by Simon Mayo
‘Can’t see any of them, Jack,’ said Itch. ‘Reckon Fairnie’s the only one.’ He saw a movement at the back of the church: the arrival of the coffin. He spun back round, eyes fixed on the floor, just as the organist began playing and everyone stood.
But suddenly Itch didn’t want to stand. It was as if, by standing, he was accepting everything that had happened; by staying seated he was keeping Watkins alive for a few more minutes. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, choosing to concentrate on the ringing in his ears, not the funeral march playing in the church.
‘Itch! Stand up!’ He heard Chloe’s rebuke and felt her tugging his arm. ‘Itch, people are looking!’ He opened his eyes and turned to Chloe; tears were running down her face. ‘Please?’ she mouthed.
He nodded. There was no point in adding to his sister’s grief and he slowly unfolded himself; he felt Jack’s hand helping him up. By the time he was standing, the four pall-bearers had reached the front of the church and were lowering John Watkins’s coffin onto a stand. The white-robed priest stood silently at the front holding a large green book. She waited for the men to make the final adjustments. The organ finished playing.
‘Please sit down,’ she said, her words echoing around the church and bouncing off the high ceiling.
Everyone took their seats again and Itch picked up his order of service. The Funeral of John Gordon Watkins, it said, with a black-and-white photo on the front. It showed Mr Watkins smiling broadly, dressed in a large waterproof, on top of a mountain somewhere. A field trip presumably, thought Itch. He had one hand raised; it looked as if he was about to launch into one of his famous stories. Which they’d never hear again.
Before he knew it they were standing again, and the organ was playing the introduction to the first hymn. He heard the Brigadier start singing the words a fraction early, and glanced up. Other members of staff were smiling and nudging him, but Itch’s attention was taken by movement behind the curtain. The side entrance to the church was a smaller door with a porch, and a thick red curtain that could be pulled across it. Itch and his family had used this entrance earlier for a more discreet arrival, away from most of the journalists who had gathered to cover the funeral. The door had been shut and the curtain drawn soon after the Loftes had arrived, but now Itch was sure that someone else was there.
As the hymn continued, he watched the curtain. For most of a verse it didn’t move, and he began to think he had been seeing things. But then the heavy fabric twitched again, and Itch leaned forward. He saw four fingers holding it open, presumably to give someone a view of the funeral, and held his breath.
That can’t be right . . .
The hand twisted slightly, and now Itch was sure. The hand was bandaged.
The hymn continued, but Itch wasn’t singing. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t hear anything apart from the ringing in his ears which had started up again. He looked around him. No one else had noticed the movement behind the curtain, and he hesitated before alerting the others. He looked again, but the hand had disappeared, the velvet curtain hanging straight.
He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked round. The hymn had finished and he was the only one still standing. ‘Sit down!’ said Chloe, and he quickly took his seat again as the priest continued with the service.
‘What’s up?’ asked Jack quietly.
‘There’s someone behind that curtain . . .’ Itch pointed his order of service towards the side door.
‘So?’
So, thought Itch. Maybe that was right. Why shouldn’t there be someone there? A churchwarden maybe, or some other official. Maybe a reporter had followed them in. But a reporter with a bandaged hand?
The curtain was moving again, and this time he nudged Jack. The hand held the curtain away from the wall, and this time they both gasped. A face had appeared between the stone wall and the velvet. A face swathed in bandages.
Lucy and Chloe followed Itch and Jack’s gaze. The four of them were sitting close enough to each other to feel that they had all tensed.
‘It can’t be him!’ whispered Jack. ‘Not here!’
‘He’d have his face bandaged, though, wouldn’t he?’ said Lucy.
‘Itch?’ Chloe sounded scared. ‘You don’t think it’s him, do you?’
I don’t know . . . What do I think? wondered Itch. It would be madness for Flowerdew to turn up at the funeral of the man he had hated and then murdered. But then, he is mad, isn’t he? Watching the final humiliation would be exactly what he would enjoy.
Itch glanced round and caught Fairnie’s eye. The colonel noticed for the first time that while the whole congregation were watching the priest, Itch, Jack, Chloe and Lucy were looking the other way, over at the side entrance. Itch saw the colonel frown.
Itch decided that he wanted a closer look. He couldn’t see the man’s head clearly, but the image of Flowerdew’s burned face was still vivid. He remembered how Flowerdew had boasted that he was going to kill Jack; how he had once bashed Itch’s head against a wall and tried to expose him to a lethal dose of radiation.
He needed to move to another pew. The easiest route was past Jack, Lucy and his aunt and uncle at the end. He started to edge his way along the pew.
‘Itch, come back!’ said Chloe in a tense whisper.
‘Itch, no. Let Fairnie deal with it!’ hissed Jack.
‘I’m not going to do anything!’ he snapped, then, ‘Excuse me,’ as he edged past his Uncle Jon. Crouching, he made his way to the pew nearest the side entrance. There was clearly no room for him there, so he squatted in the side aisle.
Dr Dart, midway through her eulogy, paused, distracted, as she watched Itch on the move. She waited for him to stop as she would in a school lesson, and was just about to resume when she noticed that the MI5 man was moving too. Fairnie had eased away from the main entrance and was walking across the back of the church to see what Itch was doing. The congregation picked up on the principal’s unease and, following her gaze, started murmuring. There were enough CA pupils and staff present to know that Fairnie didn’t act like this without reason. They sensed the danger.
Nicholas leaned over to Chloe. ‘What’s Itch doing? What’s happening?’
‘There’s someone behind that curtain,’ she said. ‘He’s got a bandaged face and hand. I’m sure Itch thinks it might be Flowerdew.’
‘Here?’ said Nicholas, incredulous. ‘But that’s ridiculous.’
If Itch had turned round, he would have seen his father stand up, closely followed by DCIs Abbott and Underwood. Over his other shoulder, he’d have seen Fairnie closing on him. But he was staring straight ahead. He had caught the smell of antiseptic surgical cream and he recognized it instantly. It was the smell of Flowerdew’s flat; it was the smell of Flowerdew’s burns.
It really was him.
Itch straightened up. His body awash with adrenalin, grief and rage, he ran for the curtain.
12
‘Itch, step away!’ yelled Fairnie, now sprinting down the aisle. As he ran past them, rows of the congregation stood up to see what was happening.
Nicholas was edging past his family, eyes focused on his son. Chloe had grabbed hold of Jack, and Lucy was following Nicholas.
Itch was metres from the velvet curtain. He heard nothing of the increasing commotion around him; only the whooshing, pulsing rush of blood in his head. The smell of the surgical cream was stronger now, and as he skidded to a halt in front of the porch, he grabbed the folds of heavy red fabric.
As he did so, Fairnie rugby-tackled him. Itch went sprawling onto the stone floor, but his hand still held onto the curtain. The ancient metal rail above the porch gave way and the curtain collapsed to the ground. Around them, parents, pupils and teachers got to their feet; some shouted, a few screamed. Itch sat up and stared into the porch. A distressed young woman in a smart suit stood, arms held wide, shielding a man with bandaged face and arms. Her eyes were wide with shock.
‘What?’ she wailed as she looked out at the fac
es all turned to her. ‘What have we done? What are you looking at?’
Itch stared at them, uncomprehending. He looked at Fairnie, who still had his hand placed firmly on his shoulder.
‘Stay where you are,’ Jim Fairnie said.
Police were streaming into the church now; DCI Abbott was leading them towards the porch. She ran up to Itch, eyes blazing with anger. ‘What the hell do you—?’
‘He thought,’ said Fairnie sharply, ‘that he was going to be attacked. He thought Nathaniel Flowerdew was behind the curtain.’
‘Did he now? And who might you be?’ Abbott’s eyes flicked from him to Itch and back again.
‘Colonel Jim Fairnie, MI5. We spoke on the phone.’
Abbott’s eyes narrowed. ‘So we did. You told me what a good boy Itch was, really. Well, that isn’t your bad ex-science teacher, as I’m sure you’ve realized. That’s the officer who was injured opening your post. The one who didn’t die. His name is Martin Graham. That’s his wife, Grace.’
Itch was horrified. He watched as police officers comforted their colleague and his distressed wife. Many of them threw reproachful glances at Itch, still sitting on the church floor.
‘I’m so sorry—’ he began, but the DCI interrupted.
‘PC Graham wanted to come today, but thought it better if no one saw him. He didn’t want to upset anyone, you see, so he chose to sit behind the curtain and watch the service from there.’
‘I thought that—’
‘It doesn’t really matter what you thought, does it?’
‘I think you should calm down, DCI Abbott,’ said Fairnie. ‘This was an unfortunate mistake. I’m sure Itch will want to apologize and then we can move on.’
‘Colonel Fairnie,’ said Abbott, barely controlling her fury, ‘I’ll calm down when I want to. We’ll “move on” when it is appropriate to do so. I don’t take orders from you. And either you take this boy out of the church or I will.’
Nicholas, Jude, Jack, Chloe and Lucy had all arrived now.
‘I thought it was Flowerdew. I’m sorry,’ Itch said quietly.
Around them, people were resuming their seats, and PC Graham and his wife were being led out through the now curtain-less porch.
‘Come on, Itch,’ said his father. ‘We’d better go home.’
‘Dad, that’s not fair,’ said Chloe.
‘It’s all right,’ said Itch. ‘I’ll go.’
‘We’ll come too,’ offered Lucy.
‘No. Please – everyone stay,’ he said. ‘It’s Mr Watkins’s funeral.’ He scrambled to his feet. ‘Tell me what happens.’
ELDRAKE59 I’m looking for Roshanna Wing.
RWING You’ve found her. Who’s this?
ELDRAKE59 Your saviour.
RWING Didn’t know I needed one.
ELDRAKE59 You do now.
RWING Do I know you?
ELDRAKE59 You owe me.
RWING Unlikely.
ELDRAKE59 Well, let me try this. You kidnapped me. Took me from the British police, handed me back to Greencorps.
RWING Flowerdew?
ELDRAKE59 Are you still as focused? I was impressed. You seemed to know what you were doing.
RWING What happened to Revere and Van Den Hauwe?
ELDRAKE59 Good question, but more of a theological issue now.
RWING Where are you?
ELDRAKE59 Nearer than you think. I have a job for you. If you want it, I’ll be in touch.
RWING Sure. Possibly. What sort of job?
ELDRAKE59 has logged off.
The first few days after the funeral were amongst the grimmest Itch could remember. Even worse, he concluded, than his dismal first days at the CA after the family moved from London. Then he had at least been allowed to stand alone and ignored in the corner of the playing field. He would have settled for that loneliness now. The weight of grief in his stomach had been replaced by something else: the fear of any conversation with anyone.
‘Even the teachers hate me,’ he said as he trudged out into the evening gloom. Jack and Chloe exchanged glances. ‘The Brigadier made a point of telling me how disappointed he was with me. Even Mr Hampton called me “spectacularly stupid”.’
Chloe hooked her arm through his as they turned out of the drive. ‘It’ll die down, Itch,’ she said. ‘They’ll get bored with it.’
‘Chloe’s right,’ said Jack.
‘She isn’t, actually,’ snapped Itch. ‘She’s totally wrong. This is the way it’s going to be. It’s a new game for everyone – see how many comments involving curtains and hiding everyone can come up with. Today’s total is seventeen – up from fifteen yesterday and twelve the day before.’
An unidentifiable anoraked cyclist overtook them, shouted, ‘Beware the boogie-man!’ and disappeared down the road, his laughter billowing steam into the freezing air.
‘New total: eighteen, then,’ said Itch. ‘See what I mean, Chloe?’ His sister nodded and they walked on in silence.
The girls fell behind. ‘He’s bad,’ whispered Jack.
Chloe nodded. ‘I know. He doesn’t really talk at home at all any more,’ she said. ‘Mum and Dad are just hoping he’ll come round.’
At the golf course, Jack started to say goodbye.
‘Can we come back to your house?’ asked Itch.
‘Sure,’ she said, surprised. ‘Everything OK?’
He shrugged. ‘Sort of. Mum and Dad just argue a lot, that’s all. The last one was about security again. Mum has refused to have MI5 back, so we just have police outside like before.’
‘OK. Yeah, come on back,’ she said. ‘Oh – Lucy gave me this for you. She said you’d know what it was.’ She produced a small parcel the size of a paperback.
‘Oh right, yeah . . .’ He shoved it deep into his bag.
‘Itch?’ said Chloe.
‘None of your business.’
‘Why is Lucy giving you parcels?’ Chloe persisted.
‘If you must know,’ said Itch, ‘it’s because I can’t really get post at home any more. For obvious reasons. Everything has to go to a special checkpoint where everything is opened and analysed. This is just easier.’
Jack’s mother, Zoe, welcomed them into her kitchen. She was as tall as her daughter, and had the same high cheekbones. She smiled as she put the kettle on, pushing her glasses up to sit on top of her brown shoulder-length hair. As if acting on some silent code, Jack and Chloe left the room, leaving Itch alone with his aunt.
‘I imagine you’re feeling a bit rubbish,’ she said, putting a plate of biscuits in front of him.
‘S’pose.’
She rattled around with some washing-up as she spoke. ‘You must have been very upset about what happened at the church.’
Itch really didn’t want to be having this conversation, so he ate the biscuits instead. He nodded occasionally while she made a pot of tea.
‘I think, Itch, that you must feel as though you haven’t said goodbye properly to Mr Watkins. Everyone has had the funeral, apart from you. And maybe you needed to be there more than anyone.’
And suddenly there were tears in Itch’s eyes. Yes, that’s exactly how it is, and it’s taken my aunt to explain it to me. He needed to get out.
He cleared his throat. ‘Thanks for the biscuits, Aunt Zoe. Could you tell Chloe I’ll see her at home?’ He grabbed his bag and ran for the door.
‘Itch, I hope I didn’t—’
He spun round, his hand on the door latch. ‘No, you didn’t. You were dead right,’ and he was gone.
He was in no hurry to get home and was wondering about going via the beach, when he noticed a familiar figure leaning against his garden wall. The streetlight silhouetted Lucy perfectly, her hair sticking out from under her enormous parka.
‘Hey, Lucy,’ he called. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Give you two guesses,’ came the voice from under the hood.
‘Thanks for the parcel,’ said Itch.
‘That’s what I’ve come about . . .�
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‘Did you get into trouble?’
‘Can we go inside? I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘We were at Jack’s. You should have come down,’ said Itch.
‘I know, but I wanted to talk to you, not them.’ Lucy smiled, realizing that might have sounded a bit weird.
‘Sure, let’s go in,’ said Itch, feeling awkward. ‘My parents are in, I think. It might be a little, er, tense.’
There was no sign of his father, but Itch could hear his mother working in her study. A local solicitor, she often did a lot of her research at home.
‘Kitchen OK?’ he said.
‘Sure,’ said Lucy, unzipping her coat. ‘You could make me a tea if you like.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Itch, and made for the kettle just as Jude appeared in the doorway.
‘Lovely to see you, Lucy.’ She smiled. ‘I hope Itch is being a good host. Tea for me too, please, while you’re at it.’ Itch made another trip to the taps as his mother settled in at the table. ‘Do you two see each other at school much? Year Elevens don’t often hang out with Year Tens, I imagine.’
Lucy shrugged. ‘Yeah, I see Itch around. And at the science club Mr Hampton runs.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Jude. ‘You going on that Spanish trip? I think Itch here is waiting to see who else is going.’
‘Yes, my mum says it’s OK. Maybe we could all go, Itch? Would Jack and Chloe be up for it?’
‘Where is Chloe?’ said Jude before Itch could answer.
‘She’s at Jack’s,’ Itch told her. ‘Me and Lucy were . . .’
‘. . . talking homework,’ finished Lucy. ‘Some of the stuff Itch and Jack are getting set I did last year. Itch has got this English essay, and I was going to see if I could . . .’
‘. . . write it for him?’ suggested Jude.
‘No, course not,’ said Lucy. There was an awkward silence. ‘He missed some of the lessons, you see, and I thought I could help.’
Jude smiled her tired smile again. ‘Of course, I’m sorry. I wasn’t suggesting . . . Why don’t you guys go upstairs? I’ll call you for food.’
Itch and Lucy balanced tea and school bags all the way up to his room.
