by Simon Mayo
Need you guys in library. URGENT.
Itch pulled a number of old books from the shelves. He checked indexes, opened maps. As he read, he became increasingly agitated. His phone buzzed.
This had better be good. C
There soon as. Luce x
He borrowed some paper from the librarian’s desk and started scribbling notes, arranging them around the tables. Itch couldn’t keep still; when he paced, it was frenetic, when he sat, his knee bounced vigorously.
Another buzz: Heard from Dada! I’ll be 5. J
Itch read that again. He checked his phone – the missed calls included one from Jack and two from a blocked number. He went onto Facebook and immediately saw a news line that said: THE HEROES OF EL HEIRO ARE IN THE CLEAR.
‘Yes!’ he exclaimed loudly, punching the air. He glanced over at Morgan, who smiled but put her finger to her lips. Itch mouthed ‘Sorry,’ and carried on reading. Apparently neither the Nigerian authorities nor Interpol had any plans to charge the divers who had rescued the kidnapped British students. There was a brief recap of their story, concluding with the words, The divers’ current whereabouts are unknown.
‘I wonder . . .’ murmured Itch.
Jack burst through the library doors and hurried over. ‘Itch, they’re coming!’ She was out of breath and red in the face. Itch mouthed another ‘Sorry,’ to the librarian and cleared a space for Jack. ‘Dada rang me!’ said Jack excitedly. ‘No one’s going to charge them . . .’
‘I know, I read—’ Itch began, but Jack cut him off.
She leaned forward. ‘They’re here, Itch! In the UK! Took a lift from a trawler that dropped them at Bristol. But they don’t want anyone to know. They want to keep it quiet.’
Itch smiled. ‘You could have fooled me,’ he said.
Jack looked sheepish and glanced around. ‘Oh, yeah, sorry. I just called Lucy – she shouted too!’
Chloe arrived, and Jack anticipated her squeal of excitement with a lightly placed hand over her mouth.
‘Dada said they’d hire a van and be here tonight,’ Jack went on. ‘I’ve mentioned it to Mum and Dad, and we’ve got rooms ready for them.’
Chloe and Jack were starting to plan a tour for them while Itch, unnoticed, went back to his notes. It was only when Lucy arrived that they remembered why they had been summoned to the library in the first place. Chloe and Jack suddenly noticed the open books.
‘What have you found, Itch?’ asked Chloe. ‘Your text sounded excited.’
He raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Actually, mainly I’m scared. Here’s the Mining Tales book we got out, and Mr Watkins’s notes about checking with Flow. I looked for books by anyone called Flow, but couldn’t find anything. I assumed that it was an obscure book of his – maybe it got destroyed in the fire. But look at this.’ He held up his phone, showing the inverted stone in the graveyard. They all leaned in and stared at the image.
‘It says Florence of Worcester. Fl of W. He’s Flow.’
‘It’s a he?’ said Lucy. ‘Who is he anyway? Why would Mr Watkins mention him?’
Itch took a deep breath. ‘Right, here goes. This is going to sound nuts . . . Anyone heard of inundation theory?’ Blank faces. ‘Me neither. Anyway, ten thousand years ago the sea was four miles away, the sea level thirty-seven metres lower than it is now. That’s all fact. Slowly, the climate warmed and the seas rose. That’s fact too. Now for the weird bit. Florence was a twelfth-century monk and historian. He says that in 1099 there was a massive tide, like a tsunami, that hit Cornwall. It destroyed towns and villages, churches and farms and everything. He says the whole area that was lost was called Lethowsow.’ He looked up from his book; Chloe, Jack and Lucy were riveted, all thoughts of the divers put on hold.
‘Lethow what?’ said Lucy.
‘Lethowsow. Here’s the quote: We believe that Cornwall once extended further west may be inferred from hence, that about midway between the monastery and Scilly are rocks called in Cornish Lethowsow; by the English, Seven-stones.’
‘More stones, then,’ said Jack.
‘Apparently they were stones of great and terrifying power,’ Itch continued.
‘How did we guess . . .?’ muttered Chloe.
‘But these are just myths,’ said Lucy. ‘There are so-called “magic” stones all over Cornwall. These will just be more of the same.’
‘Yes, possibly,’ agreed Itch. ‘Even probably. But we know that a supernova delivered the 126. Even if it crashed into Cornwall thousands of years ago, it will have left its mark. The debris would have been terrifying.’
‘Where was that guy’s monastery?’ asked Chloe.
‘Up on the cliffs at Provincetown. Where the . . .’
‘. . . mine was that dug up the 126,’ Lucy finished his sentence. ‘Wow.’
‘What are you saying, Itch?’ said Jack.
‘I don’t know what I’m saying.’ Itch rubbed his hair vigorously again. ‘Except that maybe, if it’s anywhere, the remains of the supernova is out there, under the sea.’
They looked at each other, mouths open, unsure what to say next.
‘Would it be as radioactive as the rocks we destroyed?’ said Chloe eventually, feeling the need to lower her voice to a whisper.
Itch shrugged. ‘Don’t know. But probably, yes.’
‘Wouldn’t a whole bunch of radioactive stuff have been noticed before?’
Lucy answered that, also in a whisper: ‘Not necessarily. If it’s alpha radiation, it would only be detectable from a few centimetres away.’
Jack leaned in closer. ‘So . . . it could have been lying underwater for thousands of years, and no one would know?’
‘That’s about it,’ said Itch.
Chloe looked horrified. ‘We nearly killed ourselves getting rid of eight rocks of 126 – now you’re saying there’s loads more!’
‘There may be,’ said Itch. ‘I don’t know. I hope not. But if it is there, we need to get there first.’
Jack nodded. ‘Because if we’ve worked it out, someone else will. Maybe someone else has already. Let’s not deal with this on our own this time, Itch. Nearly dying has made me more cautious. We need to tell someone before another Flowerdew comes along.’
‘Agreed,’ said Itch. ‘When did you say the divers get here?’
The Atlantic Ocean, three kilometres out from Boscastle harbour, Cornwall
On the twenty-metre Blyth catamaran Platina Fury, the charts were pored over one last time. Aisha, Dada, Tobi, Sade, Leila and Chika were arguing over who should accompany Itch on the final dive of the day. They had chartered a boat normally used for shark cage diving, adapted for their needs. In place of the cage, wetsuits, air tanks and masks were scattered around the deck; while they talked, the divers fussed over their kit obsessively.
Taking their line from the ruins of the monastery on the cliff, they had been stopping every five hundred metres and diving to the sea bed. Each time, one of the divers accompanied Itch, their descent slow and deliberate. On the first dive, to ten metres, they’d had decent visibility, the sea floor consisting entirely of fine sand. Each successive dive had been deeper and darker; powerful torches were needed to show them the way up and down.
All week the weather had been warm and the winds light. The boat rose and fell, the engine idling. Now it was Tobi who came over to Itch, zipping up her wetsuit.
‘My turn,’ she said, smiling. ‘You ready?’
Itch was exhausted but exhilarated. He had never enjoyed anything in the water before, being comfortably the worst surfer in his year, but now he couldn’t wait to get back in. The sensation of actually breathing underwater made his head spin; on his first dive he had actually forgotten for a few moments why he was there and started following a fish before Sade had waved him back down. Now he felt more confident; he’d actually tried a backward-roll entry and was at last enjoying the expensive wetsuit his father had bought him. He felt more than ready – he felt buzzed, almost intoxicated. He couldn’t wait
to get back in, even if there was virtually nothing to see. All they’d found at the bottom was acres of sand and some rotting wood.
‘Course I’m ready,’ said Itch. ‘Just need the clickers.’
On cue, Chloe came over. In her hand swung the waterproof radiation detectors their father had given them in South Africa. She hung one over Tobi’s head, the other over Itch’s, each of them stooping as though they were receiving a medal.
‘They’re on the digital setting so it’ll show me the number of clicks on the screen. Keep watching it. Remember, you can’t take another dose of radiation,’ said Chloe. ‘Sure you want to try again?’
‘Last go,’ he said. ‘And yes, I’m sure.’ He glanced at Lucy, who was sitting in the sun with Jack. ‘When Cake gave me the 126, he didn’t know where it had come from, but maybe we do. If I’m on the sea floor and this meter goes crazy, I’m off. I’ll keep watching. But if this stuff is out there, it has to be us who find it.’
‘Fine,’ said Chloe, ‘but Tobi’s in charge!’ and she went to join the sunbathers.
Itch got dressed: weight belt, hood, left glove, tank, fins, right glove.
‘She’s very protective,’ said Tobi, going through her safety checks.
‘We’ve been through a lot,’ said Itch.
Tobi nodded. ‘Shall we go?’
As they were about to pull on their masks, Lucy ran over, kissed Itch on the cheek and whispered, ‘Good luck.’ She jogged back to the others, leaving him frozen to the spot.
‘You’ll need to close your mouth or the mask won’t fit,’ said Tobi, grinning.
‘Oh, right,’ said Itch. He glanced back at Lucy, but she was talking to Jack and didn’t look up.
‘Itch, let’s check the air one last time,’ said Tobi. ‘If you’re still diving . . .’
‘Sure. Of course.’
‘You up for this? You concentrating?’
He nodded. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Give us a countdown, people!’ called Tobi as they stood at the edge of the deck. Then, to whoops of encouragement from everyone on board, they jumped.
The Atlantic was never warm, and the impact of the sea made Itch gasp again. Below the surface they briefly trod water, made the O sign with thumb and forefinger, then Tobi dived. Itch followed, learning again to trust his equipment: when he needed air it was fed to him; when he breathed out it was directed into the sea. As he followed Tobi down, the only sounds he could hear were the bubbles from his own breathing regulator. And he loved it.
This is more like flying than swimming, he thought, even if there’s not much of a view. There was just enough light from the surface to show them that there was little of interest in these waters. A few fish and the odd strand of seaweed were never going to attract any of the diving expeditions that were popular along the coast; they preferred to explore Cornwall’s many wrecks.
Wonder if anyone has ever dived here . . . Why would they?
As they descended through the darkening sea, Tobi turned on her torch. The powerful beam pierced the gloom, and Itch caught sight of a patch of green at the edge of his vision – thirty, forty metres away. Tobi had seen it too, and together they swam further out, the sea bed dropping gently away beneath them. His depth gauge said twenty-nine metres. Itch knew that the continental shelf was many kilometres away – the sea bed fell away to 8,000 metres there – but he shivered.
The green turned out to be a particularly dense area of seaweed and vegetation. It started quite suddenly, the sand giving way to foliage as though it had been planted there. It stretched away as far as their torches would allow them to see. Tobi pulled out her camera from her pack; this was the first time there had been anything worth photographing on any of the dives. When she was done, Itch pointed further out. She nodded, and together they swam over about an acre of plant life, small fish darting around some of the fronds and leaves.
The green stopped as suddenly as it had begun; sand and a few rocks marked what looked like a border. Tobi swung her torch round, picking out two more areas of green – one to the left, the other further out. She pointed left and they kicked off again. This vegetation was more patchy. As they floated ten metres above it, more and more areas of dark colour came into view. Tobi held up one finger and Itch nodded.
One more.
The next one was more densely packed, with small, tightly woven strands of seaweed threaded through clumps of what looked like clover. Tobi had found the board and was writing on it. She held it up.
This is weird! it said.
Itch nodded and took the pen. And goes on for ever, he wrote.
She tapped her watch and pointed back up towards the boat. Nearly time to go.
Really? Itch was surprised; on the previous dives he had got cold and was soon ready to return to the surface, but this time he wanted to continue. Presumably because there’s something to see, he thought.
Unless . . .
Itch swam deeper. His depth gauge said thirty-one metres when he pulled up sharply.
You’re imagining it.
He swam lower. Thirty-two metres. He wasn’t imagining it.
The sea was warmer.
In spite of his wetsuit, he felt the change in temperature. He beckoned Tobi over, and she glided towards him. Through her mask, Itch saw her widening eyes and knew she’d felt it too.
They drifted towards the bottom, his heart beating hard; he could actually hear the blood pumping around his head. Itch had one flipper on some slippery greenery, the other on a patch of dark rock. Tobi pulled out Chloe’s radiation detector, but indicated that Itch should go first. He tugged at the string around his neck and pulled the device free. He checked his own meter.
No clicks, no radiation.
He knelt down on the sea bed and held the detector in front of his goggles. The reading was zero.
Slowly he lowered his hands, his eyes on the dial . . .
Zero.
Zero.
Zero.
Ten centimetres from the rock . . .
Zero.
Zero.
Five centimetres from the rock . . .
Zero.
One centimetre from the rock . . .
500,000 . . .
Itch dropped the detector.
Dr Jacob Alexander of the West Ridge Mining School was alone in his office, feeling tired and grumpy after a long day. The exam papers he was looking at were poor, the fracking research was not making the progress he’d expected, and Nicholas Lofte had missed his meeting. His subsequent text saying, Stay there, coming over, had seemed neither apologetic nor adequate. He was frowning over the ‘Mineralogy of Cornish Tin’ essays when there was an ear-splitting screech of tyres in the car park. Surprised – West Ridge wasn’t usually a haunt for joy riders – Alexander looked up from his scripts into the dusky glow of the evening. Careering towards his office, then swerving to park horizontally across three spaces, Nicholas Lofte’s Volvo came to a neck-jarring halt.
‘What on earth . . .?’
Out of the car came Nicholas, then Itch, Chloe, Jack and Lucy, all sprinting for the college entrance. Alexander realized that something was up, but when Jude Lofte climbed out of the passenger seat, he realized the news – whatever it was – must be big. She had never before visited the college.
He emerged from his office and opened up the reception for his late visitors. ‘Well, welcome to you all—’ he began, but Itch interrupted breathlessly.
‘Back in your office! We need to be private!’
‘Itch, everyone’s gone,’ said Alexander. It’s seven thirty. You can talk freely. Even the cleaners have left.’ Puzzled, the director looked at his visitors. Nicholas was smiling; all the others were serious, Itch almost frantic.
‘I found it. I actually found it! You’ll never—’
‘Sorry, Itch,’ Dr Alexander cut in. ‘I realize this is important or you wouldn’t all have come, but . . . found what?’
Itch just carried on as though he hadn’t been interrupted
. ‘We’ve been out in a boat with the divers we met, and when we were out past Boscastle—’
Jack pulled Itch’s arm. ‘Itch! From the beginning!’
‘OK, sorry, Dr Alexander,’ he said. ‘Of course. Right . . .’ He took a deep breath. ‘OK. You remember the 126 – you remember all that stuff about Earth’s last chance and everything? You told me there were great things that could have been done with it. You said that the Earth has a regulatory mechanism, a thermostat that it uses when necessary, and that the 126 was going to be part of it; that it would get us through the new hot stage. I think I might have been sceptical.’
The director nodded. ‘You were, Itch, you were.’
‘And then you told me that one day I’d come and tell you that you were right.’
There was silence.
‘I did say that, yes . . .’
‘Well, here I am. You were right.’
Another silence. A long silence.
‘I was?’
‘Can you make a waterproof spectrometer?’ asked Itch. ‘It would need to operate at about thirty metres.’
Alexander laughed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Yes! Why?’
Itch ignored the question. ‘You’d better get out there before everyone else does, Dr Alexander. You need to come element-hunting!’
‘It’s off Boscastle, Jacob, just three kilometres out—’ Nicholas could barely contain himself, but Jude covered his mouth with her hand.
‘Hush, Nicholas. Let the kids tell their story,’ she said.
And over the next hour Dr Alexander listened as Itch, Jack, Chloe and Lucy told him about their extraordinary day and showed him Tobi’s photos.
At the end he reprised his ‘discovery dance’, but Itch stopped him.
‘No. Wrong,’ he said. ‘This is so dangerous. It could be a disaster, a catastrophe if this goes wrong . . . We’ve all seen what happens when energy of this power gets out there. It makes people do terrible things. Look what’s happened to us – all over a tiny amount of 126. Now there might be tonnes of the stuff out there, just waiting to be picked up. There might even be people there now—’
