They found the fire exit without turning on any lights. Despite the white flashes still in front of their eyes they could see the soft glow from the electric signs. They pushed down the metal bar on the door and burst through into the darkness outside. Clanging bells started ringing—they had clearly triggered an alarm—but they had to wait a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dark. Gradually they made out some sheds and outbuildings and a few trees silhouetted against the night sky. The only light was what spilled out from labs 4 and 5.
The first of around a dozen sheds was directly in front of them—about sixty feet away—and they ran for it, ignoring the door that faced them and running around to the far side, where they stood with their backs to the wall.
“I bet he lost both eyebrows!” said Jack, taking the backpack from Itch, who laughed, far too loudly.
“Yes, but he’ll be fine. In an hour or so. Cake would have liked that, I think.”
There was a brief silence, then Jack asked, “Was that the replacement phosphorus he got you?”
Itch nodded. “Told me to keep it for my birthday.”
“Nice one, Cake,” she said. Then she added, “You OK?” Itch was alternately blowing on his hand and then putting it under his arm. “You didn’t overdo the phosphorus again, did you?”
“Well, I might have. I wasn’t sure how much to use, so I used it all, just to be on the safe side.”
“Like last time!” said Jack, managing a laugh. “And I’m sure ‘I used it all, just to be on the safe side’ is not the greatest piece of scientific advice out there!”
“No, I guess you’re right,” said Itch, who could now make out a large black patch on his hand, which was starting to throb. “The other thugs will be close behind, so let’s keep going….” He nodded in the direction of a large gray tank. “That’ll be the oil tank, I guess. There must be a service road near there for the tank. Let’s try that. You all right?” Jack was swaying slightly.
“Sure,” she said. “Let’s go.”
They jogged left toward the tank, Itch in front. The rocks rattled noisily around in their box. The canvas bag was very heavy now—he held it in both arms, cradling it close to his chest. His arms ached with the weight of it, made worse by the angle his arms had to adopt to run without dropping it. Jack followed close behind, the backpack bouncing on her back.
The oil tank that served the college was huge, at least three stories tall and sixty feet long, and as they got closer, they saw that there was indeed a small rough track that snaked away through the trees to it. Itch turned the corner first and ran straight into the side of a large black Range Rover. Jack, at his shoulder, collided with him, and Itch banged his head on glass. From the other side of the car a man appeared, walking around the hood. The darkness was almost total, the tank blocking out any light from the labs, but Itch knew who it was from the first step. His insides twisted as Jack gasped and he heard that familiar elegant sneer.
“Of course, it’s the freaky cousins. Who else?” Nathaniel Flowerdew moved around to stand facing Itch and Jack. He was wearing a black cloth cap over his white curls, a black linen suit, and a very broad grin. “Itchingham. Jack. What’s that you have there? Pizzas? I do hope you’re not going to disappoint me. Shall I check the bag?” He held out his hands. Itch didn’t move. The sound of the emergency exit in lab 1 crashing open again made Flowerdew jump, and he grabbed hold of Jack. “Get in the car.”
He opened the rear door and pushed Jack in. Fleetingly, Itch thought of running, but with the Audi team closing in and Flowerdew holding Jack, he decided to join her in the car.
To his surprise, Flowerdew got in the back next to him and shouted, “Drive!”
What had confused him was that the car, a Range Rover Sport, was a left-hand drive. A squat man with a ponytail fired the engine, flicked on the headlights, and accelerated away from the tank.
The track was bumpy and full of potholes, but the Range Rover made short work of them, and within seconds they were through the trees and turning right. Jack had the backpack, Itch had the rocks, and Flowerdew was staring at the canvas bag. He had heard the dull cracks that came from inside Itch’s box as he got in the car and had just realized what it meant.
“How many?” he said quietly, almost reverently.
Itch couldn’t see any reason to lie. “Eight,” he said.
Flowerdew laughed—quietly at first, but then louder and louder, until the driver turned around to check that he was all right. “Eight! You hear that, Kinch! We have eight of the blighters—and to think I was all excited about just one.” Flowerdew tore off his cap, folded it away in his pocket, and fidgeted with excitement.
The driver, Kinch, turned again and nodded, smiling at him. It was a smile without knowledge, however; he clearly understood nothing of the significance of what they had just taken, but if his new boss was happy, then so was he.
As they sped around the back of the mining school, blue and white flashing lights lit the darkness. The Range Rover reached a junction on the service road. Turning right, they were able to watch the three police motorcycles and one paramedic motorcycle roar into the parking lot.
“That should keep them all busy for a while,” said Flowerdew. “But just in case, get on the floor.” He pushed Itch off the seat, and Jack followed him down onto the mat. They sat there, surrounded by food wrappers and plastic bottles. “Slowly past the cops, please, Kinch.”
Kinch eased the Range Rover out onto the main road, and the two men turned to watch the policemen in the lobby of the mining school, standing amid the shattered glass. Both Jack and Itch thought of jumping out or trying to attract attention, but the automatic door locks had already clicked and the car’s windows were all tinted. Itch was relieved to see the medic—Chloe could now finally get the treatment she desperately needed. Leaving her might have been the right thing to do, but he knew he wouldn’t have done it if Mr. Watkins hadn’t been there; he trusted that his teacher would make sure she was OK. Itch also wondered if the police would find the woman and her two “drivers,” but was far from sure. Anyway, he and Jack had troubles of their own now.
Once clear of the mining school, they tried to sit up again, but Flowerdew shook his head. “Stay down there, you two,” he commanded. “Help yourself to some crumbs. We waited a long time for you—we went through a lot of supplies, as you can see. I’m sure you’ll find something tasty down there. Oh—and I’ll take your phones, if you would be so kind.”
The cousins handed them over, and Flowerdew switched both off. Then, opening the window next to him, threw them out as far as he could. Out of sight and earshot of them all, both phones broke apart on impact with the granite rocks on the curbside.
“I was sure you’d end up at West Ridge eventually,” he told them. “You love Watkins, and Watkins loves West Ridge. Where else would you run? You didn’t disappoint, Lofte—though you took your time, I must say. Kinch here was beginning to wonder whether you’d turn up at all.” The driver shrugged, and Flowerdew went on: “We were waiting at the back. As soon as those Audis swept into the parking lot I guessed they’d flush you out.”
The car accelerated away from West Ridge but slowed when it reached the smoldering tractor and minibus. The wreckage was still widely scattered across the road, but a fire crew had put out the worst of the flames. Small isolated brush fires had sparked on both sides of the road but weren’t preventing an ambulance from making its way slowly around the crash site. The Range Rover waited for it to negotiate the twisted, smoldering rubber and smoking metal. It was followed by two police cars, which flashed their thanks to the waiting driver. Kinch laughed, but Flowerdew was not happy.
“They’ll remember us now. You’re an idiot, Kinch.”
Itch, losing feeling in his right leg, thought, That’s how Flowerdew talks to everybody. It isn’t just us. He glanced at Jack, but she had her eyes shut.
“You should know we’ve all been throwing up,” he said. “And I think Jack is about to vomit again. Could we sit up on the seats now?”
Flowerdew laughed. “Play with things that are out of your league, Lofte, and you pay the price. In your case, radiation sickness is a very, very high price. How many times?”
“A few times.”
“Hair loss? Reddening skin?”
Itch wasn’t sure, so said nothing.
“Your eyebrows have gone already—I can see that from here. It’s just a matter of time, I’m afraid.”
Itch couldn’t be bothered to correct him, and anyway, he now knew all too well what the next signs of sickness were.
“Where would you like us to be sick?” he replied, getting cross now, even though he knew that was probably unwise. “On your leather seats or on your carpet?”
“How about on each other?” said Flowerdew, provoking a scornful laugh from Kinch. “OK, she can sit up, but you stay down.”
Itch gave Jack a shove, and she hauled herself up and swapped places with the backpack, stowing it on the floor beside Itch.
They sped north, and soon picked up the major roads to head out of Cornwall. But as soon as they had put some distance between them and West Ridge, Flowerdew insisted that Kinch program the GPS to find a route using backroads. He was still fuming at his driver.
“When they realize the rocks are gone, they’ll be looking for a Range Rover seen leaving the scene, driven by a grinning simpleton with a ponytail.”
Itch was about to ask where they were going, but twisting around, he saw that the GPS showed an address in West London and a journey time of four hours and forty-five minutes. If they stayed on the country lanes, the trip would take at least six hours. He resumed the posture that was familiar from the times he’d tried to stay up late watching TV: if you don’t move or say anything, everyone will forget you’re there. It hadn’t worked then and it didn’t work now.
“You have no idea how many people will want what we have here,” said Flowerdew. “The contents of that box are worth more than the crown jewels—more than all the Trident submarines this country owns—more than the total earning power of Canada.” He looked at Jack and Itch. “I’ve done my homework, as you can see.”
When this got no response, he kicked Itch in the ribs. Hard. “Pay attention, Lofte! You always were one for drifting off.”
“Only in your classes. Sir.” This cost Itch another kick in the ribs, and he yelped in pain.
“Can I tell you how great that feels, Lofte? After all the pain you’ve caused me, to see you hurt is really rather therapeutic. I liked it last time, but then that fool Watkins interrupted.” He lashed out again. “That’s for Watkins.”
This time the kick landed lower than the first two, at the base of Itch’s ribcage, and the sharpness of the pain flooded his eyes with tears. His determination not to cry out again made him squint tightly, but the tears rolled down his face.
“A pathetic display, Lofte. You really shouldn’t have stolen my rock, you know. Or broken into my house. I’m sure you’d like to say sorry, wouldn’t you?” In the time-honored way of teachers, he added, “I’m waiting. I’d like to hear you say ‘Sorry.’”
Itch was about to swear at him when he felt Jack’s hand reach for his and, finding it, squeeze gently.
“Sorry,” he said instead.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“There. So much better. Now we are all friends again.” Flowerdew chuckled to himself as Kinch watched in his mirror.
Jack eventually fell asleep and Itch, with his backpack to lean on, drifted off too. Itch’s was a fitful doze from which he emerged sweating, nauseous, and with his burned hand still throbbing hard. Lying there in the dark, he could see Jack asleep but with her head now on the seat where Flowerdew had been. He had obviously climbed into the front passenger seat, with the rocks at his feet. He had his laptop open and he was speaking quietly into his phone. Outside it was pitch black. Wherever they were had no street lighting and there appeared to be no traffic either.
It was a while before Itch really tuned in to what Flowerdew was saying. Once he had shifted around to ease the circulation in his legs, he found a discarded water bottle under the seat which still had a few mouthfuls in the bottom. He quietly unscrewed the cap and sipped. The temptation to swig noisily was great but he didn’t want to alert Flowerdew and Kinch to the fact that he was awake.
“No, Kazeem, listen. Trust me on this. I—” Flowerdew stopped, clearly interrupted by his caller. After a few moments he spoke again. “I’ll send you the data I have. Call me back when you get it.” He hung up, sent three documents via email, and called another number. His greeting was in a language that Itch didn’t recognize; it sounded African. “Kedu! It’s Flowerdew. We need to meet up, Benedict. I have a present you should see. Can I send you details? Where to?” He quickly typed an email address. “It’s on its way.” The same three documents were attached and sent. Flowerdew closed his laptop and rubbed his eyes. “Where are we, Kinch?”
The driver glanced at his GPS. “Three miles from Bath. Do you want to stop?”
“No, but perhaps we should disappear for a while. Word is out about our cargo, but we don’t have to be in London until tomorrow night. My old Nigerian friends won’t be there until then. We need to keep a low profile. The lower the better. Ideas?”
“There was a village called Abbotts a couple of miles back; we drove through it about ten minutes ago. It’s full of second homes, all deserted and not alarmed. We could choose from about eight or nine, I imagine.”
Flowerdew smiled. “Sounds perfect. Do it.” Then, as much to himself as to Kinch, “These beauties change everything. Wars have been fought over less. And even if the authorities get hold of them in the end, nothing can be kept secret forever. Even with the best intentions, it’s the destructive power and terror these rocks possess that’ll win the day. That’s what makes them so valuable.”
Itch thought that was the most chilling thing he had ever heard.
Kinch said nothing but had already turned the car around. Within five minutes they were entering Abbotts again. There were a few streetlights, and they saw immaculate stone cottages lining the main street all the way to a church. Kinch pointed to the six or seven with garbage cans outside their gates.
“They’re the ones. Telltale sign—the cans are empty, but there’s no one at home to wheel them back in. Which do you want? You can take your pick.”
Kinch pulled the Range Rover to the side of the road, and Flowerdew lowered the window. He looked up and down the row of well-kept Bath stone cottages, the honey-colored brick lit only by the occasional security light. All windows were either shuttered or had curtains drawn. He shrugged. “They’re all the same. Let’s take the end one.”
“The parking is around the back,” Kinch told him.
Flowerdew stared at him. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
Kinch smiled. “It’s what you pay me for, isn’t it?” He switched off the headlights and drove around to the side of the cottages, pulling up in a service road that ran between the back doors of the cottages and their backyards.
“I’ll be two minutes,” said Kinch, and slipped out of the car. Watching in the mirror, Flowerdew saw him lean against the back door and insert a number of thin steel objects into the lock. The door opened and Kinch disappeared inside.
In less than two minutes he had returned. Opening Flowerdew’s door, he said, “It’s perfect.” Nodding at Jack, sprawled on the back seat, and Itch, apparently asleep on his backpack, he asked, “What do we do with them now? You’ve got what you wanted. They’re just … in the way, really.”
“True. But they know everything. Let’s discuss this inside.”
Flowerdew picked up his briefcase and the bag containing the lead-lined box and headed for the end cottage. He left Kinch to rouse Jack and Itch, haul them out of the car, and get them into the house.
Kinch shut the door behind them, relocking it. He’d dimmed the lights inside the house to their lowest setting. They were standing in a small kitchen with a pretty farmhouse-style table and chairs, and marble work surfaces. In the corner of the room the door to a large pantry stood open. Assorted supplies were clearly visible inside, and Kinch looked hungrily at them.
“Help yourself. I’m going to find somewhere to work,” said Flowerdew. “Bring me a coffee—black, two sugars.” He turned and was about to walk out of the kitchen into the darkened house when he added, “And don’t let them out of your sight. Devious, lying, thieving children need all your attention, Kinch. Clear?”
Kinch nodded, and Flowerdew left with the bag and his briefcase.
Itch sat down at the kitchen table but then realized that Jack was swaying where she stood. He went over and steadied her.
“Need a bathroom,” she said.
“Both of you, follow me,” Kinch ordered, and led the way up twisting pine stairs to a small landing. In front of them was a bathroom. Itch helped Jack in, found the light switch, kicked the door shut, and got her to the toilet just in time. Kinch stood guard outside.
They stayed in the bathroom for half an hour, partly because Jack was really very ill but also because they hadn’t been able to speak together for a while. After the sickness had passed, they both sat with their backs against the bathtub.
“Does this get better or worse?” whispered Jack.
“Well, I don’t think we can get better without help,” said Itch, “and before you say it, we’re sticking together. We left Chloe because she had Watkins. All right?”
“OK,” said Jack. “I wasn’t asleep in the car, you know—I heard Kinch say we were in the way.” She wiped her face with a washcloth.
“I suppose it’s true. We are in the way now. Massively in the way.”
“And you heard Flowerdew. He said, But they know everything. Which we do.”
“Everything except for whoever he’s trying to contact,” he said. Itch stood up and opened the medicine cabinet. Finding a tube of antiseptic cream, he smeared some on his burned hand. Itch continued, “It sounds like Greencorps has cut him loose, so he’s calling all his old cronies in the oil business who might be interested in the rocks.”
“Do you think we should assume that whoever comes for the rocks will be bad?” asked Jack.
“I think that’s a pretty safe bet, yes. The chances of him giving them to any good causes are slim.”
Jack started laughing, and for a moment Itch thought she’d gone crazy. “What’s so funny?” he said.
“Just the picture of Flowerdew offering eight dangerously radioactive rocks to the Red Cross to see if they would be of any use.”
Itch laughed too. “And the Red Cross becomes a nuclear power!”
“And bombs Christian Aid!” said Jack, and they dissolved into giggles.
This led inevitably to Kinch coming in and taking them downstairs again. It was clear that he had been busy working his way through the pantry. The table was littered with empty packages of chips, cookie and chocolate wrappers, and beer bottles. Kinch’s T-shirt had crumbs all over it from where he had wiped his hands.
Quietly—presumably so Flowerdew couldn’t hear—he said, “If you’re hungry, there’s plenty of stuff.” He went into the larder again, returning with a large package of potato chips. He chucked it at Itch, who caught it and opened it in one movement. Jack wasn’t that hungry, but she nibbled a few, and Itch devoured the rest.
“Any chance of sleeping in a bed?” he asked.
Kinch shook his head. “Dr. Flowerdew said you sleep in the dining room and I guard the door. The windows are locked shut there.”
Itch shouldered the backpack and they headed for the dining room. In the gloom they could just make out a large table and some wooden chairs. At the far end there was one armchair with some cushions, and Jack slumped in it, curling up almost immediately.
Itch put down his backpack and Kinch, watching him, said, “Why do you carry that stuff around with you?”
“What stuff?”
“That stuff in your backpack. He said to check it for weapons—scissors, knives, that kind of thing. But it’s full of junk.”
“Is that what you told him?”
“I told him there were no weapons—just rubbish and weird boy stuff. He wasn’t interested.”
“Well, I collect things, that’s all. Metals, batteries—that kind of thing.” Itch was trying to make it sound boring and he clearly succeeded.
Kinch shrugged his sloping shoulders and left, muttering “Sounds fascinating.” He closed and locked the door.
Jack looked as though she really was asleep this time. Itch took a cushion she hadn’t fallen on and made himself a makeshift bed from that, his backpack, and a tablecloth. He expected to fall asleep immediately but found himself still wide awake. He could hear Flowerdew talking somewhere nearby, and it focused his mind. He and Jack were in a dangerous situation. Once these people Flowerdew was talking to realized what was being offered, it could only get worse. Whoever ended up with the rocks would not want two witnesses to everything. Itch wondered who these Nigerian friends of Flowerdew’s were and who they would tell. Before very long, Itch imagined that every crazy group of terrorists and bombers would be heading their way. Suddenly, on top of all that, he was aware of the nausea returning.
He decided not to alert Jack or Kinch, but just sat in the corner of the dark dining room, the tablecloth gathered and ready in his lap, waiting for it to start. When it came, it shook him so violently that it left him trembling, exhausted, and wet with sweat. When the tablecloth had done its work, he lay down where he was and silently started to cry.
He was awakened by Jack talking to him. He clearly hadn’t been asleep long as it was still dark. It was a few moments before he remembered everything that had happened—though the vile taste in his mouth was all the reminder he needed. He was grateful for the cover of darkness to wipe his mouth and eyes with his shirt.
“You’ve been sick again, Itch—you should have told me! Why didn’t you go to the bathroom? I’d have come with you,” Jack said.
“Yeah, well….” He couldn’t really be bothered to explain his reasoning. “It seemed too much trouble at the time. Sorry about the smell.” He stood up and went over to the shuttered windows. There was now a sliver of light from a gap above the shutter.
“If I slept through your being ill, I must have been really far gone,” said Jack. “Did I miss anything else?”
“Just Kinch saying he’d gone through my backpack.” Itch’s voice was thick and rasping.
“Really? What did he make of your collection? I hope you took him through it and told him all about atomic weights and electronegativities and so on. We’ve had to suffer—I don’t see why a thug like Kinch shouldn’t.”
They both smiled, and Jack added, “Though I have to say the phosphorus did prove rather useful back at the mining school.”
Itch suddenly stood bolt upright, staring straight ahead.
“What is it, Itch?”
“You, Jacqueline Lofte, are a genius.”