The Whizz Pop Chocolate Shop (17 page)

“But—” Oz’s chest tightened with fear. “I can’t wait all that time. I’m starting my new school soon—and I can’t miss our baby being born.”

“WHY?” Isadore wasn’t listening. “WHY does everything I touch turn to ashes?” His head dropped onto the table, and a second later, he was snoring.

Oz frantically tried to organize his thoughts. His great-great-uncle was asleep and the door was open; he could escape, but where to? He went outside, shading his eyes against the sun. The shack was surrounded by thick trees and undergrowth, full of exotic birds and gorgeous flowers. Looking nervously behind him to make sure Isadore wouldn’t follow, he ventured through the bushes. Suddenly, a huge and stunning view of a
mountainside covered with dense greenery was spread out before him, falling away beneath him for miles and miles without a single house or human in sight.

He turned back to the shack; running away would be stupid when he had no idea where he was going. It would be dark quite soon, and it made him strangely uncomfortable to think about how Isadore would feel if he woke from his drunken stupor to find him gone.

His stomach rumbled; they would need something to eat, and there obviously weren’t any shops around here. The overgrown garden outside the shack was filled with huge butterflies that looked quite meaty; maybe he would end up having to hunt them. He rummaged through Isadore’s hastily packed suitcase. He had managed to shove in a few bits of food. Oz found half a loaf of sliced white bread and a few tins of baked beans.

There was also a box of matches and Oz spent a long time trying to build a fire. The fireplace inside the shack was choked up with rubbish, so he built his fire on a small patch of cracked concrete outside the door. None of the twigs he found burned properly; he had used up half the matches by the time he coaxed out a flame.

The bread was stale. Oz stuck a slice on the end of a stick and tried toasting it. The bread turned black and hard and tasted of burnt brick, but he used it to scoop cold baked beans out of the tin because he couldn’t find a spoon. Though it wasn’t the tastiest meal he’d ever
eaten, he did feel a lot better afterward. The sun sank and the shadows deepened. The insects dancing under the overhanging acacia branches gradually turned to little specks of fire—fireflies, Oz realized, captivated. Despite being so worried about getting home, he couldn’t help enjoying being out in the open, under a sky filled with stars, breathing in delicious scents of flowers and woodsmoke.

“What time is it?” Isadore stumbled out into the darkness, still clutching his bottle of rum.

“I don’t know.”

“Nobody’s come after us, anyway.” He sat down on the concrete beside Oz. “You’d be dead by now if they had.”

Oz asked, “Who was that man with the gun—the man you killed?”

“I never knew his name. He was my contact among the gang. I have no idea how he found my hideout.” Isadore picked up a piece of the burnt bread and nibbled it absently. “I had to kill him; he was going to kill you, and I couldn’t bear for you to die.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s polite of you to thank me, dear boy—especially when I’ve managed to get us into such a mess. What on earth can I do now?”

Oz considered this. “The gang members can’t kill you. The worst they can do is lock you up.”

“No—that is NOT the worst they can do. If I don’t make that immortality chocolate, the gang will tear my entrails out every night at six, like Prometheus chained to the rock.”

“Who?”

“He’s an immortal chap in Greek mythology. But even that won’t be the worst of it. If they don’t get the chocolate, they’ll kill—you.” Isadore’s voice was very quiet. “Because they’ll know that when I abducted you, I laid myself open to the most appalling pain a human can suffer—the pain of loving someone, and then losing them.”

It was alarming to know that Isadore loved him, but impossible not to be moved by his loneliness.

“Uncle Isadore, why don’t you just give yourself up? The government won’t tear out your entrails.” (Or kill anyone, he could have added.)

“I don’t fancy being locked up in prison, thank you,” Isadore said sharply. “I’ve committed so many terrible crimes that I’d get a life sentence—think what that would mean. I’d sit there year after year in my suit, and you’d grow old and die—and so would your children and grandchildren. Frankly, there are times when I wish I’d never made myself immortal.”

“It can’t be much fun,” Oz said thoughtfully, “being immortal all by yourself.”

“You’re a nice boy to try to understand,” said Isadore.
“But I can’t give myself up. It’s not going to happen.” He shivered. “It gets cold here in the evenings. Let’s go inside. You can keep the camp bed and I’ll sleep on the floor.”

A voice wound through Oz’s dreams, high and distant. “Isadore! Isadore! Isadore!”

He woke up, and it was still calling: “Isadore!”

Isadore himself lay on the floor on a heap of clothes, gripping his bottle of rum and snoring.

It was the dead of night, but the tropical moon rode high in the sky and the decayed room looked as if it had been daubed with ghostly white paint. The trees and shrubs whispered and stirred as night creatures scuttled and occasionally shrieked.

“Isadore!”

Oz rolled off the creaking camp bed. The voice was outside. He opened the door and glanced around. There was nobody to be seen.

Maybe I was dreaming, he thought.

“Isadore!” It came again.

Suppose the gang had found him? Oz wished he had a weapon. Diving back into the house, he shook his great-great-uncle’s shoulder.

“Uncle Isadore—wake up—there’s someone calling you outside!”

“Mmmmm—what?”

“Wake up—there’s someone here!”

Isadore sat up, groaning. “What’re you talking about? There’s nobody here.”

“Isadore!”

“Good grief, what was that?” Isadore scrambled to his feet. “Stay behind me, Oz.” Holding the rum bottle up in one hand like a club, he crept out into the overgrown garden.

“Isadore!”

“Good grief, it’s coming from the rainwater barrel!”

Around the side of the house was a big wooden barrel, green with moss. A greenish light seeped out of it. This was not a gang member.

“Stay close, dear boy!” Isadore clutched his hand. Together, they walked slowly to the barrel and dared to look inside.

The surface of the water was lit like a cinema screen. Oz gasped with the shock of it. In the middle of the magic screen was the round face of an angry black lady with short gray hair. “And about time!” she shouted. “I knew I’d find you there, Isadore Spoffard!”

“Wh-who are you?”

“Who am I? The rightful owner of that farm, for a start!”

In the ghostly half-light, Isadore’s face was a mask of horror. “Elvira?”

“YES—you lying, selfish, good-for-nothing SKUNK! I’m your ex-wife—in case it slipped your mind!”

“What do you want?”

“I’m working for the SMU now, you WEASEL. They’ll be glad to hear where you are.”

“Elvira, please—don’t betray me! Don’t tell them!”

The plump brown face on the surface of the water was frowning. “As usual, you’re only thinking about yourself. I’m here because of this boy—hello, Oz.”

“Oh—hello.” Oz was startled; he hadn’t thought she could see him.

“This boy must go home, Isadore.”

“No! I can’t be alone again!”

“I’ve been looking into the future.”

“You always were good at that,” Isadore said. “It was how you found out I was after your coffee berries.”

“I just wish I’d thought of doing that spell earlier,” Elvira’s face said crossly. “For instance, the day I met you! But this isn’t about you. I’ve seen his future and he must get home IMMEDIATELY.”

“What is it?” Oz shivered with apprehension. “What did you see?”

Elvira’s face softened. “Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you.”

Instinctively, Oz gripped Isadore’s hand more tightly. “If something bad’s going to happen to me, I think I’d rather know about it.”

“You’re a brave boy,” Elvira said. “But I must warn you, it won’t be easy.”

“I don’t care.” Oz felt cold and sick, but he knew he had to know the truth.

“I’ll show you the picture,” said Elvira. “Keep staring at the surface of the water.”

As Oz looked, Elvira’s face melted into a mist, and another picture began to form.

He saw an aerial view of a green park, with a small red-brick chapel in the middle. As they swooped down closer, he saw that the park was a large cemetery filled with gravestones. Three people were walking slowly toward the chapel—Oz caught his breath as he recognized his parents and Lily.

They were huddled very close together, and all crying. Mum was carrying a tiny white coffin.

“The baby!” Oz choked. “Our new baby!”

He had never seen his mother look so sad; the longing to put his arms around her was so intense that it hurt. And he knew she needed him. He felt a sharp, physical pain that was like his heart breaking.

The terrible picture faded and Oz was left staring at the scummy surface of the water in the barrel.

He heard a great desolate cry ripping out of him, as if it belonged to someone else.

“Oz!” choked Isadore. “My dear boy!”

“Take me home!” Oz shouted. “Take me home NOW—let me go—I HATE YOU—I HATE YOU!”

In all his time as Isadore’s prisoner, Oz had never cried. Now the tears burst out of him in a great wave of despairing rage. His hands curled into fists and he began to hit Isadore. He roared and screamed into the empty air until he was exhausted, and then threw himself down on the camp bed and cried himself into oblivion.

The first thing he was aware of was a smell of coffee. Slowly, painfully, Oz returned to consciousness. Before he became fully conscious, the memory of the terrible vision he had seen engulfed him and his sore eyes stung with yet more tears.

He was lying on the camp bed and Isadore was sitting beside him, staring at him intently.

The smell of coffee came from a metal coffeepot in the fireplace; Isadore had cleared it and built a neat fire. He had propped up the sagging table. Oz saw a loaf of bread and a small basket of eggs.

“Good morning,” Isadore said. “Please don’t hit me again.”

Isadore looked different. Oz raised himself on one elbow to look at him properly. His face was pale and haggard, but he had shaved and dressed himself in a respectable white linen suit.

“I’m sober,” said Isadore. “For the first time in about sixty years.”

“Oh.” Oz’s head felt thick and woolly, and the misery lay on him like a lead weight.

“Sit up properly and have some toast and coffee. I walked to the nearest farm and bought some decent food.”

Oz struggled upright. Isadore gave him a tin mug of sweet, milky coffee and a big slab of toast generously spread with condensed milk. They tasted very good and made Oz feel a lot stronger.

“Would you like some fried eggs?”

“I—I didn’t know you could cook eggs.”

“I can when I’m sober. The world is a very different place this morning.” Isadore spooned a gloopy lump of condensed milk into his coffee. “Before you say one word, Oz, I’ve made a great decision—I’m taking you home.”

“Home!” Oz started crying again. “But what shall I do? I can’t tell them what I saw!”

“Hear me out, dear boy; you need to know the whole story. Have some more coffee.”

“Actually—yes, please.” Oz held out his mug. “I didn’t think I liked coffee, but this is fantastic.”

“It’s Blue Mountain, the greatest coffee in the world. I’m glad you’re feeling a bit better.”

“I’m sorry about—you know—last night,” Oz said. “I don’t hate you.”

“My dear boy, I deserved it all. And I ought to thank
you; it set me to thinking as I haven’t thought in years and years—since I was the man who fell in love with Daisy. After Elvira showed us that ghastly picture of the future, your grief clawed into my mummified old heart. I couldn’t bear to see you so sad. As usual, I tried to dull the pain with drink, but I finished the bottle and didn’t have any more.”

“You drank that whole bottle!”

“I know, I know—enough to kill several people who aren’t immortal. I must admit, I went out looking for more rum. But it was a long way to the nearest farm and as I stumbled through the moonlit forest I began to sober up. And at first it was horrible. When I was sober I had to remember the first time I saw that terrible look on someone’s face—something I’ve spent a very long lifetime trying to forget.” He let out a sigh.

“What do you mean?”

“Oz, I hope you never know remorse like I suffered last night.”

“Remorse?” Oz wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

“It was Daisy’s face after her husband died—after I killed him.”

“So you were sorry after all.”

“Yes,” Isadore said. “When it was too late. Last night, in the middle of the forest, I thought about Pierre and Marcel. I seemed to see them so clearly—it was as if
they walked beside me. My brothers were good men, Oz. I begged them to forgive me, and wished, wished, wished that the past could be changed!
And in my agony I found myself thinking about an old Italian novel I read, while I was living in Venice in the 1950s. It was about a bandit who was so incredibly evil that nobody even dared to say his name, and people just called him the Nameless One. He had wealth and power, but his murderous lifestyle had started to disgust him. One day the Nameless One kidnapped a young girl—and her youth and goodness moved him to face up to his past and repent—and then it hit me! Don’t you see?”