by Simon Mayo
‘I can see you,’ he whispered. ‘Tore the hood.’
He felt Lucy’s shaking arm hook through his as the inflatable powered away. Hoping it wasn’t obvious that he now had some limited vision, he twisted round to line up the tear with the direction of the boat.
It wasn’t difficult to see where they were going. Through the jagged shreds, two hundred metres away and closing, Itch glimpsed sections of a large, industrial ship, its deck covered in cranes and what looked like drilling equipment. At the bow, he saw the name Strontian and metal scaffolding supporting a large flat platform. A helipad? he wondered.
Bright lights shone from the deck, and Itch saw a small bobbing craft pull up alongside. He watched surreptitiously as a figure was hauled up on deck. A figure about the size of . . .
Itch gasped and stood up. His hands reached for the rip in his hood and pulled sharply, opening the tear up further. He pushed his head through the hole. In an instant he took in the size of the drilling ship, the gathered hands on its deck – and the sight of his sister being hauled aboard.
‘Chloe!’ he yelled.
27
Itch’s terrified, heart-stopping howl was heard by everyone. It carried loud and clear across the short expanse of water between the ship and the approaching inflatable. The men tying the small craft to the larger one froze, staring out across the water. Those on the inflatable leaped at him. Chloe, approaching the top of the ladder, twisted round to see where her brother’s voice had come from.
‘Itch!’ she screamed, then disappeared from view as she was hauled up onto the deck.
Itch was struggling with two men who were now sitting on his chest, one trying to put his hood back on. ‘That’s my sister!’ he shouted before some of the material was forced into his mouth, cutting off his reply.
‘Itch, what’s happening?’ cried Lucy, her voice fearful. His smothered, wordless reply turned the fear to panic. She pulled frantically at her hood – but to no avail. She forced her fingernails along the side of the boat, deliberately tearing them. Ignoring the pain, she scratched at the hood, hoping one of the splintered nail shards might be sharp enough to penetrate the fabric. But they weren’t, and she shouted and screamed in frustration.
The inflatable’s engine revved as it accelerated towards the Strontian. One man steered; the others restrained Itch and watched Lucy rage. Itch could hear Chloe’s shouts; each one gave him new strength. He wrestled, twisted and kicked against the dead weight on top of him, but the men were too heavy.
He stopped struggling, his desire to see Chloe and Jack stronger than his hope of escape. From the bottom of the boat, he saw the brown and orange hull of the ship loom above him; a rope ladder dangled down from the rail to the sea. He saw faces peering over the side, calling, then Lucy being manhandled to the side of the inflatable.
‘Itch, where are you?’ she yelled. He tried again to call out to her but his muzzled voice had no power. Her hands were guided to the ladder but she pulled them away. ‘Take this hood off me now! I can’t climb if I can’t see!’ She stood balancing on the bobbing craft, her shoulders rising and falling, her breathing rapid. A shouted exchange from the digger to the inflatable, and Itch watched as her hood was swiftly removed. Lucy whipped her head from left to right and, finding Itch lying gagged and restrained in the bottom of the boat, cried out in alarm. Itch tried to look as reassuring as possible, which, as he was pinned to the floor, he realized might not be very reassuring at all. Meanwhile Lucy’s hands were forced back onto the ladder and she started her ascent, slowly at first but faster as she adjusted to the sway of the ship. Itch hoped she wouldn’t look down; from where he lay it was one terrifying climb.
Once she had disappeared onto the Strontian, the two men who had been sitting on him hauled him to his feet.
‘Your turn,’ said the older man, who had a tattoo of a scorpion on the side of his neck.
His hands free, Itch pointed at his mouth, and the man nodded. Slowly Itch removed the length of nylon and spat out some loose threads, some strands of saliva landing in the man’s hair. ‘Oops,’ said Itch and stepped onto the swinging rope ladder before the man tried to hit him. His hands gripped the thick, coarse rope and his feet found the thin metal slats. A fierce spotlight from high above picked him out, illuminating the route he had to take. He climbed out of reach of the men in the inflatable, and then stopped. He stared at the blistered painted hull just a few centimetres in front of him. The ship rose and fell as he clung to its side. Every step took him closer to Flowerdew, a man who had already tried to kill him and who had succeeded in killing Mr Watkins.
Better to jump into the sea and take my chances.
But every step also took him closer to Jack, Chloe and now Lucy.
And I could never abandon them . . .
Itch took a deep breath and started to climb again.
When he reached the top, four men appeared, their arms outstretched, straining to grab hold of him. Itch almost stopped again, but then felt himself being hauled over the side. He was sent sprawling onto the deck, crashing into the base of one of the cranes. After a few seconds the ringing in his ears was replaced by a woman’s voice.
‘Would you stand, please.’ It was a quiet, accented voice, and Itch knew that he had heard it before. As he gingerly got to his feet, his heart still pounding from the climb, he saw the high heels, the pencil skirt, the white shirt under an immaculately cut jacket, and the smiling Asian face.
‘Hello, Itch . . .’ Her head tilted slightly and the smile broadened.
‘Mary Bale,’ said Itch breathlessly. ‘Fake International Herald Tribune journalist. I remember.’ He looked at the grim-faced group of men standing behind her. ‘You came with thugs last time too. They beat up Dr Alexander at the mining school – remember? Well, of course you do – you ordered it.’
Her smile stayed in place, though it became cooler. She waited a few seconds. ‘Finished?’ She paused theatrically. ‘I’m Roshanna Wing, the new CEO of Greencorps. I use the name Mary Bale when it suits me, and yes, I remember trying to obtain the 126. I took the measures I deemed necessary. As always. If I had been successful then . . . we wouldn’t be here now. Come this way.’
‘But I need to be—’ began Itch.
‘You don’t need to be anything other than very, very careful,’ she hissed, the smile wiped away in an instant. Her face grew pinched, her eyes narrowed. ‘You really must understand how much danger you are in. You and your buddies.’
‘I think we’ve realized that,’ murmured Itch.
Roshanna Wing turned, and he was pushed hard in the back. He stumbled after her, her men right behind. Wing wove her way past yellow and red painted hi-tech drilling equipment which was crammed into every available space. Pumps, pistons, cables, storage containers; Itch jumped over or was steered round all of them.
He tried to prepare himself for what he knew was coming. Somewhere on this ship was Dr Nathaniel Flowerdew, the man who had tried to ruin his life. The teacher who had stolen his 126 and assaulted him at school. The madman who had attempted to destroy his nervous system with neutron bombardment. The criminal who had sent him a parcel bomb and murdered Mr Watkins. Now he would face Flowerdew thousands of miles from home, with no rucksack of elements to help him out, and Jack, Chloe and Lucy expecting him to come up with something.
And he knew he had nothing.
Stepping under an enormous steel drilling rig arch, Itch looked around, increasingly desperate. He saw enormous tubes, banked and stacked high, ready to unfold into the sea like the seating in his school gym. He saw complex machinery labelled IRON ROUGHNECK, MUD PUMP and CATWALK SHUTTLE; he didn’t understand any of it. It made perfect sense for Flowerdew to hide on what appeared to be a mining ship, but it was no use to him. This is no good, he thought. No good at all. They marched on, and every step took him nearer to Flowerdew.
Ahead, Wing had opened a door and was already inside. Itch noticed a sign for chemical dispersant, accompanied by a red WAR
NING! sign. That’s more like it . . .
They had entered a lab area – two benches with computer screens and the paraphernalia of analysis; Itch recognized the spectrometers and had handled some of the solutions, but that was all. Stoppered bottles stood on shelves in a locked, temperature-controlled glass cupboard, but he couldn’t make out the labels.
Another shove in the back, and Itch stumbled again. ‘There’s nothing here for you,’ said Wing sharply. She had seen his desperate glances around the lab. ‘You are so out of your depth.’ She laughed at her own joke. ‘And in so many ways.’ Still laughing, she led the way below decks.
The steps were poorly lit, the corridor at the bottom almost dark. Emergency lighting gave the place a grimy, seedy feel, the flashing red lights of the smoke alarm and sprinklers glaring brightly in the gloom. Wing was now slowing down, and Itch’s stomach tightened further. This must be it. They passed a sick bay, then came to a cabin door that was slightly ajar. Itch caught the faint smell of whisky . . . he knew what was coming next.
Roshanna Wing stopped. She knocked softly on the door, and Itch held his breath. Hearing nothing from inside, Wing knocked louder.
Itch shut his eyes tightly. Please don’t be there . . . Please be nice . . . Please be dead . . . Please . . .
‘Yes. Come in.’
And Itch went cold.
He had known all along that Flowerdew would be inside, but hearing his mannered, sneering voice again left him numb with shock. His legs turned to lead, his stomach to water.
Wing pushed the door open. If anything, the room was gloomier than the corridor. Muttering, ‘Wait here,’ Wing disappeared inside.
As Itch’s eyes adjusted, he saw a soft silvery light, diffused around the room. He heard muted conversation, then Wing appeared in the doorway. She dismissed her men with a wave of her hand, then pulled Itch inside. He stared wildly around the room, his heart racing, his throat dry. He thought he saw movement in the corner, and turned.
‘Stand facing me, Lofte.’ Flowerdew’s voice was matter-of-fact, bordering on the casual.
‘I would if I could see you,’ said Itch, trying to match his offhand tone.
‘I would if I could see you . . . sir,’ said Flowerdew softly. There was silence in the room, and Itch again sensed movement.
‘Say it, boy!’ Some of Flowerdew’s nonchalance was slipping.
‘No,’ said Itch. ‘I’m not playing your pathetic games.’ More movement, this time accompanied by a strangled sound.
‘Chloe? Is that you?’ Itch called, his head darting first one way, then another, trying to peer into the shadows. He was answered by three muffled voices, each from a different corner of the room.
‘Jack . . .? Lucy . . .?’ More smothered voices, the nearest just a few metres away, and he stepped towards it.
‘Stay where you are!’ shouted Flowerdew, but Itch took no notice.
‘I will hurt them if you do not stop.’ The sudden venom in Flowerdew’s voice stopped Itch in his tracks. He froze, but could now make out the shape of someone struggling to free themselves.
‘Put the lights on!’ shouted Itch. ‘Show me what’s happening!’
‘I prefer things dark actually,’ said Flowerdew, ‘and that’s your fault. As so many things are. But I will show you what you need to see.’
And around the edges of the room, soft lighting faded up. Itch stared in horror from corner to corner; from Chloe, to Jack, to Lucy. Each was gagged and held in place by a large black weighted belt strapped around the waist. They were all trying to pull themselves free, but the belts were holding them fast.
Chloe stared at Itch, her exhausted eyes wide with fear.
Jack stopped struggling when Itch looked at her; she saw how shocked he was by her sickly face and filthy clothes.
Lucy’s eyes never moved from Flowerdew, her stare one of cold fury.
‘I’m sorry,’ Itch said quietly, and Flowerdew emerged from behind his computer screen that had kept him hidden from Itch’s view. He moved slowly, as if in pain, and held onto a desk for support. Then he straightened, his head catching some of the light from the recessed lamps in the floor.
Itch stepped back, unable to suppress an involuntary gasp. At first he thought Flowerdew was wearing a leather mask – protection for the burns he had suffered in the fire at the Fitzherbert School. Then he realized that it wasn’t a mask; it was his face. Maybe he’d had skin grafts, maybe they hadn’t worked, maybe he was still receiving treatment . . . but the effect was terrifying. One side of his face was relatively normal, though the skin was red and blotchy and his chin unshaven. But the other appeared to be held together with stretched hide, patches of skin pulled tight over his features and stitched down. His right eye was half closed, the lid bloated and raw. And his ear – the one Itch had skewered with a steel tube in their fight at ISIS – was shrivelled. He had lost his curly white hair too; in its place was patchy grey stubble.
Itch couldn’t help himself. ‘Looking good, sir. A big improvement,’ he said.
Flowerdew stopped, one hand on his desk for support. ‘You may say what you wish, Lofte, it is of no matter to me. I shall kill you shortly and that will be the end of it.’ Further muffled cries came from Chloe’s corner; he ignored her. ‘However, a brief chat might be fun. I have been wondering what to say for some time; I shall savour the moment.’
‘I’m not interested in your speeches, Flowerdew. Not interested in your reasons, not interested in your justifications. Save your breath.’ Itch hoped that the trembling of his legs wasn’t visible, and fought to control them.
‘Oh, I don’t have to justify anything to anyone!’ One half of Flowerdew’s face smiled. ‘I’m in charge now. Greencorps is my company, this is my office. I run everything from this ship, and no one knows where I am or what I am doing. The capable Roshanna Wing is far more presentable than I, so she is the public face of the new, friendlier Greencorps. Telling all about the murky dealings of the oil industry, who now really, really regret how they treated me in the past. They can watch my success from their prison cells.’
Flowerdew made his way over to what Itch now realized was a porthole; tiny lights had appeared and were slowly sliding in and out of sight. A moment ago it had been pitch black; now, with the ship moving, Flowerdew watched the changing view.
‘I realize you have no idea where you are, Lofte, so I shall tell you. We are leaving the island of El Hiero off the coast of Africa – the Western Sahara, to be precise. It was an old Greencorps watering hole. I still have friends here, and it has been the perfect place to hide while waiting for you.’
‘You don’t have friends,’ said Itch. ‘You have people who are scared of you.’
Flowerdew continued to stare out of the porthole. ‘It amounts to the same thing,’ he said. ‘And when you actually run a company, you’d be surprised how many people are scared of you.’
‘I don’t think I would, actually,’ said Itch quietly.
‘Your destruction of the 126 was an act of extraordinary scientific vandalism,’ said Flowerdew, ‘though I admit that your knowledge of neutron bombardment was . . . surprising.’
Itch was on the verge of telling him that it was Lucy’s knowledge, not his, but realized it would change nothing. It might put her in even more danger. He remained silent.
‘But you left me with this face, Lofte. And every time I look in a mirror, I find myself thinking of you.’ Itch wasn’t sure whether Flowerdew was still looking out of the porthole or at his own reflection. The man turned to face him again. ‘And every time I thought of you, I thought of this . . .’ He waved his hands around the room. ‘You see, I have had my revenge on Revere and Van Den Hauwe. I am in the process of having my revenge on the oil industry. And now I shall have my revenge on you.’ He looked at Lucy, Jack and Chloe in turn. ‘All of you.’ Chloe and Lucy tensed against their restraints, but the large black belts held them firm.
‘Your face is your own fault, and you know it,’ shouted Itch.
‘You’d killed Shivvi and were about to kill Jack. The dust explosion and fire was the only way to stop you. You’re greedy – you burned. It’s that simple. Your revenge failed last time and it will fail again.’
Flowerdew nodded. ‘Yes, I tried before, of course. My little parcel missed its mark in your case, though I got lucky with that idiot teacher of yours. A small triumph really.’ Itch swore at Flowerdew, who smirked lopsidedly, the burned side of his face hardly moving. ‘Watkins had it coming, the ludicrous academy had it coming – and the boss at ISIS too. Everyone who helped you paid the price.’
‘Not everyone,’ said Itch. ‘Thomas Oakes helped us blast the 126 into oblivion . . . but you gave him a job.’
One of Flowerdew’s eyebrows raised. ‘You have worked out more than I expected. It was your demolition of the 126 that gave me the idea – I should thank you. After I acquired Greencorps, I realized that a new strategy was required. We needed more than oil if we were to keep our grip on the energy market. A South African contact – the one you fried in the fire at the school, incidentally – had told me how many mines were becoming available at the right price, and so we bought aggressively. To increase the price of the gold we now owned, destabilizing the euro was an obvious tactic. It has done a pretty good job of destabilizing itself, of course, but I thought we could just help a little. When everyone gets scared, they buy gold. And I’m quite good at making people scared. With my new rare earth mines in South Africa, I had access to the europium I needed to contaminate the bank notes. And with one of ISIS’s top scientists working for me, everything was possible.’
Dad lost the mine to you? Itch thought. He glanced at Chloe, but her eyes were closed; she hadn’t reacted. It was all making sense now . . . The riots were Greencorps riots, because every time the value of the euro dived, the value of their new gold mines rocketed.
‘I knew the man who suggested using europium as a security feature in the euro,’ continued Flowerdew, starting to pace around the room. ‘He was very drunk by the time he told me. He thought it was hilarious. I didn’t think much about it till recently.’
