Itchcraft (31 page)

‘We’re going on a cruise,’ said Lucy grimly. ‘Always wondered what they were like . . .’ She looked around at the old kitchen appliances and blankets. ‘Do you think we could ask for an upgrade?’

‘This isn’t good, Luce,’ said Itch as they felt the boat power move away from its moorings. He tugged at the cuffs. ‘My hand’s still recovering from the fire at the Fitzherbert School – I don’t think I can get out of this one.’ He looked around their cramped quarters. ‘Looks like all the galley equipment they don’t want any more.’ They both slumped, exhausted, against the old oven door; it clanged shut behind them.

‘Thought of a plan yet?’ asked Lucy.

‘Nope.’

‘Me neither. How long do you think we have?’

Itch considered. ‘A few hours maybe?’

‘You’ll think of something,’ she said, and then, to Itch’s surprise, fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.

He closed his eyes, but found sleep impossible. His mind was full of what might happen to them – what might be happening to Jack and Chloe – and Lucy’s assumption that he would get them out of there.

He laughed bitterly. ‘The genius strikes again,’ he said. The truth was, he had no plan. He had no rucksack, no elements, and no idea how they were going to escape. He felt a cold despair in the pit of his stomach.

Lucy woke him with a sharp tug on the handcuff chain. It was dark, and it took Itch a few seconds to remember where he was. He had no idea how long he had slept for; his head was heavy and his clothes were wet with sweat.

‘Itch, something’s happening,’ said Lucy. ‘Everyone’s running about.’

He sat up slowly and heard approaching steps; a key turned in the lock and the door was pushed open. Fierce lighting flooded the room, and the same two men stood silhouetted in the entrance.

‘You again?’ said Lucy. ‘Not room service, I suppose? Two teas maybe?’

Itch saw they each had the hoods swinging in their hands and felt the despair again. One of the men leaned over and unlocked his cuffs from the old cooker; the other ordered them to their feet. Still cuffed to each other, the black hoods were forced back over their heads and tied around their necks. Second time around, Itch found the darkness and smell of nylon even more terrifying; it was as though they were being summoned to their execution. A string of curses came from under Lucy’s hood, and Itch smiled bleakly under his. ‘That’s pretty much what I was thinking,’ he said.

‘Don’t trust anyone. Try to be brave,’ whispered Lucy.

Itch nodded. ‘I’m fine with the first part . . .’ he said.

They were pushed out into the corridor. Lucy found Itch’s hand and held it fiercely. They were clearly retracing their steps from . . . well, when exactly? Yesterday? A few hours ago? Up steps, through doorways, and into the noise of a powerful boat idling in a strong wind. The temperature dropped noticeably, and they saw only small pinpricks of light through their hoods. Firm hands steered them around unseen obstacles until they felt a metal rail. From the sea below them they heard voices calling.

‘Oh my God . . .’ murmured Lucy.

‘They’re putting us in another boat,’ said Itch. ‘And listen . . .’

They became aware of another sound competing with the ship’s engine. A deeper, heavier sound, coming from a short distance away. Itch turned to face it. Through the fabric of his hood he made out some faint lights higher than the sea but too low for stars.

Ship’s lights.

There was no doubt in his mind now that this was to be their final destination, that this new ship was where Flowerdew would be. And Jack and Chloe too. With that realization, Itch felt more resolute. Terrified too, but stronger, angrier . . . and he took a deep breath.

‘That’s a big ship out there. It’s him, Lucy – it has to be. So we might as well do this now.’

A voice from below shouted in English: ‘Ready here!’

Another from behind said, ‘Six steps to boat,’ and uncuffed them.

Itch was pushed forward through a gap in the railings. Turning round, he heard Lucy say, ‘Be careful,’ and he edged his way down, feeling for each rung. He had a sudden memory of his descent into the Woodingdean Well, but he forced it away.

It’s only six steps
.

As his right hand slid down, it caught on a sharp metal edge. Itch winced, but quickly leaned into the steps, his fingers guiding the fabric of the hood onto the sharp metal. He continued down, the hood catching, pulling, then tearing. It was only a small rip, too near his ear for him to see very much, but he could now make out the sea. If he twisted his head, his field of vision took in the small inflatable he was about to step into.

Hands grabbed his legs, and he allowed himself to be pushed into the bottom of the boat. Lying back, he could see Lucy’s final cautious step before she too was shoved down next to him.

‘I can see you,’ he whispered. ‘Tore the hood.’

He felt Lucy’s shaking arm hook through his as the inflatable powered away. Hoping it wasn’t obvious that he now had some limited vision, he twisted round to line up the tear with the direction of the boat.

It wasn’t difficult to see where they were going. Through the jagged shreds, two hundred metres away and closing, Itch glimpsed sections of a large, industrial ship, its deck covered in cranes and what looked like drilling equipment. At the bow, he saw the name
Strontian
and metal scaffolding supporting a large flat platform.
A helipad?
he wondered.

Bright lights shone from the deck, and Itch saw a small bobbing craft pull up alongside. He watched surreptitiously as a figure was hauled up on deck. A figure about the size of . . .

Itch gasped and stood up. His hands reached for the rip in his hood and pulled sharply, opening the tear up further. He pushed his head through the hole. In an instant he took in the size of the drilling ship, the gathered hands on its deck – and the sight of his sister being hauled aboard.

‘Chloe!’ he yelled.

Itch’s terrified, heart-stopping howl was heard by everyone. It carried loud and clear across the short expanse of water between the ship and the approaching inflatable. The men tying the small craft to the larger one froze, staring out across the water. Those on the inflatable leaped at him. Chloe, approaching the top of the ladder, twisted round to see where her brother’s voice had come from.

‘Itch!’ she screamed, then disappeared from view as she was hauled up onto the deck.

Itch was struggling with two men who were now sitting on his chest, one trying to put his hood back on. ‘That’s my sister!’ he shouted before some of the material was forced into his mouth, cutting off his reply.

‘Itch, what’s happening?’ cried Lucy, her voice fearful. His smothered, wordless reply turned the fear to panic. She pulled frantically at her hood – but to no avail. She forced her fingernails along the side of the boat, deliberately tearing them. Ignoring the pain, she scratched at the hood, hoping one of the splintered nail shards might be sharp enough to penetrate the fabric. But they weren’t, and she shouted and screamed in frustration.

The inflatable’s engine revved as it accelerated towards the
Strontian
. One man steered; the others restrained Itch and watched Lucy rage. Itch could hear Chloe’s shouts; each one gave him new strength. He wrestled, twisted and kicked against the dead weight on top of him, but the men were too heavy.

He stopped struggling, his desire to see Chloe and Jack stronger than his hope of escape. From the bottom of the boat, he saw the brown and orange hull of the ship loom above him; a rope ladder dangled down from the rail to the sea. He saw faces peering over the side, calling, then Lucy being manhandled to the side of the inflatable.

‘Itch, where are you?’ she yelled. He tried again to call out to her but his muzzled voice had no power. Her hands were guided to the ladder but she pulled them away. ‘Take this hood off me now! I can’t climb if I can’t see!’ She stood balancing on the bobbing craft, her shoulders rising and falling, her breathing rapid. A shouted exchange from the digger to the inflatable, and Itch watched as her hood was swiftly removed. Lucy whipped her head from left to right and, finding Itch lying gagged and restrained in the bottom of the boat, cried out in alarm. Itch tried to look as reassuring as possible, which, as he was pinned to the floor, he realized might not be very reassuring at all. Meanwhile Lucy’s hands were forced back onto the ladder and she started her ascent, slowly at first but faster as she adjusted to the sway of the ship. Itch hoped she wouldn’t look down; from where he lay it was one terrifying climb.

Once she had disappeared onto the
Strontian
, the two men who had been sitting on him hauled him to his feet.

‘Your turn,’ said the older man, who had a tattoo of a scorpion on the side of his neck.

His hands free, Itch pointed at his mouth, and the man nodded. Slowly Itch removed the length of nylon and spat out some loose threads, some strands of saliva landing in the man’s hair. ‘Oops,’ said Itch and stepped onto the swinging rope ladder before the man tried to hit him. His hands gripped the thick, coarse rope and his feet found the thin metal slats. A fierce spotlight from high above picked him out, illuminating the route he had to take. He climbed out of reach of the men in the inflatable, and then stopped. He stared at the blistered painted hull just a few centimetres in front of him. The ship rose and fell as he clung to its side. Every step took him closer to Flowerdew, a man who had already tried to kill him and who had succeeded in killing Mr Watkins.

Better to jump into the sea and take my chances
.

But every step also took him closer to Jack, Chloe and now Lucy.

And I could never abandon them
 . . .

Itch took a deep breath and started to climb again.

When he reached the top, four men appeared, their arms outstretched, straining to grab hold of him. Itch almost stopped again, but then felt himself being hauled over the side. He was sent sprawling onto the deck, crashing into the base of one of the cranes. After a few seconds the ringing in his ears was replaced by a woman’s voice.

‘Would you stand, please.’ It was a quiet, accented voice, and Itch knew that he had heard it before. As he gingerly got to his feet, his heart still pounding from the climb, he saw the high heels, the pencil skirt, the white shirt under an immaculately cut jacket, and the smiling Asian face.

‘Hello, Itch . . .’ Her head tilted slightly and the smile broadened.

‘Mary Bale,’ said Itch breathlessly. ‘Fake
International Herald Tribune
journalist. I remember.’ He looked at the grim-faced group of men standing behind her. ‘You came with thugs last time too. They beat up Dr Alexander at the mining school – remember? Well, of course you do – you ordered it.’

Her smile stayed in place, though it became cooler. She waited a few seconds. ‘Finished?’ She paused theatrically. ‘I’m Roshanna Wing, the new CEO of Greencorps. I use the name Mary Bale when it suits me, and yes, I remember trying to obtain the 126. I took the measures I deemed necessary. As always. If I had been successful then . . . we wouldn’t be here now. Come this way.’

‘But I need to be—’ began Itch.

‘You don’t need to be anything other than very, very careful,’ she hissed, the smile wiped away in an instant. Her face grew pinched, her eyes narrowed. ‘You really must understand how much danger you are in. You and your buddies.’

‘I think we’ve realized that,’ murmured Itch.

Roshanna Wing turned, and he was pushed hard in the back. He stumbled after her, her men right behind. Wing wove her way past yellow and red painted hi-tech drilling equipment which was crammed into every available space. Pumps, pistons, cables, storage containers; Itch jumped over or was steered round all of them.

He tried to prepare himself for what he knew was coming. Somewhere on this ship was Dr Nathaniel Flowerdew, the man who had tried to ruin his life. The teacher who had stolen his 126 and assaulted him at school. The madman who had attempted to destroy his nervous system with neutron bombardment. The criminal who had sent him a parcel bomb and murdered Mr Watkins. Now he would face Flowerdew thousands of miles from home, with no rucksack of elements to help him out, and Jack, Chloe and Lucy expecting him to come up with something.

And he knew he had nothing.

Stepping under an enormous steel drilling rig arch, Itch looked around, increasingly desperate. He saw enormous tubes, banked and stacked high, ready to unfold into the sea like the seating in his school gym. He saw complex machinery labelled
IRON ROUGHNECK, MUD PUMP
and
CATWALK SHUTTLE
; he didn’t understand any of it. It made perfect sense for Flowerdew to hide on what appeared to be a mining ship, but it was no use to him.
This is no good
, he thought.
No good at all
. They marched on, and every step took him nearer to Flowerdew.

Ahead, Wing had opened a door and was already inside. Itch noticed a sign for chemical dispersant, accompanied by a red
WARNING
! sign.
That’s more like it . . .

They had entered a lab area – two benches with computer screens and the paraphernalia of analysis; Itch recognized the spectrometers and had handled some of the solutions, but that was all. Stoppered bottles stood on shelves in a locked, temperature-controlled glass cupboard, but he couldn’t make out the labels.

Another shove in the back, and Itch stumbled again. ‘There’s nothing here for you,’ said Wing sharply. She had seen his desperate glances around the lab. ‘You are so out of your depth.’ She laughed at her own joke. ‘And in so many ways.’ Still laughing, she led the way below decks.

The steps were poorly lit, the corridor at the bottom almost dark. Emergency lighting gave the place a grimy, seedy feel, the flashing red lights of the smoke alarm and sprinklers glaring brightly in the gloom. Wing was now slowing down, and Itch’s stomach tightened further.
This must be it
. They passed a sick bay, then came to a cabin door that was slightly ajar. Itch caught the faint smell of whisky . . . he knew what was coming next.