by Simon Mayo
‘Sorry to interrupt and all that,’ said Itch, ‘but why are you telling me this, Flowerdew? You must have people who you pay to listen to you—’
‘I’m showing off, Lofte!’ shouted Flowerdew. ‘Why do you think? I’m a scientist, for God’s sake. I’m proving to you that I have won, you have lost and why. If you hadn’t been so arrogant, you might not be standing here, humiliated. So listen up.’ He paused, then, as if finding his place again, continued. ‘The europium in the euro is luminescent under ultraviolet light; if I could damage the europium in some way, the notes would show up as fake. My first thought was to blast the euros with neutrons, converting the europium to gadolinium – hence Oakes’s usefulness.’
‘But europium absorbs neutrons,’ said Itch. ‘I could have told you that. You always were a crap teacher.’
Flowerdew stopped a metre from Lucy and closed his eyes, then took a deep breath as though inhaling Itch’s barb.
So Itch tried another. ‘I’ve done some work on this – maybe you should have too. The 126 mostly turned into 63, so europium is, officially, the element that says to the world: Flowerdew sucks. It’s therefore my new all-time favourite element in the Periodic Table and—’
Flowerdew whipped his stick into Lucy’s ribs. Her eyes went wide with shock and pain. She would have howled if her gag hadn’t been so tight, but the guttural sob told Itch everything he needed to know.
‘Stop! Stop!’ he cried. ‘I’m sorry! Please don’t!’
Across the room, Jack and Chloe were straining against their belts again; Jack stared at Itch and desperately shook her head.
Flowerdew walked over to her and raised his stick. Jack shrank away as much as she could. His stare followed her down. ‘I’m happy to hit all of you in turn if your idiot cousin tries that again,’ he hissed.
Jack stopped shaking her head and started nodding.
‘I get it! OK!’ shouted Itch. He took a few steps towards Lucy, but Flowerdew raised his cane again and he backed off. She was biting her lip and her eyes were full of tears, but she nodded reassurance to Itch.
‘So . . .’ he began, desperate to distract Flowerdew. ‘Blasting the europium didn’t work?’ Please just talk . . . Please don’t hit.
To his relief, Flowerdew began his pacing again. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Oakes tried it on a sample and it didn’t work; europium absorbed all the neutrons. We concluded that the neutron bombardment was not going to work. Then . . .’ He smiled his crooked smile again. ‘Then I had a brain wave.’
‘Picric acid?’ said Itch, interested in spite of everything.
‘Precisely!’ said Flowerdew, and for a second they were teacher and pupil again. ‘And it gave us another way in. It gave us a note that would either burn, or register as a fake. Or both!’ His walking had picked up speed, and Itch knew that Flowerdew was enjoying this. ‘The inks that are used in the euros are made by causing a solution containing europium to react with an alkaline solution made from the molecules that wrap themselves round the metal and protect it – they also absorb the ultraviolet light and transfer the energy to the europium. This is crucial: it ensures that the europium will actually be able to glow as expected. We took one of these complexes and placed it in picric acid. And bingo! We got a naked europium, wrapped mostly in water. Which killed the fluorescence. The inks we provided looked the same as the original, but they turned a proper note into one that would register as a fake.’
‘Then the paper dries,’ said Itch quietly, ‘the acid is unstable, and the note is ready to catch fire.’
‘Exactly! Add this to the already miserable Spanish economy, bribe some of the low paid Royal Mint staff to look the other way, and we have action!’ He bounced his cane off the ground and caught it again. ‘By God it was good.’
‘You whomped that sucker,’ said Itch quietly, and Flowerdew stared at him.
‘Of course . . . Thomas Oakes. His favourite phrase. Or it was. He served his purpose.’
‘You got rid of him too?’
‘He became unhappy. It is of no matter . . .’ Flowerdew leaned on his cane as if exhausted. He bent over, breathing heavily; he seemed weaker, older, more tired, and Itch wondered if he should jump him.
When they had fought before, in the tunnel at the ISIS labs, he had badly hurt a weakened Flowerdew. Maybe I could do it again? he thought. But if it goes wrong, Chloe, Jack or Lucy would pay the price. Itch hesitated. Then, behind him, he heard the door open and knew he’d missed his chance.
‘Yes, Roshanna, just in time,’ said Flowerdew weakly. ‘Is the radar fixed?’
‘Not yet,’ she said.
‘No matter. It’s about to get interesting . . .’
Itch turned to see Wing standing silently by the door, another large black belt hanging from her arm. That one’s for me, he thought. It swung slightly as the ship swayed; it looked stiff and heavy.
What is in that thing? As far as Itch could see, there was a series of stitched panels, an adjustable strap and a brass lock. Were they weights? He noticed Wing’s gaze alight on Lucy, Jack and Chloe, then settle on him. The brief thrill of the science talk had disappeared; the cold despair settled on him again.
At a nod from Flowerdew, Wing stepped forward and looped the belt around Itch’s waist. She tightened the strap, and he heard the small metallic click as it locked. He was aware of the pressure of the belt as it sat above his hips. It was an uncomfortably tight fit, and he pushed the front panel away from him slightly. Glancing down at the stitched fabric, he saw Nd stamped in small letters. His heart beating faster, he felt around the panel. Underneath the fabric was a metal disc, about five centimetres in diameter, and as he pushed it down, he felt the top metal button of his jeans pulling up to meet it.
Itch’s legs started to shake again, and his skin prickled.
Flowerdew was smiling his half-smile again. ‘You know what it is, don’t you?’ he said.
Itch nodded.
‘Well, come on, boy! You have an audience who want to know what they are wearing!’
Chloe, Jack and Lucy were all silent now; they watched Itch with a horrified intensity.
‘It’s neodymium,’ he said, trying to push his jeans button back down. ‘We are wearing neodymium magnets – the most powerful magnets in the world.’
He saw the recognition in Lucy and Jack’s eyes – they remembered. Their terrified glances said: You mean that butterfly earring Mr Hampton had? You mean the video of the fruit that got smashed to pieces? You mean those magnets?
And Itch knew his face said, Yes, those magnets. He swallowed hard. ‘I think we need to stay away from each other,’ he said.
28
‘I did mention revenge, I think,’ said Flowerdew. ‘And this is it.’
The door opened and four of the crew strode in, one for each of them. Itch felt strong arms take hold of him, then watched while the other men used long blades to prise Jack’s, Lucy’s, then Chloe’s belts away from the poles he now saw behind them: he assumed their belts had smaller magnets at the back. If his arms hadn’t been pinned to his side, he’d have checked.
‘On deck!’ ordered Flowerdew, his voice shrill. ‘And keep them away from anything made of steel!’
Itch was spun round and frog-marched out of the cabin. He tried to see what was happening to Chloe, but a large hand twisted his head round to the front. He was marched back the way he had come, along the dark corridor, up the steps – tripping on two of them – and into the lab. Itch’s eyes swivelled to the sealed cabinet he had seen on his way down. This time he had a better view of the labels. Some were still obscured or illegible; one said AgNO3. He barely had time to register the large brown jar with a heavy-duty lid before he was propelled past the benches, his feet barely touching the ground. Occasionally he felt his belt tug, but he was moving too fast for the magnet to catch hold of anything.
As he was manhandled around the deck, he forced himself to focus, to think, to shake off the paralysing fear. He’d read about this at the m
useum in Madrid. This is silver again! AgNo3 – silver nitrate. Think it’s poisonous. Was once used in photography.
They were under the drilling rig now, and as he turned, Itch caught a glimpse of Chloe, her face white, her eyes staring. She hadn’t noticed him, and he was glad. She would have seen her brother looking every bit as scared as she was.
Silver nitrate. Made by adding silver to nitric acid.
They were weaving their way through the drilling equipment; the Strontian’s stern was now only metres away. Beyond, the darkness of the ocean and the white churn of the ship’s wake.
Think it’s an antiseptic.
Itch was held beside a green barrier no more than half a metre high. He guessed it was iron – it was rusting and he could feel his belt being pulled again. It really was no barrier, though; more of a low, retractable rail marking the end of the ship. And the beginning, ten metres below, of the dark, rolling Atlantic ocean.
To his right, Chloe stole a quick glance at him, then stared resolutely out to sea and the slowly disappearing lights of El Hiero. Next came Jack, her face white, her head bowed. Lucy was the last to arrive, struggling and kicking, her eyes blazing.
‘Jack!’ shouted Itch above the roar of the ship’s engine. ‘Jack! Look at me!’ She half turned her head, but then seemed to lose interest. She closed her eyes and bowed her head again.
He’s going to kill us. He’s actually going to kill us.
Flowerdew appeared at Itch’s shoulder. He smelled of hospitals and whisky. He was smiling his sloping smile.
And it is all my fault. All of it.
‘It’s a long way from the academy, isn’t it, Lofte? And a long way from ISIS too. But here we are. And you are about to pay the price for humiliating me. And attacking me. And trying to kill me. And stealing my possessions. It’s a long charge list.’
Itch found his voice. ‘Is it worth pointing out that it’s me you want revenge on, not the others? You keep telling me it’s my fault. Well, you’re right, it is. So let them go. Please.’ He gulped and wiped his eyes. ‘Please, sir.’
Flowerdew looked along the terrified line. ‘You’re right, it is your fault. So I will offer you one last chance to save your family.’
Itch stared at Flowerdew’s stitched and stretched face, the sea-spray causing the skin grafts to redden further. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Flowerdew stepped in front of him, and for a moment Itch knew he could push him overboard. But also that Chloe, Jack and Lucy would follow soon after. The moment passed. Flowerdew licked his lips. ‘I want you to tell me where the rest of the 126 is.’ He ignored Itch’s look of amazement. ‘You destroyed the rocks at ISIS, but there will be more. If they arrived via a supernova, there will be more than eight small pieces. Supernovas are massive; their payloads are huge. You know that. Tell me where it is.’
Itch’s heart sank. For a moment he thought there might be some serious bargaining to be done. He should have known better.
‘There isn’t any more. There really isn’t. And how would I know anyway? Cake gave me the first and left me the others. I didn’t find any more.’
‘But there will be more, Lofte, of course there will. And it will have arrived thousands of years ago. I have my people searching Cornwall, looking for important sites where mysterious “magical” rocks might have been hidden or worshipped. But they have found nothing. If you want to save your girls, you’d better tell me what you know. Fast.’
‘That was you? Well, I found two of your thugs with a Geiger counter by the church. I should have guessed. So that was Greencorps smashing up the ancient sites?’
Flowerdew looked pleased with himself. ‘Who else?’
Itch couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. ‘And that Meyn Mamvro stuff? The MMs that turned up everywhere? Really?’
Flowerdew nodded. ‘A neat trick I thought up. I met a few crazed Cornish nationalists while I was at the academy. Dressing our search up in an ancient language made it all rather . . . dramatic, don’t you think? Took off rather well. Every crazed hooligan with a grievance seemed to want to paint it on something. But, sadly, it didn’t deliver any more 126.’ He approached Itch and whispered into his ear. ‘Tell me where it is or you die. You all die.’
He nodded to one of the crew, and the low rail started to fold into the deck. Itch, Chloe, Jack and Lucy were marched to the edge. With their gags still in place, there were no screams – but the ones in Itch’s head were loud enough. He looked down. The floodlights picked out the heaving water below.
He spoke fast. ‘All I know is that, hundreds of years ago, mysterious mine deaths were reported. No one knew what happened. Maybe there was 126 involved, but I—’
‘Where were the mines?’ Flowerdew shouted. ‘Which ones?’
Itch tried to remember names from Watkins’s book, but nothing came. ‘I don’t know! They were Cornish mines, that’s all! And it was ages ago. I—’
‘No good, Lofte! No good!’ screamed Flowerdew. ‘Your time is up!’ He strode over to one of his men, who placed a gun in his open palm.
Itch had seen enough. He ran as close to Jack and Lucy as he dared; he felt his neodymium magnet pull, and stopped dead.
He shouted into the wind, ‘He’s going to shoot! We have to jump!’
Jack and Lucy were paralysed with fear; then Flowerdew aimed his weapon.
‘Stop it!’ he shrieked. ‘You can’t help each other! That’s why you’ve got the belts on! Get back, Lofte!’
But Itch turned and ran back towards Chloe, felt his belt tug, and this time carried on. He skidded, then propelled by an astonishing force, his belt crashed into Chloe’s. Their bodies jarred, and Chloe’s head smacked into Itch’s chest, but she held on tight. As Itch straightened, Chloe was lifted off her feet, the magnets holding them together.
‘We are going to jump,’ he shouted into her ear. ‘We’re dead if we stay.’
‘We’re dead if we jump!’ she yelled back.
They heard a metallic rattle behind them: Flowerdew was loaded and ready to go.
‘Coming over!’ shouted Lucy. She had turned to a terror-stricken Jack and run. A fierce metallic crack, a scream from Jack, and the pair were joined at the hip.
‘No!’ yelled Flowerdew.
Perched on the brink, with the roiling waves ten metres below their feet, Lucy and Jack turned to Itch.
They all saw Flowerdew raise the gun.
‘We go now!’ bellowed Itch.
As Chloe screamed, he walked them to the edge.
And then over it.
Two seconds later, Itch and Chloe hit the sea. Amidst rapid gunfire, Jack and Lucy followed them, arms and legs flailing as they smacked into the water. On impact their heads cracked together; Lucy recoiled but Jack’s head found Lucy’s shoulder and stayed there.
Lucy recovered sufficient strength in her limbs to kick and thrash enough to slow the descent. Her held breath gave her some natural buoyancy, and for a few seconds she could see the lights of the disappearing ship, splintered and cracked as the light refracted in the water.
Sinking but forcing a fight, she screamed at herself to keep going. But Jack was hardly moving and Lucy wasn’t sure if she was even conscious. Jack’s legs seemed stuck to hers, and Lucy tried to frantically frog-kick her way back to the surface. But the belts were killing them. Every surge upwards generated by the whipping of her arms and legs was cancelled out by the weight of the neodymium. Lucy wasted precious seconds struggling to force it off her hips but it was locked fast. And she felt herself sink faster.
Itch and Chloe had entered the sea like torpedoes, forced deep underwater. They resurfaced quickly and took in great heaving lungfuls of air.
‘Where are Jack and Lucy?’ Chloe screamed, her mouth in and out of the water as she turned her head from side to side. ‘Did they jump?’
Itch’s arms and legs were working furiously, his eyes darting around. But waves from the Strontian’s wake were rolling over them, and he knew that th
ey would have to look after themselves. The weakness in his muscles told him that. The look in his sister’s eyes told him that. The enveloping darkness gave them no choice.
‘Try to swim!’ he gasped. ‘Crawl!’
He leaned sideways into the waves and felt Chloe respond, but their arms and legs clashed repeatedly. As their rhythm stuttered, the weight of the belts started to tug them under. Chloe, eyes wide, mouth tight shut, started to panic; her breathing was shallow and rapid, her shoulders shook. Itch looked into her eyes; he could see that she was losing it. When her head dipped below the water, he twisted round, trying to pull her up.
‘Chloe! Stay with me!’
For a fleeting moment it worked, and Chloe managed one more half-breath before her arms seemed to fold beneath her. And they sank beneath the waves again.
Itch hadn’t finished fighting, but he feared that Chloe had. He kicked and clawed at the water, but still felt them dropping. He could feel Chloe, but in the enveloping blackness he couldn’t see her; he was sure he was battling on his own. He felt bubbles on his face. She went limp. Somewhere in his head a voice told him that it was over; that this time he had lost.
Not yet. Not now. Not yet. Not now.
With a sudden burst of ferocious energy, he twisted and rolled to slow their descent. It seemed to work: they were coming back up. How long had they been in the water? A minute? Ten? If he could just keep this up . . . If he could just wake Chloe . . .
But a terrible pressure was building on his eardrums – an arc of pain shooting through his head – and with it the crashing, crushing realization that they weren’t resurfacing. They weren’t about to save Lucy and Jack. They were still sinking. In the ink-black sea, he no longer knew which way was up. Lights started to explode in front of his eyes. He tried to close them, then realized that they were already closed. The pain in his ears and chest was unbearable. He stopped kicking.
Itch blacked out at thirty-four metres.
Chloe blacked out at thirty metres.
Lucy blacked out at thirty-five metres.
