by Simon Mayo
We are on our own.
Lucy was still shouting, and now he understood what she was saying. ‘What is this? All of you? You are all part of this?’ she yelled.
The director spoke sharply in Spanish, and the bearded man placed his hand firmly over Lucy’s mouth. He leaned in to apply further pressure – and Itch saw his moment. He had a fraction of a second to adjust his balance, then, with all the force he could muster, he slammed his knee into the man’s groin. The man howled and dropped to the floor.
Itch grabbed Lucy’s hand and turned to run, but two security guards blocked their path, guns drawn. Itch spun round and picked up a chromium plate. He saw the director’s alarm and grabbed three more. Each was a massive sheet of 100-euro engravings, its value clear from the horrified reaction of the mint workers.
‘Oh, so you do respond to some things . . .’ said Itch, holding them up in front of him.
‘Careful!’ The director’s eyes were following every movement of his plates. ‘Don’t drop them!’
‘Get them to put their guns away!’ yelled Itch. ‘Or you lose these plates!’
The order was given and, reluctantly, the security team holstered their pistols.
‘You must stop now,’ said the director. ‘There are too many guns here for you to get anywhere. You cannot escape – this place is a cross between a maze and a fortress. If we do this to your friend from the security services, imagine what we could do to you . . .’ He didn’t need to indicate the fallen Blanco; all eyes flicked there anyway. The bleeding had stopped but his face was a mess.
Itch felt Lucy’s shoulders slump. ‘He’s right,’ she said. ‘You don’t escape from here.’
Itch hesitated, then lowered the plates. ‘We only wanted to find my sister and cousin,’ he said quietly.
‘And I’m sure you will,’ said the director smoothly, stepping forward and easing the valuable etched plates out of Itch’s hands. ‘Unfortunately you have got involved in . . . something else altogether.’ He turned to the watermark team, dismissing them with a sweep of his hand.
‘What do you want with us?’ asked Lucy. ‘What use are we to you?’
The director found a handkerchief and wiped his face with it. ‘Ah! No use at all,’ he said. ‘Not to me, anyway.’ Itch and Lucy exchanged glances. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘I think you should raise your hands where we can see them.’
As Itch and Lucy complied, the bearded man – still groaning – slowly got to his feet. Through narrowed eyes, he stared at Lucy, then Itch. He spoke rapidly in Spanish, the director interrupting when he could; then they started arguing at full volume.
Itch and Lucy had inched closer together, hands in the air. Neither understood what was being said, but none of it sounded good. Finally the director appeared to have had the last word, and the bearded man spat on the floor and turned away. As he passed one of the security guards, Itch saw him lean in to share a joke. The guard laughed loudly – and suddenly the bearded man made a grab for his pistol. Surprised, the guard reacted too late. The director cried out in alarm, but the man raised the gun. And pointed it straight at Itch’s head.
‘No, wait!’ yelled Itch.
The director ran in front of the bearded man, waving his arms, but the gun stayed on Itch. Their argument resumed until the bearded man shouted, in the strangest American accent Itch had ever heard, ‘C’mon, let’s whomp this sucker!’
And suddenly Itch understood everything.
And his world went black.
It was the slowing of the engines that woke Jack; the vibrations in the cabin had dropped to a low rumble. Their room was dark – she must have been asleep for hours – but there were lights shining through the scratched porthole. She heard raised voices issuing commands, and distant answers drifting back.
Another ship.
‘Wake up, Chloe.’
She heard her cousin stir, then jolt awake. ‘What is it, Jack?’ Chloe’s voice was an urgent whisper.
‘We’ve stopped,’ said Jack. ‘See those weird yellow lights out there? We’ve got company.’
They listened to the sounds of activity on deck and followed the faint beams of light as they danced around the cabin.
‘Lots of lights,’ muttered Chloe.
‘A big ship,’ Jack guessed.
‘And getting closer . . .’ Chloe watched the shadows in the cabin sharpen. ‘This is where they’re taking us, isn’t it?’ She was fighting rising terror, but not succeeding. ‘He’s there, isn’t he?’
Jack couldn’t lie to her. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, I think this is where they’re taking us, and yes, I think Flowerdew will be there. But Chloe . . . we’ve faced him before. And he lost. He’s a loser and we should tell him that.’
‘Maybe you should go first with that,’ said Chloe.
And in their dark cabin cell, staring through the scratched porthole at their next prison, they both laughed. Quietly to start with, as though seeking each other’s permission, then louder and freer. It became the hysterical laughter of the desperate – they both knew that – but it felt good; it sounded loud and it sounded defiant.
They were still laughing when – under the door – they saw the lights in the corridor flicker on and heard approaching footsteps.
‘Well, this is it, Chlo,’ said Jack loudly as a key turned in the lock. ‘But remember – we are not quiet, we are not beaten and we are not forgettable.’
The door swung open; their two jailers switched on the lights from outside and came in. Chloe and Jack blinked at the sudden brightness and stared at the men. Judging by the surprise on their faces, they had been expecting two cowering girls. What they saw instead were two furious hostages who were not going to go quietly.
Chloe went first. ‘Wow – you must be so proud of yourselves,’ she spat. ‘Locking up two girls must be a real highlight for you.’
Jack joined in. ‘Hey, you! The stinky one with the earwax problem!’ Both men turned towards her. ‘We know what’s happening here. You are handing us over to a madman – you know that? You happy with that? If your mothers were here – here now – would they stay quiet or would they be deeply ashamed of you?’ Both men glanced at each other, an involuntary action, but it was clear that they understood what Jack was saying. ‘And when we escape and tell our story, they will disown you. You’ll be in prison, but it’ll be your family’s shame—’
A large hand was clamped over Jack’s mouth. It smelled of oil, beer and sweat.
Chloe took up the attack now. ‘You have daughters? Sisters? Is this—’
The second man grabbed her hair and pulled. ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘Just shut up.’
Jack tried to keep talking, but her captor pressed harder, covering her nose as well. At last she fell silent, and the man produced a length of insulating tape, which he pressed over her mouth. He threw the roll to the other man, who did the same to Chloe. She managed to curse him before she too was silenced. Both girls were then untied from the beds, their hands now bound with plastic cord. They both kept twisting round, seeking eye contact with the men – glaring, pleading – but their captors looked away.
Jack and Chloe were pushed, still struggling and defiant, out of the cabin and up towards the deck. As Jack climbed the stairs, her captor leaned in close. ‘If I were you,’ he said, in heavily accented English, ‘I would stay quiet. And small. As small as possible. And maybe you get lucky.’
Itch and Lucy had spent no more than twenty minutes in the first vehicle. Hoods fastened tightly around their necks, hands tied, they had been bundled out of the mint and thrown into a waiting van. Or was it a truck? Or an armoured car? They couldn’t tell. The driver was in a hurry; as he threw the vehicle around, Itch and Lucy were flung against boxes, metal partitions and each other.
After one particularly violent brake and swerve, the back doors were flung open. Within seconds, Itch felt strong hands grab him, and he was lifted, carried, then dropped again. Another running engine, another vehicle.
> ‘Hey! Ow! What’s happening? What are you doing?’ cried Lucy as she was dumped next to Itch. Doors slammed and their new vehicle sped off, making them collide again.
‘This is getting boring,’ said Itch, rubbing his head through the hood and trying to wedge himself between the side of the van and what felt like a tyre.
‘Boring?’ said Lucy. ‘Hardly the word I’d use. How about “terrifying”? Or “totally stuffed up”? Ever since I met you, my life has been anything but boring. I’d love a bit of boring, actually. God, this sack stinks. What do you think it contained before? My money’s on cheese.’
‘Sorry,’ said Itch. He heard Lucy moving around, but she said nothing. ‘Lucy?’
‘What?’
‘Sorry for putting you in danger.’
‘Shut up, Itch. It’s not you I’m scared of, believe it or not.’
‘Oh, OK.’
He heard her tug at her hood and curse. ‘I was just wondering . . .’ she said. ‘Do you think we’re on our own in here? Apart from the driver, obviously—’
‘Hey!’ Itch called out to the front of the vehicle. ‘Where are we going? Where are you taking us?’
Two voices shouted back; the only words they recognized were ‘British’ and ‘shut up’.
‘Just the two, then.’ Lucy pulled at the straps around her hood again. ‘But we’re blind with these on. Might as well be ten of them.’
‘Lucy, I think I know what’s happening,’ he said.
‘I know what’s happening, Itch. We’ve been kidnapped, that’s what happening.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ said Itch. ‘Back at the mint. Just before they put the bags over our heads . . . what did that guy with the gun shout?’
There was silence.
‘No idea,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m a violent criminal who shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near anyone? Was it that?’
‘He said, “Let’s whomp this sucker,”’ said Itch. ‘And we’ve heard that phrase before.’
Apart from the steady rumble of the tyres on the tarmac and the clatter of the engine, there was silence in the back of the van.
And then Lucy remembered. ‘That guy at the ISIS labs . . .’ she whispered.
‘Tom Oakes,’ said Itch. ‘That’s what he said just before we destroyed the 126. It sounded weird at the time, but what with everything else, I didn’t get around to asking where he got it from.’
‘Tom Oakes,’ repeated Lucy. ‘He worked with my dad. You said that according to Hampton, he got the sack from ISIS. Took the rap for losing a target station. Which was our fault, really. But maybe lots of people use that phrase, Itch. It doesn’t necessarily mean it was him.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘But that is one hell of a coincidence. I think Oakes needed work and found some sabotaging the Spanish euros. Flowerdew was at ISIS, remember – he knew who was helping us. The other guy, Bill Kent, got hurt with one of the letter bombs.’
There were irritated shouts from the front of the vehicle: ‘Cállate! Cállate!’ and Itch and Lucy fell silent.
‘That probably doesn’t mean speak up a bit, does it?’ muttered Lucy. After a short pause she whispered, ‘I know you haven’t got your rucksack, but please tell me you have a pocket full of mercury or sulphur or something spectacular to get us out of here.’
Another pause. ‘Sorry,’ said Itch. ‘Just a burned ten-euro note.’
Lucy cursed quietly.
By the time the van stopped, it was dark. As soon as the doors opened, Itch smelled the sea air.
Lucy took a deep breath. ‘Great. A day at the seaside,’ she murmured. ‘Just what I needed.’
Still hooded, hands tied, they were herded along what felt like the wooden planks of a jetty. It was cool here, and a keen breeze blew in their faces – a welcome change from the stale air of the van. They had discussed making a run for it, but trying to fight blind seemed like a bad idea.
‘Until we can see what we are doing, we’re wasting our time,’ Lucy said, and Itch agreed.
There was only intermittent lighting, and not much of it penetrated the fabric tied around their heads, so their steps were hesitant. Then powerful torches, raised voices and new hands grabbed them. Itch felt himself being frogmarched down steps, along what must be a ship’s deck, then along narrow corridors. Blocks of light and shadow passed in front of him. He could hear Lucy not far behind, her protests accompanying their every step. He twisted round but received a sharp blow to the head for his efforts.
Itch heard a clinking chain and, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, felt the familiar snap of handcuffs around his wrist. He was panicked momentarily by the feeling of hands around his throat, but then his hood was whipped away. As his eyes were adjusting, he felt his hand seized, then cuffed to what looked like an old stove. Next their captors – two men in cargo shorts and hoodies – removed Lucy’s hood; her face was temporarily hidden by a curtain of hair. She tossed it out of her eyes, and now it was her turn to blink at the fierce brightness of the room’s strip lighting. Before she could protest further, the men snapped another set of cuffs on her, hooking her to Itch’s other hand. Without speaking, both men left the room, pulling the door shut and locking it.
‘We’re going on a cruise,’ said Lucy grimly. ‘Always wondered what they were like . . .’ She looked around at the old kitchen appliances and blankets. ‘Do you think we could ask for an upgrade?’
‘This isn’t good, Luce,’ said Itch as they felt the boat power move away from its moorings. He tugged at the cuffs. ‘My hand’s still recovering from the fire at the Fitzherbert School – I don’t think I can get out of this one.’ He looked around their cramped quarters. ‘Looks like all the galley equipment they don’t want any more.’ They both slumped, exhausted, against the old oven door; it clanged shut behind them.
‘Thought of a plan yet?’ asked Lucy.
‘Nope.’
‘Me neither. How long do you think we have?’
Itch considered. ‘A few hours maybe?’
‘You’ll think of something,’ she said, and then, to Itch’s surprise, fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.
He closed his eyes, but found sleep impossible. His mind was full of what might happen to them – what might be happening to Jack and Chloe – and Lucy’s assumption that he would get them out of there.
He laughed bitterly. ‘The genius strikes again,’ he said. The truth was, he had no plan. He had no rucksack, no elements, and no idea how they were going to escape. He felt a cold despair in the pit of his stomach.
Lucy woke him with a sharp tug on the handcuff chain. It was dark, and it took Itch a few seconds to remember where he was. He had no idea how long he had slept for; his head was heavy and his clothes were wet with sweat.
‘Itch, something’s happening,’ said Lucy. ‘Everyone’s running about.’
He sat up slowly and heard approaching steps; a key turned in the lock and the door was pushed open. Fierce lighting flooded the room, and the same two men stood silhouetted in the entrance.
‘You again?’ said Lucy. ‘Not room service, I suppose? Two teas maybe?’
Itch saw they each had the hoods swinging in their hands and felt the despair again. One of the men leaned over and unlocked his cuffs from the old cooker; the other ordered them to their feet. Still cuffed to each other, the black hoods were forced back over their heads and tied around their necks. Second time around, Itch found the darkness and smell of nylon even more terrifying; it was as though they were being summoned to their execution. A string of curses came from under Lucy’s hood, and Itch smiled bleakly under his. ‘That’s pretty much what I was thinking,’ he said.
‘Don’t trust anyone. Try to be brave,’ whispered Lucy.
Itch nodded. ‘I’m fine with the first part . . .’ he said.
They were pushed out into the corridor. Lucy found Itch’s hand and held it fiercely. They were clearly retracing their steps from . . . well, when exactly? Yesterday? A few hours ago? Up steps, through
doorways, and into the noise of a powerful boat idling in a strong wind. The temperature dropped noticeably, and they saw only small pinpricks of light through their hoods. Firm hands steered them around unseen obstacles until they felt a metal rail. From the sea below them they heard voices calling.
‘Oh my God . . .’ murmured Lucy.
‘They’re putting us in another boat,’ said Itch. ‘And listen . . .’
They became aware of another sound competing with the ship’s engine. A deeper, heavier sound, coming from a short distance away. Itch turned to face it. Through the fabric of his hood he made out some faint lights higher than the sea but too low for stars.
Ship’s lights.
There was no doubt in his mind now that this was to be their final destination, that this new ship was where Flowerdew would be. And Jack and Chloe too. With that realization, Itch felt more resolute. Terrified too, but stronger, angrier . . . and he took a deep breath.
‘That’s a big ship out there. It’s him, Lucy – it has to be. So we might as well do this now.’
A voice from below shouted in English: ‘Ready here!’
Another from behind said, ‘Six steps to boat,’ and uncuffed them.
Itch was pushed forward through a gap in the railings. Turning round, he heard Lucy say, ‘Be careful,’ and he edged his way down, feeling for each rung. He had a sudden memory of his descent into the Woodingdean Well, but he forced it away.
It’s only six steps.
As his right hand slid down, it caught on a sharp metal edge. Itch winced, but quickly leaned into the steps, his fingers guiding the fabric of the hood onto the sharp metal. He continued down, the hood catching, pulling, then tearing. It was only a small rip, too near his ear for him to see very much, but he could now make out the sea. If he twisted his head, his field of vision took in the small inflatable he was about to step into.
Hands grabbed his legs, and he allowed himself to be pushed into the bottom of the boat. Lying back, he could see Lucy’s final cautious step before she too was shoved down next to him.
