Itchcraft (8 page)

But he was bored within a page and thought about sending Jack or Lucy a message on Facebook to see if they were up. He opened his laptop and checked his inbox – and to his surprise Lucy had left him a message.

Thanks for taking Mining Tales! Bring to school if you can bear it, and we’ll check it at lunch. Lx

He reached for his rucksack and pulled out the library book.
I should at least have started it
, he thought and, propping himself up with his pillows, began to read.

It was divided into counties, each section giving a short history of local mining, together with ancient photos and eyewitness accounts of life in and around the pit. Itch found the chapter on Cornwall and immediately recognized some of the photos. They were of the mines at South Carreg and the pit that had become South West Mines, where he and Jack had briefly worked last year. The coastal setting and the position of the winding tower were instantly recognizable, and Itch studied the old black-and-white images.

Rows of miners, their faces set, stared out at him. Some wore protective helmets; others wore caps or were bare-headed. Underground images of rock faces and primitive drilling machinery filled the next few pages, and then Itch noticed a page with a corner folded. The section told how the lift machinery, operated by a ‘man-engine’, had collapsed and thirty-two miners had lost their lives. There was an image of the mine and an account of how the disaster had unfolded. Itch was gripped by the story of an unnamed miner, aged only fifteen, who had lost his brother and uncle in the disaster. He read the next sentence and then sat up straight.

He read it again, out loud: ‘
There was much grieving in the village as the boy had only recently lost his father to the vomiting disease
.’ The words had been faintly underlined in pencil. In the margin – in what Itch was sure was Mr Watkins’s handwriting – were the words
Cross-check with FLOW
.

If Itch’s mind had been racing before, it was turbo-charged now. Sleep was forgotten as he read furiously through the entire section on Cornish mining. There were no more folded pages, but one other paragraph had been underlined. It told of a mine near Land’s End, where recent casualties had been attributed to
rock falls, drill-slips
 . . .

‘Ouch!’ said Itch out loud. ‘. . . and the vomiting disease.’

That phrase again.

Again, Watkins – he was sure it was him – had written
Cross-check with FLOW
in the margin.
Flowerdew?
thought Itch.
But that makes no sense
 . . . He read on until he reached the section about mining in Wales, but there was nothing of interest, nothing underlined. He flicked through every page, but found no more pencil marks.

Itch shut the book and stared at the Periodic Table on his wall. Getting out of bed, he stood in front of it. He traced his finger down the column which started with
Fe, Iron
, passed through
Ru, Ruthenium, Os, Osmium, Hs, Hasmium
, and ended where his father had handwritten
126, Lt, Lofteium
.

Surely not.

No way.

It was Mr Watkins who had told him that the rocks of 126 had been traced to South West Mines at Provincetown. They had been dug up and thrown out on a spoil heap. To disguise their illegal deep mining, the company had scattered the ‘waste’ over three counties; it was thought that the 126 ended up in Devon, where it was bought by Cake, the element dealer. He had later died from radiation sickness, the rock’s fierce radioactivity then causing a violent illness that had nearly killed Itch, Jack and Chloe.

And it had been to Mr Watkins that he had asked why the rocks had come out of a mine. Itch had hoped that they were like the last of an endangered species and that, once they were disposed of, the 126 would be gone for ever. He understood its power and its potential for good but had seen first hand what it could do to people. With the 126, guns and violence were never far behind. He recalled Mr Watkins’s words then and spoke them out loud, softly: ‘
Maybe they’ve been thrown away before
.’

Even though it was only 5.30, Itch got dressed. He suddenly felt cold.

In a London sorting office, a brown-uniformed parcel delivery service employee was approaching the end of his shift. It had been busy – the New Year sales had meant a rush of packages needing delivery. Most seemed to be the size of books and DVDs, but there were larger parcels too. The man checked the addresses, felt their weight and enjoyed guessing the contents: clothes, tools – food maybe.

His last four packages were identical. Slightly larger than A4-sized padded envelopes. Heavy. No movement inside. Typed address labels.
Reference books
, he guessed.
Encyclopaedias maybe, if anyone still buys them
. One to Didcot, three to Cornwall. Two were for doctors, one for a man with lots of letters after his name.
Professional
– he nodded to himself.
Exactly the type to have encyclopaedias. Classy
. The addressee of the last one was a strange name he’d never seen before. He’d seen every name under the sun; characters he recognized from
Star Trek
,
Star Wars
and sometimes
Twilight
. He thought he’d seen everything, but he’d never seen a name like this one.

‘
Itchingham Lofte
 . . .’ He shrugged and placed it in the pile for
CORNWALL
/
OVERNIGHT
.

‘Oh well. Enjoy!’ he said.

Itch woke Chloe at six a.m. It was a few seconds before she realized that he was already in his uniform.

‘Itch, what’s wrong?’ She sat up, alarmed.

‘When does the library open?’ he said.

‘You what?’

‘When does the library open?’

She flopped back onto her pillow. ‘I heard what you said – I just couldn’t believe you’d said it, that’s all. Itch, it’s six o’clock in the morning. Go away.’ She closed her eyes, but when Itch didn’t move, she opened them again. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve been reading the mining book.’

Chloe waited for him to continue, but he just sat on the edge of her bed. ‘And?’ she said at last.

‘I think I know what Watkins is being secretive about. There are two passages about miners getting a sickness – a
vomiting disease
– and dying. Watkins had underlined them and written
Need to cross-check with FLOW
. But I don’t know who or what FLOW is. Obviously it isn’t Flowerdew . . .’

‘Maybe it’s something he wrote . . .’ Chloe sat up again. ‘You mean, he thinks it’s the 126? But the book’s about stories from hundreds of years ago, isn’t it?’ Itch nodded, and she pulled her T-shirt over her knees. ‘Wow.’

When she was dressed, Chloe crept into Itch’s room. He showed her the underlined passages and the
FLOW
sections. ‘Maybe
FLOW
is the other book,’ he said. ‘The one we couldn’t find. When’s the library open?’

‘Itch, you’ve asked me that three times already and I have no idea. Look it up maybe?’ she suggested.

‘Have done. Can’t find it. We’ll just have to be there when it opens.’

‘Excuse me . . . why?’

‘Because if we get there before they put those returned books back, we might find the FLOW book.’

‘Might not be a book at all,’ said Chloe. ‘Might be a person. Even if it isn’t Flowerdew. Member of staff or someone.’

Itch shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I’d like to be at the library when it opens. I’ve messaged Jack and Lucy. Come on, let’s get some breakfast.’

They were outside the library by 8.30.

Itch read the sign on the door and kicked the wall. ‘Opens at ten?’ he said, exasperated. ‘What kind of useless operation is this? How can it only open at ten?’

Chloe laughed. ‘Itch, until yesterday you’d never been inside. You’re not even a member . . .’

‘I joined online this morning. While you were getting dressed. Can you see the trolley?’

They both peered through the glass of the front door, their breath steaming it up. ‘I think it’s in front of the desk,’ said Chloe, wiping the condensation away with her hand. ‘All piled up . . . But you can’t wait till ten – registration is in fifteen minutes.’

There was a shout, and Jack arrived, running. She was flushed from the cold and her exertions, sweat running from under her beanie hat.

‘Hey. Just saw your message at breakfast. What’s up?’

Itch told her about his night-time reading and pointed at the returns trolley. ‘I need to be here at ten.’

‘We’re in English, Itch. Think the Brigadier will notice if you just disappear to go shopping.’

They walked back up the hill, as Lucy arrived at full speed, braking hard as she drew alongside the others. ‘Hi! Came as quickly as I could!’ She got off her bike and removed her crash helmet, trying to flatten her hair at the same time.

Itch explained again about the vomiting illness in the mine stories book, then stopped as the colour started to drain from Lucy’s rosy cheeks.

She stared at her friends. ‘You mean you think . . . those rocks had killed before . . . before Dad?’

‘I don’t know, Lucy, really. I just think it’s what Watkins is looking at—’ Itch broke off as he saw the tears in Lucy’s eyes. He hadn’t thought about her reaction. When Cake died, he had lost a friend, a mentor, but Lucy had lost her father. He was annoyed with himself. ‘Sorry . . .’

‘I never thought . . . how can that even be possible?’ she said, so quietly they nearly missed it.

Chloe and Jack linked arms with Lucy as they all walked into the CA and Itch told them about the conversation he’d had with Mr Watkins in hospital.

‘
Thrown away before?
’ they chorused. All four stood staring at each other, causing other students to detour round them.

‘You never mentioned it,’ said Jack.

‘Haven’t really thought about it since he told me . . .’

‘What are you going to do about the library?’ asked Chloe.

Itch shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘I do,’ said Jack. ‘I know exactly what you’re going to do.’

Lucy and Chloe left for registration, and Itch and Jack filed into Mr Hampton’s class.

‘Go on, then – what am I going to do?’ said Itch, smiling slightly.

‘We’ll go to English. And then you’ll think of a reason to disappear. Then you’ll reappear with a book by someone with the initials FLOW. How am I doing so far?’

At 9.45 English teacher Gordon Carter – known as ‘the Brigadier’ for his constant marching around the school – was deep in the pages of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s
The Great Gatsby
. He hadn’t noticed that Itch’s hand was up.

‘Sir,’ said Natalie Hussain, ‘Itch wants you.’

The teacher looked up, annoyed by the interruption. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’ he said.

‘Not feeling too good, sir. Think I might be sick.’

The memory of the arsenic-infused wallpaper incident from the previous year was fresh enough in everyone’s minds to trigger a wave of groans. A few hands covered mouths, and there were calls of ‘Better let him go, sir!’ The Brigadier nodded at Itch and he grabbed his bag.

‘Good luck!’ whispered Jack, and he ran for the door.

He went into the toilets first, in case anyone followed him, but he knew he couldn’t wait there long. He needed to be at the library when it opened, needed to get to the returns trolley first. Instead of risking a departure through the front door, he ran into the grounds from the science corridor, then to the coastal path through a crack in the fence. This had only appeared since the departure of the MI5 team, but Itch had seen it used and was thankful for it now.

The wind off the sea was biting. He hadn’t had time to get his jacket, and anyway it would have raised suspicions if he’d worn it while ‘feeling sick’. He cut back to the road that led to the town centre and ran towards the library. He wasn’t sure how long he had before someone asked where he was – the Brigadier would probably have already forgotten about him.

He crossed the high street, pausing briefly to allow the passing of a brown UPS delivery van heading down the hill. He glanced at his phone: 9.58 a.m. He was on time.

He tried the library door; still locked. He could see movement inside and waved, then knocked. Morgan the librarian was talking to a colleague; she looked up, smiled at Itch, then mouthed, ‘Two minutes,’ and tapped her watch. She went over to her desk, and Itch watched as she fired up her computer and poured herself a cup of tea. She checked her phone for messages, then placed it in a drawer and rearranged some leaflets, then said something to her colleague.

Itch realized he’d been concentrating on Morgan; and now he turned to look at her colleague. With a sharp intake of breath he saw that the woman was at the returns trolley. It was half empty, and she had a pile of books under her arm. ‘No!’ he shouted from outside and banged on the glass. ‘Leave those! Please, leave those!’

Both Morgan and her assistant looked alarmed, then annoyed. Morgan came to the door and unlocked it. ‘Excuse me – how dare you bash on our door like that! We open at ten . . .’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Which is now. What is so urgent that you couldn’t wait two minutes?’

He pushed past her. ‘I need a returned book! From yesterday. Please don’t put any more away – I need to check them first.’ He ran over to the trolley.

It didn’t take long to check the thirty-odd titles and authors. There wasn’t a ‘FLOW’ amongst them. He ran to the two shelves of mining books, looking for the ‘F’s. Finding none, he tried the local history section. There was a Felix and a Foster, but he couldn’t see any name like Flow.

‘What’s the panic?’ asked the assistant.

‘How many books have you put back?’ said Itch, ignoring the question.

‘Er, I don’t know. Maybe eighty – a hundred tops,’ she said. ‘Can I finish my job now, please?’ and she waited for him to step aside.

‘What? Oh, sorry – yes.’ He checked the time again. He had to go.

‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ she said.

‘Er, yes, they know . . .’ He opened the door to leave, then tried one last option.

‘You don’t remember a book with—’

Itch never finished his sentence.