by Simon Mayo
‘Hang on a sec,’ he said, darting through his door.
‘Can’t be worse than mine,’ Lucy called through the door as he grabbed discarded clothes and shoved them in a drawer. He opened the window.
Itch felt himself redden and hated himself for it. ‘OK, come in. Er, the chair should be fine for you. I’ll sit here.’ Itch sat on the bed, flustered.
‘Itch, listen,’ said Lucy. ‘I didn’t mean to make things tricky. I just wanted to talk.’ She slid down the wall and sat on the floor, sipping her tea. ‘I’m fine here . . .’ she said.
Itch moved off the bed and sat on the floor too, facing her. ‘I haven’t got an English essay, have I?’
‘How would I know?’ laughed Lucy. ‘I just didn’t want to talk in front of your mum. It’s the package, Itch. I worked out what you’re doing. And I don’t think you should, that’s all.’
Itch stared at her. His classmates had never known or understood anything about him. Everybody had either thought him stupid and crazy, or – more usually – they just ignored him. He wasn’t used to having another friendly scientific mind around, but now, with Lucy, all that had changed. Itch knew he was blushing again, and looked away.
Above Lucy’s head was his Periodic Table; he ran his eyes along the familiar rows and up and down the columns. He took in the symbols, numbers and images, and counted again the marks that showed he had added another element to his collection. He felt himself grow calmer. He had done this before when his thoughts were in turmoil; he found comfort in the order and timelessness of the universe’s building blocks.
‘Open the parcel, Itch.’ Lucy had sat quietly, sensing what Itch was doing. When he didn’t move, she stood up and took a pen from her bag. Standing in front of the poster, she ran her finger down the left-hand column.
‘Hydrogen, lithium, sodium, potassium, rubidium. Five down.’ She looked at Itch. ‘Then three across: rubidium, strontium and yttrium. Can I cross it off, then?’
Itch nodded. She took her pen and put a line through the Y39 box.
‘Yttrium,’ she said, reading from the chart. ‘Symbol Y, atomic number 39, atomic weight 88.90585—’
‘Boiling point 3338 degrees C. I know,’ interrupted Itch. ‘And it’s it-ree-um, not why-tree-um.’ Lucy stared at him. Itch looked away first. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Just open it, Itch,’ she sighed. ‘I ordered it – I know what it is. I just did some homework on it too, that’s all.’
Itch removed the package from his bag and prised the cardboard open. Inside was a circular tin. ‘I hadn’t planned on opening this with anyone around,’ he said quietly.
‘Well, you reckoned without me, then,’ said Lucy.
He twisted the lid and lifted a bundle of tissue from its centre. He unwrapped a small egg-shaped purple crystal and held it up to the light.
‘Well, compared to all the grey metals you’ve got,’ said Lucy, ‘you have to say it’s a riot of colour. That’s yttrium? Really?’
Itch looked sheepish. ‘Yes. Well . . . mixed with fluorite crystals, actually.’
‘And why would you want that?’ she asked.
There was a long silence. Itch stared at the purple crystal, but he knew that Lucy was still staring at him.
‘You know why,’ he said eventually.
A folded leaflet had fallen on the floor. ‘You want to read that, or shall I?’ asked Lucy.
Itch picked it up, took a deep breath and read from the cheaply produced flyer. He scanned the paragraphs. ‘Wow, that sounds crazy,’ he said.
‘Can I see?’ said Lucy. Itch hesitated, then handed the paper over. She read aloud: ‘Your crystal of purple fluorite is maybe the most valuable purchase you’ll ever make. It is perfect for channelling messages from those who have passed over to the other side. You want to contact them and they want to contact you. It will radiate light and mystical insight throughout your body.’ She looked up. Tears were rolling down his face. ‘Oh, Itch,’ she said, and put the sheet down.
‘No, carry on!’ he said. ‘Read it all. Let’s hear it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Do it.’
Lucy picked up the sheet again. ‘Hold the crystal in your hand while trying a psychic reading. The crystal will cleanse and stabilize your aura, absorbing and neutralizing negative energy and stress. The message from beyond will be clearer. Try it and be amazed.’
There was silence again as she folded the leaflet.
‘I just thought,’ said Itch quietly, ‘that maybe I could say thanks. And sorry, and goodbye. That’s all. And maybe it does work. How do I know?’
Lucy came and knelt in front of Itch, holding the crystal in front of him. ‘You know because you’re a scientist. This rock is CaF2 – calcium fluoride. I’ve looked it up. It melts in a flame, and is used to produce hydrochloric acid and fluorine gas. It’s very common, Itch, and it looks pretty. And that’s it.’
‘I know . . .’ he said.
She grabbed the paper again. ‘Perfect for channelling messages? No it isn’t. They want to contact you? No, they’re dead. It will cleanse and stabilize your aura? No it won’t. Itch, when my dad died, there were so many things I needed to say to him, it really screwed me up. I was mad at you guys, but I was mad with him too. I was desperate to talk to him, but . . .’ She took a breath and wiped her eyes. ‘You’ve got me going now . . .’
‘Go on,’ said Itch.
‘Then I realized that if Dad had anything to say to me, he’d said it already. He hated all the psychics and healers he saw at those fairs he went to. Some people thought he was part of that scene, but he was the opposite of all that. You said you sometimes asked yourself, What would Cake do? Well, ask now.’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Yes, you do.’ Lucy reached for Itch’s hand. ‘He’d say, Mr Watkins knew what you thought about him. And now he’s gone. It’s a shame what happened at the funeral, but it was a mistake and you apologized to the policeman and his wife. Don’t waste your breath on the dead; concentrate on the living. He’d say something like that.’
Itch looked away, then nodded and smiled.
‘What?’ said Lucy.
‘You looked just like him then.’
‘Really?’
‘Just a bit, yeah.’
They were still holding hands when Jude called them down for food.
At the allotted time, his computer screen flashed into life.
Skype call from RWING was written across the centre of the screen. He clicked the microphone icon.
‘Hello?’ said a voice, only slightly distorted by the thousands of miles of fibre-optic cables.
Flowerdew leaned closer to his screen. ‘Roshanna Wing?’
‘Yes. But I can’t see you.’
‘For now, let’s stick to that,’ said Flowerdew. ‘You only need to listen, anyway. I have a proposition to put to you. You will either be interested or you won’t – you will not need to think about it.’
‘OK, speak.’
‘I remember you from the mining school when you oh-so nearly caught the Lofte children but lost out to me. I also remember how you got me out of the clutches of the British police and handed me over to Greencorps.’ There was no reply from Wing – just the familiar squelchy noise of digital communication from the computer’s speakers. ‘I made you an offer. Suggested that we could be good partners, but you chose to stick to the rules. I wonder if you’ve reflected on that?’
‘What do you want, Flowerdew?’ Her tone was flat, bored even.
‘I want you to run Greencorps.’ He sat back, knowing that he had surprised her, and enjoyed the silence. He wove a coin back and forth between his fingers.
Eventually she said, ‘Could I have some details on that?’
‘Certainly,’ said Flowerdew. ‘There is a vacancy at the top of Greencorps due to the sad demise of Revere and Van Den Hauwe. Before they left us, they sold the company to me. Now, I have a criminal record, Ms Wing, as you well know; I am somethi
ng of a wanted man. So I need someone to front this operation; to be the public face of Greencorps. To all intents and purposes, you will run the show.’ He paused, then added, ‘But I will write your script. And there will be a few company policy changes to implement. There may well be some unpleasantness along the way. I am after redress. I seek satisfaction. I want vengeance, Miss Wing. Should I go on?’
A second’s pause; nothing longer.
‘Yes, go on.’
Flowerdew could now smile without his lips bleeding. He hit the camera icon.
13
As far as most of the CA was concerned, things had quickly returned to normal. The routine of lessons, homework, tests and exams meant that there was little time to dwell on the events of the beginning of term, however devastating they had been. The police had hung around for a few weeks, but the patrol had become increasingly irregular. Dr Dart had held a special assembly for everyone who couldn’t attend the funeral; counselling had been made available for any staff and pupils who wanted it. A tree had been planted in front of the school with a plaque that read: IN MEMORY OF JOHN WATKINS. A GREAT TEACHER AND FRIEND. A few small ornaments had been placed there, resting against the trunk.
Itch had felt better after his chat with Lucy. Caught up in his own grief, he had forgotten about hers. He knew what her father would have made of his purple fluorite. He could hear Cake saying in his London drawl, You’ve turned stupid, Master Lofte, and smiled. He’d decided to keep it for its yttrium content, and put it in the shed where most of his collection was stored.
Mr Watkins’s lessons were now being taken by Jennifer Coleman, who had joined the geography staff the previous year. Itch knew Mr Watkins had been involved in her appointment so knew she’d be OK eventually. She was not much older than the Year Thirteen girls, and seemed to Itch to be a bit too jolly and silly.
‘She’s trying to be our friend,’ concluded Jack.
‘Well, she could try to be a teacher first,’ had been Itch’s response.
Miss Coleman arrived in class and wrote Half-term project on the smartboard. Everyone groaned.
‘Thought you’d like it!’ she said, and Itch was reminded again of one of the reasons Mr Watkins would have approved of Miss Coleman. She was very Cornish and knew her local geography. Next she wrote: Rocks, stones and magic, and Itch sat up.
‘We live, as you know, in God’s own county, and this half-term you will be exploring it to the full. In teams . . .’ Itch’s heart sank. ‘Three is perfect; two is OK.’ He relaxed again.
‘Who’d want to collect rocks with us?’ he said to Jack.
She smiled. ‘Maybe no one . . .’
‘The stones of Cornwall are as old as time itself,’ continued Miss Coleman. ‘About 300 million years ago, a great mass of molten granite welled up in a line from Dartmoor to what is now the Isles of Scilly.’ Various photos and diagrams appeared on her screen. ‘Since then it has been constantly eroded away, and we have been left with some wonderful rock formations which the ancient people here thought had magic powers.’
‘Well, they were stupid, then,’ said Darcy Campbell – to a few giggles.
‘And you’d have been thought stupid then too, Darcy,’ said Miss Coleman, ‘because that’s just what everyone thought in those days.’
‘Stupid then, and stupider now,’ said Jack quietly. Itch suppressed a laugh.
‘I’ll be writing to your parents with details. There’s a new page on the CA website where you can register your teams – each one will get a different site to visit. By the end of the week please.’
‘While you’re online, you could check Facebook again,’ said Jack at lunch time, pushing Itch into the ICT room. ‘You can’t stay off for ever.’
After the parcel bombs, Itch had quit all social media. He’d never been as obsessed with it as everyone else, but after becoming the centre of a big news story he’d been asked to be friends with hundreds of people he didn’t know. It was easier just to ignore them.
Now he sighed. ‘Do you think . . .? Really?’
‘Yes, Itch, really. Sign up for the stones thing, then just log on and see. If it’s mental, you can always duck out again.’
When a computer became available, Itch logged on to Facebook. It was Jack who gasped the loudest. Above the FRIEND REQUEST icon was a bubble with the number 5,000. Above the MESSAGES column the number was 144,876.
‘No kidding,’ said Jack in awe. ‘Five thousand friend requests! That’s the most you’re allowed, isn’t it? Why don’t you just say yes to all of them. That would be so cool.’
‘Jack, are you mad?’ said Itch. ‘They’re nothing. Anyone can have Facebook friends. Sure it looks as though I could have five thousand “friends”; but we all know who I actually have. And that’s you two. Facebook sucks. I hate it.’ He walked off, sat at the nearest table and pulled out some books.
‘Can I see who wants to be your friend?’ asked Jack, glancing at him.
‘Sure . . .’ Itch shrugged. ‘Help yourself. I need to finish this maths sheet.’
‘The one for yesterday?’ said Jack, scrolling through the friend requests and messages. ‘Mr Logan will be thrilled.’
‘Logan is never thrilled. Not ever.’
They worked though the lunch hour, with Jack calling out names, countries and messages: ‘Thomasina Flavia in Italy wants to be your friend, Gerhart Hölde in Austria wants to be your friend, Shunishi Kimura in Tokyo wants to be your friend—’
‘Tell them I’m busy,’ muttered Itch.
‘And . . . Itch, you should look at this,’ said Jack, stepping back from the screen.
He came over and she pointed.
‘Mary Lee,’ he read, a shiver going down his spine. ‘There must be millions of Mary Lees.’
‘Though one fewer than there used to be,’ said Jack.
There was a tiny photo next to the words, and Itch clicked on it. They gasped together. There on the screen was the photo Lucy had seen on Shivvi’s computer; the image that had appeared on the news showing the gang suspected of killing the Greencorps bosses. Six divers smiled out, with Shivvi Tan Fook, or ‘Mary Lee’, as she had called herself at school, standing behind them.
They both stared at the screen.
‘But we know she’s dead, don’t we? Didn’t Fairnie say they’d found her body?’ said Jack.
‘Yup. We can check with Fairnie, but there was no doubt. I’ll text Lucy.’
‘Unless they were so busy chasing Flowerdew they messed up,’ said Jack. ‘Maybe they couldn’t identify her properly after the fire.’
Itch shook his head. ‘Anyone could have used this photo – it’s all over the news.’
‘But, Itch, it says Mary Lee. Did she use that name anywhere apart from here?’
Itch was silent until Lucy came running in.
‘What’s up?’ she said, a little breathlessly.
Itch pointed at the screen. ‘Someone called Mary Lee wants to be my friend.’
‘Another one?’ said Lucy as she leaned over.
‘Well, that’s the question,’ said Jack.
‘Wow . . .’ Lucy looked at the photo. ‘Them again.’
‘But anyone could have used the image,’ Itch repeated.
‘No, they couldn’t,’ said Lucy. ‘This isn’t the same picture. The girl with the dripping hair wasn’t at the end of the row – they’ve all moved round.’
‘You sure?’ said Itch.
Lucy nodded as she clicked around the page. ‘This Mary Lee has been on Facebook for a week. This is the only image; no messages, no notifications, no activity at all.’
‘What’s the point, then?’ Itch wondered.
Lucy and Jack both shrugged.
‘Doesn’t feel good, though, does it?’ he said. ‘Can we just go back and register for this geography trail thing, Jack? You need to sign me up as a partner before the rush.’
That night, Itch was on the verge of sleep when his door opened and Chloe put her head round.
; ‘You ill or something?’ he said, his words only slightly slurred.
She sat on the end of his bed, wrapped in her dressing gown. ‘I’ve been thinking about that Facebook photo – the Mary Lee one you showed me.’
‘Thought you were asleep,’ said Itch.
‘I think you should accept them – her – whoever it is as a friend,’ she said.
Itch propped himself up. ‘I think so too.’
Even though the only light in the room was coming from the landing, Itch could see the surprise on his sister’s face. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘I assumed you’d think I was mad.’
‘Well, that’s quite possible’ – Itch smiled – ‘but on this you might be right. You go first.’
Chloe sat cross-legged on Itch’s bed. ‘Well, it’s simple really. If it was a fake, they’d have used the same picture that’s all over the news. Also, it’s someone who knew Mary Lee was the name Shivvi was using. So chances are it’s one of the divers trying to get in touch.’
Itch nodded. ‘Pretty much what I was thinking.’ He reached for his laptop, opened it and put it down between them. ‘But why get in touch? Why bother with all this stuff?’ The light from the screen filled the dark room and the smiling wet-suited figures appeared again.
‘If it turns out that they’re as nasty as her’ – Chloe pointed at Shivvi – ‘we can just tell Fairnie. But why would they go to all this trouble while they’re being hunted for killing those Greencorps guys?’
‘Shall we find out?’ said Itch. Chloe nodded. He clicked ACCEPT. ‘What now?’
‘Probably nothing,’ said Chloe, swinging her legs off the bed. ‘See you in the morning.’
She’d been back in bed barely a minute when Itch walked in, laptop open. ‘Look at this,’ he said.
Chloe stared at the screen. The words: Is that you, Itchinghmam? had appeared.
Chloe’s mouth dropped open. ‘Wow.’ She switched on the light. ‘What are you going to say?’
‘That they’ve spelled my name wrong,’ he said. But he typed: Who are you?
My name is Leila.
Not Mary Lee then, typed Itch.
No. Sorry. She was our friend.
