Itch

by Simon Mayo

  As the end of the motorway approached, the traffic slowed and Flowerdew’s mood changed. He became tense, and switched off the radio. The final few miles of motorway passed in silence. As they joined the steamy queues of West London, the satnav said four miles to destination. The tailbacks around the Hammersmith roundabout moved inch by inch towards one set of traffic lights and then another. As the Lexus slowed again, Jack started groaning.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Flowerdew. ‘We’re nearly there. Don’t start now.’

  Itch leaned forward, teeth gritted. ‘It’s called radiation poisoning,’ he snapped. ‘It’s not something you can stop and start. You get dizzy, nauseous, then you’re sick. Next is hair loss, fever and maybe blood in your vomit. You’re the brilliant scientist. What would you suggest? I don’t know, but from where I’m sitting, if she’s sick like yesterday, it’s going all over your head, Flowerdew. Whoever you’re meeting to flog my rocks to, I’m sure they’ll love you with puke in your hair.’

  Flowerdew spun round and glared at them. Anger flashed in his eyes, but he knew Itch was right.

  ‘Damn! All right. Pull in, Kinch – there’s a place just there … Let’s get this over and done with.’

  They pulled off the road, leaving the slow-moving traffic to wend its way towards Shepherds Bush. They were in a small cul-de-sac with parking for a dozen cars, and Kinch pulled into the first space he came to. Flowerdew produced a pocket knife and, reaching behind, roughly cut the tape that bound Itch and Jack’s hands. He nicked the skin on Itch’s left wrist with the point of the blade. ‘Oops,’ he sneered.

  Itch ignored the cut, undid his seatbelt and leaned over to undo Jack’s.

  ‘Make it quick. We have an appointment in Paddington. All of us. So stay where we can see you,’ said Flowerdew, reaching for his phone. Itch opened his door and jumped out. He dropped his rucksack on the road and felt for the xenon canister. For a moment he thought he’d lost it, but his hand closed around the warm metal casing under the flap of the rucksack. He quickly went round to help Jack out of the other side of the car. As she sat on the pavement, her head between her knees, Itch went back to open the door on the other side of the car and looked at the hinge. It was surprisingly small: a flat black metal connector which ran from the door to the body of the Lexus. The canister would sit happily on top. He glanced up. Kinch was watching Jack, Jack was retching, and Flowerdew was on the phone. Now was the moment.

  He balanced the canister on the hinge and, with his heart thundering and his head pounding, he slammed the Lexus door shut with every ounce of strength he had. There was a sharp metallic screech, and then a crunch as the heavy-duty door made contact with the xenon. It bounced open again. The canister was bent, twisted and dented – but not punctured. The xenon was still inside.

  Flowerdew and Kinch spun round. ‘What the—?’

  ‘Sorry!’ called Itch. ‘Got the seatbelt stuck in the door!’ He held up the metal buckle and put on a ‘silly me’ face. They appeared to accept this and turned back. Itch adjusted the canister slightly so that the weakest-looking part of the casing would take the full force of the steel door. He slammed it again. He felt the door close a little further, but it still didn’t shut. As he opened it once more, the canister fell onto the car floor and rolled slowly under Kinch’s seat. Itch watched it as the mangled metal rotated twice and then stopped. At its base, where the unreadable words were, was a small but clearly defined gash. Shutting the door quickly – it clicked this time – Itch ran round the front of the car and knelt in front of Jack.

  ‘I think I did it! I slammed the door on it and I think it’s been punctured, but I can’t be sure … And I used all of it, in case you were wondering.’

  Jack snorted and coughed. ‘Was there gas coming out when you shut the door?’ she asked from between her knees.

  ‘It’s colourless and odourless, Jack. I was hoping for a hiss or something, but I couldn’t hear anything. We’ll find out sooner or later.’

  ‘How long does it take to work?’

  ‘Don’t know, but keep this up anyway. If it’s going to work it’ll be in the next few minutes.’

  ‘How many is a few?’

  Itch put his hand on Jack’s shoulder and looked up at Flowerdew, who was still jabbering into his phone. Catching Itch’s eye, he was waving them back into the car when Jack really was sick. Flowerdew watched and then resumed his conversation. Itch offered her the bottle of water he’d been given at breakfast, and some tissues, then moved round to sit next to her on the kerb. She took both and leaned against him, her eyes closed. Itch looked at Kinch and Flowerdew and sat up, nudging Jack. He was laughing.

  ‘It’s worked! Jack, look, they’re out of it! Ha!’

  He helped Jack to her feet, and they both stood staring at the occupants of the car. The driver and passenger looked as if they had just parked up for a nap. Kinch’s head was wedged up against the driver’s side window, his mouth wide open. Flowerdew had slumped back, his head lolling uncomfortably towards Kinch. The xenon had emptied itself into the car and, distributed by the powerful air-con system, had been inhaled by Kinch and Flowerdew in sufficient quantities to render them unconscious in two minutes. The cousins stood transfixed by what they had done.

  For a few seconds they took it in turns to stand in front of the car and call Flowerdew every bad word they had ever heard, but feeling they might be attracting attention, Jack pulled at Itch’s shirt.

  ‘Come on – get the rocks. We don’t know how long they’ll stay like that and we have to open the door to get the box. Let’s go.’

  Itch held her back. ‘No, wait a bit. Let the xenon do its work. They’ll be going deeper, I think. In a few minutes we could operate on them and they wouldn’t wake up.’

  ‘Now that is tempting,’ said Jack as they stood shakily and counted out about two minutes.

  ‘OK, let’s get the rocks,’ said Itch, not able to wait any longer. ‘This needs to be quick. Hold your breath.’ He opened the front passenger door and pulled out the lead-lined toolbox, still in the canvas bag, out from under Flowerdew’s feet. Next to it, he spotted the briefcase and took that too. Then he leaned across and removed the key from the ignition, shut the door, and then locked the car. Itch threw the key into a nearby bush.

  ‘Sweet,’ said Jack. ‘Now can we go? Give me the rucksack.’

  Itch chucked it to her and she shouldered it. He picked up the canvas bag and its familiar weight cut into his hands. ‘Can you take this too?’ he asked, handing Flowerdew’s briefcase over.

  ‘That’s stealing, Itchingham Lofte.’

  ‘We’ll give it back,’ he said, grinning. ‘Let’s go.’

  As quickly as they could, they left the car with its sleeping occupants behind and headed in the direction of the last tube station they had passed.

  Hammersmith underground was five minutes away; they ran there in two. Flying past the shoppers and tourists, they enjoyed the anonymity – no one looked twice at two teenagers with a rucksack and a couple of bags, even if they were in a hurry.

  To reach the tube platforms, the cousins ran into a large shopping centre. It offered many fast food restaurants and Jack slowed and then stopped, pulling on Itch’s arm.

  ‘Itch,’ she panted. ‘Toilet. Now.’

  He didn’t argue and they went inside the brightly lit burger bar. The neon lights made them both feel even more exhausted and pale, but they tucked themselves into a booth, with a table between them. As soon as their bags were safely stowed Jack excused herself and headed for the toilet.

  Itch opened Flowerdew’s briefcase and then shut it immediately. Making sure that no one was watching, he took another look. A laptop, its light still on, Flowerdew’s black cap, some papers and a lot of money. He removed the cap, putting it on straight away, and the laptop, which he laid on the table. The shopping centre offered free Wi-Fi, and Itch spent a few minutes Googling for train times, making some scribbled notes on a paper napkin. He stopped as Jack appeared, sho
ving the napkin in his pocket. She walked slowly and unsteadily to the table. He didn’t need to ask and she didn’t need to say.

  Itch took a ten-pound note out of the briefcase and went to get some water and two large portions of chips. He didn’t think they’d feel like eating, but in minutes every chip had disappeared.

  As Jack drank her water, some of the colour came back to her cheeks, but she had started to shake again. ‘I need to stop, Itch. I’m where Chloe was last night – I need to stop …’

  Itch didn’t respond, and she added, ‘I’m tired.’

  Itch didn’t need to be a doctor to tell that Jack’s self-diagnosis was correct. She had had enough and she needed help.

  ‘OK, Jack,’ he said, ‘we’ll get you help, but I need your help one last time. I have a train to catch and I might not make it without you. Last time. Promise.’

  Jack’s eyes were filling with tears. ‘Of course – I’ll try. I’m just sorry to let you down.’ She reached for a napkin and dabbed at her cheeks. ‘Remind me why this isn’t the end, though? Haven’t we done what we needed to?’

  Itch dug into his pocket and pulled out Cake’s note. He read out loud: ‘You need to get rid of them. These are dangerous. Don’t trust anyone.’ He handed it to Jack, as if for verification, but she pushed it away.

  ‘And what if he’s wrong? What if you actually can trust someone? And what if it’s the police you can trust? We could call them now and they would come and get us. Then we’d be safe – and so would the rocks.’

  ‘I wish that was true, Jack, I really do. But look what’s happened. Cake is dead. We’re sick, Chloe’s sick. Flowerdew and Kinch were happy to see us poisoned and probably dead. Those people back at the mining school – whoever they were – had guns. That’s five people in twenty-four hours who would kill for these.’ Itch tapped the canvas bag. ‘What’s more, they are still out there. And others too who haven’t found us yet. These rocks are a curse, Jack. Look here.’ He looked at Cake’s note again. ‘I wish I had never seen them. You need to get rid of them. That’s what he wrote.’

  ‘But Dr Alexander told us how brilliant they were and how much good they could do. In the right hands,’ Jack pointed out.

  ‘Does it feel like that to you? He also said the Earth had provided us with a gift! Ha! Some gift.’ Itch slurped on the remains of his water. ‘Flowerdew said wars have been fought over less, that even with the best intentions it’ll always be the destructive power of these rocks that wins the day.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘In the car, on the phone. Scary stuff. What’s that old sixties song your dad sings? Return to Sender? Well, I reckon that’s about right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Not sure yet. But I made the wrong call over the arsenic, Jack. I put everyone in our class in danger. I’m not going to make the wrong choice this time.’

  ‘You can’t compare—’ started Jack.

  ‘I can. I was protecting myself, that’s all. I keep wondering what would have happened if they had got worse. I could have done something – just rung the hospital, even – but I didn’t.’ Itch looked at his cousin. ‘I’m going to put that right. Return to sender.’

  ‘But all that stuff about an exciting new energy source …’ Jack was struggling to keep much force in her argument.

  ‘Jack, we can’t look after what we’ve got, never mind bringing this stuff along. It’s too much, it’s too powerful. Do you remember when we found Cake by the beach huts?’

  Jack nodded. ‘That seems such a long time ago.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he said something about how everything would change – everyone would want this stuff and we shouldn’t tell anyone. Not friends, not parents, not governments. I think he was right. It’s too late to keep it a secret, but it’s not too late to stop everything changing.’

  As Itch was speaking, Jack glanced through the burger bar’s large front window. Four policemen had just run into the shopping centre. ‘It’s make-your-mind-up time,’ she said.

  ‘Already made it,’ said Itch.

  A passing policeman on his way to Hammersmith police station noticed two sleeping men in a Lexus that had been reported stolen. Back-up arrived quickly; they had, after all, only two hundred metres to travel. Knocking on the driver’s window produced no reaction, and when the passenger proved impossible to rouse too, a passing ambulance was flagged down. One officer broke the driver’s window, reached inside and opened the door. Both occupants stirred as they were handcuffed, the driver then becoming abusive and head-butting an officer. CS gas was sprayed in his face. A quick examination of the car revealed the battered and pierced canister under the driver’s seat, and the senior policeman reached for his radio. When an old lady came out of a nearby flat and mentioned seeing two young men with bags and a rucksack running towards the station, the officer spoke quickly to his controller and they all headed for the underground.

  Two miles away, near Paddington, the figures of Christophe Revere and Jan Van Den Hauwe appeared on the conference screen at Greencorps’ London office. Standing in a rough semicircle, watching, were Roshanna Wing, Bud Collins and Volker Berghahn, now with his sunglasses off, revealing livid red blisters around his eyes. His short brown hair was singed even shorter, with little lighter burned hairs littering his shoulders like dandruff. The three of them stood together at one end of the room, and they had been joined by a small number of suited security officers, whose job it was to protect the interests of Greencorps in the UK. They looked like security men the world over: alert, poised, suspicious. Each of them – Wing counted eight – had cropped hair and an earpiece. They looked suspiciously at the new arrivals, but Van Den Hauwe made the pecking order very clear:

  ‘This is Roshanna Wing; she reports directly to Mr Revere and me. She takes instructions from us and gives them to you. I’m sure you all understand that. She will tell you more about what – and who – we are trying to locate. Some context from me, and then I’ll leave it to Roshanna. Time is not on our side.’ The Dutchman paused, looking uncertain for a moment, then continued. ‘It is possible the whole of our industry is threatened by these rocks. Therefore Greencorps is threatened – your jobs are threatened. A former colleague has already been taken into custody, we understand. We won’t be seeing him for a while. Find the rocks, gentlemen. Failing that, make sure the agents of the British government don’t get hold of them.’ He smiled. ‘It’s as easy as that. Best of luck.’ The screen went blank.

  Roshanna Wing turned to address the men, who were now looking at her. ‘In the last few minutes we’ve picked up reports indicating that former Greencorps chemist Dr Nathaniel Flowerdew has been picked up by the police in Hammersmith. It sounds as if he was drugged with an anaesthetic and the two kids ran off with the rocks towards Hammersmith tube station. Let us assume they are heading for one of the mainline stations or possibly Heathrow. We need at least one agent in every station. We are looking for a needle in a haystack, but two tall teenagers carrying a rucksack and a large canvas bag between them is at least something to go on. It is likely that there will be others looking for them. We think Flowerdew was in London to trade – almost certainly with one of the Nigerian outfits you have faced before. They will want these rocks very, very badly, and will stop at nothing to get them. However, as you heard from Mr Van Den Hauwe, even this is preferable to the British police or MI6 getting them. Use force only as a last resort – usual Greencorps protocol applies. Bud Collins here will tell you where you are going. Reports to me, please. Now, go.’

  25

  ITCH AND JACK watched as the four policemen ran into the shopping centre, causing heads to turn everywhere. The sight of Met officers racing towards a tube station entrance caused instant alarm, and when six more arrived a few moments later, many shoppers decided to leave.

  ‘Come on,’ said Itch, and they joined the exodus. Itch headed straight for the taxi rank. ‘I was going to use the tube but that’s not going to work now,’ he said.
>
  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To spend some of Flowerdew’s money on a taxi.’

  There was a small line of black cabs and no queue. The first one was driven by a woman, who smiled as she saw the two teenagers struggling with their bags and jumped out to help.

  ‘All right, loves? Where to with this lot, then?’ She was a large woman in her mid-fifties, dressed in a tracksuit with FULHAM FC on the front.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Itch, but she insisted.

  ‘I’ll just put these here, shall I?’ She indicated the front of the car next to her, but Itch shook his head.

  ‘No!’ It came out louder than he had intended. ‘No – in with us, please.’

  ‘OK, suit yourself.’ And she hoisted the canvas bag into the back of the cab. Jack and Itch climbed in with the rucksack and briefcase.

  ‘Victoria Station, please,’ said Itch.

  ‘Right you are, loves. I must say—’

  But Itch cut her off by switching off the intercom and pulling the glass divide across. She looked at them both in the mirror, shrugged and pulled out into the London traffic.

  Itch sat on the folding seat behind the driver, facing Jack. He leaned towards his cousin and spoke very quietly.

  ‘This is your last stop, Jack. You need a doctor and I need to disappear. With them.’ He pointed to the canvas bag. ‘And even if you were OK, I’d have to do this last bit alone.’

  Jack looked puzzled.

  Itch continued, trying to sound more certain than he was feeling. ‘Listen, I’m going to try and get rid of them. I think I know of somewhere that might … well, take them in. But since there are so many people who want to get hold of them – pretty nasty people too – then it’s better if I’m the only person who knows where they’ll be.’ He gulped. He’d thought his plan through, but saying it out loud made it sound much more scary. He hoped Jack hadn’t noticed the new tension in his voice.