Itchcraft

by Simon Mayo

  They emerged by a long table with seven chairs and seven glasses of water. The chatter died down as soon as the Loftes appeared; cameras were hoisted, microphones held aloft, and then journalists began calling out questions. Itch couldn’t see how full the room was: the lights were too fierce, and anyway, he was keeping his head down; but the sound told him it was full to bursting. And he was terrified.

  If tears were what the media was expecting, they were disappointed. What they got was anger. Under the full glare of the world’s media, with dazzling lights and rattling camera shutters, all four parents spoke about their daughters, Zoe and Nicholas even managing a few words in Spanish. Gabriel described the events on the day of the kidnap, and Lucy testified to the bravery of her friends. Sitting at the end of the row, Itch watched his family as they fought to stay in control.

  When it was his turn to speak, the noise from the cameras and the blinding light from the flashes reached a peak; then, all at once, there was silence in the room. Oh help, thought Itch. It’s me they’re waiting to hear. The image of him and Chloe on the bridge and the subsequent kidnap had made it the biggest news story of the day, even supplanting the ongoing euro chaos. The few TV and news radio networks that hadn’t been taking the press conference live now joined to make sure they heard the words of the fifteen-year-old English boy who had carried his sister to safety just days before. Itch felt a squeeze of encouragement on his right hand.

  For a moment he was silent. He had no idea what – if anything – he was going to say; he hadn’t realized that he was going to have the final word. But as he stared into the white glare of the camera lights, he suddenly remembered watching the news on the tiny set in South Africa, then at Jack’s house after the bombings, and then in the café in Madrid. And he realized that, actually, he had quite a lot to say.

  24

  ‘Er, hello. My name is Itchingham Lofte, and four days ago my sister and cousin were kidnapped in England. As you’ve heard, my brother Gabriel was attacked too. We know who took them. It was two men who are working for Greencorps – they have attacked us before. The company is run by a woman called Mary Bale, but the real power behind it is Nathaniel Flowerdew. He was my old science teacher at school, but before then he was responsible for the oil spill in Nigeria which killed seventeen people. He avoided prosecution because Greencorps allowed someone else to take the rap. Her name was Shivvi Tan Fook, and I saw Flowerdew kill her. He’s been on the run since Christmas, but I believe it was him who killed the CEOs of Greencorps, Christophe Revere and Jan Van Den Hauwe, and not the divers who are being blamed.’

  There were gasps and murmurs as Itch began his speech – it was clear this wasn’t what the networks had been expecting at all. As his accusations continued, reporters started to look at each other, wondering if his comments were libellous. The mayor was looking nervous, wiping a handkerchief over his gleaming head. Itch, oblivious to what was happening on the other side of the lights, was just getting started.

  ‘Flowerdew is positioning the company so that everyone thinks they’ve changed. Politicians are prepared to believe Greencorps because they want to use them to get inside the oil industry. But the truth is, they should leave well alone. Greencorps is now run by a criminal and a murderer and—’

  The mayor had heard enough. He’d noticed a few networks switching off their cameras; reporters gathering their things together.

  ‘Was there anything you wanted to tell us about your sister and cousin?’ The mayor was steering Itch back to what he saw as safer ground.

  Itch looked surprised to be interrupted. ‘You know about my sister and cousin. My family have spoken about them. But you need to know who has taken them – otherwise they won’t be found. This isn’t a normal ransom—’

  And Itch’s mic went dead.

  He carried on speaking for a couple more sentences before realizing that no one could hear him any more. The mayor announced that they were out of time and consequently there could be no questions. It was a close call as to who was the more furious – the mayor for having his press conference ‘hijacked’, or Itch for being silenced. As the family filed back out, they glowered at each other; only the presence of the camera crew preventing a shouting match.

  ‘You rocked!’ said Lucy in Itch’s ear as soon as the mayor had gone. ‘That was awesome. No one else was going to say that stuff so—’ She broke off as she saw Jude coming over; Itch’s mother did not look happy.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ she said. There were tears in her eyes now, and a tremor in her voice. She had kept it together for the media, but her son was not so lucky. ‘We are trying to find Chloe and Jack, not make grand speeches! But you had to spoil it, didn’t you? Instead of concentrating on getting Chloe back, you had to go grandstanding and make those . . . those wild accusations.’

  ‘Mum, that’s not fair!’ Itch looked astonished. ‘You’d said everything about Chloe and Jack – I’d have just been repeating the same stuff. And since when was talking about Greencorps and Flowerdew “wild accusations”, anyway?’

  Nicholas had appeared at Jude’s shoulder and was trying to steer her away, but she shrugged him off. She was about to go on, but then thought better of it, looked hard at her son, and stormed off.

  Itch’s father leaned over. ‘She’ll be OK. I thought you were great. We might get sued, but you were still great.’

  ‘But maybe she was right,’ said Itch. ‘This is all about finding Jack and Chloe. Did I help that?’

  ‘Who knows, Itch? Who knows? But you certainly rattled some cages . . . Let’s see what comes crawling out.’

  Next came Félix Blanco, still in his overcoat, his face enigmatic, impossible to read. ‘The most interesting press conference I’ve heard for a long time. The TV news anchors were busy issuing disclaimers as they pulled away. I could almost hear their directors shouting in their earpieces.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘Quite amusing, as you might say.’

  ‘Well, I seem to have upset my mother again,’ said Itch. ‘I think she was about to tell me that this is all my fault.’

  ‘Do you need to stay . . .?’

  ‘I’ll ask. What do you want me to do?’

  The Spaniard looked from Itch to Lucy; his tone was business-like. ‘You and your friends witnessed a number of crimes being committed while you were caught up in the riots here. Some of them are of interest to us. I know you’re here to find your sister and cousin, but if you had a few moments . . .? We have an incident room at the Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre – Real Casa de la Moneda.’

  Itch looked blank.

  ‘Ah,’ said Blanco. ‘Apologies. It is the Royal Mint. They are of course most distressed by recent events. It is ten minutes away.’ He looked expectantly at Itch.

  Itch looked at Lucy.

  ‘We have some time, I think, before they fly us back,’ she said. ‘If your folks are OK with it . . .’ She shrugged.

  Itch nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘If you clear it with my parents.’

  Blanco smiled and bowed slightly. ‘Of course,’ he said, and strode to where Nicholas and Jude were huddled with Jon and Zoe.

  With the help of a wailing police siren, the journey through the rammed streets of Madrid took less than ten minutes. Blanco kept up a running commentary as they weaved their way along the Plaza de la Independencia and Calle de Alcalá. The signs of protest were everywhere – from scrawled graffiti and boarded-up windows to the protesters’ tents in a park.

  Their progress was halted briefly by a burned-out car being winched onto a transporter.

  ‘Why are we doing this?’ Itch said quietly to Lucy, as Blanco continued his chatter. ‘We should be finding Chloe and Jack, not helping the police with their enquiries. Maybe we should go back . . .’

  ‘He said it wouldn’t take long,’ said Lucy. ‘We’d only be sitting in that room, making conversation with people you don’t want to talk to. We might as well . . .’

  And suddenly they were there. The police car p
ulled up by a vast, drab concrete building with square pillars, the words FÁBRICA NACIONAL DE MONEDA carved above the entrance. Blanco ushered them up the steps and into the marble reception area. Itch could actually see his reflection in the slabs under his feet, his face ghostly white, with dark rings around his eyes. Flashing an ID card at the security men, Blanco led them through airport-style security checks – pat-downs and metal detectors. When Blanco set off an alarm, it filled the hall with an echoing electronic howl, but he just nodded at the uniformed men, all of whom nodded back. When they were clear, he led the way down a hushed, carpeted corridor to a small office.

  Three people looked up as they entered, and nodded as they recognized Itch and Lucy; a TV screen was still rerunning scenes from the press conference intercut with photos of Jack and Chloe. Itch and Lucy looked away.

  The walls were covered in images of banknotes, most faded and worn. Rather than see himself on TV again, Itch went over to examine them. The pre-euro currency was the peseta, and a variety of notes featuring – Itch assumed – assorted Spanish kings and noblemen were displayed in frames. In comparison with the euro, he thought they looked like ancient documents. The frames ended with the latest issues, and a prominently displayed 500-euro note.

  ‘The highest denomination we have,’ said Blanco. ‘And unlikely to be stolen.’ He indicated the security cameras in every corner of the room. ‘There are alarms too, though maybe a fire extinguisher would be more useful today.’ He didn’t smile, but Itch thought he was joking.

  Remembering the note Blanco had given him, Itch asked, ‘Presumably you know what caused them to burst into flames . . .’

  The agent paused briefly, exchanging glances with his colleagues. ‘Yes, of course.’ He spoke in Spanish and was handed a file of papers. ‘This information is widely known, though not officially confirmed. There is much nervousness in this building about what can be revealed.’ He went to shut the door. ‘It is feared that once it is known how to sabotage the euro, others will try.’

  ‘I’ve tested the note you gave me so I know what was on it,’ said Itch.

  Blanco’s eyebrows raised. ‘Of course you have – you are a scientist, so maybe we can share our information.’ He studied the text. ‘We have acidio picricio . . .’

  ‘Picric acid,’ said Itch.

  Blanco nodded, running his finger down a list. ‘Oxido de titanio.’

  ‘Titanium oxide,’ said Itch. ‘And maybe some nitrocellulose in there too? That’s what we found, anyway. It’s no wonder they burst into flames.’

  Blanco was still reading. ‘Plus europium and traces of gadolinium,’ he said.

  Itch was silent. He remembered now that Dr Alexander had mentioned europium before telling them about the picric acid, and he had meant to follow it up . . .

  ‘Europium? In a euro?’ He turned to Lucy. ‘Is that a joke?’

  She shrugged. ‘Science jokes are like teacher jokes. Not funny to normal people.’

  ‘It is funny, though,’ said Itch. ‘That’s the thing. But what’s it doing on a banknote?’

  Blanco looked surprised and pleased. ‘Well, I can help Britain’s greatest chemist, then. And it might be a joke to you, but it isn’t to us. This is why we have had the new riots.’ He called to a colleague, and a petite, dark-haired woman brought a lamp to his desk, plugged it in and switched it on. ‘The europium is part of the security system of each note. If you hold a five-euro note under an ultraviolet light, the yellow stars glow an intense red.’ He took a note out of his pocket and held it under the lamp.

  ‘Wow,’ Itch said, leaning in to study it. Blanco was right: the string of usually dull, faded yellow stars behind an ancient-looking arch were now a deep red. When the lamp was switched off, they were yellow again.

  ‘Now, here’s the problem . . .’ Blanco held another note under the ultraviolet lamp. This time the stars turned from yellow to a dull orange. ‘It’s not much of a difference, but enough to trigger the security alarms – these are the notes registering as fake.’

  ‘You mentioned gadolinium,’ said Itch. ‘Another rare earth. Is that normally there?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ said Blanco.

  ‘I think europium decays to gadolinium,’ Lucy told them quietly. Itch’s eyes widened. Everyone in the room had stopped to listen now.

  ‘Why would europium decay like that?’ asked Itch.

  ‘Someone’s blasted it with neutrons.’

  ‘And why would someone do that?’

  ‘To make fakes!’ said Blanco, reaching for his phone and barking instructions around the room. ‘To undermine the euro! I will keep it a secret that two English schoolchildren told us more than our own scientists.’

  When he stopped talking, Lucy asked, ‘Excuse me, but we came to look at some images from the riot . . . Could we do that and then get back to the others?’

  But Blanco persisted, ‘The number of people who could have done this is very small. And the number of places it could happen even smaller.’

  ‘And while your people work on that, could we see what you brought us here for?’ said Itch.

  ‘Oh – of course . . .’ Blanco seemed to have forgotten the purpose of their visit. He stood by his desk – empty apart from a computer screen and keyboard. ‘The police are investigating what happened with our currency. But, as it concerns the security of our country, so are we. The governor of the mint is a colleague of sorts. So . . .’ He offered them both chairs. ‘We have prepared a selection of photos and videos taken on the night of that first riot, when we rescued you and your sister. These are, in the main, people known to us. Faces which have been flagged. If you remember any of them, please tell us.’

  Itch and Lucy pulled their chairs closer as the photos started to scroll up. An assortment of images appeared on the screen, some clear, other blurry. Hooded figures running; rioters launching missiles – followed by a series of individuals in extreme close-up. As each frame appeared, Itch and Lucy studied the screen, consulted and clicked to the next one. The first video showed a gang setting fire to a van; the second, flames from a burning cash point.

  Itch paused the film. ‘This looks like the bank we passed on the way to the bridge. Its ATM was on fire.’

  Blanco leaned over to click on another video. ‘Yes, we found you. Here . . .’

  Itch and Lucy watched the enhanced CCTV film of their school party stopping briefly at the bank before hurrying on. Zooming in, it was possible to make out Mr Hampton, Miss Coleman and, with a gasp from Itch and Lucy, Chloe and Jack arm in arm.

  ‘I didn’t mean to distress you . . .’ said Blanco. ‘We picked you up on the bridge too.’ A different film showed the melee on the Toledo bridge and, when Blanco paused the images, the school party caught in the middle. Lucy put her hands over her mouth, and Blanco apologized again. ‘I’m sorry, this was a mistake . . .’

  ‘No, wait . . .’ said Itch, holding up his hand. ‘Can you zoom in just beyond our group? There – near where the TV crew are?’ He pointed at the bright lamp that shone halfway across the bridge.

  ‘What are you looking at, Itch?’ asked Lucy.

  He waited while Blanco enlarged the area. ‘Can you keep that up and go back to the bank shot?’ asked Itch.

  In a separate box on the screen, Blanco ran the previous video.

  ‘Stop it there!’ said Itch, slightly too loudly. ‘Zoom in behind Mr Hampton, next to me!’

  Blanco leaned in, his head swivelling back and forth as he compared the images. He glanced at Itch. ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘The same two men in each image. The guy with the cap, and the tall guy next to him.’

  ‘So?’ said Blanco. ‘There was a big crowd. They were all surging onto the bridge . . .’

  But Itch shook his head. Lucy and Blanco noticed him swallow nervously. ‘No, that’s them.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘I forgot all about it till now. I thought that maybe I was being followed that night. And someone tried
to grab me on the bridge too, but I couldn’t see who it was. Well, now I know, because I’ve seen them before. They’re the Greencorps agents who attacked us at the mining school.’ He turned to Blanco and pointed to the screen. ‘They’re the men who kidnapped my sister and cousin. They were here!’

  25

  After everyone in the room had studied the faces of the kidnappers, Félix Blanco fielded a string of questions from his team. Itch and Lucy did their best to follow the animated conversation – they were both pointed at continuously – but had to wait for Blanco’s brief summary in English before they realized what was happening.

  ‘They think that this is one story, not two,’ he said. In the silence that followed, he and his team stared at Itch and Lucy.

  ‘What?’ said Lucy. ‘You think the kidnap and the riots are connected?’

  Blanco shrugged. ‘You are at the centre of both. That’s one big coincidence.’

  Itch had to agree. ‘You’re right. But to put the two together, Greencorps have to be behind the riots and the burning money. That doesn’t make sense, does it? They’re interested in oil, not anarchy.’

  Blanco suddenly jumped up. ‘Come with me,’ he barked, and almost ran from the room. Itch and Lucy jogged after him.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Lucy. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘They’re not going to like this . . .’ said Blanco, ‘not going to like it all.’

  ‘Who’s not going to like what?’ called Lucy as they followed in his wake.

  ‘Security is tight here – for obvious reasons,’ shouted Blanco as they ran up a sweeping carpeted staircase. ‘They don’t have visitors – they hate visitors – but they’re going to have to put up with you two.’

  As they approached a security arch, three uniformed men with silver earpieces blocked their path. Blanco yelled, ‘Centro Nacional de Inteligencia,’ and waved his ID card, and they fell back. He quickly spoke to them; then to Itch and Lucy: ‘Better leave them your bags or they will get mad,’ and they were swiped through steel doors.