by Simon Mayo
‘Move along up there! You all have lessons to get to!’ It was Dr Dart, the CA principal, the owner of the loudest voice in the school.
Jack and Itch took her advice while it was still reverberating around the stairwell. Taking the remaining steps two at a time, they shot to the next floor turning right for the ICT room.
‘They actually waited for us, Jack! They waited for us!’ Itch was running down the corridor, his eyes wide with surprise. ‘I thought you’d totally lost it, making them wait like that. Maybe that story about me killing Flowerdew is quite useful after all!’
Jack laughed as they burst into the ICT room.
School finished at 3.45, and Itch, Jack and Chloe met in the entrance hall. While MI5 had been escorting them home, they’d had to wait until most of the pupils had left. Now they were on their own, they relished the freedom to leave when they wanted.
‘You can come back to mine if you want,’ said Jack as they stepped out into the damp and gloom. ‘I could make you an omelette or something.’
Chloe nodded, but Itch wasn’t listening. ‘That was weird,’ he said, ‘not having Mr Watkins around.’
‘That and being clapped when we walked into the classroom!’ added Jack.
‘I heard about that,’ said Chloe, smiling. ‘Hey, Itch, you got applauded! That must have been great!’
‘Well, it’s certainly never happened before,’ he said. ‘It was embarrassing, really. But better than being made fun of, I guess. It would just have been better with Watkins around, that’s all. He’s just always been there – every day I’ve been to the CA. And he was my form teacher for two years. I mean, Hampton’s OK, but . . .’ He tailed off. ‘And it’s my fault really.’
‘That’s stupid,’ said Chloe. ‘It’s Shivvi’s fault Watkins has retired. She’s the one who smashed him with the bat, not you.’
‘She’s right, Itch,’ said Jack. ‘You know she is. Now, you coming for some food or not?’
‘Let’s go and see him,’ he said, catching up. ‘Let’s go and see Mr Watkins – call in on our way home. See how he’s doing.’
‘Good call,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll text my folks and tell them where we are. They’re a little more nervous than they used to be about what I’m doing.’
‘Which you have to say is fair enough,’ said Chloe. ‘I’ll call Dad and tell him what we’re doing too.’
Ducking out of the main flow of the students who were heading home through town, Itch, Jack and Chloe turned left towards the canal. John Watkins lived in a small group of houses that had been built at the end of the towpath, just a few metres from the sea. As Itch’s form tutor and geography teacher, Mr Watkins had been Itch’s biggest supporter at the academy. He had stood up to Flowerdew too, challenging him after the chemistry teacher had stolen Itch’s first piece of 126.
A light drizzle had started, and was in the process of turning the towpath into a mudslide. They picked their way along it with care, the only light now from two weak streetlamps.
‘Happy without your rucksack?’ asked Jack. ‘Must seem a bit strange . . .’
Itch shrugged. ‘Just seemed easier for everyone if I left it at home. And I wondered if some people are actually scared of it – like it’s a bag of potions or something. Seems stupid, but I thought I’d use Gabriel’s bag. I was going to try and make some friends, if you remember.’
Jack laughed. ‘Yeah, I remember! Well, that wasn’t a bad start. Where’s the element collection now?’
‘Some of it is still in my room!’ said Chloe. ‘He came back from South Africa with loads of stuff, and it was too heavy for one bag. So me and Dad had to share the weight. Anytime you want to come and collect—’
‘We only arrived back yesterday, Chloe!’ Itch said. ‘Give me a chance. I’m sort of running out of space – don’t know where to put everything. They’re all rare earths, I think . . . I’ll sort them out tonight.’ He looked ahead to see if Watkins’s lights were on. ‘Maybe we should have called him first. Looks pretty dark down there.’
They slithered up to the front door and a safety light clicked on. Up close they heard soft classical music coming from inside. Itch smiled at the others and rapped the iron door knocker twice. Seeing no sign of movement inside, he knocked again.
‘Wait . . .’ said Jack. She put her ear to the door and started to mime the actions of a pianist, running her hands across the keys. ‘Coming up . . .’ she said. ‘Sounds like it’s finishing any moment now . . .’ She gave a great flourish, her fingers hitting a series of invisible chords. ‘Try again, Itch!’
He knocked loudly – three times this time – and within seconds a silhouette appeared behind the frosted glass.
‘There you go!’ said Jack. Itch and Chloe started to applaud her, and she bowed theatrically.
‘Who’s there?’ called the figure from inside. Itch, Jack and Chloe immediately stopped their pantomime and a look of concern crossed their faces.
‘He sounds really scared!’ said Chloe in a whisper.
‘Sir – it’s us, sir! Itch, Jack and Chloe Lofte!’ called Itch hurriedly.
They heard, ‘Oh my goodness – oh, thank heavens!’ through the door and then the sound of three locks being undone and a chain unhooked. The door opened, and John Watkins, the recently retired head of geography at the Cornwall Academy, peered out at his visitors. Then he smiled. ‘Come in, come in!’ he said breathlessly, and stood aside as the Loftes all trooped in. ‘Were you outside long? I was, er, listening to some music.’ He pointed to his study, where the piano and orchestra had started up again.
‘Is it OK, sir?’ said Itch. ‘We thought we’d call in on our way home to see how you are . . .’
‘Yes, yes – of course!’ Mr Watkins seemed flustered. ‘I get a little nervous these days, I’m afraid. After the attack – you know . . . Anyway, come into the kitchen.’ He quickly pulled his study door shut, and the music faded.
‘Nice tune,’ said Jack.
‘Do you like it?’ Watkins followed them into the kitchen. ‘It’s Mozart’s twenty-first piano concerto – marvellous stuff!’
‘We didn’t mean to interrupt your work,’ said Itch.
‘No, that’s OK,’ said Watkins. ‘I was wondering how everyone was getting on. It felt strange not being there with you all, I must say. Missing the last few days of term was fine, but not being there for the start of the Easter term has made me rather sad, I’m afraid.’ He bustled over to the kettle. ‘Tea and toast OK?’
They all nodded, and Itch watched as he lifted the lid of his bread bin and got out a small loaf. He looked stooped and tired, Itch thought, and he could see a flesh-coloured plaster above Watkins’s left ear where Shivvi’s baseball bat had met his skull. His voice sounded thinner, more frail too. At least he was still wearing his yellow corduroy trousers and salmon-coloured cardigan – not everything had changed.
‘Do you wish you were still at the CA, then, sir?’ asked Itch.
‘Why, yes, of course . . .’ Mr Watkins sighed. ‘But it was the right decision to go.’ He felt for the plaster and pressed gently around its edges. ‘My head still hurts every morning – I have more tests due soon. But it could have been worse, much worse . . .’ He gazed distractedly through the window. ‘Anyway, now you have Mr Hampton, Itch – and you, Jack, of course – and a fine man he is, I believe.’
The kettle boiled, and Watkins made the tea. Chloe and Jack had moved to the kitchen table, which was strewn with papers and files.
‘Keeping busy, then, sir?’ said Jack as she pulled up a chair. And Watkins suddenly moved faster than Itch would have thought possible.
‘Ooh . . . yes. Let me just tidy this up . . . How messy of me!’ He swooped and quickly gathered up all the table’s contents into his arms. Some sheets of paper fell to the floor and Chloe picked them up. ‘Ah, Chloe, thank you. Yes, I’ll have those,’ he said, snatching the sheets of A4 from her.
The cousins exchanged glances as he dropped the papers into a dresser draw
er and slammed it shut.
‘Secret work, sir?’ chanced Jack. ‘An autobiography maybe?’
‘Ha! Nice one, Jack . . . No, that would be really, really dull. It’s . . . well . . .’ Itch thought he was trying to work out whether to tell them or not. ‘It’s just that . . . Well, it is – as you say – secret. For now, anyway.’
‘Oh, come on, sir!’ said Itch.
‘And any further questioning is totally pointless. It’s just some research, that’s all. Now, let’s pour the tea.’
Itch shrugged and changed the subject. ‘Did you see the news about the Greencorps bosses getting killed or kidnapped, sir? We saw it on South African TV. Who would do that?’
‘Yes, I saw that too,’ said Watkins. ‘And we all know someone who might want to have them . . . “done in”, shall we say. But it’s very lawless in parts of Nigeria – there are shootings and robberies all the time. And Greencorps must be very unpopular in Lagos as they were responsible for that oil spill, of course. Maybe it was revenge? Who knows . . .’ He forced a smile. ‘Anyway . . . who’s for jam?’
The walk home was as swift as they could manage. The drizzle had turned to sleet, and whichever direction they walked in, it seemed to be blowing into their faces. The town was almost deserted, and the shops were shutting.
‘What was all that about?’ Itch pulled his jacket collar up as far as it would go. ‘What could be so secret that Mr Watkins had to hide it as soon as we went in?’
‘And he didn’t want us in the front room either – did you see the way he shut the door?’ said Jack.
‘Mining deaths 1800 to 1877,’ said Chloe.
‘You what?’ said Itch.
‘Mining deaths 1800 to 1877. That’s what it said on the piece of paper I picked up. That’s all I saw, anyway.’
‘Mining deaths? Why would that be such a secret?’ wondered Jack. ‘Why couldn’t he just tell us?’
‘Dunno . . .’ Itch shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s gone a bit funny. Anyway, see you tomorrow, Jack. Come on, Chloe – let’s see if we can walk past a golf bunker without it blowing up.’
The phone was answered on its first ring.
‘Osiegbe,’ said the voice.
‘Flowerdew.’
There was a silence of many seconds. ‘I thought you were dead, Nathaniel.’
‘So did I. It was close. I’m still here, but the 126 is gone. I had it, but it was stolen from me and is now gone for ever. I’m sorry, Abu, but I have quite a lot of work for your people.’
‘Where are you? Sounds noisy.’
‘Afloat,’ said Flowerdew. ‘Moving around.’
‘How can I help you?’ said Abu Osiegbe. ‘What is the nature of your business?’
‘Revenge,’ said Flowerdew. ‘For now, just revenge . . .’
There was a throaty laugh from the other end of the phone. ‘I have helped with such matters in the past, it is true.’
‘I heard of the, er, package in Lagos last week,’ said Flowerdew. ‘It sounds as if your famed “postal service” is still in operation.’ There was silence at the other end and he pressed on. ‘What is the usual, er, contents of the parcels?’
‘Well, now, let me see . . . Some filings. A hint of a sparkly powder. Special ingredients . . . and extra toppings if you need them.’ A deep chuckle from the Nigerian.
‘Of course. Do you deliver to England?’
‘I could if needed, yes. But why – apart from the money you’ll be paying me – should I help you?’
‘Because’ – Flowerdew’s voice rose slightly – ‘these are the people responsible for you not having the 126. These are the thieves who took what is ours, Abu. The Greencorps men have been dealt with – Revere and Van Den Hauwe got what was coming to them – but the others are still untouched. That is why you should help.’
‘How many?’
‘I’ll email the details. How long will it take?’
‘Patience, my friend. As long as is necessary. But you won’t be disappointed with the results, I assure you.’
‘Payment will be made in the normal way?’ asked Flowerdew.
‘Yes, of course. But I must correct you on one thing before you go, Nathaniel. The Greencorps men have not been “dealt with”, as you say. In fact, I happen to know that there are . . .’ He paused to choose his words carefully. ‘There are many options being considered.’
Flowerdew cursed loudly. ‘OK. So I have to do everything myself. I’ll clear this up.’ And he broke the connection.
7
On the walk from English, Itch and Jack bumped into Lucy; her face lit up.
‘Hi, you guys! What’s happening? Coming to Hampton’s science thing?’ It was the first of the science club meetings of the new term, and Mr Hampton was particularly keen for everyone to be there.
‘Yes, I’m in,’ said Itch, ‘but it’s not really Jack’s thing.’
‘Got that right!’ agreed Jack. ‘One of us has to stay normal!’
Lucy punched her lightly on the arm and laughed. ‘Thanks a lot, Jack. Anyway, who wants to be normal?’
‘Actually, a bit of normal would be nice for a bit, don’t you think?’ said Jack. ‘And yesterday was weird – tell Lucy about going to Mr Watkins’s place.’
‘You did what?’ said Lucy, astonished.
Itch described the events of the previous afternoon: how John Watkins had clearly been keeping a secret from them, and how Chloe had got a glimpse of something about Mining Deaths 1800 to 1877.
‘Ooh, interesting,’ said Lucy. ‘Let’s Google it.’ They had arrived outside the chemistry lab, and Jack made as if to leave, but Lucy linked arms with her. ‘Just come in and see what we come up with, Jack.’
Taking a seat at the front bench, she typed into her phone, and the three of them stared at the screen.
‘History of Ireland, the Act of Union and the Great Famine,’ read Lucy. ‘Colorado Mining Disasters, Special Pizza Deals. Hmm . . . not really what we were after.’
‘Add Cornwall to the search,’ said Jack, just as Mr Hampton strode into the lab. He acknowledged the small gathering of pupils and then noticed his new arrival.
‘Hi, Jack! Knew we’d get you in the end.’ He smiled and came over.
‘Actually I was just leaving, sir . . . I was talking to the guys here and—’ She broke off, distracted by the sight of a small pink butterfly earring sparkling from Hampton’s left earlobe. ‘Er, sir, that’s gross,’ she said.
‘What is?’ he asked, and Jack pointed to his ear. ‘Oh, that! I thought it was rather cute. My daughter gave it to me.’ He pulled at the butterfly and it came away in his hand. ‘I could have tried this . . .’ he said, and fixed it to his other ear. ‘Or this . . .’ When he had removed his hands from his nose, the butterfly was fixed to its side.
‘Is it glue, sir?’ asked Lucy. ‘I can’t see any piercings!’
‘No, it’s a tiny neodymium magnet. Itch?’
‘Er, neodymium . . . it’s one of the rare earths. Symbol Nd, number 60 on the Periodic Table. And the strongest magnets we have.’
Mr Hampton grinned. ‘Well done, spot on. These are the smallest I’ve seen, but they still work through skin.’ He showed them the small magnetic backing, and how it and the butterfly jumped together. ‘You don’t want to be around larger neodymium magnets – they could easily mess up your hand. Here, watch this.’
He hit the YouTube app on his phone and found a video called Death Magnet. They gathered round the small screen and watched as handlers with gloves and protective glasses used small, shiny, circular magnets to smash cans, cigarette lighters and fruit. The cherry was particularly spectacular: as the two magnets flew together, they destroyed their target, sending skin and juice splattering onto a nearby wall. Someone whistled their admiration.
‘Now, who wants to wear a pink butterfly for a few minutes?’ Natalie Hussain’s hand went up and Mr Hampton threw her the earring. ‘But a warning – nothing bigger, ever. There have been cases of students using a neodymiu
m magnet to attach ornaments to themselves and then finding they needed surgery to get them off again.’ Almost everyone winced.
‘You got any neodymium?’ Jack asked Itch.
He shook his head. ‘No, but I’m thinking about it!’ he said.
‘Thought you might. That’s your birthday present sorted.’
At the end of the session, Mr Hampton cleared his throat to attract everyone’s attention. ‘Now, I’ve got something you really want to hear about,’ he said. He stood at the front of the lab, looking pleased with himself. ‘Dr Dart has given me the go ahead to organize a CA trip to the science museum in Spain. It’s in Madrid . . . It’s not normally a must-see, but they have some new exhibitions. There’s one on nanotechnology, another on 3D printers and, for the element hunters amongst us, a collection of Spanish silver, and how its mining was the start of the modern world. It’ll be at Easter, and you’ll get letters shortly.’
‘Why Madrid, sir?’ queried Itch. ‘It’s not exactly the best science museum we could visit. Munich’s much better.’
Mr Hampton looked unsettled. ‘Well, it’s been, er, updated recently. You may have missed that news. And there’s a good deal on at the moment . . .’ He paused as though he had more to say, but then continued, forcing a smile.
‘Who’s up for it? Assuming your folks all say yes? There are only a limited number of spaces. And it is warmer than the UK!’
Itch looked around – there were lots of hands up. He only vaguely recognized most of the others, but he knew Tom Westgate and Craig Murray from his form – and Natalie Hussain, with the butterfly earring fixed to her left ear, who had put both hands up.
‘Sir, can we bring friends? Please?’
‘Depends on you guys,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘There are ten places, and priority goes to those who come to this science club. If there are still spaces, then yes, of course. I’ll be in touch soon on this. Thanks, everyone.’
As they stood to leave, he added, ‘Itch and Jack – a quick word before you go, please.’
The cousins looked at each other and shrugged. ‘Tell me later,’ said Lucy, joining the others as they filed out. Mr Hampton closed the door behind them and came over to their bench.
