Itchcraft (21 page)

‘When we heard the reports from Madrid, we feared you might be caught up in the trouble, but then we saw the pictures . . .’

Gabriel put his arm round his mother as she faltered. ‘Mum called Dad and me in to see that shot of you two in front of the police line,’ he said. ‘It did look bad, guys, I have to tell you.’

They all looked at Chloe and she managed a weak smile. ‘I’ll be OK,’ she said. ‘Though some more painkillers would be good.’

Jude stood up. ‘I’ll get them.’

‘Was it your money that burned, Itch?’ asked Nicholas. ‘I got the euros here in town, and they sat in my wallet for a couple of days without any trouble.’

‘No, they were fine.’ Itch fished his wallet out of his jacket. He cleared the mugs and spread the notes on the table; everyone recoiled, then laughed at each other.

‘Should I have a bucket of water ready?’ asked Jude, only half joking.

They stared at the notes for a while before Gabriel said, ‘This feels really silly.’

When nothing happened, Itch remembered his souvenir from Blanco. ‘The Spanish agent who rescued us gave me this.’ He produced the charred ten-euro note and passed it round.

Nicholas took it first, holding it up to the light and then sniffing it. ‘You know who you should take this to, don’t you? Jacob Alexander at the mining school. He’s got the tools to find out what’s happened here.’ He offered the note to Gabriel. ‘I could run you there in the morning, Itch. You can bet your life the Spanish government and banks will be doing all the tests they can right now to find out what’s happened. There’s talk of calling it a terrorist attack; their government might not survive the week. Why don’t we see what Jacob’s lab can tell us?’

Itch nodded. Testing the euro was a good idea; analysis and facts had been in short supply so far, but he wasn’t sure about going back to the mining school. It was there that Alexander had identified the rocks of 126; there that they had fought off three Greencorps agents before being kidnapped by Flowerdew. There was a knot forming in his stomach, but that wasn’t a reason to stay away.

‘Sure. Why not?’

‘I’ll send him an email now,’ said Nicholas.

‘By the way . . .’ said Gabriel. ‘Bit random, I know, but what did you make of the car video I sent you?’

It took a few moments for Itch and Chloe to remember the wreck covered in graffiti.

‘Yeah, that was weird,’ said Itch; then, remembering the video Lucy had taken, added, ‘But look at this! Lucy took it on the bridge in Spain.’ He played the clip with
Meyn Mamvro
scrawled alongside the Spanish slogans.

‘Wow,’ said Gabriel, ‘it really is
everywhere
. And there’s been more while you were away – a really big one.’ He typed something into a search engine, and up came the familiar image of St Michael’s Mount. The headline was
IS NOTHING SACRED
? above pictures of a wrecked chapel and a smashed shrine.
MM
had been sprayed over a Cornish flag. ‘They’ve gone mad down there,’ he went on. ‘They’re saying it’s like an attack on Cornwall itself. There are groups of locals patrolling the streets. No one seems to know who’s responsible, but they looked pretty angry to me.’

Jude frowned. ‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘St Michael’s Mount, Madrid, the Hurlers, the parcel bombs . . . Everything’s gone mad.’

And suddenly Itch wanted to see Mr Watkins again; to see him at school on Monday – mad clothes, weird tea and everything – just so he could ask him. He would have had a good theory about the attackers, one based on reason and evidence, not wild stupid speculation. His eyes welled up, and he left the table to cover his embarrassment.

He ran up the stairs, his head crammed with the unfairness of it all. He shut the door and leaned against it. Watkins was gone, Fairnie was gone, and Flowerdew was still out there somewhere . . . What was he supposed to do – just pretend nothing had happened? Go back to school and carry on? At least his dad was around now, but he wasn’t sure how long it would be before his next trip . . . or whether he and his mum would still be speaking.

Instinctively, he reached for his old rucksack. His element collection was scattered now, but there were still plenty of items to study and sort. He emptied out the rocks, tubes and tins, arranging them in columns on the floor; as each found its place, he muttered its name and number. The europium he had brought back from South Africa was placed in the bottom two rows, along with nearly all the rare earth elements.

Itch’s most recent acquisition had been left in his room; ordered with and opened by his father. A small box lay on his bedside table, sealed in plastic. It contained a clear bag of tiny grey beads. He read from the small sheet of paper:
Iodine, non-metallic solid. Chemical symbol I, atomic number 53, melting point 114 degrees C
. He stood in front of his Periodic Table, and held the bag by the square for iodine, second-to-last column, third from the bottom. It sat in between tellurium and xenon, and Itch allowed himself a small smile. ‘Two old friends,’ he said.

Tellurium had been added to Flowerdew’s whisky; it made him stink of garlic – an unusual by-product but one that had alerted Itch to his presence at the ISIS labs. And Itch had once used a canister of xenon gas to anaesthetize Flowerdew so that he and Jack could escape from his car.

He continued reading:

Discovered as a result of the Napoleonic Wars of the nineteenth century. Desperate for more potassium nitrate to make gunpowder, a French cottage industry grew, producing it from heaps of rotting manure from latrines and cesspits. Mixed with soil and ashes, it produced potassium
.

‘Neat,’ said Itch.

A local chemist then added sulphuric acid, and the purple fumes condensed to form beautiful crystals. He had discovered a new element – iodine. More explosives can be found by researching ‘fulminates’
.

Never able to resist the word ‘explosive’, Itch did just that, making notes and checking facts in his father’s old
Golden Book of Chemistry Experiments
. He found details of old experiments, together with comments his father had made when the book had been his.

Itch studied the ordered rows and columns of numbers and letters that represented everything that existed, anywhere, and felt himself calming down. Everything in his life seemed to be out of control, but in front of this poster he found the order he wanted. He knew it seemed ridiculous to everyone else, with the exception of Lucy, but he didn’t care.

There was a knock on his bedroom door, and Chloe put her head round. ‘You OK? I was just off to bed.’

‘Yeah, just wanted to think some stuff through, that’s all.’

She sat down on his bed. ‘New element?’

‘Yup. Iodine. Want to see?’

‘Not really.’

‘Oh. OK.’

‘Just wanted to say thanks for getting me to hospital, that’s all.’

He shrugged. ‘You’re welcome. Any time.’

‘Well, I’ll need to go to the head-injuries clinic in Exeter apparently. So then would be good.’

He shrugged again. ‘Sure.’

There was another knock and Gabriel came in.

‘And you’re welcome too,’ said Itch.

‘Am I missing a sibling meeting?’

‘Yes, but you’ve missed quite a few over the years,’ said Itch.

‘Fair point,’ said Gabriel. ‘Anything dangerous?’ He pointed at the iodine beads.

‘Er, according to this’ – Itch waved the information sheet – ‘only if you add it to ammonia.’

‘Are you planning to add it to ammonia?’ asked Gabriel.

‘Doesn’t feel like the time really,’ said Itch quietly.

Itch thought he’d be asleep within seconds, but it was wishful thinking. The events of the last few days had sent his head spinning; just when he thought he was drifting off, images of a burning note, Chloe’s stitches or a crashing baton filled his head again. When sleep finally came, it was all too brief. For a moment he thought his vibrating pillow was part of a dream, but when his head cleared and he heard the accompanying grinding sound, he realized that it was his phone. His clock said 3.10 a.m., and he reached under his pillow. In the darkness, the illuminated screen’s image of his cousin filled the bedroom and Itch squinted in the glare.

‘Jack?’ he whispered, disappearing under the duvet for soundproofing.

‘Itch! You awake?’ She was whispering too.

‘Yes. What’s up?’

‘There’s something happening at the church! I was just outside and I saw a light—’

‘Wait,’ said Itch. ‘You were outside at three o’clock in the morning?’

‘I left some toiletries in Dad’s car. I didn’t want to wake anyone so I just crept out. You know how you can see the corner of the church from our drive? Well, there was a van and some guys there.’

Itch thought for a moment. ‘What were they doing?’

‘To start with they stayed in the van. Then a couple of them got out and went into the churchyard. That’s all I could see. Should I wake Dad? Call the police?’

Itch hesitated. He knew that the correct answer was
yes
and
yes
, but the desire to find out and see for himself was strong. ‘Maybe.’

‘Itch, I know what you’re thinking . . .’ she said.

‘I’ll be outside in two minutes. If they’re still there, we’ll call the police then.’

He dressed hurriedly and was on the point of leaving his room when he checked, turned back and scribbled
At church with Jack
on a sheet of paper, leaving it on the floor. When he clicked the front door shut behind him, he thought briefly of the last time he had slipped out of his house. That had ended in Shivvi strapping caesium tubes to him and Jack, their kidnap, and Shivvi’s murder at the hands of Flowerdew and his henchmen.
This is different
, he told himself.
These are just vandals and we need to find out who they are
.

It was cold, the air crisp; the clouds had cleared since their return, and the moon was out. Itch’s breath billowed as he ran the short distance to Jack’s house. She was already sitting on the doorstep with a woolly hat pulled down over her eyes. As she saw Itch approaching, she waved, clearly relieved to see him.

‘This is mad!’ she said as he ran up to her.

‘We’ll be fine. We’re just watching,’ he said, panting slightly.

‘And not getting kidnapped.’

‘Definitely not getting kidnapped.’

She pointed down the hill at a small dark van parked in the shadows before the lights of the main road. The orange sodium streetlamp illuminated a corner of the churchyard, but nothing was moving.

‘That’s the van,’ said Jack. ‘No one’s come back yet – could they be in the church?’

‘It’d be locked,’ said Itch. ‘There might be someone still in the van. Let’s loop round the other side. Maybe we’ll see what’s happening from there.’

Jack nodded, and they jogged along the street that ran behind the church. Every house was dark, every curtain drawn as they passed the parked cars. Despite his exhaustion, Itch felt alive, his heart racing with adrenalin.

Turning sharp right downhill, they trod carefully, quietly, and immediately heard noises ahead. Beyond the church wall, about six houses away, in a small group of trees, there was a faint light – a torch maybe; they dropped to a crouch, tucking themselves in by a garden gate.

Once their breathing had slowed and their hearts stopped hammering, they heard sounds coming from the churchyard: a slow, methodical crunching followed by regular, perfunctory scraping. They both looked at each other incredulously, and Jack mouthed, ‘Digging?’

Itch nodded – that was exactly what it sounded like. It would last for a minute, stop, then continue again. The occasional low grumble of indistinct voices could be heard. ‘We need to get closer!’ he whispered, but Jack held him back.

‘We go closer – fine, but not so that they can see us.’ She held up her phone. ‘I can call the police anytime.’

Itch nodded and, stooping, led the way along the garden wall. A lone car passed along the road in front of the church, and all noise from the churchyard stopped. As the sound of its engine receded, the scraping continued and Itch edged closer.

The moonlight gave the trees a wet, metallic look; it also lit two figures bending over as they worked. They were merely silhouettes amongst the trees, but one was clearly digging while the other appeared to be sifting or measuring. Occasionally the sifter would stop, and a torch beam would briefly illuminate the scene.

‘Gravediggers?’ mouthed Itch, and Jack shrugged, her eyes wide.

‘Film them!’ whispered Itch. Jack looked horrified. ‘Go on! Let’s film them!’ he repeated.

‘No way!’ she said, too forcefully.

They both held their breath, afraid they’d been overheard, and stared into the trees. When the digging didn’t stop, they relaxed, but Jack looked determined now, her expression fixed. She leaned close to Itch’s ear.

‘If they catch us filming them, we are dead. Just for once, Itch, let’s not push it. We watch, that’s all. Or we can ring the police.’ She looked at Itch, her eyebrows raised, challenging him to disagree with her.

But he looked away; he had to admit she had a point – after Madrid, his energy was running low. ‘Fine,’ he whispered. ‘But what now?’

Crouching on freezing paving stones above the ‘gravediggers’, Itch and Jack knew they couldn’t be seen through the trees, but equally they had no way of seeing who the diggers were. ‘We could be here for hours!’

The crunching and shifting continued; and then a new noise. A noise so familiar yet so out of place, it took Itch a while to work out what it was. The digging had stopped, and in its place, from the middle of the trees, came a quiet, irregular clicking. Jack got it first. She looked at Itch in astonishment.

‘It’s a Geiger counter!’ she said, grabbing his wrist. And Jack was right. As they sat in the freezing stillness, the only sound they could hear was the clicking caused by the detecting and counting of nuclear radiation.

Itch stood up. Jack tried desperately to pull him back, but he simply grabbed the phone and walked towards the clicking Geiger counter.
This is all wrong
, he thought. It wasn’t that the radiation reading sounded high; on the contrary, the occasional and sporadic nature of the clicks indicated readings that were entirely normal. It was the fact that there was a Geiger counter at all that had spooked Itch. You might expect vandals smashing things up, or drunks sleeping against a headstone, but people with Geiger counters are only looking for radiation.