Itchcraft (6 page)

As the other students crowded round, the questions started again:

‘What happened to the MI5 team, Itch – they were cool!’ shouted one voice.

‘Is it true they let you fire their guns?’ came another.

‘Was Mary a spy or something?’

Itch felt Jack’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s speed up,’ she said, and steered him through the throng. They arrived at the stairs at the same time as Campbell and Potts, now with fellow Lofte-baiter Bruno Paul. They stood staring at each other; this was the moment Itch had been dreading. With no MI5, no Colonel Jim Fairnie, to give them protection, and with no teachers in sight, they were sitting ducks.

The stairs had always been a flashpoint; it was here that Itch had been slapped, tripped or simply made fun of. Now Potts stood in front of Campbell and Paul, who were waiting for his lead, but they seemed uncertain. Campbell said something to Potts, but he shook his head.

Then Jack whispered in Itch’s ear, ‘We’ve faced a lot worse than them. Next to Flowerdew and Shivvi, they’re not even slightly scary. Come on.’

Itch followed her up the stairs. They climbed in silence; for a few seconds the stairwell was empty, so they could hear the footsteps start behind them.

‘Faster, Jack?’ suggested Itch.

But she shook her head. ‘Slower.’ Within seconds Potts was right behind her.

Itch glanced back. Potts’s eyes narrowed; Darcy Campbell glared. Then a stream of Year Sevens appeared above them, running and shouting on their way down to their next lesson. When they saw the Lofte cousins, they nudged each other and called out.

‘Hi, Itch! Hi, Jack!’

‘Say hi to Chloe!’

‘Add me on Facebook, Itch! Please!’

As they streamed down the stairs, Jack stopped, tugging Itch’s sleeve to keep him with her. Surprised, Itch turned and noticed a sparkle in her eyes. She bent down and retied her shoelace. Itch knew it hadn’t been undone, and guessed Potts did too, but the effect was an instant roadblock.

‘Jack, come on!’ said Itch urgently, afraid she was pushing her luck. Potts, Campbell and Paul, now with others crowding behind them, were backed up behind Itch and Jack, waiting for the Year Sevens to pass or Jack to finish with her laces.

Potts was waiting his turn. He opened his mouth to say something – but shut it again. The shout came from the foot of the stairs.

‘Move along up there! You all have lessons to get to!’ It was Dr Dart, the CA principal, the owner of the loudest voice in the school.

Jack and Itch took her advice while it was still reverberating around the stairwell. Taking the remaining steps two at a time, they shot to the next floor turning right for the ICT room.

‘They actually waited for us, Jack! They waited for us!’ Itch was running down the corridor, his eyes wide with surprise. ‘I thought you’d totally lost it, making them wait like that. Maybe that story about me killing Flowerdew is quite useful after all!’

Jack laughed as they burst into the ICT room.

School finished at 3.45, and Itch, Jack and Chloe met in the entrance hall. While MI5 had been escorting them home, they’d had to wait until most of the pupils had left. Now they were on their own, they relished the freedom to leave when they wanted.

‘You can come back to mine if you want,’ said Jack as they stepped out into the damp and gloom. ‘I could make you an omelette or something.’

Chloe nodded, but Itch wasn’t listening. ‘That was weird,’ he said, ‘not having Mr Watkins around.’

‘That and being clapped when we walked into the classroom!’ added Jack.

‘I heard about that,’ said Chloe, smiling. ‘Hey, Itch, you got applauded! That must have been great!’

‘Well, it’s certainly never happened before,’ he said. ‘It was embarrassing, really. But better than being made fun of, I guess. It would just have been better with Watkins around, that’s all. He’s just always been there – every day I’ve been to the CA. And he was my form teacher for two years. I mean, Hampton’s OK, but . . .’ He tailed off. ‘And it’s my fault really.’

‘That’s stupid,’ said Chloe. ‘It’s Shivvi’s fault Watkins has retired. She’s the one who smashed him with the bat, not you.’

‘She’s right, Itch,’ said Jack. ‘You know she is. Now, you coming for some food or not?’

‘Let’s go and see him,’ he said, catching up. ‘Let’s go and see Mr Watkins – call in on our way home. See how he’s doing.’

‘Good call,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll text my folks and tell them where we are. They’re a little more nervous than they used to be about what I’m doing.’

‘Which you have to say is fair enough,’ said Chloe. ‘I’ll call Dad and tell him what we’re doing too.’

Ducking out of the main flow of the students who were heading home through town, Itch, Jack and Chloe turned left towards the canal. John Watkins lived in a small group of houses that had been built at the end of the towpath, just a few metres from the sea. As Itch’s form tutor and geography teacher, Mr Watkins had been Itch’s biggest supporter at the academy. He had stood up to Flowerdew too, challenging him after the chemistry teacher had stolen Itch’s first piece of 126.

A light drizzle had started, and was in the process of turning the towpath into a mudslide. They picked their way along it with care, the only light now from two weak streetlamps.

‘Happy without your rucksack?’ asked Jack. ‘Must seem a bit strange . . .’

Itch shrugged. ‘Just seemed easier for everyone if I left it at home. And I wondered if some people are actually scared of it – like it’s a bag of potions or something. Seems stupid, but I thought I’d use Gabriel’s bag. I was going to try and make some friends, if you remember.’

Jack laughed. ‘Yeah, I remember! Well, that wasn’t a bad start. Where’s the element collection now?’

‘Some of it is still in my room!’ said Chloe. ‘He came back from South Africa with loads of stuff, and it was too heavy for one bag. So me and Dad had to share the weight. Anytime you want to come and collect—’

‘We only arrived back yesterday, Chloe!’ Itch said. ‘Give me a chance. I’m sort of running out of space – don’t know where to put everything. They’re all rare earths, I think . . . I’ll sort them out tonight.’ He looked ahead to see if Watkins’s lights were on. ‘Maybe we should have called him first. Looks pretty dark down there.’

They slithered up to the front door and a safety light clicked on. Up close they heard soft classical music coming from inside. Itch smiled at the others and rapped the iron door knocker twice. Seeing no sign of movement inside, he knocked again.

‘Wait . . .’ said Jack. She put her ear to the door and started to mime the actions of a pianist, running her hands across the keys. ‘Coming up . . .’ she said. ‘Sounds like it’s finishing any moment now . . .’ She gave a great flourish, her fingers hitting a series of invisible chords. ‘Try again, Itch!’

He knocked loudly – three times this time – and within seconds a silhouette appeared behind the frosted glass.

‘There you go!’ said Jack. Itch and Chloe started to applaud her, and she bowed theatrically.

‘Who’s there?’ called the figure from inside. Itch, Jack and Chloe immediately stopped their pantomime and a look of concern crossed their faces.

‘He sounds really scared!’ said Chloe in a whisper.

‘Sir – it’s us, sir! Itch, Jack and Chloe Lofte!’ called Itch hurriedly.

They heard, ‘Oh my goodness – oh, thank heavens!’ through the door and then the sound of three locks being undone and a chain unhooked. The door opened, and John Watkins, the recently retired head of geography at the Cornwall Academy, peered out at his visitors. Then he smiled. ‘Come in, come in!’ he said breathlessly, and stood aside as the Loftes all trooped in. ‘Were you outside long? I was, er, listening to some music.’ He pointed to his study, where the piano and orchestra had started up again.

‘Is it OK, sir?’ said Itch. ‘We thought we’d call in on our way home to see how you are . . .’

‘Yes, yes – of course!’ Mr Watkins seemed flustered. ‘I get a little nervous these days, I’m afraid. After the attack – you know . . . Anyway, come into the kitchen.’ He quickly pulled his study door shut, and the music faded.

‘Nice tune,’ said Jack.

‘Do you like it?’ Watkins followed them into the kitchen. ‘It’s Mozart’s twenty-first piano concerto – marvellous stuff!’

‘We didn’t mean to interrupt your work,’ said Itch.

‘No, that’s OK,’ said Watkins. ‘I was wondering how everyone was getting on. It felt strange not being there with you all, I must say. Missing the last few days of term was fine, but not being there for the start of the Easter term has made me rather sad, I’m afraid.’ He bustled over to the kettle. ‘Tea and toast OK?’

They all nodded, and Itch watched as he lifted the lid of his bread bin and got out a small loaf. He looked stooped and tired, Itch thought, and he could see a flesh-coloured plaster above Watkins’s left ear where Shivvi’s baseball bat had met his skull. His voice sounded thinner, more frail too. At least he was still wearing his yellow corduroy trousers and salmon-coloured cardigan – not everything had changed.

‘Do you wish you were still at the CA, then, sir?’ asked Itch.

‘Why, yes, of course . . .’ Mr Watkins sighed. ‘But it was the right decision to go.’ He felt for the plaster and pressed gently around its edges. ‘My head still hurts every morning – I have more tests due soon. But it could have been worse, much worse . . .’ He gazed distractedly through the window. ‘Anyway, now you have Mr Hampton, Itch – and you, Jack, of course – and a fine man he is, I believe.’

The kettle boiled, and Watkins made the tea. Chloe and Jack had moved to the kitchen table, which was strewn with papers and files.

‘Keeping busy, then, sir?’ said Jack as she pulled up a chair. And Watkins suddenly moved faster than Itch would have thought possible.

‘Ooh . . . yes. Let me just tidy this up . . . How messy of me!’ He swooped and quickly gathered up all the table’s contents into his arms. Some sheets of paper fell to the floor and Chloe picked them up. ‘Ah, Chloe, thank you. Yes, I’ll have those,’ he said, snatching the sheets of A4 from her.

The cousins exchanged glances as he dropped the papers into a dresser drawer and slammed it shut.

‘Secret work, sir?’ chanced Jack. ‘An autobiography maybe?’

‘Ha! Nice one, Jack . . . No, that would be really, really dull. It’s . . . well . . .’ Itch thought he was trying to work out whether to tell them or not. ‘It’s just that . . . Well, it is – as you say – secret. For now, anyway.’

‘Oh, come on, sir!’ said Itch.

‘And any further questioning is totally pointless. It’s just some research, that’s all. Now, let’s pour the tea.’

Itch shrugged and changed the subject. ‘Did you see the news about the Greencorps bosses getting killed or kidnapped, sir? We saw it on South African TV. Who would do that?’

‘Yes, I saw that too,’ said Watkins. ‘And we all know someone who might want to have them . . . “done in”, shall we say. But it’s very lawless in parts of Nigeria – there are shootings and robberies all the time. And Greencorps must be very unpopular in Lagos as they were responsible for that oil spill, of course. Maybe it was revenge? Who knows . . .’ He forced a smile. ‘Anyway . . . who’s for jam?’

The walk home was as swift as they could manage. The drizzle had turned to sleet, and whichever direction they walked in, it seemed to be blowing into their faces. The town was almost deserted, and the shops were shutting.

‘What was all that about?’ Itch pulled his jacket collar up as far as it would go. ‘What could be so secret that Mr Watkins had to hide it as soon as we went in?’

‘And he didn’t want us in the front room either – did you see the way he shut the door?’ said Jack.

‘
Mining deaths 1800 to 1877
,’ said Chloe.

‘You what?’ said Itch.

‘
Mining deaths 1800 to 1877
. That’s what it said on the piece of paper I picked up. That’s all I saw, anyway.’

‘Mining deaths? Why would that be such a secret?’ wondered Jack. ‘Why couldn’t he just tell us?’

‘Dunno . . .’ Itch shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s gone a bit funny. Anyway, see you tomorrow, Jack. Come on, Chloe – let’s see if we can walk past a golf bunker without it blowing up.’

The phone was answered on its first ring.

‘Osiegbe,’ said the voice.

‘Flowerdew.’

There was a silence of many seconds. ‘I thought you were dead, Nathaniel.’

‘So did I. It was close. I’m still here, but the 126 is gone. I had it, but it was stolen from me and is now gone for ever. I’m sorry, Abu, but I have quite a lot of work for your people.’

‘Where are you? Sounds noisy.’

‘Afloat,’ said Flowerdew. ‘Moving around.’

‘How can I help you?’ said Abu Osiegbe. ‘What is the nature of your business?’

‘Revenge,’ said Flowerdew. ‘For now, just revenge . . .’

There was a throaty laugh from the other end of the phone. ‘I have helped with such matters in the past, it is true.’

‘I heard of the, er, package in Lagos last week,’ said Flowerdew. ‘It sounds as if your famed “postal service” is still in operation.’ There was silence at the other end and he pressed on. ‘What is the usual, er, contents of the parcels?’

‘Well, now, let me see . . . Some filings. A hint of a sparkly powder. Special ingredients . . . and extra toppings if you need them.’ A deep chuckle from the Nigerian.

‘Of course. Do you deliver to England?’

‘I could if needed, yes. But why – apart from the money you’ll be paying me – should I help you?’

‘Because’ – Flowerdew’s voice rose slightly – ‘these are the people responsible for you not having the 126. These are the thieves who took what is ours, Abu. The Greencorps men have been dealt with – Revere and Van Den Hauwe got what was coming to them – but the others are still untouched. That is why you should help.’

‘How many?’

‘I’ll email the details. How long will it take?’

‘Patience, my friend. As long as is necessary. But you won’t be disappointed with the results, I assure you.’

‘Payment will be made in the normal way?’ asked Flowerdew.

‘Yes, of course. But I must correct you on one thing before you go, Nathaniel. The Greencorps men have not been “dealt with”, as you say. In fact, I happen to know that there are . . .’ He paused to choose his words carefully. ‘There are many options being considered.’