Itchcraft (20 page)

Itch nodded.
Here we go again
, he thought. ‘Thanks.’

‘We don’t normally look after kids.’

‘Right.’ Itch didn’t know what else to say.

‘We were told someone sent you a parcel bomb. Is that right?’

Itch nodded and Blanco whistled. The agent clearly wanted more detail, but Itch didn’t feel like telling his story again and stared resolutely through the window. He noticed a road sign that said,
HOSPITAL
2.

The paramedic tapped Itch on the leg, and nodded at Chloe.

Her eyes were open.

‘Chloe!’ Itch shifted along the seat into her eye line and she managed a feeble smile. ‘You got hit by a rock,’ he said. ‘We’re on the way to hospital.’ He smiled at her. ‘Another one,’ he added.

Chloe cleared her throat and the medic offered her some water. She sipped slowly. ‘Mum’s going to go mad,’ she whispered.

Itch had rung home as soon as Chloe was delivered to the doctors at the hospital. His sister had been wrong – Jude Lofte had seen the news of the riots in Spain and watched in horror as the cameras focused on the image of the boy with the bloodied, lifeless girl in his arms. For the media it was the definitive image of the night; for Jude it was her son and daughter in mortal peril. When Itch rang to say that Chloe was awake and talking, Jude broke down in shuddering sobs of relief. She said she or Nicholas would fly out soon, and Itch had promised to be back in touch.

It was after midnight when Chloe returned from having her wound stitched up and was shown into a private room. Jack and Lucy arrived soon afterwards with a fraught Mr Hampton. They described how they had survived the battle on the bridge, avoiding most of the brutality by being nowhere near the stone throwers. Craig Murray had bruised ribs, and Luke and Russell, the two Year Elevens, had suffered cuts and were treated at the scene. Miss Coleman was back at the hostel with the rest of the party. The cut on her head was not deep, but she was sporting a large plaster. They had been told that they would be flown home the next day, Chloe and Itch joining them only if the doctors said it was safe for her to fly.

Jack and Lucy took it in turns to use Itch’s phone and call home; Mr Hampton’s had run out of battery hours ago. Everyone’s parents knew what was happening as Jude had rung Jack’s dad and Lucy’s mum, and they had then contacted all the other parents. Mr Hampton asked to borrow Itch’s phone too, and walked away down a corridor.

Itch, Jack and Lucy sat around Chloe’s bed while Félix Blanco waited outside.

‘It’s chaos out there,’ said Jack. ‘The hospital’s as bad as the streets. So many injuries – people waiting to get their heads stitched up.’

‘Think I was the first,’ said Chloe.

‘And one of the most serious,’ said Lucy. ‘That’s some pretty fancy stitch work you’ve got there.’

‘Fifteen, they said.’ Chloe gingerly touching her head. Most of the blood had been washed from her hair, but some of the more congealed patches still showed through from her scalp. ‘Lucky they saw Itch.’

Lucy and Jack looked puzzled. ‘Lucky
who
saw Itch?’ asked Jack.

‘Turns out the police or secret service people saw that interview on the bridge and came and got me,’ said Itch. ‘They’re going to fly us out with you guys, if Chlo’s OK.’

‘Well, the airports are pretty stuffed up,’ said Jack. ‘They told us at the hostel that apparently, two planes had to make emergency landings because money caught fire on board. And the airports had lots of burning cash too. Loads of flights have been cancelled.’

‘Wow,’ said Itch. ‘Mum said that she or Dad would fly out, but it sounds like they might not make it after all.’ He looked around. ‘I wish none of this had happened, of course, and I’m pleased Chlo’s going to be OK . . . But I’m glad I didn’t cause it. Bad stuff usually has something to do with me – but not this time. It’s nothing to do with us!’

‘That’s true, Itch,’ said Lucy, finding her camera, ‘but you remember that graffiti we saw on the bridge just before the bottles and stones started flying?’

‘Yes. Don’t remember what it said, though.’

‘Well, look at this. I took it after the fighting, while Hampton was trying to find everyone. I’ll send it to you.’ She showed Itch a video of the bridge, showing scores of demonstrators lying or sitting on the road. Then the film focused on the words sprayed in purple on the bridge wall. There were several in Spanish that he remembered but then one phrase he didn’t. Lucy had zoomed in on two words that had appeared alongside the slogans.

Itch read them out loud, astonished.

‘
Meyn Mamvro
 . . .’

Itch slept at the hospital – in a makeshift bed on the floor of Chloe’s room – while the rest of the CA party returned to the hostel. The next morning Chloe was given the go-ahead to return home; the stitched-up wound was starting to heal, though the left side of her face was badly bruised. A plane was summoned to take them home, and by the end of the day they were touching down in Cornwall.

‘Didn’t know you could fly from Madrid to Newquay,’ said Jack as they snapped off their seat belts.

‘You can’t,’ Itch replied, ‘unless they want you out of the country. Then people like Blanco talk to people like Fairnie, and it’s amazing what can happen.’ As they all walked to the terminal – Chloe had refused the offer of a wheelchair – Craig Murray and Tom Westgate came to thank Chloe for the plane-ride home. ‘Saved us that boring trip to London – thanks!’

‘How are the ribs, Craig?’ asked Itch.

Even though the night air was cold, the boy pulled up his jacket and shirt to reveal a swathe of bandages wrapped around his chest. ‘Sore but OK,’ he said. ‘Got a bit crushed when the police waded in, that’s all. But I might claim it was a baton or something – just to make it more exciting.’ He hurried to catch up with the others, and Itch leaned over to Jack and Lucy.

‘Imagine needing to make life more exciting!’ he said.

They both smiled at him, and then they followed the weary party into the terminal building. At the luggage carousel, Jack spotted a familiar figure.

‘Wow, look – it’s Colonel Fairnie,’ she said as the MI5 man strode over to them.

He smiled as he shook their hands. ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. Sounds like a nasty riot you got caught up in. How’s that head, Chloe?’

‘Sore and throbbing,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got painkillers. I’ve got to go for a check-up tomorrow.’

Fairnie nodded as Mr Hampton came over. ‘Colonel Fairnie . . . checking up on us again?’ Itch thought their teacher sounded irritated as well as exhausted.

‘Not at all. I just need a quiet word with Itch, if I may. Before he goes through immigration. I’ve arranged a room . . .’ He indicated an open office nearby.

Hampton sighed. ‘OK, I’ll get Miss Coleman to take the others through. I’ll wait for you, Itch.’

Itch hesitated as Fairnie led the way into the fiercely lit interrogation room. ‘Can the others come please? I’ll need to tell them everything anyway.’

‘Of course, if that’s easier,’ the colonel replied, and Itch beckoned them over. There were only three chairs at a cheap plywood table so Itch, Jack and Lucy stood and Chloe sat, while Fairnie closed the door behind him.

‘Firstly, you need to know that the press are here. It’s quite a scrum, I’m afraid.’ He spread a few newspapers on the table; they all carried photos of Itch approaching the police lines with Chloe in his arms. The headlines screamed:
SAVE MY SISTER
! or
TERROR BOY IS A HERO
! One proclaimed:
THE SCHOOL TRIP NIGHTMARE – MORE PROBLEMS FOR
‘
DISASTER ACADEMY
’!

‘You will have to say something,’ said Fairnie, ‘and then maybe they’ll leave you alone. But I wouldn’t count on it.’ He paused and Itch thought he looked weary; exhausted even.

‘Is there something wrong?’ asked Jack, sensing the unease.

Fairnie sighed. ‘To put it bluntly, yes – though my bosses would say no. Here’s what happening.’ He leaned against the table in front of them and folded his arms. He looked at each of them in turn, and then, with a thumb and forefinger, stroked his moustache. ‘I’m being moved to another case and will not be in contact again. This is partly because I have important work elsewhere, but also because Greencorps are going legit.’

‘They’re
what
?’ said Jack.

‘They are going legitimate. They are going legal. They know their reputation is mud and – they say they’re going to do something about it. Everyone is keen to expose the bad practices in the oil industry, and this is their chance. The new boss of the company has said – publicly – that she wants Greencorps to be the whistle-blower, to be the company that exposes the criminality and price fixing. And people have got very excited about that.’

‘But this is
Greencorps
, right?’ said Itch, astonished. ‘The company that caused the oil spill in Nigeria, that hired Flowerdew and Shivvi . . . Does anyone believe a word they say? I heard from one of the divers that Flowerdew was in charge. He’d killed the old guys and taken over himself! That’s going
legit
?’

Fairnie spread his arms and nodded. ‘Precisely. But the desire to “get” the oil industry is greater than the desire to “get” Greencorps. They say they have changed. They have a new CEO to replace Revere and Van Den Hauwe . . .’ He checked some papers. ‘She’s called Mary Bale apparently, and she says they’ll tell all in return for immunity from prosecution; governments around the world are willing to take her up on it. They are doing a deal with the prosecutors. There’s no sign of Flowerdew having anything to do with it, I’m afraid. So you see, this has got way, way bigger than anything I can do. I have argued that they cannot be trusted; that they – more than any other company – should be prosecuted for all the misery they’ve caused. But I have lost, and it is important that you know – that you all know – how things have changed.’

There was silence in the room. Lucy swore.

‘Precisely,’ said Fairnie.

‘And the hunt for Flowerdew?’ said Itch. ‘He’s still a wanted man, right?’

‘Right.’

Itch waited for more detail, but none came, and Fairnie looked uncomfortable. ‘Colonel . . .?’

‘Look, yes, he’s wanted; yes, there are still agents on the case. But is it a priority?’ He shrugged.

‘But he sent the letter bombs!’ cried Jack. ‘We know he did! He killed Mr Watkins, tried to kill Itch and blow up the school. And killed Shivvi!’

‘Which is why he is still wanted,’ said Fairnie. ‘But it’s a question of priorities, Jack. And priorities can change. Have changed.’ He looked at them, his face set and unblinking. ‘I’ll argue the case whenever I can, of course, but it’s the police you should report to in future. I’m sorry, but that’s the official line. And this comes from very high up.’ He looked as though he was about to say something else, but checked himself. ‘Good luck,’ he said, and marched out of the room.

The four stared at each other as the noise of the airport filled the room again.

‘Sounds like we’re on our own,’ said Jack.

Jude and Nicholas Lofte, along with Jack’s parents, arrived soon afterwards, followed by a tearful Nicola Cavendish. Itch was pleased to be back; he was glad that everyone was safe, but the sense of betrayal stayed with him through the bewildering, chaotic airport press conference. He knew he should be concentrating on the questions and trying not to look stupid, but the image of Fairnie walking away wouldn’t shift.

‘Did you think your sister would die?’

‘What do you feel about the demonstrators?’

‘Would you ever go back to Spain?’

He had assumed that Fairnie would always be there if he needed him. He had saved him from kidnap, rescued them at the ISIS labs and stood by him after the fiasco of the funeral. Now he was gone.

‘Smile for us, Chloe – show us your stitches!’

‘What’s wrong with your school, Itch?’

‘What do you think about it being called the Disaster Academy?’

The flashguns were firing constantly, and Itch closed his eyes and put his head in his hands; for some reason that made them flash all the more. He had assumed that Mr Watkins would always be there for him too, and the images of the fire that had killed him filled his mind, merging with burning euros and exploding cash points. He’d had enough.

Itch stood up. ‘Come on – let’s go,’ he said to Jack. ‘This sucks.’

‘Is there anything you’d say you have learned from the last few days?’ called a voice from the throng of journalists.

Itch couldn’t see the reporter who had asked the question, but realized he had an answer anyway. He leaned back down to the microphone.

‘Yeah. Don’t trust anyone,’ he said.

Itch had forgotten that it was Easter. When they eventually made it home, they found Gabriel slouching at the kitchen table, his long legs crossed at the ankle. He had a steaming mug of tea in his hand.

‘Hey, it’s calamity girl and disaster boy!’ He hugged his sister and high-fived his brother. ‘Good trip?’ he asked, grinning. His long wavy hair might have looked like his brother’s, but his smile was definitely his sister’s. His laptop was open, and he spun it round for everyone to see. The news website had their return as its lead story, ahead of the continuing chaos in Spain. A short piece of video showed Itch, Jack, Chloe and Lucy flanked by their parents and lit by a hundred flashguns.

Chloe couldn’t watch. ‘I look hideous,’ she said, turning away.

‘Not true,’ said Gabriel. ‘If anything, it looks pretty impressive. Let’s see the wound?’ Chloe lifted some hair up to show him the stitches and he whistled. ‘I have a battle-hardened sister, with a war wound courtesy of the Spanish police. Many of my student friends would kill to have that to show off!’

Chloe looked puzzled. ‘Maybe you have weird friends, then. How is uni anyway?’

He shrugged. ‘Same. Exams, soon. Bit behind – you know how it is. But tell me about the burning money – that looked really scary! Did it happen to you?’

Even though it was after midnight, they sat around the table, talking. Jude and Nicholas – sustained by a fresh pot of tea – joined them. Itch and Chloe described how the euros had caught fire in the museum and café, and how the cash points had burst into flames. When they got to the battle on the bridge, Jude was open-mouthed.