The Whizz Pop Chocolate Shop (16 page)

“Nothing—they’re just being kind.”

“Oh.” Lily was suspicious now—but Dad called her before she had time to take it further.

She was glad it was Alan who came to collect them. He was wearing a bulletproof vest and an obvious gun, and it was incredible that Mum and Dad didn’t seem to think this was strange. She hugged them both very hard, trying not to wonder when she would see them again.

Caydon was already in the government car. He didn’t
look as jaunty as usual; today’s drama had rattled him. “My mum thinks I’m going to a camp.”

“Mine too.”

“And she’s treating all the stuff with guns and helicopters like a joke.”

“Yes, mine too,” said Lily. “As if it happened every day.”

“The SMU unit probably released a calming gas, specially aimed at your parents,” Alan said, from the front seat. “I had to spray a crowd with it once, when we were towing the dead sea dragon. It stops people from panicking.”

Demerara settled herself comfortably in Lily’s lap. “Alan, is there any news about Spike?”

“Sorry, I don’t know,” Alan said. “My orders are to drive you all to the helipad.”

“Helipad!” Caydon’s face lit up hopefully. “Cool—I’ve never been in a helicopter!” He grinned at Lily. “You’re really scared, I’ll bet.”

“Shut up,” Lily snapped. “This isn’t a game—it means something’s happened.”

“I shouldn’t really tell you,” Alan said, “it’s not in my orders—but there was an explosion on the Piccadilly line.”

Caydon wasn’t smiling now. “A bomb?”

“Yes, though nobody was hurt—nobody nice, anyway.”

Lily said, “You’d tell me if Oz was hurt, wouldn’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” Alan gave her a reassuring smile over his shoulder. “There wasn’t a single trace of Oz. They did find one dead body, but that was a member of the gang. I’d better not say any more.”

“Oh, I do hope there’s some nice food wherever we’re going!” Demerara sighed. “Spike catches most of our food and I haven’t had a decent meal in days.”

“Not long now,” Alan said. “The emergency helipad’s in Highbury Fields.”

This was the large, flat green space at the other end of the Holloway Road, only ten minutes away in the evening traffic. Lily’s heart sank at the thought of going in a helicopter, but she was determined not to show this to cocky Caydon.

When they reached Highbury Fields, Alan drove the car right across the grass, to where a helicopter waited noisily, its propellers clattering—a very small, fragile helicopter, as it looked to Lily.

“This is where I hand you over,” Alan said. “Good luck.”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s too dangerous for you to stay on Skittle Street; you’re being taken to a safe house.”

Caydon loved every second of the ride in the helicopter. Lily was, at first, rigid with fear—it was like being suspended above the city in a soap bubble. After a few minutes, however, when they hadn’t crashed down in flames, she relaxed enough to enjoy the incredible view. London lay beneath them, a vast, glittering carpet of millions of lights. The pilot, a young man named Mike, kindly flew low over the landmarks to give them a good view—the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square and Buckingham Palace.

They flew steadily south, and when it was dark the helicopter landed on a lawn in front of a large house. Lily unstrapped her seat belt and climbed out with Demerara in her arms.

“The sea!” Caydon cried.

The sound of the sea boomed at them through the darkness; the air was keen and salty.

“I hope they have supper laid out,” Demerara said. “I’m starving!”

Lily noticed a short, faint fuzz just starting to grow through the holes in the cat’s knitted suit. “I think your hair’s coming back—I thought Spike said it would take a few weeks.”

“Maybe cat fur grows faster than rat fur,” Caydon suggested.

Lily looked up at the facade of the house; it was impossible to tell what it looked like in the darkness, with every window blacked out.

A beam of torchlight came bobbing down the lawn toward them; it was the woman known as B62, wearing jeans and a T-shirt instead of her normal smart suit. “Hello, everyone. Sorry to whisk you away like that, but it was a bit of an emergency. Come inside and you’ll be brought up to date.”

She led them into the house, and they blinked from the sudden bright light. They were in a grand hall, with a fireplace, a large staircase and walls covered with oil paintings and antlers.

“Wow, this is a stately home,” Caydon said. “My class went on a visit to a place like this.”

B62 smiled. “Welcome to the safe house. I’ll show you up to your rooms; the meeting will begin in ten minutes.” She started up the stairs.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?” Demerara mewed coldly. “Do you seriously expect me to give a full report on an empty stomach?”

“Of course not,” B62 said. “We never forget your stomach, Demerara. There’ll be a buffet.”

“Oh, I do like a buffet.” Demerara cheered up. “You can have a little taste of everything.”

Caydon was shown into a bedroom on the first floor, while Lily and Demerara were given the room next door; Demerara was especially pleased with the elegant pink cat basket and matching water bowl, and by the time they were back downstairs, she was in a splendid temper.

“J’s waiting in the library,” B62 said.

On the way to the library they passed an open door and caught a glimpse of a large room with rows and rows of people working at long benches. Some were making fluttering movements with their hands, muttering and producing showers of sparks or puffs of smoke. Others sat very still with their eyes shut; others pored over cards or books of symbols, and there was one very old lady with a crystal ball.

“Whoops, you weren’t meant to see that.” B62 quickly closed the door. “It’s the switchboard, where we send and receive messages of a magical nature, and intercept magical signals.”

“Who are those people?” Lily asked.

“You’d probably call them witches; they come from all kinds of backgrounds—we’ve got everything from a Cambridge professor of physics to a fortune-teller from
the Golden Mile at Blackpool.” She opened another door. “Here they are, sir.”

Lily, Caydon and Demerara walked into a large, grand library, every wall lined with old leather books. The man known as J stood in front of the marble fireplace; just like B62, he was dressed less formally than usual, in a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers.

“My dear young people—and dear old Demerara—well done! Thanks to your quick thinking, a dangerous gang member has been taken out of circulation.”

“You mean Janice,” Lily said. “Or the woman pretending to be Janice.”

“Her real name’s Ulrika Klomper,” J said. “She’s a member of the notorious Schmertz Gang and she’s wanted in seventeen countries. I don’t have time to explain the gang’s ludicrous political demands, but we know the leaders dream of being immortal so that they can take over the world.” He frowned. “And we know it’s not safe for you at home.”

“But what about Mum and Dad?” Lily was alarmed. “Are they safe there?”

“We’ve posted a twenty-four-hour police guard at both your parents’ houses—but we don’t think they’ll be in any danger. This Klomper woman seems to know that you three have an important connection to the golden molds.” He chuckled suddenly. “She was furious about getting caught—she refused to believe me
when I told her it was because a talking cat spotted her gun.”

“And this is the buffet, is it?” Demerara had turned her attention to a long table beside the window, lavishly covered with bread, cheese, cold meats, salads, chocolate mousses and several kinds of cat food.

“Please help yourself,” J said. “I know you’ve been hungry without Spike to scavenge for you.”

“Have you heard from him?” Demerara whipped her head round sharply. “Do you know where he is?”

“Not exactly,” J said. “All I can tell you is that I’ve lent him to the Special Branch—he’s managed to infiltrate the gang.”

Caydon was impressed. “I didn’t think old Spike knew any of them.”

“Nothing about that rat would surprise me,” Demerara said. “Is he safe? When’s he coming back?”

“Let’s get ourselves a bite to eat and sit down,” J said.

Lily and Caydon looked at each other. This didn’t sound like good news—but if J was going to tell them something awful, he’d hardly be loading his plate with slices of chicken potpie. Lily had been too worried to eat much of Mum’s lasagne at supper and she was hungry. She took some potpie, and one of the chocolate mousses. Demerara demanded a little bit of every type of cat food, plus slices of smoked salmon and cold chicken, but eventually even she was settled, and J became businesslike.

“Spike was down in the Underground, on his way to the tunnel with the sealing fudge—he was sure this was Isadore’s hideout. But some of the gang members had got there first. He stumbled on a couple of them laying explosives.”

“But how did they know about it?” Caydon burst out. “They must have someone working inside the SMU.”

“That’s not possible,” J said firmly. “It is possible, however, that they have some kind of magical contact. Spike left a message for Joyce with a passing ghost and followed them—he makes a perfect spy, of course, hidden among all those other rats. And then we lost contact.”

“But WHERE is he?” Demerara mewed.

“There was a huge explosion. We had found Isadore’s hideout, but it was completely wrecked. You’ll be glad to hear that there was no sign of Oz—or Isadore. All we found was one dead gang member, probably from a breakaway faction.”

“Is Oz safe?” Lily asked. “Could he have been hurt in the explosion, or—killed?”

J’s face was kind. “He’s not dead; we searched every crumb of rubble and couldn’t find so much as a skin cell. Isadore’s taken him somewhere else.”

“Do you know where?”

“Not yet—he’s been very difficult to pin down. We planted some of our ghost agents around the Albert
Memorial, but they managed to lose him. Now that his hideout has been destroyed, however, he’ll be a lot easier to find. We’ve told the ordinary police to look out for a man and a boy in all the airports and stations. And my best SMU agents are working round the clock to detect the smallest hint of unauthorized magic. As they say in the movies, Isadore can run—but he can’t hide.”

Oz didn’t know how long he had been lying here. His eyes were glued shut and his mouth was like sandpaper. There was a still, damp heat around him, making the air heavy on his skin. Gradually, he became aware of sounds—the whine of a mosquito, birds chattering and shrieking.

He found that he could sit up, and he opened his eyes. “Uncle Isadore?”

He heard the familiar sound of Isadore weeping, and there was a strong smell of drink. They were in a dusty, decaying room with broken wooden shutters and old wallpaper peeling off in long strips. It was furnished with the rickety camp bed Oz was lying on, a crippled chair and a rotting table. Isadore’s big suitcase yawned in the middle of the rough wooden floor, spilling out a chaotic heap of clothes, bottles, books and bundles of cash.

The shutter was closed, but light poured through the broken slats—daylight. Oz heaved himself off the bed, threw open the shutter and bathed himself in the
glorious light. The sun was hotter here than it was at home, and felt fantastic after all those uncountable days underground. When his eyes adjusted to the dazzle, he gasped aloud.

“Where are we?”

This wooden shack was surrounded by thick, lush green forest. It was a beautiful place, but Oz knew he was a very, very long way from home.

“Uncle Isadore!”

Isadore raised his head from the table. “This is a disaster—I’ve made a complete mess of everything. Have some rum.”

“Is there any water?”

“Tap.” Isadore jerked his head toward a cracked sink in one corner.

The water was warm and rusty. Oz drank deeply and splashed his face. His mind was waking up now, and it was all coming back to him—the terrible man with the gun, the explosion.

“Where are we?”

“I had to think quickly,” Isadore said. “This is the only one of my houses that nobody knows about. We’re in Jamaica.”

“Wh-what?”

“The island in the Caribbean.”

Oz knew where Jamaica was; he was giddy with shock. “How did we get here?”

“I used a transferring spell my mother invented, which involves harnessing air currents. The force of the explosion actually helped. By the time the smoke had cleared we were halfway across France.”

“So there was an explosion; I thought I’d been dreaming.”

“Oh, yes, there was an explosion.” Isadore started to snivel again. “Thanks to that stupid gang, who can’t stop bickering among themselves, my best hideout has been ruined.”

Oz’s knees were weak; he sat down on the creaking, rusty bed. “What’s this place called?”

“We’re high up on the Blue Mountain, where they grow the world’s most expensive coffee. I tricked this house out of my ex-wife.”

“You were married?” Oz was astonished; he couldn’t imagine Isadore with a wife.

Isadore wiped his eyes on his sleeve and took another swig of rum. “I came here in the 1970s—partly to get away from certain Nazis who were still after me, and partly to get my hands on a certain very special coffee bean I needed for my magic. It was only grown here—it’s all been swallowed by the forest now, but this used to be a farm called Acacia Corner. And it was owned by a young witch who was also very beautiful, so I married her.”

“Weren’t you still in love with Daisy?”

“Daisy was old by then and thought I’d been dead for years; I was trying to move on. But it didn’t work.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Elvira might’ve been lovely to look at, but she was the bossiest girl on the whole island and she nearly nagged the skin off me.”

“Where is she now?”

“She ran away to England—unfortunately, with all the magic coffee berries from her farm hidden in her underwear, so she had the last laugh.”

“How long are you planning to stay here?”

“How long?” Isadore let out a bitter little snigger. “I don’t know and I don’t care. Months—years—as soon as the gang and the government stop hounding me.”