The Whizz Pop Chocolate Shop (18 page)

“See what?” Oz was bewildered; his great-great-uncle was a different man, filled with energy and excitement.

“Last night I was the Nameless One! I had kidnapped a young and innocent person—I’m so sorry, Oz! Your grief last night made me see my wickedness. I found myself longing for a way to make amends—and then I began to think about the awful thing Elvira showed you. And it suddenly came to me—here was a picture I could do something about!”

Oz’s heart beat faster. “What do you mean?”

“The past can’t be changed—but the future can; the future hasn’t happened yet. And then I knew what I had to do.”

“Can you change that picture?”

“Not on my own. But when I thought about Pierre
and Marcel, I remembered something from a very long time ago—our mother’s special recipe.”

“A recipe for chocolate?”

“Not exactly; it had been handed down in her family for hundreds of years. She was a witch.”

“I know,” Oz said. “Demerara told us. What did her recipe do?”

Isadore’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “She wouldn’t tell us in so many words; she said we’d only be able to make it if we could work it out for ourselves. But I did work it out, because I saw her using it. When we were little boys, our father’s best apprentice fell ill. He had a terrible cough and every day he got weaker and weaker, until he couldn’t come to work. I think he had something called tuberculosis—a lot of people died of that before antibiotics were invented. But Mother went to see him and took me with her—I can’t remember where the other two were—and I saw her give this dying boy a spoonful of something from her handbag. He was back at work a week later, glowing with health. And when I asked Mother about it, she said that in some circumstances, her special family recipe could restore the dying.”

“Do you mean—” Oz was making a tremendous effort to understand. “Had she invented antibiotics?”

“No, it was the purest magic, and only worked—so Mother maintained—on those with the purest hearts.”
Isadore’s dark eyes were clear; he held his cup in hands that no longer trembled. “And nothing on earth is as pure as the heart of a little baby.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“I can’t make any promises, Oz—this is a very long shot. But if I can find my mother’s special recipe—”

“Is it lost?”

“Yes, but if I have the magical resources I know I can find it. You see, it wasn’t written down on paper. Just before she died, Mother pressed a silver coin into my hand, whispering, ‘You can read it if you’re good enough.’ It was covered with tiny, tiny writing and I never managed to read it, though I spent every spare moment trying. I lost the coin, but I’m pretty sure one of my brothers stole it. I always suspected Marcel and all his magic stuff was put in the SMU vault.”

“It wasn’t Marcel,” Oz said, suddenly remembering. “It was Pierre—I saw him in the Time-Glass! I saw him take something out of your pocket!”

“Pierre? Are you sure?”

“I couldn’t see what he took—but it could’ve been that, couldn’t it?”

Isadore was surprised, and very thoughtful. “Pierre! If Pierre took the coin, it’ll be in the secret safe he made at Skittle Street.”

“Would you be able to read the tiny writing now?”

“If I have the right backup from the SMU, I can read
the recipe and make Mother’s special cordial—and there’s a chance that I can save the baby.”

Oz’s heart gave a great leap of hope that made him breathless. “You can?”

“It’s the longest of long shots—I’ll need all three golden molds, and any number of magic cacao beans—but I know I can use Mother’s recipe to make a new kind of chocolate—the greatest of my career—chocolate that brings real life instead of eternal damnation! I’ll do my very best.”

Oz burst into tears again, and before he knew what he was doing, he had thrown his arms around Isadore and was sobbing into his bony shoulder. Isadore was surprised, but he hugged Oz hard, and afterward had to wipe his eyes and blow his nose.

“The farmer who sold me the food also sold me an old jeep—at a ridiculous price, but at least he filled it with gas, and we can drive away from here as soon as you’re ready.”

Oz wiped his face with his T-shirt, feeling ashamed of crying and trying to get his head round the amazing prospect of going home. “What about your mother’s spell?”

“Far too dangerous for you—I can see that now that I’m sober. And if possible I’d like to travel on a proper flight, where there’s a film and people bring you dinner. I’d better contact the government before we go, or
they’ll arrest me before I can make my chocolate.” Isadore looked gloomy. “Oh crumbs—I’ll have to talk to Elvira again!”

They both went outside, to the mossy water barrel; the garden was beautiful in the sparkling early-morning sunlight, and Oz’s spirits soared.

Isadore leaned over the barrel, frowning down at the surface of the magic screen. He murmured a few words under his breath. The water misted, and when it cleared, Elvira’s face had returned.

“Oh, it’s you. Make it quick—I’m at work.” She seemed to be bending over a sink.

“Hello, Elvira.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Hmm, you don’t look so drunk today.”

“I’m totally sober,” said Isadore. “And for once in my life, I’m taking your advice—I’m bringing Oz straight home.”

The stern brown face lifted into a beaming smile, like the sun rising. “Good gracious! You could knock me down with a feather—and that’s not so easy these days. What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch, I swear—but I do have certain conditions.” Isadore launched into a quick version of the story he had told Oz, about the special recipe and the life-giving chocolate he could make with it.

Elvira listened intently, and was silent for a few
moments when he had finished. “How are you going to make the government trust you? They’ll think this is a heartless trick to get the molds.”

“They MUST trust me,” Isadore said. “It’s my only chance to make up for my past by changing the future—please, Elvira, help me to make amends!”

“Will you talk about the gang?”

“I’ll sing like a canary!”

“Please, Elvira—” Oz blurted out. “Please help him make the chocolate.”

The face in the water smiled at him kindly. “Do you think he’s tricking us?”

“No—Isadore saved me from the gang members and he’s really nice.”

Far away, wherever she was working, Elvira laughed. “That makes a change! When I was married to him he was a complete—Oh, all right! For your sake I’ll see what I can do. Now I must be off.” The picture turned back into water.

“Well,” Isadore said, “I’ll cook those eggs, and then we’ll pack up.”

The sober Isadore was a perfectly competent cook. He made an omelette—sprinkling in herbs he picked from the overgrown garden—and it was surprisingly delicious.

Oz helped him to stuff his possessions back into the suitcase. “Hey—you brought the violin!” He was
so pleased to see it that he hugged the shabby case. “I thought it had been blown up.”

Isadore smiled. “I couldn’t bear to leave it behind when you made it sing so beautifully. I think I’ll give it to you.”

“Really?” Oz felt a spark of actual happiness (something that had been in very short supply since his kidnapping); this violin was better than the one he had at home, and must once have cost a fortune. “What about you—won’t you need it?”

“No. Being sober has made me remember that I don’t have any talent.”

It was a nervous journey for Oz; he longed to get home so desperately that he was afraid something would go wrong. But the new, sober Isadore got them to Kingston Airport and onto the Air Jamaica plane with no trouble at all (though Oz had no idea what he was doing about passports) and they had luxurious seats in business class.

“I may as well enjoy myself while I can,” Isadore said. “I’m probably going to spend the rest of eternity in prison.”

“It won’t be that long,” Oz said. “And when you get out, you can come and live with me, if you like.” Oddly enough, he meant this; he was sure Isadore’s repentance was genuine.

“Thank you, dear boy.” Isadore’s thin face was almost cheerful.

“Would you like a pillow, sir?” The air stewardess leaned over them and quickly flashed a card with a bar code and a fingerprint. In a whisper, she added, “You’ll be met at Heathrow.”

To Oz’s delight, the policeman waiting for them at passport control was Alan—grinning all over at the sight of Oz.

“Everyone’s fine—nothing to worry about—but my orders are to take you to the safe house. Lily and Caydon are there already.”

“And my parents are OK?”

“They’re great.”

“You seem apprehensive, Officer,” Isadore said. “Rest assured, I won’t give you any trouble.”

“Sorry, sir.” Alan was so embarrassed that his whole head turned scarlet. “My orders are to put the cuffs on you.”

“Handcuffs? Am I a prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well—I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” Isadore held out one wrist and allowed himself to be handcuffed to Alan.

They were led to a helicopter; Oz couldn’t get over
how wonderful the normal damp summer night air felt on his skin. When the helicopter rose into the air, his heart rose with it. Now that he was about to see Lily, he realized how lopsided he had been without her.

“Tell me, Alan,” Isadore said, “what are your orders for our arrival?”

“Oz will be allowed to see Lily, and then he has to go to bed. And—well, I have to take you to the cells.”

“The cells? But I must see the man known as J!”

“It’s one in the morning, sir. He’ll see you later.”

“Later isn’t good enough,” Isadore snapped. “I don’t care what you have to do, but I must talk to him immediately. Tell him I’m not thinking of my own skin for once—this is for Oz and Lily, and it’s a matter of life and death.”

Lily flung herself at him like a tornado the moment he was through the grand front door.

“OZ! OZ!”

They hugged each other so hard they almost fell over; the happiness was incredible and the other voice fizzed between them like an electrical wire.

“Hey, Oz!” He got a rough hug from Caydon. “You don’t look as if you’ve been tortured.”

“How nice to see you, dear,” a familiar voice mewed.

“Demerara—what on earth—?” Oz gaped at the extraordinary sight of the immortal cat in her mauve bodysuit.

“Long story!” Lily said hastily. “What happened to evil Isadore?”

“Alan took him to see J,” said Oz. “He’s not really evil anymore. That’s another story.” He glanced around at the towering entrance hall, with its oil paintings and impressive staircase. “Where are we?”

“No idea,” Caydon said, laughing. “But it’s great; there’s a private beach. And a canteen full of witches.”

“What?”

“It’s a center for unexplained communication,” Lily said. “They work around the clock in four-hour shifts.”

“And you want to watch out for the old bag with the crystal ball,” Caydon said. “She can see the future, but never the bits you want to know about—she yelled at me yesterday, and said that when I’m old I’ll get a hernia.”

“Caydon was skateboarding in the corridor and he crashed into her.” Lily stared at Oz. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not happy enough.”

“Are Mum and Dad OK?”

“Fine; I spoke to them a couple of hours ago. What’s up? I know there’s something.”

B62 came out into the hall. “Welcome back, Oz. J is still tied up with Isadore and says you should go straight to bed; you’re sharing a room and bathroom with Caydon.”

“Great.” Oz was glad not to be left alone in this house full of witches and soothsayers, and he had missed Caydon’s uncomplicated company.

“Lily and Demerara are just next door; they’ll take you to breakfast.”

Oz was suddenly aware of how tired he was; he had
been too keyed up to sleep on the plane. After the disused tube station and the Jamaican shack, the bedroom he was shown into looked like the pinnacle of luxury. The SMU had even collected his clothes from Skittle Street and his jeans and sneakers looked like old friends. Late as it was, Oz couldn’t resist a long, hot shower.

Before they fell asleep, Caydon asked, “Has Isadore really stopped being evil?”