Itchcraft (17 page)

‘Well, they said it was a security thing because of thefts and street crime,’ said Chloe.

‘Itch – you’ve got yours, you must tell everyone,’ said Natalie.

Itch shook his head. ‘If the Spanish police are watching out for messages from my phone like they said, I think it’ll be for security reasons. I don’t think they want to read about an American science teacher getting off with a geography teacher.’

‘Boo,’ said Debbie. ‘Spoilsport.’

As they split up to browse the shop, Jack whispered, ‘You need to check Facebook soon and see if those divers have been in touch.’

‘Maybe,’ said Itch. ‘When we get home. You going to buy anything?’

‘Hey, Itch!’ called Chloe. ‘Look at this!’ She held up a T-shirt with the Periodic Table in Spanish.

‘Cool!’ said Itch. ‘It’s just like the poster Hampton gave me. How much?’

Chloe checked the label. ‘Twenty-five euros,’ she said, ‘which is outrageous as it was probably made in some sweatshop for a few cents. But it is you, Itch, and it’s your size.’ She threw it to him and they walked to the tills, Itch pointing out the elements that were different in Spanish.

Chloe laughed. ‘If that information ever proves useful, Itch, I’ll buy you any element you like. As long as it’s safe. And legal. And not a grey-silvery metal – you’ve got way too many of them.’

There was a long queue at the tills, and they were just wondering if they’d have time to buy the T-shirt when there was a shout from the front.

They looked up to see smoke coming from behind the counter. The queue dissolved as everyone crowded forward to see what had happened. A startled museum employee was staring at the till: blue flames seeping through the sides. He pushed a button to eject the cash drawer, and it shot towards him, a cloud of smoke billowing upwards. When it had cleared, he cried out in alarm: all the banknotes were on fire. He flapped his hands ineffectively till one of his colleagues threw a souvenir tea towel at him and he smothered the drawer with it.

A security man with a fire extinguisher appeared on the scene. Aiming the nozzle at the till, he succeeded in blasting its contents all over the watching customers. Partially burned euros and foam flew everywhere.

Itch looked at the soggy T-shirt he’d been about to buy. ‘Is there time to get another one?’ he said. ‘There are other tills, if we hurry.’

‘But there’s no one there, Itch,’ said Jack. ‘Look . . .’ All the shop staff had gathered to look at the steaming mess of what was left of the burning till, leaving the others unattended.

Itch looked from till to till and nudged her sharply. ‘Look, Jack! They’re on fire too!’

She turned to see wisps of smoke coming from two other tills. ‘Hey! Look!’ she cried, pointing and waving her arms to attract the staff’s attention. ‘Fire!’

Jack’s call was echoed by many voices but now with a discernible increase in tension. The staff rushed back to the burning tills, while the remaining customers decided they didn’t want their souvenirs after all; or at least, they didn’t want to wait around to pay for them. They headed for the exits. The security man found his extinguisher again and directed more foam at the smoke, causing both tills to short circuit. When the general fire alarm sounded, there were cries of concern everywhere.

‘Everyone back to me!’ yelled Mr Hampton, just making himself heard over the clanging of the museum’s bells.

Lucy grabbed Chloe and Jack. ‘Everyone back to Hampton and Coleman! Itch, come on!’

They ran together, pushing against the exiting flow of visitors, and then waited for the rest of the party to return. The Year Elevens were last back, led by a pasty-faced student called Luke Lieberman. They were holding coffees, and had a ‘what’s-the-panic’ look on their faces.

Mr Hampton stood on his chair. ‘Right – the bus is due in two minutes. Follow me, and please stick together. This is going to be one hell of a bunfight.’

‘Or bullfight,’ muttered Lucy, and they followed the teachers towards the exit.

Outside it was dusk, but the air was still warm. They fought their way to the bus stop marked
PLAZA LUCENZA
and found their bus nearly full. They showed their travel cards to the driver and they all stood along the aisle, holding onto the seats. As the bus pushed its way into the evening rush hour, cars blasted their horns in irritation.

‘It’s only a twenty-minute ride,’ said Mr Hampton, looking at the tired faces around him. ‘We’ve got the best tapas you’ve ever tasted waiting for us at the hostel.’

‘Can’t we get pizza?’ asked Natalie.

‘Or KFC? I saw one on the ride in. We could—’

‘In Madrid, we eat like Madrileños!’ said Hampton, smiling. ‘You can eat pizza at home.’

‘Nice try, Natalie,’ said Jack.

‘Sir, you ever seen exploding tills before?’ asked Tom.

‘Nope,’ he said. ‘That was quite something, wasn’t it? An electrical fault, I suppose. It’ll have wiped out their takings, that’s for—’

There was a sudden lurch, and Mr Hampton shot backwards, hitting the seat behind him, then falling in a heap. The loud metallic crunch and splinter sound was followed by a torrent of shouting from the driver, who leaped from his bus. While Miss Coleman helped Hampton back up, all the students ran to the front of the bus. Looking through the driver’s windscreen, they could see that the bus had hit the back of a taxi – its boot had crumpled and popped open. The cabbie and passenger had leaped from the car, but seemed oblivious to the bus that had just crashed into it. A squat man, with a
REAL PASSION REAL MADRID
T-shirt stretched across his body and a taxi driver’s licence bouncing from a chain around his neck, was shouting at a terrified-looking man in a suit and waving what looked like part of a twenty-euro note. The suited man tried to talk back, but it only seemed to enrage the taxi man further.

‘He’s going to make a run for it,’ said Lucy, watching the suited man. ‘You watch.’

And, on cue, he turned and fled. Surprised, the taxi driver took a few seconds to respond, but then set off in pursuit, leaving the bus driver waving his arms at the pair of them.

‘We’re not going anywhere here,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘The taxi has blocked the road. Everyone out.’

They filed out of the bus and looked around. A bank and a few local shops were closed, but one coffee bar was still open, its lights shining brightly into the gloomy street.

‘Come on, let’s regroup in there,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘We’ll work out a new route.’ He led the way inside, his map of Madrid already in his hand. The place was busy, and they had to spread themselves out over a number of tables. Behind the counter, a large screen showed a La Liga match, the sound muted.

‘I’ll get the drinks,’ said Miss Coleman, having taken their orders. ‘Itch, could you help me?’

As they waited in the queue, Itch picked up some bottles of water and juice. ‘Is it far to the hostel, miss? Should we get food here?’

Miss Coleman laughed. ‘Any excuse to avoid the tapas! No, we’ll be fine, I think. No need to stock up. We’ll find another bus soon, I’m sure.’ She ordered a selection of teas, coffees and hot chocolates in what sounded to Itch like perfect Spanish, paid and went to talk to Mr Hampton.

‘Don’t worry, miss, I’ll bring them over – you go talk to your boyfriend,’ muttered Itch. He beckoned Jack over to help him, and between them they ferried the drinks to the tables. On the last trip, the barman said something in Spanish and, pointing at Miss Coleman, indicated a small plate of notes and coins sitting on top of the coffee machine. He nodded and carried it over to his teacher.

‘Miss, you forgot your—’ Itch stared at the euros he was carrying. He was sure they were changing colour. ‘What the . . .?’ He looked closely at the blue, red and grey notes. Slowly but unmistakably, they were all turning brown. ‘Sir . . .’

Now they started to smoulder, and by the time he’d dropped the plate in front of Mr Hampton, small wisps of black smoke were rising into the air.

‘Itch, what have you done!’ cried Miss Coleman in alarm.

‘What? Nothing! I just brought them over!’

Now small glowing circles appeared as the reaction ate away at the centre of the notes; the holes opened quickly as the flames caught. Within seconds, the euros had turned to ash. Everyone stared at the remains of Miss Coleman’s money.

‘You forgot your change,’ said Itch quietly.

The smell of burning had caused heads to turn, and one of the waiters came rushing over, shouting in Spanish.

‘He says it is against the law to burn money in Spain,’ said Miss Coleman, who replied with some fast talking of her own.

‘Why do you need a law to tell you that?’ said Chloe. ‘What kind of a loser burns their money?’

The waiter was joined by a woman wiping her hands on her apron, who appeared to be the manager. She listened to what had happened, then angrily pointed to the door. Now both Mr Hampton and Miss Coleman joined in; all four were shouting over each other when a cry cut across them. A small boy of no more than eight was wailing and holding out his reddening fingers to his mother. At his feet, a five-euro note burned furiously.

‘What’s going on, sir?’ said Lucy as the manager and waiter hurried over to the crying child. The mother was now shouting too, and some customers started to leave. The smell of freshly roasted coffee had now been replaced by that of freshly burned paper.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘Money just doesn’t self-combust like that. Maybe there’s some chemical in the till . . .’

‘The plate was pretty warm when I picked it up, but that note looked like it was under a magnifying glass or something,’ said Itch. ‘Took a while to catch, but when it did, it was gone in seconds.’

‘You’re right, Itch, that’s exactly what it looked like. Maybe we should drink up and find a bus,’ said Mr Hampton, gulping down his coffee.

‘Should we check our money?’ asked Debbie, who was looking alarmed. ‘Everyone else is . . . look.’ They all glanced around, and sure enough, most customers had started to look suspiciously at their purses and wallets.

‘So at the science museum, it wasn’t the tills catching fire, it was the money,’ said Lucy. ‘And that taxi we crashed into – the cabbie was waving a note, wasn’t he? I bet that had caught fire. That’s why they looked freaked out. No wonder the other man ran off.’

‘Maybe it’s all a big joke,’ said Natalie, ‘and we’re being filmed for TV.’

At nearby tables students were looking at news websites on their laptops; one called to the waiter to change the TV channel. A remote control was found and the football switched to a news network. Images of fire filled the screen. The volume was now on full, and everyone turned to watch.

‘What are we looking at?’ asked Jack nervously.

‘Trouble in Valencia,’ said Miss Coleman. ‘And some looting in Barcelona too.’ Three men then appeared on screen, each with a handful of ashes in their hands. They were shouting at the camera.

‘No!’ cried the students next to Itch, hands over their mouths. It didn’t need translating. The burning money was not just happening in Madrid.

More interviews followed, each word loud in the silent café, even if the CA students barely understood a word. ‘They are saying the banks have taken their money,’ said Miss Coleman; ‘that all their savings will be burned.’

The report now showed hooded men throwing bricks at a shop window. The focus was erratic and the camera wobbled, but there were gasps of recognition from the watching customers. The students immediately grabbed their belongings, pocketing their phones and packing up their computers. One of them turned to the CA students, clearly trying to choose the right words.

‘We must leave,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘You must leave. That’ – he pointed at the TV pictures of looters – ‘that is here. They are here.’

And then the café window shattered.

The air was full of flying glass. The customers screamed as a thousand fragments blew in on them. Itch felt little daggers hitting his neck and dropped to the floor, pulling Chloe down with him. Her cheek was bleeding, and she was breathing in short, panicky gasps. He grabbed hold of her jacket.

When the looters ran in, yelling and kicking over tables, he held her closer. Itch watched as the men, all with scarves round their faces, made their way over to the food counter, stuffing their pockets with wraps and sandwiches. They heaved the glittering coffee machine to the floor and swung a chair at the bean jars, scattering coffee and glass over the terrified customers. With more yells and chants, they ran from the café.

When he was sure they were gone, Itch looked around. All the customers had dived to the floor, some under tables, and most were wide-eyed and bloody. He saw that Miss Coleman’s eyes were closed, blood pouring from a wound in her head; a brick lay nearby.

‘Everyone stay down,’ shouted Mr Hampton. ‘Is everyone OK? Let me hear you call your names! Go!’

One by one, the students called out their names, some falteringly, others loudly.

‘Jack.’

‘Natalie.’

‘Chloe.’

‘Debbie.’

‘Lucy.’

‘Tom.’

‘Craig.’

‘Luke.’

‘Russell.’

‘Itch. Sir, Miss Coleman looks bad.’

Mr Hampton crawled over. He exclaimed when he saw the blood. Miss Coleman was conscious now, but she’d started to shake; he propped her up against an overturned table. The manager who, moments before, had been threatening to throw them all out now arrived with a first-aid box and some water. Miss Coleman nodded her thanks, then winced; she was already sporting an enormous bruise and her jacket was red with blood.

‘We’ll get you to a doctor. But first we have to leave,’ said Mr Hampton. Miss Coleman nodded again and struggled to her feet.

Everyone was standing now, pale and scared, Chloe holding onto Itch’s arm. Through the smashed window they could see groups of people running in every direction. Across the road through lines of parked cars, a group were kicking at a shop front. When it gave way, the alarm blasted to life and they disappeared inside.

‘Sir, might it be safer to stay put?’ asked Lucy. ‘We don’t know what’s happening out there.’