointing. He could see six at the front, and he and Jack had two pointing straight at them. The satnav was estimating three hours, and 175 miles to Paddington, which suddenly didn’t seem like very long or very far. Even if Itch could work out how to empty the xenon into the car, they couldn’t do it when they were driving along at ninety-eight mph.

  The M5 became the M4, and the miles to their Paddington rendezvous counted down. Flowerdew seemed in an exultant mood, conducting furiously to the classical music on the radio. Under cover of the extraordinary volume of sound put out by the car’s sound system, Jack and Itch were able to conduct brief, unnoticed conversations.

  ‘We’ve only got about ninety minutes left, Itch! Come on – last chance!’

  ‘I know! Still thinking.’

  Thirty minutes later: ‘Him being in such a good mood means trouble, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Reckon so.’ And then, forty miles out from the capital, ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Terrible. Rubbish. Like I’m going to be … sick … again.’ They looked at each other and, very slowly, smiled. A proper ear-to-ear smile. They had both thought of the same thing at the same time, and turned away, looking out of the window in case Kinch or Flowerdew glanced in the mirror.