Itchcraft
Authors: Simon Mayo
Contents
Itch is just an ordinary boy with a hobby – a mission to collect the elements of the Periodic Table. But somehow trouble keeps finding him. Having stopped a brand–new radioactive element from falling into the hands of criminals and terrorists, he has made himself a target.
Exploding banknotes and vandalized ancient monuments are at the heart of the puzzle Itch faces. He knows the lives of those closest to him are at risk. Now he must track down a deadly enemy who will stop at nothing to take his revenge . . .
For Hilary
83 in a world of 38
The Trans-Saharan Highway, Lagos, Nigeria
30 December
The armour-plated Mercedes swerved to avoid a pothole the size of a snooker table. The expensive suspension could smooth out the roughness of most roads, but the A1 from the Murtala Muhammed International Airport into Lagos was beyond repair. One wheel clipped the edge of the ruptured tarmac and the jolt shook its passengers. They grabbed the leather arms of the car’s upholstery, and the loud cursing came in French and Dutch. Christophe Revere and Jan Van Den Hauwe, the co-chairs of oil multinational Greencorps, were not happy.
‘Dammit – don’t they know how to build roads here?’
‘The answer to that, Christophe, is clearly no. The only way things get done here is through bribery and corruption. We know that much, surely?’
The Frenchman smiled and chanced another sip of his expensive brandy. ‘We do, Jan – of course we do. We caused most of it, I believe.’ He dabbed his lips with a handkerchief and checked his seat belt. The onboard satellite TV was tuned to a finance channel; both men watched the continuous scroll of information across the screen.
‘More European madness, Christophe! They learn nothing . . .’
Another big swerve, and some of the spirit splashed onto the carpet. Revere closed his eyes as if in prayer. ‘Give me strength . . .’ he muttered.
Both men peered through their own tinted windows at the road outside, but the streetlights and neon advertising weren’t bright enough to pierce the darkened glass. Ahead, the view through the windscreen was clearer, the powerful headlights illuminating a nightmarish, crazy night-time rush hour.
‘It’s gone midnight, for God’s sake! Why so busy?’ Van Den Hauwe aimed his question at the chauffeur, who spoke into his intercom, though his eyes never left the road.
‘It is always like this, sir.’ The driver glanced in his wing mirror as he pulled first into the outside lane, and then – to gasps from his passengers – into the other carriageway.
‘What the . . .!’ The oncoming traffic, now heading straight for them, swerved out of the way with barely a blast on the horn or flash of headlights. As though it was normal.
‘Big hole in the road, sir,’ said the driver. ‘We call it “Mama’s Dig”. Everyone knows about it.’
The Dutchman shook his head. ‘You actually have names for the potholes? This is one crazy country.’
The driver smiled. ‘Yes, sir. You got that right!’
In front, their security team – in a polished four-by-four – seemed to be having an easier time, smoothly weaving between the holes in the tarmac, the dawdling, ancient saloons and the racing sports cars. It sounded as though the driver’s hand must be glued to the horn, with yells and gestures aimed at any motorist who really annoyed him. On one occasion the barrel of a gun appeared from a passenger window, aimed at the driver of a soft-top BMW trying to overtake – who quickly dropped back behind the four-by-four and the Mercedes, leaving the Lagos road at the next exit.
The traffic thinned as most cars took the filter for downtown Lagos; the small Greencorps convoy continued south, following signs for Tin Can Island.
‘I’m nervous about this meeting, Jan,’ Revere said to his colleague. ‘Who says this new Head of Police is trustworthy? And why do we have to meet so far out of town? I don’t like it.’
Van Den Hauwe swivelled slightly to face him. ‘I don’t like it either, but after the spill, and Flowerdew’s’ – he searched for the right word – ‘
insanity
, we have to get control of this town again, Christophe. It used to be ours, but not any more. If we can buy ourselves the Head of Police – well, it’s a start. He sounded willing. Which is why we’re both here.’
The car swung left, following a sign for the Apapa Oworonshoki Expressway, and a dark expanse of lagoon was briefly visible through the Mercedes’ windscreen. It was the driver’s sharp intake of breath that let his passengers know that all was not well. They looked up from their glowing phone screens.
‘What? What’s up?’ asked Van Den Hauwe, but the empty road ahead gave him his answer.
‘We’ve lost our security,’ said Revere calmly.
They leaned forward to peer through the windscreen, but the twin headlights just picked out the dirt-covered tarmac, a few telegraph poles and an empty road.
‘Where did they go?’ shouted Van Den Hauwe. He pressed a button on his door; the window slid down and he put his head out into the sweltering night. The smell of the sea, along with oil and burning rubber, filled the car, and Revere pulled him back inside.
‘Someone’s paid them to disappear. I think we should go back,’ he said. ‘Back to the airport.’
The driver was looking worried now. The Mercedes might have all the safety features that money could buy, but he knew that Lagos was a lawless town, and if there was a price on your head . . . He swung the car round.
‘Not much traffic for an “expressway”,’ said Van Den Hauwe quietly.
Revere nodded. ‘None at all. I imagine we’ll have company shortly.’
They were accelerating into a corner when the first of the pick-ups shot out in front of them. Three silver and grey Isuzu Rodeos spun on smoking tyres till they were facing the oncoming Mercedes. The Greencorps men were already braced and holding the leather straps that hung from the ceiling, but their seat belts snapped tightly around them as their driver stood on the brake. The car had an impressive stopping distance, but the pick-ups were too close, and there was the sickening metal-on-metal thud of a collision. While the air was still filled with sand and smoke, black-clad figures jumped out of the trucks.
‘Back! Back! Back!’ yelled Revere, and the driver threw the car into reverse. It pulled away from the tangle of bumpers and backed up to the edge of the road. As they spun away from the pick-ups, new headlights cut though the dark. Three more trucks hurtled round the corner and screeched to a halt, cutting off the Mercedes’ escape.
‘Looks like someone wants to talk,’ said Van Den Hauwe.
‘Let’s hope that’s all they want,’ said Revere, and the Greencorps men sat and waited.
Palmeitkraal, Western Cape, South Africa
‘Catch!’ shouted Chloe.
‘Why?’ said Itch as the ball went sailing past his head, bouncing into the dusty scrubland.
‘You could at least have tried,’ said his sister.
‘I could have, yes,’ said Itch. He was on his hands and knees, scraping earth and stones towards him with both hands. Great clouds of dark sand and dust swirled around him, much of it settling in his wavy blond hair and sticking to his sweat-soaked T-shirt.
‘Does Dad know what you’re doing? I’m sure he said you’re not allowed to do illegal experiments.’ Chloe walked over to her brother, looking over his shoulder.
‘No, you said that,’ said Itch, packing soil around a glass jar.
‘It is illegal, though, isn’t it?’ persisted Chloe.
‘In England it is. But we aren’t in England, are we?’ He looked up and smiled at her. ‘Come on, Chloe. I’ve always wanted to try this – give us a break.’
‘If it’s illegal at home, it’s probably illegal in South Africa – have you checked?’
‘OK, let me ask . . .’ Itch looked theatrically around the hilly terrain: the low evergreen vegetation, the patches of bare sandstone and deserted old mine dwellings. ‘No, no one around.’ He smiled again. ‘I’ll just have to get on with it.’
Chloe sighed. ‘Yeah, ’cos “just getting on with it” has been so great for you in the past. What did you say you were doing?’
‘Stump removal,’ said Itch.
‘But I don’t see any tree stumps.’
‘Well, the key word is
removal
. It’ll remove anything, I think.’ He measured out some white powder into the jar.
‘Looks scary,’ said Chloe.
‘Really?’ said Itch. ‘It’s only KNO
3
.’
‘Itch, I don’t play your stupid games. In English please. I know K is potassium . . .’
‘Potassium nitrate. Or saltpetre.’
‘And the other powder?’
‘Secret.’
‘Let me guess. It goes bang?’
‘Can do,’ said Itch. ‘If you mix them together and set fire to it.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ said Chloe, walking away to retrieve the ball. ‘Sure you wouldn’t prefer to play “catch”?’
Lagos, Nigeria
Whoever they were expecting to emerge from the six trucks, Van Den Hauwe and Revere stared open-mouthed at the figures who assembled in a semicircle in front of the Mercedes. Six women now stood in their headlights, dressed mainly in black denim and leather jackets, staring into the windscreen. Each of them wore a khaki cap pulled low over their eyes.
‘Well, who are
you
?’ exclaimed Van Den Hauwe, his eyes wide with surprise.
They looked young – twenties maybe – and a mix of Nigerian, white European and Thai . . . Malay, possibly. They stood motionless.
‘Our move, Christophe, I think.’
‘Agreed.’
Both men opened their doors and climbed out.
‘Er, good evening, ladies,’ tried Revere, standing by the open door. ‘You must want to see us very much.’
‘Kill the lights,’ shouted a voice.
The driver, now with his window open, hit the switch and the car went dark. Two powerful torches came on and lit up the oilmen, who had started to sweat profusely.
‘Walk to the front of the car.’ The voice was heavily accented and authoritative – both men did as they were told. ‘Kneel down!’
Revere and Van Den Hauwe looked at each other, then at the women. ‘Who are you? Have we upset you? I’m sure we can do business together, but—’
‘Kneel down!’ This time the command came with an added threat: the click of a gun’s safety catch being removed.
Both men knelt in the dust. The six walked a few steps towards the car. The women at each end held the torches; one in the middle held the gun. Tall, with olive skin and jet-black hair, she looked at the driver. ‘Run away. Now. Take off.’
He didn’t need to be told twice. He flung his door open and sprinted away into the night.
The woman with the gun spoke again. ‘My name is Leila. These are my friends: Aisha, Sade, Tobi, Chika and Dada.’ Heads nodded as names were mentioned, as though they were athletes being introduced to the spectators before a race. Each was now little more than a silhouette to the kneeling oilmen.
‘How can we—?’ began the Frenchman.
‘We used to work for you,’ interrupted Leila, ‘but then you killed our friend.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true . . .’ said Van Den Hauwe, squinting as the torch shone in his face.