Itchcraft (12 page)

‘Itch, it’s Lucy. Were you watching the news? When you weren’t on it, I mean?’

‘Yes, we’re all at Jack’s.’

‘Itch, that picture . . . they must be Shivvi’s divers! When I broke into her house, she got a Skype call from someone called Leila. After she left, her screensaver came up. Itch, it was that photo! The version on the news was cropped, but standing behind them was Shivvi Tan Fook.’

Itch had never been to a funeral before. When his grandfather died, he had been declared too young to attend, so John Watkins’s was to be his first. He had woken even earlier than usual, when the house was still dark and cold. As he thought about the day ahead, the leaden feeling in his stomach returned as it had every day since the bombs. Maybe he would always feel like this. Maybe it would go after the funeral. He didn’t know. He wondered who would be going – did Mr Watkins have any family? He didn’t think so. He wondered who would speak – presumably Dr Dart would say something. He wondered if he would cry – he didn’t want to but he couldn’t be sure. Was it OK to cry at funerals anyway? Would it look bad if he
didn’t
cry? He didn’t know that either.

There was a knock on his door and Chloe peered in. ‘You awake?’ she whispered.

‘Yup. As ever.’ He switched on his bedside light. Chloe was already in her school uniform. ‘That what we wear?’ he asked.

Chloe nodded. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. ‘I’ve been reading the plans on the CA website,’ she said. ‘And school’s opening again.’ She found the relevant pages on Itch’s laptop. ‘Tomorrow. They were obviously waiting for the funeral. Sounds like the whole school is going.’

Itch stared at the ceiling. ‘Won’t fit. It might be the biggest church in town, but it won’t take 1,200 pupils. Maybe just those he taught will go.’

‘Well, I’m going,’ said Chloe quietly, ‘even if he never taught me.’

‘I’m sure that’ll be fine.’

‘Have you seen this page?’ She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and held the computer up to Itch. ‘It’s for messages about Mr Watkins.
So sorry you’ve gone, we’ll always remember you. Thanks, Mr Watkins, you were the best
. Sam Jennings left that.
We’ll miss your stories – RIP
. That’s from Natalie.’ She looked at her brother. ‘Should we leave one?’

He shrugged. ‘Not bothered.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘Not going to make a difference to anyone, is it? So what’s the point?’

‘Just a way of leaving a message, that’s all. Sure there’s nothing you want to say?’

‘To him, yes. To a website? What’s the point?’

Chloe was still holding out the laptop.

‘OK, OK,’ he said irritably, and sat up to read the comments. ‘They’re all so lame, Chloe. It’s like their pet hamster died or something.’

‘No one knows what to say, Itch, that’s all.’

He sighed. ‘I’m not going to write anything.’ His voice was thin and he swallowed hard. He closed the laptop. ‘But if I did, it would be something like:
You were the . . .
’ He cleared his throat. ‘
You were the greatest. You were funny, you were kind. You had the worst dress sense ever, even worse than mine. You would always listen. You made geography interesting. When my dad disappeared, you didn’t. When Mum didn’t smile very much, or talk to me much, you did both
.’

‘Itch, don’t . . .’ said Chloe quietly.

‘
And when Darcy Campbell and James Potts were in my face and being foul, you spotted it and stopped it. When Flowerdew needed standing up to, it was you who had the guts to do it. And that’s what got you killed and I’m sorry . . .
’ Itch’s voice cracked, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘I’d say something like that, Chloe. But I’d like to say it to him. Not leave a dumb message on a dumb website.’

‘Shall we just leave it, then?’ she said.

Itch nodded. ‘I’ll get dressed.’

Itch sat on the hard wooden pew staring at the floor. It was easier that way. He didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, even acknowledge anyone. He thought if he kept still enough, maybe no one would notice that he was there. He could hear the sounds of the church filling up: shuffling feet, creaking pews and whispered, respectful conversations; he just didn’t feel the need to watch.

The Loftes had arrived early; they sat together – his mother and father at one end of the pew, Jack’s parents at the other. Lucy arrived soon afterwards and joined Jack and Chloe and Itch. They had all tried to say a few words to him, but he just nodded, said nothing and counted the hymn books. The heaviness in his gut was almost overpowering now; a physical pressure that was making him feel sick. He dreaded the service starting but at the same time couldn’t wait for it to be over.

He heard Jack say, ‘Everyone seems very nervous.’

‘There’s loads of police outside now,’ said Lucy. ‘Everyone’s walked past them. It’s set everyone on edge. And we haven’t been together since the bombs, so . . . hell, I’m nervous too.’

‘Fairnie’s here!’ said Jack, and now Itch
did
look up. She pointed back at the door, and he craned his neck to see the MI5 man standing by the ornate, carved oak entrance, dressed in a black coat with a black tie. He nodded at Itch and Jack.

‘Are any of the rest of the team here?’ whispered Jack.

Itch scanned the congregation. The front pews were full of staff from the CA. It looked like everyone was here. By the curtained-off side entrance, Jim Littlewood sat talking with Gordon Carter; Sunil Masoor and Jimmy Logan, the maths teachers, were both deep in conversation with Craig Harris, who for once was not wearing his Scotland tracksuit; and a tense-looking Dr Dart sat reading the order of service and checking through her notes.

Itch could see most of his class, some sitting together, others with their parents. In front of him, Sam Jennings, handkerchief in hand, sat with her eyes shut. Natalie Hussain had her head on Debbie Price’s shoulder. Tom Westgate, arriving late, nodded at Itch and squeezed into a pew in front, Ian Steele shuffling everyone along to make room for him. The two policemen who had interviewed Itch sat stony-faced in one of the back pews. He looked away before they noticed him.

‘Can’t see any of them, Jack,’ said Itch. ‘Reckon Fairnie’s the only one.’ He saw a movement at the back of the church: the arrival of the coffin. He spun back round, eyes fixed on the floor, just as the organist began playing and everyone stood.

But suddenly Itch didn’t want to stand. It was as if, by standing, he was accepting everything that had happened; by staying seated he was keeping Watkins alive for a few more minutes. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, choosing to concentrate on the ringing in his ears, not the funeral march playing in the church.

‘Itch! Stand up!’ He heard Chloe’s rebuke and felt her tugging his arm. ‘Itch, people are looking!’ He opened his eyes and turned to Chloe; tears were running down her face. ‘Please?’ she mouthed.

He nodded. There was no point in adding to his sister’s grief and he slowly unfolded himself; he felt Jack’s hand helping him up. By the time he was standing, the four pall-bearers had reached the front of the church and were lowering John Watkins’s coffin onto a stand. The white-robed priest stood silently at the front holding a large green book. She waited for the men to make the final adjustments. The organ finished playing.

‘Please sit down,’ she said, her words echoing around the church and bouncing off the high ceiling.

Everyone took their seats again and Itch picked up his order of service.
The Funeral of John Gordon Watkins
, it said, with a black-and-white photo on the front. It showed Mr Watkins smiling broadly, dressed in a large waterproof, on top of a mountain somewhere. A field trip presumably, thought Itch. He had one hand raised; it looked as if he was about to launch into one of his famous stories. Which they’d never hear again.

Before he knew it they were standing again, and the organ was playing the introduction to the first hymn. He heard the Brigadier start singing the words a fraction early, and glanced up. Other members of staff were smiling and nudging him, but Itch’s attention was taken by movement behind the curtain. The side entrance to the church was a smaller door with a porch, and a thick red curtain that could be pulled across it. Itch and his family had used this entrance earlier for a more discreet arrival, away from most of the journalists who had gathered to cover the funeral. The door had been shut and the curtain drawn soon after the Loftes had arrived, but now Itch was sure that someone else was there.

As the hymn continued, he watched the curtain. For most of a verse it didn’t move, and he began to think he had been seeing things. But then the heavy fabric twitched again, and Itch leaned forward. He saw four fingers holding it open, presumably to give someone a view of the funeral, and held his breath.

That can’t be right . . .

The hand twisted slightly, and now Itch was sure. The hand was bandaged.

The hymn continued, but Itch wasn’t singing. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t hear anything apart from the ringing in his ears which had started up again. He looked around him. No one else had noticed the movement behind the curtain, and he hesitated before alerting the others. He looked again, but the hand had disappeared, the velvet curtain hanging straight.

He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked round. The hymn had finished and he was the only one still standing. ‘Sit down!’ said Chloe, and he quickly took his seat again as the priest continued with the service.

‘What’s up?’ asked Jack quietly.

‘There’s someone behind that curtain . . .’ Itch pointed his order of service towards the side door.

‘So?’

So
, thought Itch. Maybe that was right. Why shouldn’t there be someone there? A churchwarden maybe, or some other official. Maybe a reporter had followed them in. But a reporter with a bandaged hand?

The curtain was moving again, and this time he nudged Jack. The hand held the curtain away from the wall, and this time they both gasped. A face had appeared between the stone wall and the velvet. A face swathed in bandages.

Lucy and Chloe followed Itch and Jack’s gaze. The four of them were sitting close enough to each other to feel that they had all tensed.

‘It can’t be him!’ whispered Jack. ‘Not here!’

‘He’d have his face bandaged, though, wouldn’t he?’ said Lucy.

‘Itch?’ Chloe sounded scared. ‘You don’t think it’s him, do you?’

I don’t know . . . What
do
I think?
wondered Itch. It would be madness for Flowerdew to turn up at the funeral of the man he had hated and then murdered. But then, he is mad, isn’t he? Watching the final humiliation would be exactly what he would enjoy.

Itch glanced round and caught Fairnie’s eye. The colonel noticed for the first time that while the whole congregation were watching the priest, Itch, Jack, Chloe and Lucy were looking the other way, over at the side entrance. Itch saw the colonel frown.

Itch decided that he wanted a closer look. He couldn’t see the man’s head clearly, but the image of Flowerdew’s burned face was still vivid. He remembered how Flowerdew had boasted that he was going to kill Jack; how he had once bashed Itch’s head against a wall and tried to expose him to a lethal dose of radiation.

He needed to move to another pew. The easiest route was past Jack, Lucy and his aunt and uncle at the end. He started to edge his way along the pew.

‘Itch, come back!’ said Chloe in a tense whisper.

‘Itch, no. Let Fairnie deal with it!’ hissed Jack.

‘I’m not going to do anything!’ he snapped, then, ‘Excuse me,’ as he edged past his Uncle Jon. Crouching, he made his way to the pew nearest the side entrance. There was clearly no room for him there, so he squatted in the side aisle.

Dr Dart, midway through her eulogy, paused, distracted, as she watched Itch on the move. She waited for him to stop as she would in a school lesson, and was just about to resume when she noticed that the MI5 man was moving too. Fairnie had eased away from the main entrance and was walking across the back of the church to see what Itch was doing. The congregation picked up on the principal’s unease and, following her gaze, started murmuring. There were enough CA pupils and staff present to know that Fairnie didn’t act like this without reason. They sensed the danger.

Nicholas leaned over to Chloe. ‘What’s Itch doing? What’s happening?’

‘There’s someone behind that curtain,’ she said. ‘He’s got a bandaged face and hand. I’m sure Itch thinks it might be Flowerdew.’

‘Here?’ said Nicholas, incredulous. ‘But that’s ridiculous.’

If Itch had turned round, he would have seen his father stand up, closely followed by DCIs Abbott and Underwood. Over his other shoulder, he’d have seen Fairnie closing on him. But he was staring straight ahead. He had caught the smell of antiseptic surgical cream and he recognized it instantly. It was the smell of Flowerdew’s flat; it was the smell of Flowerdew’s burns.

It really
was
him.

Itch straightened up. His body awash with adrenalin, grief and rage, he ran for the curtain.

‘Itch, step away!’ yelled Fairnie, now sprinting down the aisle. As he ran past them, rows of the congregation stood up to see what was happening.

Nicholas was edging past his family, eyes focused on his son. Chloe had grabbed hold of Jack, and Lucy was following Nicholas.

Itch was metres from the velvet curtain. He heard nothing of the increasing commotion around him; only the whooshing, pulsing rush of blood in his head. The smell of the surgical cream was stronger now, and as he skidded to a halt in front of the porch, he grabbed the folds of heavy red fabric.

As he did so, Fairnie rugby-tackled him. Itch went sprawling onto the stone floor, but his hand still held onto the curtain. The ancient metal rail above the porch gave way and the curtain collapsed to the ground. Around them, parents, pupils and teachers got to their feet; some shouted, a few screamed. Itch sat up and stared into the porch. A distressed young woman in a smart suit stood, arms held wide, shielding a man with bandaged face and arms. Her eyes were wide with shock.