The Whizz Pop Chocolate Shop (14 page)

“It was weird,” Caydon said, “but brilliant.”

“Edwin loves humans, doesn’t he?” Lily thought how gentle the playful elephant had been with them.

“I’m glad you all enjoyed yourselves,” Demerara said in an injured voice. “I spent this morning SHIVERING because I’m bald. Lily’s cardigan is too big and it makes me look FAT. I might as well curl up and DIE—except that I can’t even do that because I’m immortal.”

They were in J’s office in the MI6 building. After the soaking on the Heath they had gone back to Skittle Street to put on dry clothes (officially because they had fallen into the canal in Camden while canoeing) and had collected Demerara. She was wrapped in Lily’s pink cardigan, with the sleeves tied up in a bulky bow, and her bald face was very cross.

“Before we watch Isadore’s video,” J said, “I gave your measurements to the clothing engineers. They came up with this; it’ll keep you warm until your fur grows back.”

He took something from his desk drawer: a little cat-shaped suit knitted in soft, fluffy mauve wool. Caydon gave a great snort of laughter—the suit did look comical—and Lily leaned over to nudge him; the last thing they needed was an offended Demerara.

She needn’t have worried. Demerara beamed and her square green eyes were radiant. “For ME? Oh—it’s divine! Lily, help me put it on!”

Lily took the little suit, and spent quite a long time
squeezing it over the cat’s round bald stomach; it was very tight-fitting and clung to Demerara like a second skin.

“So soft and warm—and the color! Lift me up to the mirror, dear.”

There was a large mirror on the wall, above a sideboard. Lily lifted Demerara up to gaze at herself admiringly. The knitted suit had holes for her ears; otherwise even her tail was covered in mauve wool, and she looked like a cuddly knitted toy.

“It tones so well with my new collar!”

“We ought to watch the video now,” J said.

Demerara gazed at her reflection. “What about refreshments?”

“Don’t worry.” J hid a smile. “I haven’t forgotten.”

B62 came in with a large plate of sandwiches and a small bowl of fancy cat food. The picture of the queen behind J’s desk turned into a white television screen, which suddenly flickered to life.

“OZ!” Lily started out of her chair at the sight of her brother’s face, looming into the camera.

“Right,” Oz said, “it’s recording properly now.” His face vanished.

The screen was now filled with the peevish features of Isadore, against a background like a junk shop, cluttered with furniture and knickknacks. “You’re sure? Will they be able to hear me?”

“Yes!” whispered Oz’s voice. “Just talk normally.”

“Ahem,” said Isadore. He glared into the camera. “Hello. You know what I want. Give me the molds, or—what was it?”

Oz’s voice whispered, “Or you’ll be forced to kill me.”

“Oh, yes! Give me the molds! I have Oscar Spoffard, and if you disobey me I will be forced to kill him.” Isadore looked away from the camera. “Should I do an evil laugh at this point?”

“No!” hissed Oz. “Get on with it!”

“I think I should be standing up—and you should be standing beside me.”

There was some muttering, impossible to make out. The screen went blank for a moment. When the video continued, Isadore stood with one hand resting on Oz’s shoulder.

“Listen carefully,” Isadore said. “You won’t get the boy until I get the two chocolate molds that once belonged to my brothers Pierre and Marcel. When I’ve established that they’re genuine and not copies, I will send another message explaining where to find him. In the meantime, you will place the two golden chocolate molds at the very top of the Albert Memorial in Kensington Gardens. I must warn you that I will be heavily protected—your hidden cameras and infrared beams will be useless. How do you know I’ll keep my word? You DON’T! But if you want to see this boy alive
again—” He glanced at Oz. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

He stood very still for a few seconds, and added, “That went quite well; I don’t think I’ll go for another ‘take.’ But I still think I should have done my evil laugh.”

“Over the top—always leave them wanting more.” Oz walked toward the camera, and the screen went blank.

Lily was light-headed with the relief of seeing that Oz looked and sounded perfectly normal, even quite cheerful. “He’s fine, isn’t he? He didn’t look as if he’d been tortured.”

“He seems to be getting on quite well with Dr. Evil,” Caydon said.

“Ugh, horrid man.” Demerara sniffed. “And what on earth is he wearing?”

“An Arsenal shirt—so he must have some good points.”

“When will I see Oz? Are you putting the molds wherever he said?” Lily asked, suddenly longing to be with her twin.

“Certainly not,” J said briskly. “We do not negotiate with gangs.”

“But—but Isadore will—will—hurt him!” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word “kill.”

The intercom buzzed; “Joyce is here, sir; shall I show her in?” B62 said.

“Yes, at once.” J smiled at the children. “I think this is what we’ve been waiting for.”

“Hi, kids!” Joyce came in, grinning all over her leathery face.

Spike sat on her shoulder, whiskers bristling triumphantly. “Don’t go mad or anything—but I think we’ve found the old bum’s hideout!”

“WHAT!” If Isadore’s hideout had been found, Oz would be rescued—maybe even today. Lily’s heart leapt with hope.

Joyce placed a plastic bag on J’s desk. “Here’s the proof: the same magic fudge we found in the stomach of the mutant rat.”

“It was right down the end of a tunnel that had been bricked up,” Spike squeaked. “The rats had worked the bricks loose, and that’s how Mr. Two-Tails got in.”

“Excellent,” J said. “Well done, both of you. Were there any more mutants?”

“Just one gigantic slug,” Spike chuckled. “Yeuch—it was no oil painting, let me tell you! That’s one dead thing even rats won’t touch.”

“We’re now trying to find out what’s behind the fudge barrier,” said Joyce. “And if that doesn’t lead us straight to Isadore, I’ll eat my anti-goblin spray!”

“Well, that was a waste of time!” Isadore appeared suddenly (Oz could never tell exactly where he came from), looking very annoyed. He was wearing a blue suit that Oz had never seen before, which was hanging off him in muddy ribbons. “I cleverly disguised myself as a traffic warden and went all the way to that tasteless Albert Memorial, and I couldn’t get near it! They’d booby-trapped it by surrounding it with a crowd of ghosts—as if I wouldn’t notice them!—and ignored my ransom postcard.”

“I told you it was unrealistic.” Oz put down the ragged old comic he had been reading and took Isadore’s plate of fish fingers, mashed potatoes and peas from where it had been keeping warm on top of the stove. “I saved you some.”

“Good—I’m famished! Pass me my bottle of wine.”

“Get it yourself,” Oz said. “I’m not going to help you to get drunk.”

“My dear Oz, you’re forgetting that I’m immortal. I
CAN’T drink myself to death—do you think I haven’t tried?”

“You can’t die, but you can say the same things over and over again.”

“I don’t care; I need something after that ordeal.” Isadore fetched his bottle of wine and his glass and sat down at the table. “Just as I was slipping away one of the wretched ghosts spotted me—there I was being chased across the park by a crowd of government phantoms. I dashed into the road and the ghosts scampered when I was knocked down by a bus. Then of course there was no way out of it—I couldn’t explain why I wasn’t dead and I had to jump out of the ambulance and run like blazes. My only consolation is that it’ll cost the SMU an absolute fortune to erase everybody’s memories. It was all most upsetting.”

“I keep telling you,” said Oz, “you won’t get the molds unless you set me free.”

Isadore shrugged crossly. “Why does everyone have to be in such a hurry? Since you’ve finished your supper, you can play me that charming Bach chaconne you’ve been working on.”

Oz had grown very fond of Isadore’s violin, with its beautiful, haunting voice. He picked it up and began to play while Isadore ate his fish fingers and—as usual—softly wept.

Through the music Oz thought he heard something. He stopped playing.

“Why have you stopped?” Isadore demanded.

“That sound—didn’t you hear it?”

“No.”

“Sort of tapping.”

They were both quiet. This time, they both heard it—a distant chipping or scraping.

“My fudge barrier!” Isadore jumped out of his chair. “Could they have found me?”

Oz put down the violin, his heart knocking against his ribs. This might be the SMU come to rescue him, and he was weak with longing for home—but he couldn’t help a pang of sympathy for Isadore.

Suddenly a hand gripped his throat, and something cold and metallic was shoved against his windpipe—through his shock, he saw Isadore’s mouth fall open in absolute horror. It all happened so quickly that it took Oz several minutes to register that they had been invaded by a strange man who was holding a gun to his head. He was so terrified that he was almost calm.

Isadore’s sallow face had turned gray. “Let the boy go.”

“No,” the stranger said. “I’m holding this boy until you give me the chocolate that will make me immortal. Where is it?” He was about the same age as Oz’s dad, with brown hair, pale skin and a slight American
accent, and he could have come from anywhere. He was dressed all in black and the handle of another gun stuck out of the pocket of his black leather jacket. “If you don’t hand it over, I’ll kill the boy.”

“Please!” gasped Isadore. He made a visible effort to calm himself. “You should have told me you were coming.”

“So you could bake a cake?” The man let out a sneering laugh and his fingers bit into Oz’s throat. “I don’t trust you, Spoffard. We paid you and you disappeared.”

“I—I came to all the meetings, didn’t I?”

“Listen to me, you broken-down old drunk—all my plans depend on me being impossible to kill! Give me the chocolate!”

“I—we were just finishing it—weren’t we, Oz?” He shot a pleading look at Oz.

“Y-yes—” Oz managed to say, though he knew Isadore was lying.

“The boy is my assistant,” Isadore said. “If you don’t let him go, I can’t finish your chocolate.”

There was a tense silence. “Nothing was said about an assistant,” the stranger said.

“Naturally, I can’t do everything alone.” Isadore was getting braver. “He’s my nephew, and essential to the whole operation. I really must insist that you let him go.”

The stranger suddenly shoved Oz across the kitchen space toward Isadore. “Get on with it!”

Isadore grabbed Oz. “You’re very welcome to watch us at work.”

“That is just what I intend to do.”

“Would you care for a glass of wine?”

“No.”

“As you wish. Come along, Oz—let’s get back to the lab.”

Doing his best to look casual, Oz followed Isadore to the laboratory at the end of the disused station. The stranger walked close behind him. He sat down on a high stool, pointing his gun at Oz and Isadore. There was a deadly atmosphere around him that made Oz more seriously frightened than he had ever been in his life.

Isadore put on his white coat, handed another white coat to Oz, and bustled about the cabinets and drawers pulling out tools and molds and canisters of ingredients. His hands were shaking; his thin face was gray with fear, but he kept his voice steady.

“Oz, pass me that little black velvet bag.”

Oz passed him the bag. Isadore opened it and a faint silvery light seemed to concentrate around the object he pulled out—his golden chocolate mold, carved with the face of a smiling moon.

“You said there were three of those,” snarled the stranger. “Where are the other two?”

“Well—er—I’ve already used the others, and this is the last one.”

“Oh—hurry up, then.”

Oz drew a deep breath and forced himself to be calm. The stranger believed this lie, and that showed he knew nothing about the magic. Isadore was putting on an elaborate act for him—but how long could he keep it up?

Isadore set the precious golden mold on a matching golden stand. Oz had never seen him using it—he had explained that it was reserved for the very strongest magic. He put a silver bowl over a pan of boiling water, threw in some squares of plain chocolate and told Oz to stir it gently while it melted.

“How much longer is this going to take?” the stranger snapped.

“Nearly there.” Isadore sprinkled a pinch of dark red crystals into the melting chocolate. While he bent over Oz, he whispered, “Don’t breathe the fumes!”

“Get on with it!”

“I’m sorry, this kind of magic can’t be hurried. If you don’t mind my asking—how did you find me?”

The stranger grinned nastily. “You’re not the only magic guy on the payroll.”

“What?” Isadore was alarmed. “What do you mean?”

“You were seen buying underpants in Marks and Spencer. We followed you into the tube and our other magic guy did the rest. He’s a goblin.”

Oz stirred the smooth, glossy melted chocolate; the
word “goblin” made this seem even more like a bizarre and terrible dream.

“Drat!” Isadore, pale and breathing hard, opened a small jar labeled “Spider’s Legs” and shook a few into the chocolate. “Those little beasts! I’m surprised you trusted him.”

“Oh, I OWN this goblin,” said the stranger, with a wolfish grin. “There’s been another split in the group; I paid this goblin to tell me where you were first, so I could get a jump on the breakaway faction—no way will
they
get to live forever!”

“Good grief,” Isadore said. “You people are constantly falling out—I hope you don’t do it when you’re immortal, or where will it all end?”

“Cut the chitchat!”

“It’s done.” Isadore was deathly pale. “The chocolate will be ready as soon as it’s molded and set—it sets very quickly.”

“Good,” the stranger said, “but how do I know it’s the right stuff? How do I know you haven’t poisoned it?”

“I shall eat some myself.”

“You’re immortal—no amount of poisoned chocolate could kill you. Make the boy eat some.”

“Oh, but surely that won’t be—”