Itchcraft

by Simon Mayo

  ‘We don’t know. Our job to check,’ said Callier.

  The fire engine sped round the one-way system that Itch had run down earlier. Lights flashing, it crowned the hill at fifty miles an hour; cars and vans pulled over as they heard the siren. As they flew down from the golf course, Itch, slouching low, could clearly see the black smoke now – clouds of it being blown inland, swooping low and then dispersing in the wind. The firefighters had seen it too. In the cab, no one spoke.

  Next to Itch, the firefighter listened to someone from the parcel delivery service and tensed. He repeated the information, his voice strained and loud.

  ‘Three parcels delivered this morning. Recipients as follows . . . Mr John Watkins . . .’ He paused, swallowed. ‘Itchingham Lofte . . .’ Itch gripped the arms of his seat. He felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but it was what came next that sent ice through him. ‘And Dr Felicity Dart. At the Cornwall Academy.’

  Chloe’s phone rang. ‘It’s Itch, Dr Dart!’

  ‘OK, take the call.’

  She hit the button. ‘Itch! Tell me—’

  ‘Chloe, this is Sergeant Wes Callier from the Cornwall Fire Service. It’s very important that you listen to me. Are you with the principal, Dr Felicity Dart?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Put her on please. Now.’

  Chloe handed her phone to Dr Dart. ‘It’s the fire service, miss. They want to speak to you.’ She saw Jack and Miss Hopkins tense.

  The principal took the phone. ‘This is Dr Dart – who am I speaking to?’

  The fireman had one of those voices that, even through a phone, everyone could hear; Dr Dart held Chloe’s phone a few centimetres from her ear. In the pin-drop silence of the office, they could hear the siren in the background.

  ‘Have you had a delivery from a parcel company this morning, Dr Dart? In the last half-hour?’ the fireman asked.

  ‘A parcel? I don’t know . . .’ She looked at her secretary. Sarah Hopkins nodded and pointed to the large brown jiffy bag propped up against her phone.

  ‘Ah, yes. It’s here on my desk. I hadn’t noticed. Do you want me to open it?’

  ‘No! Touch nothing!’ The fireman was shouting now. ‘Dr Dart, please leave your office now. Do not touch the parcel. Do I make myself clear? Do not touch the parcel. Leave your office and evacuate the school. Hit the fire alarm. Do it now. Stay on the phone. Tell me what you are doing.’

  The principal was flat against the window and was staring at her desk. ‘Is it a . . . bomb?’ Her voice was no more than a whisper.

  ‘LEAVE YOUR OFFICE. EVACUATE THE SCHOOL. NOW. DO IT NOW.’

  Before she had even moved, Chloe and Jack ran out of the office. The nearest fire alarm was outside the staff room, and Chloe smashed it. As the sound of the bells filled the school, Jack ran into the staff room. Miss Glenacre was the only occupant. She looked up in surprise.

  ‘Tell Dr Dart that Chloe and I have gone to the fire at her house,’ Jack shouted. ‘We’ve gone to find Itch.’

  And they ran.

  Sergeant Callier was still shouting down the phone when the fire engine tore into Itch’s road. The smoke was thicker now, and rolling towards them, checking their progress. Small groups of neighbours and passers-by stood on the pavements, a few spilling onto the road. As they heard and then saw the fire engine, they scattered, clearing a path.

  Itch had started shaking again. ‘There’s a parcel at the CA too, isn’t there? Is my sister OK?’ he asked. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a parcel there. And yes, she’s OK,’ said Callier. ‘They’re evacuating the school. At least, that’s what I’ve told them to do.’ He grabbed the truck’s radio to report events at the academy to his HQ.

  Itch wanted to call his mum and dad, but realized that he was scared of them not answering. And they hadn’t called him . . . But he was here now – it was too late. He could talk to them himself.

  Maybe.

  As the truck screeched to a halt alongside an empty police car, the firefighters called advice, encouragement and support to each other.

  ‘All right, let’s go!’

  ‘Equipment check! Oxygen check!’

  ‘Back-up coming from Launceston; more police here in two minutes!’

  ‘Fire’s at the back! Ground floor!’

  As they jumped from the cab, Callier grabbed Itch by the shoulders. ‘You stay here till I say. Got it? You stay right here.’

  Itch nodded. He watched as the crew ran straight towards the flames. The fire looked every bit as terrifying as he’d expected . . . with one major qualification: it wasn’t his house. The adjoining house, which had until recently been occupied by the MI5 security team, was the one that was burning. For a few seconds, waves of relief flooded through him.

  Then, as the firefighters ran in, his father staggered out. It took a fraction of a second for Itch to realize that the figure over his shoulder was his mother.

  Itch found the door handle and jumped out of the truck. ‘Dad! Dad! Is she OK?’

  ‘It’s the smoke,’ he shouted. ‘She’ll be OK, I think. Got to her in time.’ He laid her down against the garden wall, and a passing firefighter handed him his oxygen mask. Nicholas placed it over Jude’s mouth; her breathing steadied and she opened her eyes.

  ‘Hi, Mum!’ said Itch, and she smiled and nodded. She tried to say something but started coughing.

  ‘Hush,’ said Nicholas. ‘Just breathe deeply.’

  ‘At least you’re all out,’ said Itch. ‘Will our house be OK, Dad?’

  Nicholas turned to look at him, his face smudged with soot, his eyes red. ‘There’s a policeman in there, Itch. He took the blast. We were trying to get to him. We came close—’ Then he too began to cough and broke off.

  Horrified, Itch looked again at the burning house.

  The ambulances arrived, with three police cars behind them. The road was now blocked with emergency vehicles, their flashing blue lights stark against the black smoke. Itch, Nicholas and Jude watched as the fire crews rushed to douse the flames. The vast pipes pumped gallons of water into what Itch still thought of as the Cole house, and within ten minutes the fire was out.

  Jack and Chloe arrived, terrified and exhausted . . . then relieved as they saw their family safe. They all sat against the wall of the house opposite. Jack’s father, Jon, arrived, briefly embraced his daughter, then sat down next to Nicholas. There was much to say, but once they had been told that the policeman had died, they all fell silent. When his body was brought out, the rescue workers paused; some removed helmets. Led by Nicholas, the Loftes all stood and bowed their heads.

  ‘What happens now, Dad?’ said Chloe.

  ‘We’ll be told soon enough,’ said Nicholas.

  A paramedic came over with some blankets; he talked to Jude, but she waved him away. ‘I’m fine really. It was just the smoke. I’ve had some oxygen.’ She smiled weakly, then turned to Nicholas. ‘This family has seen the inside of too many hospitals. I’m not going unless I’m out cold!’

  ‘Fair enough . . .’ He managed a brief smile.

  Chloe and Jack’s phones were buzzing constantly; they typed replies as quickly as they could. Then Jack stopped and held her hand over her mouth.

  ‘What is it, Jack?’ asked Jude. ‘Are you OK?’

  Jack showed her screen to her aunt.

  ‘Oh my!’

  The phone was passed along in silence, but Itch, at the end of the line, refused to look.

  ‘I know what it’s going to say,’ he said, his voice tight. ‘Don’t need to see it.’

  Sergeant Callier emerged from the house and walked over to where the Loftes were sitting. Before he could speak, Nicholas said, ‘What was his name?’

  Callier nodded. ‘Tony Marston. PC Tony Marston. His family are being told now.’ He paused. ‘And I’m afraid it’s bad news from the canal fire. My colleagues found a body there. They’re certain it’s John Watkins. I’m sorry – I understand you knew him. Though
t you should know.’ Chloe and Jack started to cry silently as the fireman put his helmet back on. ‘You got somewhere to go?’ he asked Nicholas and Jude. ‘Your house is fine, but we need to check everything before you’re allowed back in.’

  Jon Lofte put up his hand. ‘They can stay with us. Plenty of room.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Callier. ‘We’ll let you know when you can return.’ He walked to where Itch was sitting and crouched down. ‘You probably saved some lives today,’ he said.

  Itch, stony-faced, looked at the firefighter.

  Callier continued, ‘You told us about the package at Mr Watkins’s house. If we hadn’t warned the CA, that package would have gone off too. Someone owes you.’

  ‘OK. Thanks,’ said Itch numbly. But Mr Watkins is dead, he thought. And that’s my fault. And whatever anyone says, I’ll always know it was my fault.

  When the firefighter had gone, Jack and Chloe came and sat with Itch.

  ‘So let’s get this clear,’ said Jude softly. ‘Someone has just sent you a parcel bomb, Itch. Someone has tried to kill you.’ Nicholas put his arm around her.

  Itch nodded. ‘We know who it is, Mum. It’s not a someone. It’s Flowerdew – it has to be. But he killed the policeman who was checking the mail, not me.’

  ‘And a package arrived at school,’ cried Chloe. ‘I saw it! It was addressed to Dr Dart. The academy was evacuated . . .’

  ‘And a fire has killed poor John Watkins,’ finished Jude.

  ‘He got a parcel too,’ said Itch.

  ‘Are there more?’ asked Chloe. ‘Have they stopped now?’

  Jack tensed, but Itch held her arm. ‘There were three packages,’ he said. ‘They checked with the parcel firm.’

  ‘So we’re safe now?’

  Itch stared at the charred house and at the sombre police and fire crew, quietly going about their business.

  ‘Doesn’t really feel like it,’ he said.

  10

  The six divers stood in front of the two oilmen. Leila, Chika, Aisha, Sade, Dada and Tobi took it in turns to tell their stories. In the heat and stink of the basement, they spoke of how they had come to work for Greencorps, fallen in with Shivvi and become the best diving team in the company’s history. And then how they had been disbanded, sacked and their leader punished.

  ‘We know she was a bitch,’ said Leila. ‘We know she was a criminal – but she looked after us better than you did.’ She crouched in between the sweating Revere and Van Den Hauwe. ‘Imagine that. A convicted criminal looking after Greencorps employees better than the company itself. You must be so proud.’

  A muffled sound came from the Dutchman. It was the best he could manage with his socks in his mouth.

  Leila nodded. ‘I’ll take that to mean you’re very sorry and wish to make amends for your sins.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And that the two million dollars will be transferred today.’

  He nodded again.

  ‘And that you’ll resign from Greencorps. Also today.’

  They both nodded.

  She stood up and faced her colleagues. ‘We are done here. Dada, stay and watch them. Let’s get to work.’ The divers filed out, Chika making sure she kicked both men on her way out.

  Revere and Van Den Hauwe stared at their remaining captor; with shaved head and large hoop earrings, she stared straight back at them. It looked as though both men wanted to talk, both straining against their ropes.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Dada. ‘Divers know how to tie knots. It’ll all be over soon anyway.’ She sat on a stool and picked up a magazine. Eventually the men were silent.

  Outside, the Lagos traffic was a distant rumble. Inside, the only sounds were the oilmen’s heavy breathing and the rustle of Dada’s magazine. The temperature was stifling and both men appeared to be asleep. Until a voice said, ‘I’d leave, if I was you.’ Then they were wide awake.

  Dada jumped up, dropping her magazine, a diving knife appearing in her hand. ‘Who the hell . . .? Oh God . . . no.’ She shrank back into her chair, reaching for her phone.

  ‘Most unwise, sweetheart,’ said Nathaniel Flowerdew, and pointed a gun at her head. She looked at it, then at the heavily bandaged face, and dropped the knife. Both hands went in the air. ‘Better,’ he said. ‘Which one are you, by the way? Shivvi did tell me about her little gang of divers, but I never took much notice . . .’

  Dada swore viciously in Malay and Flowerdew laughed.

  ‘Ah yes, I remember Shivvi telling me to do that too. Oh well – no matter,’ and he turned to the trussed and panicking oilmen. ‘You can still tell who I am, then . . .’ He indicated his bandaged face and arm. ‘Despite my . . . clever disguise.’ He grabbed Dada’s stool and placed it in front of Revere and Van Den Hauwe. ‘I am Dr Nathaniel Flowerdew, and you are both about to sell me your company. How’s that for a fun day?’

  ‘Thought I’d find you here.’

  Itch nodded without looking up. He didn’t want company, but Lucy had already sat down; the beach-hut door gave a little as she settled against it. They sat in silence watching the crashing surf. It would be high tide soon, and the larger waves covered them with a fine spray of salt water.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ said Lucy.

  Itch shrugged.

  ‘You’re shivering – let me get—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Itch, and Lucy watched the sea some more.

  ‘Give me two minutes . . .’ She ran back to the car park. She reappeared with two steaming polystyrene cups and handed one to Itch. ‘Cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Car-park café’s finest.’

  ‘I don’t like tea,’ Itch said, but took the scalding cup anyway.

  ‘You do now,’ said Lucy. ‘H2O plus tea leaves plus heat equals . . . er, feeling better. Something like that, anyway.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  They sat in silence again.

  ‘My dad liked it here,’ said Lucy. ‘He brought me here several times. He loved the surf, the beach – the whole thing.’

  ‘And this is where he gave me the 126,’ said Itch. ‘Just the one rock. From that satchel he had.’ They both smiled at the memory and were silent again. Itch squeaked the lid from the cup and sipped some of the tea. He pulled a face and Lucy laughed. ‘It really is disgusting, you know,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I know. But it’s hot, so drink it anyway.’

  ‘OK – thanks, Mum . . .’

  Lucy put her hand on his arm. ‘Listen, Itch, I know you were close to Mr Watkins. I’m so sorry. He was a great teacher.’

  ‘The best,’ said Itch. ‘And he’d still be alive if I hadn’t started this whole thing.’

  ‘You can’t think like that, Itch—’

  ‘Yeah, well, I do think like that,’ he snapped. ‘I do think like that because it happens to be true. If I hadn’t taken the 126 to school, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Lucy. ‘But why were you into this element-hunting in the first place?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Why are you an element hunter? Who started it?’

  ‘Er, my dad gave me a book—’

  ‘So it’s your dad’s fault, then. Who got him into it?’

  ‘My grandad said—’

  ‘So blame him, then.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Lucy. ‘But Mr Watkins died because someone sent him a parcel bomb—’

  ‘I think we all know who did it.’

  ‘OK . . . Watkins died because Flowerdew sent him a parcel bomb. And you. And the CA. But he did it. It’s his fault and no one else’s.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Itch. ‘Maybe.’ He sipped and winced again. ‘Don’t suppose I’ll have a teacher like him again. He always listened, Lucy. He was always . . . there. Always the same. Stood up for us against Flowerdew. And Shivvi. That beating he took from her is the reason he—’

  ‘Stop,’ said Lucy. ‘You’re doing it again.’

  I
tch’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and answered it. ‘OK, see you in five.’ He turned to Lucy. ‘That was Mum. The police want to talk to me. And I have to go to the police station as the press are outside Jack’s place. My dad’s on his way.’

  ‘Have you caught him?’ said Itch as two police officers walked into the interview room. ‘Have you caught Flowerdew?’ He and his father had been sitting at a plain wooden table, but he had jumped up as soon as the door opened.

  ‘I’m DCI Abbott – Jane Abbott.’ A woman with shoulder-length grey-flecked hair smiled briefly at Itch. ‘And this is DCI Underwood . . .’ An overweight man with glasses and a beard nodded. Itch wanted to say that he didn’t look like a policeman but thought better of it. They all shook hands.

  ‘You must be Nicholas Lofte?’ said Abbott.

  Nicholas nodded.

  ‘Now, then . . .’ She turned to Itch. ‘Have we caught who?’

  Itch looked at his father, then back at the policewoman. ‘Well, Flowerdew obviously. The man who sent the parcels. The man who killed my teacher . . . the man who tried to kill me.’

  ‘And sent the bomb to the Cornwall Academy?’ asked Abbott.

  ‘Yes!’ said Itch, sounding exasperated. ‘Of course!’

  ‘Well, I think we’re getting just a little bit ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?’ Abbott gave a tight smile, and Itch sensed his father bridle.

  ‘My son is fifteen, not five. Someone has tried to kill him today, my neighbour’s house got blown up instead, and one of your colleagues was killed taking the blast. So try keeping that patronizing tone from your voice, if you don’t mind.’ Nicholas sat back and glared at the woman across the table.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘OK, I’ll try again . . .’ She checked some papers in front of her. ‘PC Marston died opening a package he had taken to your neighbour’s house to check. He had a wife and baby.’ She stopped and looked up at Itch and Nicholas. Itch felt something was wrong. That sounded like she’s thinking it was our fault.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Nicholas quietly.

  DCI Abbott nodded and continued. ‘His colleague was burned in the fire and has gone to hospital.’ Again the look up, and Itch fidgeted in his seat. ‘According to the fire team, the rear of the next-door house is smoke-damaged and will need major work. Your house is fine, and you can return as soon as the investigations are complete.’