Itchcraft (9 page)

The sound of an explosion ripped through the town.

He ran outside. The few early shoppers had all stopped in their tracks, looking around, staring at each other. A few ran into the road as Itch had done; some gazed up at the sky. A familiar sense of dread was settling in Itch’s stomach.

He headed up the hill, where a small group had gathered to stare seawards. Itch saw hands pointing and heard cries of ‘Look there!’ He quickly glanced over his shoulder to see what they were staring at, but the shops obscured everything. He ran faster.

There was a small area at the top of the hill – actually the first tee of the golf course – where you could look out across most of the town. Itch saw golfers and shoppers standing together and heard their cries of alarm. Heart pounding, the sound of the explosion still playing in his head, he reached the brow of the hill and spun round, looking seaward.

He saw the dark plume of smoke first. Then he saw the flames.

The cottages by the canal.

The end cottage.

John Watkins’s cottage.

Itch blanched as panic gripped him. Around him, he could hear 999 calls being made, but he stood staring at the house by the canal.

‘Yes, fire brigade, please . . . The canal. There’s a house on fire . . . Explosion, I think. Yes, my name is . . . No, I don’t know if there’s anyone inside . . . Here’s my number . . .’

Some of the onlookers then started to run in the direction of the canal. On the towpath Itch could see people heading towards the fire. Next to him a woman in a duffel coat and cap murmured, ‘Oh my,’ and started sobbing. It broke the spell.

Itch headed right, tearing down the one-way street. It had no pavement – it wasn’t intended for pedestrians – so he ran in the road. The traffic wasn’t heavy, but there was enough to cause a slew of swerving cars and angry horn blasts. Itch kept to the edge until an oncoming motorbike forced him into the middle of the road. With cars now flying past him on both sides, he looked for the left turn that led down towards the towpath.

Please don’t let it be Watkins . . .

A break in the traffic, and he jumped the barrier onto the pavement. He landed awkwardly, but quickly regained his footing and picked up his pace. Itch’s whole body was hurting – his head and hand were throbbing badly – but he couldn’t let that slow him down. In the escape from the Fitzherbert fire and the fight with Flowerdew, his body had taken quite a hit. And with his bone-marrow transplant only six months ago, Itch now felt every bruise, every stitch, every broken bone.

Don’t let it be him . . .

He dodged the shopkeepers and householders who were emerging onto the street, a few locking their doors and heading for the canal. Watkins’s cottage was obscured, but black smoke was now clearly visible above the houses.

Itch felt his phone ringing, but ignored it as he hit the towpath and turned right. Ahead of him, a procession of running, shouting people merged, with helpers crossing the lock gates. And at the end, by the rocks, Itch saw the orange and red flames of a house on fire.

Oh God, it
is
him
.

From somewhere, large buckets had been found and were being used to throw canal water onto the flames. A human chain from the waterway to Watkins’s garden had been formed but was ineffective; the flames had really taken hold now. As the heat grew more intense, the makeshift firefighters were forced to back off until they were too far away to throw any water at all. The smoke billowed towards the crowd, and when a moored longboat started to smoulder, many people ran for safety. On a crowded, slippery towpath, two men fell into the canal. There were shouts and screams, but they both managed to swim to the other side, where many hands hauled them out of the freezing water.

Itch fought his way through the crowd. At the first of the six cottages he took the path that forked left and led round to the back doors and the sand dunes. A handful of helpers had had the same idea, but they were watching and assessing, not doing.

‘Mr Watkins! Mr Watkins!’ Itch’s voice sounded shrill and shaky as he ran. He tried again as he passed the deserted properties. ‘Mr Watkins, are you in there?’ he yelled, but the noise of the fire drowned out his words. In the distance he registered the wail of a fire engine.
It won’t be here in time
, he thought.
I need to do something now
.

He approached the back door with caution. Most of the flames were at the front of the house, but even so he could feel the heat.

‘What are you doing, lad?’ called one of the onlookers. ‘Wait for the firefighters – they’ll be here soon!’

But Itch wasn’t listening. He ran at the back door and kicked hard. A panel splintered and he tried again. This time the whole door fractured, and Itch found that he now had a few companions at his side.

‘Is John in there?’ shouted one.

‘I think so!’ yelled another. ‘Someone saw him take in a parcel.’

Itch felt his stomach lurch again.

‘John!’ yelled the first man.

‘I’m going in,’ shouted Itch. But the flames had reached the kitchen now, and when a spark caught a flapping tarpaulin next door, the little rescue party had to admit defeat. They backed away up the sand dunes.

Itch stood there, coughing, as he watched the approaching fire engines. It was going to take too long. Everything was taking too long. If Mr Watkins was in there, he needed rescuing right now, not in five minutes’ time. He ran to meet the first truck. The driver had his window down and was talking furiously to his colleagues.

Itch shouted, ‘You need to hurry! There’s a man in there. Please come now!’

‘We’re on our way, son,’ came the reply. ‘I’m getting as close as I can.’

Itch ran alongside the truck as it parked. He heard voices from inside.

‘Another explosion?’

‘That’s what the report said.’

‘The other truck will have to take it.’

‘We’ll need back-up fast.’

‘This looks bad . . .’

Another explosion?
thought Itch as he headed back to the dunes. He climbed the highest mound, which was high enough to see into the cottage bedrooms. He wanted to shout again. He wanted to see Mr Watkins’s face at the window. The dread and terror in his heart told him that it wasn’t going to happen.

His phone vibrated again. Jack. He took the call.

‘Where are y—’ she began.

‘Jack! Watkins’s house is on fire! I’m there now! I heard an explosion and . . .’ Itch’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Jack, I think he’s inside. I’ve gotta go . . .’

The fire crew were now running a hose along the towpath. ‘Everyone back away,’ yelled the leader. ‘We need a clear path! Go now!’

The crowd edged back towards the boulders that marked the end of the canal and the start of the beach. Two more firefighters with breathing equipment arrived at the back of the house.

‘Please hurry . . .’ whispered Itch. ‘Please still be alive.’

The whole ground floor was burning fiercely now, thick black smoke gusting into the sky. Itch followed it as rolled inland; it seemed as if half the sky was filled with ash and embers. Suddenly he realized that it wasn’t all coming from the canal. There was another column of smoke, high above the cliffs.

He ran to the end of the dunes and climbed onto the boulders. Away from the sheet of smoke coming from Watkins’s house, the second plume was clearer. Others had noticed it too, arms raised again.

It could be anything. It could be from anywhere . . . But Itch knew. Deep down inside, he knew that all this was about him.
He
was the target.

And that was
his
house burning.

Itch’s legs had turned to lead. He was running, but he didn’t seem to be moving. He was freezing, but he didn’t feel cold. Surrounded by the din of the fire and the shouts of the firefighters, he heard nothing. He staggered over the dunes. He needed to get home, but he wasn’t sure he could make it.

He noticed that the second fire engine was reversing: it was leaving. He ran alongside and waved at the driver, who ignored him, continuing his manoeuvre. Itch stood in front of the vehicle and raised his arms in the air. A blast of the horn and angry shouts didn’t move him.

Two firefighters, their faces grim, jumped down from the cab. Before they reached him, Itch shouted, ‘That other fire is
my house
!’ He pointed at the now clearly distinct second column of smoke. ‘That’s where I live! I need to get there now!’

The two men looked at each other, and nodded. ‘It’s Nicholas Lofte’s kid!’ called one of the men, and the driver beckoned them inside. Hands reached out to Itch and hauled him into the fire engine. The crew, all helmeted, nodded and made space for him. As he squeezed in beside them, Itch realized that he was shivering uncontrollably. The nearest firefighter produced a spare jacket and draped it around him.

‘What’s h-happened?’ he stammered through chattering teeth. ‘What’s happening?’

The siren blasted through the cab as the fire engine gathered speed out of the car park. ‘We don’t know,’ said a man from the front, ‘but sit tight – we’ll be there soon enough.’

The journey from the canal to Itch’s house was a short one; in a speeding fire engine with siren wailing it was even shorter. But to Itch, his mind in torment, it seemed the longest journey ever. He needed to be there, but he dreaded getting there. Every imaginable horror played through his mind.

He took out his phone. Five missed calls – one from Jack, four from Chloe. He rang his sister. She answered on the first ring and Itch heard a muffled voice say, ‘Can I be excused, miss?’ then rustling.

He waited. After a few seconds he heard her panicked voice. ‘Itch? Where—?’

‘Listen, Chloe . . .’ He suddenly wasn’t sure what to say. ‘I’m in a fire engine. I think there’s a fire at our house . . .’ and he ran out of words.

‘You mean at Mr Watkins’s house? Jack said you were down by the canal . . .’

‘I was. It was on fire, and then I noticed smoke and . . . we’ll be at our house any minute. Chloe, you need to go and find Dr Dart and tell her . . . tell her all this is happening.’

‘Itch, was Mr Watkins in the house?’

Either she hasn’t understood, or she’s more together than I am
, he thought. ‘Someone said they saw him receive a parcel. So . . . I think so . . .’

‘OK,’ said Chloe. ‘I’ll go and find Dr Dart.’

Itch sat back in his seat. At least Chloe was safe.

Chloe ended the call, her heart racing, and started running. She took the stairs three at a time; mid-lesson there was no pupil traffic. She got a ‘Slow down, Chloe!’ from Craig Harris, the games teacher, but merely said, ‘Sorry, sir!’ and carried on. She reached Dr Dart’s office in seconds, and knocked loudly on the door.

Miss Hopkins, the school secretary, opened it. ‘What is it, Chloe? You look upset. Come in.’

Chloe was breathing heavily, but managed, ‘Itch says Mr Watkins’s house is on fire. He’s with the fire brigade going to our house. I think there’s a fire there too! I need to go now, Miss Hopkins. I need to go home. Please get Dr Dart!’ She looked pleadingly at the shocked secretary.

‘Of course. I’ll find her straight away,’ and she bustled out of the room.

Chloe checked her phone. No messages. She stood up and paced to and fro. Fear, worry and horror in equal measure coursed through her.

Dr Dart’s phone rang. Chloe wondered if, under the circumstances, she should answer it. What if it was about the fire? What if it was about Itch? With no school secretary and no principal to pick up, maybe it was her duty?

She walked round the desk. A large brown parcel addressed to Dr Dart was propped up next to the phone. She’d have to move it to pick up the handset.

Which was still ringing.

She reached out for the parcel . . .

There was a knock on the door, and Jack burst in.

‘Chloe! What’s happening? Text from Itch to find you and go home. Said you’d be here. I told Mr Logan I was feeling ill.’

The phone stopped ringing.

‘Miss Hopkins is getting Dr Dart,’ said Chloe. ‘I spoke to Itch. Oh, Jack, he says there’s a fire at our house!’

‘At
your
house? As well as at Mr Watkins’s? What’s happening, Chloe?’ Jack peered out of the window towards the town.

‘My God.
Look
 . . .’ Chloe hurried over too, and saw black smoke above the beach. Both girls looked at each other, eyes swimming with tears.

Dr Dart hurried into the office, the secretary close behind. ‘Chloe? Jack too?’ She sat down. ‘Tell me what’s happening. Where’s Itch? And what’s this about a fire?’

The firefighter in the front seat spun round, removing his helmet.

‘What did you just say?’ he shouted above the siren. His name badge said CALLIER.

Itch was nonplussed. ‘Er, I was talking to my sister. She asked me about Mr Watkins’s house. Whether he was in or not.’

‘You mentioned a parcel . . .’

‘I heard someone say they thought he was in because he had just received a parcel.’

Itch sensed the mood in the cab change.

‘It’s too early for Royal Mail,’ called a voice behind him. ‘They deliver in the afternoon. Must be a parcel delivery firm.’

He sat up straight. ‘I saw one! Brown with, er, yellowy-gold letters!’

‘Call UPS!’ said Callier. ‘Get their delivery schedule now!’ The firefighter next to Itch got on his phone.

‘You think the parcel might have—’ Itch began.

‘We don’t know. Our job to check,’ said Callier.

The fire engine sped round the one-way system that Itch had run down earlier. Lights flashing, it crowned the hill at fifty miles an hour; cars and vans pulled over as they heard the siren. As they flew down from the golf course, Itch, slouching low, could clearly see the black smoke now – clouds of it being blown inland, swooping low and then dispersing in the wind. The firefighters had seen it too. In the cab, no one spoke.

Next to Itch, the firefighter listened to someone from the parcel delivery service and tensed. He repeated the information, his voice strained and loud.

‘Three parcels delivered this morning. Recipients as follows . . . Mr John Watkins . . .’ He paused, swallowed. ‘Itchingham Lofte . . .’ Itch gripped the arms of his seat. He felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but it was what came next that sent ice through him. ‘And Dr Felicity Dart. At the Cornwall Academy.’