by Simon Mayo
‘Greencorps are no longer sponsors of our fine academy.’ Itch pointed at the board.
‘Don’t know whose reputation is lower,’ said Jack gloomily. ‘Anyway, Deb has found a real nasty on Facebook, Itch, so I wouldn’t go there.’
‘I don’t anyway,’ he said, ‘but you might as well tell me. I’ll find out soon enough.’
Debbie Price twisted uncomfortably. ‘Someone took a photo at the church, Itch. Of you on the ground after you pulled that curtain down. And the comments say that it’s you who should have been excluded. And . . .’ They waited for her to finish.
‘Go on . . .’ said Itch.
‘And that the school was bombed because of you. And that Mr Watkins—’
‘OK, that’s enough,’ said Chloe. ‘It’s full of garbage – clearly the work of that cow, Campbell.’
‘You’ve seen it?’ asked Itch.
‘Of course.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You’d be amazed what I don’t tell you!’
‘Apparently a poster-sized version of the photo went up outside yesterday,’ said Jack. ‘It didn’t last long, but you get the idea . . . There could be more today. We need to report it.’
‘I wish Fairnie and the team were here,’ said Chloe.
‘Yes – a marine with a gun can sort most things,’ said Itch, ‘but in the long run I’m going to have to cope without spooks to look after me.’
‘OK,’ said Jack, ‘but if this gets any rougher, you should call him.’
In the weeks that followed, there seemed to be a never-ending supply of Cornwall Academy stories turning up on blogs and local news sites. Some were rumours, some gossip, others completely made up. But the CA was the story of the moment, and anything that mentioned it, and preferably Itch, was sought after. Its academic results, its sporting fixtures and the private lives of its staff were all considered interesting enough for what appeared to be a local army of reporters to write about. Itch guessed it was actually just Darcy and Bruno filling their recently acquired spare time, but that didn’t seem to matter. The atmosphere in the CA was tense. Now that members of staff were the subject of scrutiny, they became irritable and prone to issuing random punishments. The day a story came out about Craig Harris’s ‘high jinks and emotional behaviour’ at a wedding, he had the whole of Year Nine running laps of the school grounds. Chris Hopkins had handed out extra homework on electromagnetism after a rumour about him and the school secretary led to wolf whistles in his class. A pink fluffy heart with I love Sarah had been the final straw.
The image of Itch on the floor of the church at Mr Watkins’s funeral wouldn’t go away. Itch knew that James Potts had it as a screensaver and suspected others did too; a few Year Eleven boys had started to throw themselves to the floor as he passed. Whenever he walked into a classroom, someone would pretend to faint.
‘I’m not calling Fairnie!’ Itch said to Jack after a particularly theatrical fall of six pupils in an ICT class. ‘I can’t just run to him whenever bad stuff happens here. They’ll get bored soon, anyway.’
Jack wasn’t so sure. ‘I know that’s the way it’s been in the past, but this is different, Itch. The CA is a pretty messed-up place at the moment and this isn’t getting any better. Dr Dart looks pretty stressed. No one dares talk to her in case she explodes.’
‘Yeah, well, she’s got that hearing soon. Campbell and Paul’s appeal. Maybe they’ll be thrown out for good. Then some other school can enjoy their poison.’
The only place Itch felt safe was Mr Hampton’s science club. No one fell over, no one joked about curtains, no one thought element-hunting was a strange way to spend your time . . . He even started to use his 118-pocket rucksack again. Itch knew he wouldn’t be expected to talk football or pretend to know anything about Britain’s Got Talent. He didn’t need to explain anything. He found he was looking forward to the trip to the Spanish science museum.
And then there was Lucy. The science club was the only thing in school they did together, and he looked forward to each session knowing she would be there. He was still embarrassed about the whole purple fluorite incident, but was grateful for the way she had talked him round. And not told anyone. Not even Chloe and Jack knew about his attempt at mystical insight. He shuddered.
‘Hey, Itch, over here!’ Lucy had arrived early.
He sat down next to her, dropped his rucksack and reached for the pocket marked 25.
‘Stop! Don’t tell me,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘Chromium? Vanadium?’
Itch shook his head.
‘Close?’ she asked.
‘Very . . .’ Itch pointed to 23 and 24.
‘Ah, so close! I give in.’
Itch took out a small, roughly cut, slate-grey stone. ‘That’s manganese. I think it’s from Bodmin Moor – they mined it there. That’s what I was told, anyway.’
‘Hi, y’all,’ called Mr Hampton, striding into the lab. ‘Or Hola maybe! Time to start thinking Spain, everyone.’ He spotted Itch’s stone and wandered over. ‘May I see?’
Itch handed it over. Hampton smiled. ‘Manganeso, Itch. Still named after Magnesia in Greece, but that’s what the Spanish call it.’
‘Thought the Periodic Table was the same everywhere,’ said Lucy.
‘The shape is. The grouping of elements is. But some of the names are different. Here’s a poster with the whole thing on – you can have it, Itch, if you like.’ He unrolled a sheet of A3 that showed the familiar squares of numbers and letters arranged in rows and columns. ‘At first glance it’s the same. Some of the names are the same; some are very similar: helium is helio, zinc is cinc. Some are different . . .’ He took a felt tip and circled two squares in the eleventh column, one above the other. ‘We say silver, they say plata; we say gold, they say oro, and so on. And speaking of valuables, please make sure you all have enough euros to last the five days. Miss Coleman and I will not be buying you souvenirs if you run out of money.’ He handed the poster to Itch.
‘Why is Miss Coleman coming, sir?’ asked Tom Westgate. ‘Thought you’d have another scientist.’
Mr Hampton smiled. ‘One of Miss Coleman’s hidden talents is a reasonable fluency in Spanish. I have some too, having lived in California, but Miss Coleman studied in Madrid for a year. I have your information packs here – our flight is at the somewhat inconvenient time of 04.15 hours, and I warn you, I am not at my best before breakfast. Jack and Chloe have taken the last two spaces, so no room now for pets or parents!’ He laughed loudly. ‘Itch and Lucy, could I have a word before you go?’
As everyone wandered out, Itch and Lucy approached his desk.
‘Any news of Tom Oakes?’ asked Itch.
Mr Hampton paused briefly, and winced slightly. ‘I’m afraid not – after the bomb at ISIS, he may want to stay hidden for longer. All things considered, I’d be grateful if you could keep our chat to yourselves. I shouldn’t have said anything, really. This trip is complicated enough!’
‘Is there a problem?’ said Itch. ‘I thought everything . . .’
Hampton raised his hands. ‘No, of course all is well if your folks are happy. But your safety is paramount. For the moment we just have to inform the police of our movements – flight details, hostel, that kind of thing. And we get a police escort from the airport.’ He looked from Lucy to Itch and back again, clearly expecting a smile.
‘Another joke, sir?’ suggested Itch.
15
Mr Hampton and Miss Coleman called it the Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales, but everyone else called it the science museum. The verdict of the CA students, having spent the best part of a day there, was that it wasn’t a patch on the one in London. If it hadn’t been for the new exhibits Hampton had told them about, they’d rather have gone shopping. It was also incredibly stuffy; despite the unusually warm spring weather, the museum’s radiators were all blasting out heat.
Itch spent all his time, as expected, absorbing silver. He knew that it was the shiniest subs
tance in the world, and the best electrical conductor, but that was about it. However, here were rows of coins going back centuries. You could (under supervision) pick them up, spin them, even smell them. The display showed how the Spanish went to the New World looking for gold, but found silver. In brutal conditions they had forced the workers to use a refining process which used mercury; the result was a vast increase in productivity and global trade. Silver knitted the global economy together for the first time – it was an international currency. There were some cool by-products too, and while there was a queue for the coins, Itch was the only one looking at and making notes on silver salts.
When they met up in the café on the cavernous ground floor, Tom Westgate had an alternative reason for their trip to Madrid.
‘I reckon this is all so that Hampton and Miss Coleman can, you know, have a romantic few days away together,’ he told them.
‘Are you kidding?’ said Itch. ‘Really? That’s disgusting.’
Natalie and Debbie laughed.
‘Haven’t you seen the way they look at each other?’ said Tom. ‘She never takes her eyes off him.’
‘Isn’t she a bit young for him?’ said Jack.
‘They’re all teacher-age,’ said Itch. ‘Don’t suppose it matters, really. As long as we don’t see them holding hands or anything . . .’
‘Here they come,’ said Lucy as both teachers appeared from the lift.
‘What’s everyone laughing at?’ asked Miss Coleman, flushing slightly as they walked over.
‘Oh, er,’ said Tom, ‘Lucy told a joke. About the sequencing of human DNA.’
Lucy shot him a ‘thanks-for-nothing’ look.
‘Like to share it?’ said Mr Hampton knowingly. ‘Not sure I know of many DNA jokes.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t that good anyway. Can we visit the shop before we go?’ Lucy asked, changing the subject.
Hampton looked at his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes is all you have; you won’t want more – it’s even hotter in there. Miss Coleman and I will stay here. We’ve already seen what there is on offer.’ This produced another bout of giggles, and everyone hurried away to cover their embarrassment.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Jack said, ‘Oh my God! Tom, you are so right! That was excruciating. Now they know that we know. And it’ll be all over Facebook. Maybe that’s why they made us leave our phones at the hostel – so we couldn’t report back to anyone.’
‘Well, they said it was a security thing because of thefts and street crime,’ said Chloe.
‘Itch – you’ve got yours, you must tell everyone,’ said Natalie.
Itch shook his head. ‘If the Spanish police are watching out for messages from my phone like they said, I think it’ll be for security reasons. I don’t think they want to read about an American science teacher getting off with a geography teacher.’
‘Boo,’ said Debbie. ‘Spoilsport.’
As they split up to browse the shop, Jack whispered, ‘You need to check Facebook soon and see if those divers have been in touch.’
‘Maybe,’ said Itch. ‘When we get home. You going to buy anything?’
‘Hey, Itch!’ called Chloe. ‘Look at this!’ She held up a T-shirt with the Periodic Table in Spanish.
‘Cool!’ said Itch. ‘It’s just like the poster Hampton gave me. How much?’
Chloe checked the label. ‘Twenty-five euros,’ she said, ‘which is outrageous as it was probably made in some sweatshop for a few cents. But it is you, Itch, and it’s your size.’ She threw it to him and they walked to the tills, Itch pointing out the elements that were different in Spanish.
Chloe laughed. ‘If that information ever proves useful, Itch, I’ll buy you any element you like. As long as it’s safe. And legal. And not a grey-silvery metal – you’ve got way too many of them.’
There was a long queue at the tills, and they were just wondering if they’d have time to buy the T-shirt when there was a shout from the front.
They looked up to see smoke coming from behind the counter. The queue dissolved as everyone crowded forward to see what had happened. A startled museum employee was staring at the till: blue flames seeping through the sides. He pushed a button to eject the cash drawer, and it shot towards him, a cloud of smoke billowing upwards. When it had cleared, he cried out in alarm: all the banknotes were on fire. He flapped his hands ineffectively till one of his colleagues threw a souvenir tea towel at him and he smothered the drawer with it.
A security man with a fire extinguisher appeared on the scene. Aiming the nozzle at the till, he succeeded in blasting its contents all over the watching customers. Partially burned euros and foam flew everywhere.
Itch looked at the soggy T-shirt he’d been about to buy. ‘Is there time to get another one?’ he said. ‘There are other tills, if we hurry.’
‘But there’s no one there, Itch,’ said Jack. ‘Look . . .’ All the shop staff had gathered to look at the steaming mess of what was left of the burning till, leaving the others unattended.
Itch looked from till to till and nudged her sharply. ‘Look, Jack! They’re on fire too!’
She turned to see wisps of smoke coming from two other tills. ‘Hey! Look!’ she cried, pointing and waving her arms to attract the staff’s attention. ‘Fire!’
Jack’s call was echoed by many voices but now with a discernible increase in tension. The staff rushed back to the burning tills, while the remaining customers decided they didn’t want their souvenirs after all; or at least, they didn’t want to wait around to pay for them. They headed for the exits. The security man found his extinguisher again and directed more foam at the smoke, causing both tills to short circuit. When the general fire alarm sounded, there were cries of concern everywhere.
‘Everyone back to me!’ yelled Mr Hampton, just making himself heard over the clanging of the museum’s bells.
Lucy grabbed Chloe and Jack. ‘Everyone back to Hampton and Coleman! Itch, come on!’
They ran together, pushing against the exiting flow of visitors, and then waited for the rest of the party to return. The Year Elevens were last back, led by a pasty-faced student called Luke Lieberman. They were holding coffees, and had a ‘what’s-the-panic’ look on their faces.
Mr Hampton stood on his chair. ‘Right – the bus is due in two minutes. Follow me, and please stick together. This is going to be one hell of a bunfight.’
‘Or bullfight,’ muttered Lucy, and they followed the teachers towards the exit.
Outside it was dusk, but the air was still warm. They fought their way to the bus stop marked PLAZA LUCENZA and found their bus nearly full. They showed their travel cards to the driver and they all stood along the aisle, holding onto the seats. As the bus pushed its way into the evening rush hour, cars blasted their horns in irritation.
‘It’s only a twenty-minute ride,’ said Mr Hampton, looking at the tired faces around him. ‘We’ve got the best tapas you’ve ever tasted waiting for us at the hostel.’
‘Can’t we get pizza?’ asked Natalie.
‘Or KFC? I saw one on the ride in. We could—’
‘In Madrid, we eat like Madrileños!’ said Hampton, smiling. ‘You can eat pizza at home.’
‘Nice try, Natalie,’ said Jack.
‘Sir, you ever seen exploding tills before?’ asked Tom.
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘That was quite something, wasn’t it? An electrical fault, I suppose. It’ll have wiped out their takings, that’s for—’
There was a sudden lurch, and Mr Hampton shot backwards, hitting the seat behind him, then falling in a heap. The loud metallic crunch and splinter sound was followed by a torrent of shouting from the driver, who leaped from his bus. While Miss Coleman helped Hampton back up, all the students ran to the front of the bus. Looking through the driver’s windscreen, they could see that the bus had hit the back of a taxi – its boot had crumpled and popped open. The cabbie and passenger had leaped from the car, but seemed oblivious to the bus that had just crashed into it. A
squat man, with a REAL PASSION REAL MADRID T-shirt stretched across his body and a taxi driver’s licence bouncing from a chain around his neck, was shouting at a terrified-looking man in a suit and waving what looked like part of a twenty-euro note. The suited man tried to talk back, but it only seemed to enrage the taxi man further.
‘He’s going to make a run for it,’ said Lucy, watching the suited man. ‘You watch.’
And, on cue, he turned and fled. Surprised, the taxi driver took a few seconds to respond, but then set off in pursuit, leaving the bus driver waving his arms at the pair of them.
‘We’re not going anywhere here,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘The taxi has blocked the road. Everyone out.’
They filed out of the bus and looked around. A bank and a few local shops were closed, but one coffee bar was still open, its lights shining brightly into the gloomy street.
‘Come on, let’s regroup in there,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘We’ll work out a new route.’ He led the way inside, his map of Madrid already in his hand. The place was busy, and they had to spread themselves out over a number of tables. Behind the counter, a large screen showed a La Liga match, the sound muted.
‘I’ll get the drinks,’ said Miss Coleman, having taken their orders. ‘Itch, could you help me?’
As they waited in the queue, Itch picked up some bottles of water and juice. ‘Is it far to the hostel, miss? Should we get food here?’
Miss Coleman laughed. ‘Any excuse to avoid the tapas! No, we’ll be fine, I think. No need to stock up. We’ll find another bus soon, I’m sure.’ She ordered a selection of teas, coffees and hot chocolates in what sounded to Itch like perfect Spanish, paid and went to talk to Mr Hampton.
‘Don’t worry, miss, I’ll bring them over – you go talk to your boyfriend,’ muttered Itch. He beckoned Jack over to help him, and between them they ferried the drinks to the tables. On the last trip, the barman said something in Spanish and, pointing at Miss Coleman, indicated a small plate of notes and coins sitting on top of the coffee machine. He nodded and carried it over to his teacher.
