Itchcraft (13 page)

‘What?’ she wailed as she looked out at the faces all turned to her. ‘What have we done? What are you looking at?’

Itch stared at them, uncomprehending. He looked at Fairnie, who still had his hand placed firmly on his shoulder.

‘Stay where you are,’ Jim Fairnie said.

Police were streaming into the church now; DCI Abbott was leading them towards the porch. She ran up to Itch, eyes blazing with anger. ‘What the hell do you—?’

‘He thought,’ said Fairnie sharply, ‘that he was going to be attacked. He thought Nathaniel Flowerdew was behind the curtain.’

‘Did he now? And who might you be?’ Abbott’s eyes flicked from him to Itch and back again.

‘Colonel Jim Fairnie, MI5. We spoke on the phone.’

Abbott’s eyes narrowed. ‘So we did. You told me what a good boy Itch was, really. Well, that isn’t your bad ex-science teacher, as I’m sure you’ve realized. That’s the officer who was injured opening your post. The one who didn’t die. His name is Martin Graham. That’s his wife, Grace.’

Itch was horrified. He watched as police officers comforted their colleague and his distressed wife. Many of them threw reproachful glances at Itch, still sitting on the church floor.

‘I’m so sorry—’ he began, but the DCI interrupted.

‘PC Graham wanted to come today, but thought it better if no one saw him. He didn’t want to upset anyone, you see, so he chose to sit behind the curtain and watch the service from there.’

‘I thought that—’

‘It doesn’t really matter what you thought, does it?’

‘I think you should calm down, DCI Abbott,’ said Fairnie. ‘This was an unfortunate mistake. I’m sure Itch will want to apologize and then we can move on.’

‘Colonel Fairnie,’ said Abbott, barely controlling her fury, ‘I’ll calm down when I want to. We’ll “move on” when it is appropriate to do so. I don’t take orders from you. And either you take this boy out of the church or I will.’

Nicholas, Jude, Jack, Chloe and Lucy had all arrived now.

‘I thought it was Flowerdew. I’m sorry,’ Itch said quietly.

Around them, people were resuming their seats, and PC Graham and his wife were being led out through the now curtain-less porch.

‘Come on, Itch,’ said his father. ‘We’d better go home.’

‘Dad, that’s not fair,’ said Chloe.

‘It’s all right,’ said Itch. ‘I’ll go.’

‘We’ll come too,’ offered Lucy.

‘No. Please – everyone stay,’ he said. ‘It’s Mr Watkins’s funeral.’ He scrambled to his feet. ‘Tell me what happens.’

ELDRAKE59 I’m looking for Roshanna Wing.

RWING You’ve found her. Who’s this?

ELDRAKE59 Your saviour.

RWING Didn’t know I needed one.

ELDRAKE59 You do now.

RWING Do I know you?

ELDRAKE59 You owe me.

RWING Unlikely.

ELDRAKE59 Well, let me try this. You kidnapped me. Took me from the British police, handed me back to Greencorps.

RWING Flowerdew?

ELDRAKE59 Are you still as focused? I was impressed. You seemed to know what you were doing.

RWING What happened to Revere and Van Den Hauwe?

ELDRAKE59 Good question, but more of a theological issue now.

RWING Where are you?

ELDRAKE59 Nearer than you think. I have a job for you. If you want it, I’ll be in touch.

RWING Sure. Possibly. What sort of job?

ELDRAKE59 has logged off.

The first few days after the funeral were amongst the grimmest Itch could remember. Even worse, he concluded, than his dismal first days at the CA after the family moved from London. Then he had at least been allowed to stand alone and ignored in the corner of the playing field. He would have settled for that loneliness now. The weight of grief in his stomach had been replaced by something else: the fear of any conversation with anyone.

‘Even the teachers hate me,’ he said as he trudged out into the evening gloom. Jack and Chloe exchanged glances. ‘The Brigadier made a point of telling me how disappointed he was with me. Even Mr Hampton called me “spectacularly stupid”.’

Chloe hooked her arm through his as they turned out of the drive. ‘It’ll die down, Itch,’ she said. ‘They’ll get bored with it.’

‘Chloe’s right,’ said Jack.

‘She isn’t, actually,’ snapped Itch. ‘She’s totally wrong. This is the way it’s going to be. It’s a new game for everyone – see how many comments involving curtains and hiding everyone can come up with. Today’s total is seventeen – up from fifteen yesterday and twelve the day before.’

An unidentifiable anoraked cyclist overtook them, shouted, ‘Beware the boogie-man!’ and disappeared down the road, his laughter billowing steam into the freezing air.

‘New total: eighteen, then,’ said Itch. ‘See what I mean, Chloe?’ His sister nodded and they walked on in silence.

The girls fell behind. ‘He’s bad,’ whispered Jack.

Chloe nodded. ‘I know. He doesn’t really talk at home at all any more,’ she said. ‘Mum and Dad are just hoping he’ll come round.’

At the golf course, Jack started to say goodbye.

‘Can we come back to your house?’ asked Itch.

‘Sure,’ she said, surprised. ‘Everything OK?’

He shrugged. ‘Sort of. Mum and Dad just argue a lot, that’s all. The last one was about security again. Mum has refused to have MI5 back, so we just have police outside like before.’

‘OK. Yeah, come on back,’ she said. ‘Oh – Lucy gave me this for you. She said you’d know what it was.’ She produced a small parcel the size of a paperback.

‘Oh right, yeah . . .’ He shoved it deep into his bag.

‘Itch?’ said Chloe.

‘None of your business.’

‘Why is Lucy giving you parcels?’ Chloe persisted.

‘If you must know,’ said Itch, ‘it’s because I can’t really get post at home any more. For obvious reasons. Everything has to go to a special checkpoint where everything is opened and analysed. This is just easier.’

Jack’s mother, Zoe, welcomed them into her kitchen. She was as tall as her daughter, and had the same high cheekbones. She smiled as she put the kettle on, pushing her glasses up to sit on top of her brown shoulder-length hair. As if acting on some silent code, Jack and Chloe left the room, leaving Itch alone with his aunt.

‘I imagine you’re feeling a bit rubbish,’ she said, putting a plate of biscuits in front of him.

‘S’pose.’

She rattled around with some washing-up as she spoke. ‘You must have been very upset about what happened at the church.’

Itch really didn’t want to be having this conversation, so he ate the biscuits instead. He nodded occasionally while she made a pot of tea.

‘I think, Itch, that you must feel as though you haven’t said goodbye properly to Mr Watkins. Everyone has had the funeral, apart from you. And maybe you needed to be there more than anyone.’

And suddenly there were tears in Itch’s eyes.
Yes, that’s exactly how it is, and it’s taken my aunt to explain it to me
. He needed to get out.

He cleared his throat. ‘Thanks for the biscuits, Aunt Zoe. Could you tell Chloe I’ll see her at home?’ He grabbed his bag and ran for the door.

‘Itch, I hope I didn’t—’

He spun round, his hand on the door latch. ‘No, you didn’t. You were dead right,’ and he was gone.

He was in no hurry to get home and was wondering about going via the beach, when he noticed a familiar figure leaning against his garden wall. The streetlight silhouetted Lucy perfectly, her hair sticking out from under her enormous parka.

‘Hey, Lucy,’ he called. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Give you two guesses,’ came the voice from under the hood.

‘Thanks for the parcel,’ said Itch.

‘That’s what I’ve come about . . .’

‘Did you get into trouble?’

‘Can we go inside? I’ve been waiting for you.’

‘We were at Jack’s. You should have come down,’ said Itch.

‘I know, but I wanted to talk to you, not them.’ Lucy smiled, realizing that might have sounded a bit weird.

‘Sure, let’s go in,’ said Itch, feeling awkward. ‘My parents are in, I think. It might be a little, er, tense.’

There was no sign of his father, but Itch could hear his mother working in her study. A local solicitor, she often did a lot of her research at home.

‘Kitchen OK?’ he said.

‘Sure,’ said Lucy, unzipping her coat. ‘You could make me a tea if you like.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Itch, and made for the kettle just as Jude appeared in the doorway.

‘Lovely to see you, Lucy.’ She smiled. ‘I hope Itch is being a good host. Tea for me too, please, while you’re at it.’ Itch made another trip to the taps as his mother settled in at the table. ‘Do you two see each other at school much? Year Elevens don’t often hang out with Year Tens, I imagine.’

Lucy shrugged. ‘Yeah, I see Itch around. And at the science club Mr Hampton runs.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Jude. ‘You going on that Spanish trip? I think Itch here is waiting to see who else is going.’

‘Yes, my mum says it’s OK. Maybe we could all go, Itch? Would Jack and Chloe be up for it?’

‘Where
is
Chloe?’ said Jude before Itch could answer.

‘She’s at Jack’s,’ Itch told her. ‘Me and Lucy were . . .’

‘. . . talking homework,’ finished Lucy. ‘Some of the stuff Itch and Jack are getting set I did last year. Itch has got this English essay, and I was going to see if I could . . .’

‘. . . write it for him?’ suggested Jude.

‘No, course not,’ said Lucy. There was an awkward silence. ‘He missed some of the lessons, you see, and I thought I could help.’

Jude smiled her tired smile again. ‘Of course, I’m sorry. I wasn’t suggesting . . . Why don’t you guys go upstairs? I’ll call you for food.’

Itch and Lucy balanced tea and school bags all the way up to his room.

‘Hang on a sec,’ he said, darting through his door.

‘Can’t be worse than mine,’ Lucy called through the door as he grabbed discarded clothes and shoved them in a drawer. He opened the window.

Itch felt himself redden and hated himself for it. ‘OK, come in. Er, the chair should be fine for you. I’ll sit here.’ Itch sat on the bed, flustered.

‘Itch, listen,’ said Lucy. ‘I didn’t mean to make things tricky. I just wanted to talk.’ She slid down the wall and sat on the floor, sipping her tea. ‘I’m fine here . . .’ she said.

Itch moved off the bed and sat on the floor too, facing her. ‘I haven’t got an English essay, have I?’

‘How would I know?’ laughed Lucy. ‘I just didn’t want to talk in front of your mum. It’s the package, Itch. I worked out what you’re doing. And I don’t think you should, that’s all.’

Itch stared at her. His classmates had never known or understood anything about him. Everybody had either thought him stupid and crazy, or – more usually – they just ignored him. He wasn’t used to having another friendly scientific mind around, but now, with Lucy, all that had changed. Itch knew he was blushing again, and looked away.

Above Lucy’s head was his Periodic Table; he ran his eyes along the familiar rows and up and down the columns. He took in the symbols, numbers and images, and counted again the marks that showed he had added another element to his collection. He felt himself grow calmer. He had done this before when his thoughts were in turmoil; he found comfort in the order and timelessness of the universe’s building blocks.

‘Open the parcel, Itch.’ Lucy had sat quietly, sensing what Itch was doing. When he didn’t move, she stood up and took a pen from her bag. Standing in front of the poster, she ran her finger down the left-hand column.

‘Hydrogen, lithium, sodium, potassium, rubidium. Five down.’ She looked at Itch. ‘Then three across: rubidium, strontium and yttrium. Can I cross it off, then?’

Itch nodded. She took her pen and put a line through the Y39 box.

‘Yttrium,’ she said, reading from the chart. ‘Symbol Y, atomic number 39, atomic weight 88.90585—’

‘Boiling point 3338 degrees C. I know,’ interrupted Itch. ‘And it’s it-ree-um, not why-tree-um.’ Lucy stared at him. Itch looked away first. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Just open it, Itch,’ she sighed. ‘I ordered it – I know what it is. I just did some homework on it too, that’s all.’

Itch removed the package from his bag and prised the cardboard open. Inside was a circular tin. ‘I hadn’t planned on opening this with anyone around,’ he said quietly.

‘Well, you reckoned without me, then,’ said Lucy.

He twisted the lid and lifted a bundle of tissue from its centre. He unwrapped a small egg-shaped purple crystal and held it up to the light.

‘Well, compared to all the grey metals you’ve got,’ said Lucy, ‘you have to say it’s a riot of colour. That’s yttrium? Really?’

Itch looked sheepish. ‘Yes. Well . . . mixed with fluorite crystals, actually.’

‘And why would you want that?’ she asked.

There was a long silence. Itch stared at the purple crystal, but he knew that Lucy was still staring at him.

‘You know why,’ he said eventually.

A folded leaflet had fallen on the floor. ‘You want to read that, or shall I?’ asked Lucy.

Itch picked it up, took a deep breath and read from the cheaply produced flyer. He scanned the paragraphs. ‘Wow, that sounds crazy,’ he said.

‘Can I see?’ said Lucy. Itch hesitated, then handed the paper over. She read aloud: ‘
Your crystal of purple fluorite is maybe the most valuable purchase you’ll ever make. It is perfect for channelling messages from those who have passed over to the other side. You want to contact them and they want to contact you. It will radiate light and mystical insight throughout your body
.’ She looked up. Tears were rolling down his face. ‘Oh, Itch,’ she said, and put the sheet down.

‘No, carry on!’ he said. ‘Read it all. Let’s hear it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Do it.’

Lucy picked up the sheet again. ‘
Hold the crystal in your hand while trying a psychic reading. The crystal will cleanse and stabilize your aura, absorbing and neutralizing negative energy and stress. The message from beyond will be clearer. Try it and be amazed
.’