Obsidian Pebble (24 page)

“Whoever the Puffers were,” Oz said thoughtfully.

They glanced at each other before burying their noses back in the books. What became obvious pretty quickly was that Puffers had nothing to do with wind, as Ellie had suggested, or snakes, which Oz had thrown up because of some vague idea that it might be something to do with puff adders. Eventually, Oz came up with the surprising answer.

“Alchemists?” Ellie said, repeating Oz's triumphant announcement. “Weren't they weirdos trying to be chemists before anyone really knew anything about chemistry?”

“Sort of,” Oz said, peering at the book. He looked up. “What do you think of when you think of alchemists, though? I mean, what do you see?”

Ellie cocked her head to think. “Someone in a wizard's hat in a fume-filled old laboratory, with flasks and retorts of different-coloured liquids bubbling everywhere.” “Exactly. You've just described a Puffer,” Oz said. “It's what they called the old bellows they used to keep the fires going. You know, those things you squeeze to make air come out of to fan the flames.”

“So Puffers are bellows?” Ellie asked.

Oz shook his head. “It's what real alchemists called the fakes. According to this,”—he held up a different but equally moth-eaten book—“true alchemists were a bit like monks. They worked alone, spent years trying to work out the secret of life. You know, philosopher's stone stuff.”

“So what were the Puffers, then?”

“Cheats. They were the ones who moved from town to town, fooling people with tricks and fireworks, trying to get people to give them money to turn metal into gold.”

“And this Obex was set up to stop the cheats,” Ellie said, nodding.

When they told Ruff, he seemed only mildly interested. The code-breaking preoccupied him. “Need the key phrase that unlocks the cipher. Once we get that, I reckon it'll be a piece of cake.”

But by half past nine he was no further forward, and Oz suggested they forget about it for the night. Reluctantly, Ruff agreed, but only after Oz said that he was about to make rounds of toast and jam and watch a video.

By eleven, though, the day's events were taking their toll and all three of them traipsed off to bed. Oz lay in his, watching the moonlight paint a crosshatch of silver light on the wall through a chink in the curtains. They knew an awful lot more than they did yesterday, but really, they knew nothing at all about a lot of things. What part did Lucy Bishop have to play in all of this? Who was she working for?

And then there was the thing in the park. Was he just some nutter living on the streets or in the park, or was his appearance part of a mad jigsaw with more parts missing than found?

But what kept Oz awake until well after midnight were the letters in the clock. What did they mean? And why the secret cipher?

The curtains swayed gently in the easterly breeze that had picked up outside, making the moonlight dance on the wall. He looked across at his desk. The laptop was charging, but the trinket box and the dor were hidden away in one of Oz's secret places. After tonight, Oz had decided that he couldn't be too careful.

That night, he didn't dream of the girl with the grey eyes, either.

The next morning Oz awoke with a new sense of purpose. Despite Ruff's lack of success with the cipher, they did have lots of pieces of the puzzle and he was sure they were that bit closer to solving the riddle of the ghostly footsteps. He couldn't rid himself of the feeling, either, that the message in the letters would lead him to understanding what had happened to his dad, and to a way of dispelling the filthy rumour of his supposed suicide. Oz had nothing but his own instinct and belief to support this conviction, but at every turn, and with every new bit of information they gathered, it seemed to grow inside him. All they needed now was a bit of luck with Ruff and the cipher.

It was a bright, crisp morning, and though Oz wanted to talk about nothing but yesterday's events, Ruff and Ellie were not in the mood. But then Oz remembered that today was the day of their return match with Jenks' and Skinner's Skullers team, and their preoccupation became instantly understandable. Despite Oz's best efforts to take their minds off the game, all they wanted to do was warm up. So immediately after breakfast Oz went with them for another kickabout.

People's Park was already busy with joggers and dog walkers taking advantage of a rain-free morning. The thing that had loomed out of the dark and foggy emptiness of the night before seemed like nothing more than the vestige of a strange dream. But even a sunny morning could do little to alter Ellie and Ruff's nervous bickering. When a stray shot went zooming off into the distance, arguments flared once again.

“You kicked it, you fetch it,” Ellie said, watching as the ball continued to roll off into the distance.

“But you're closest,” Ruff argued petulantly.

“It was your rubbish shot!” Ellie yelled.

“I'll get it,” Oz said, glad of the chance to get away from their sniping. He knew what this atmosphere was about. Two of the best players in Ellie's and Ruff's team were sick with flu, and another two were doubtful. Their chance of beating the Skullers now was nigh on non-existent.

Oz retrieved the ball, and as he did, something caught his eye, a movement on the edge of the small copse of trees in the very middle of the park. It was hardly even a glimpse, but he could have sworn he'd seen something dark and elongated move back into the woods. He picked up the ball and stared, but there was nothing there anymore. By the time he got back, Ruff was sulking at one end of their makeshift pitch and Ellie was busy moodily plucking at blades of grass at the other. Oz was quite glad when Ruff's dad pulled up in his van. Mr. Adams was a tall, thin man with flyaway hair the same colour as Ruff's and a lopsided grin. He knew an awful lot about football and was unfailingly enthusiastic.

“Hey, Oz,” he said as he got out of the van to help Ellie with her backpack. “Been giving them a bit of extra coaching?”

“What's the news on Millie, Dad?” Ruff asked hopefully.

“Millie can't play. It's definitely chicken pox. She looks like a current bun. And Bashir can't make it. He's had to go to Sheffield to his cousin's wedding.”

“Sugar,” muttered Ellie.

“But that means…” protested Ruff.

“Yes, I know. You'll just have to share goal-keeping duties this week, okay?”

Ruff and Ellie both groaned.

“We've got no chance at all against the Skullers now,” Ruff moaned, looking crestfallen.

Ellie gave Oz a half-hearted wave as she got into the van and Ruff clambered in next to his dad. “See you tomorrow, Oz,” she muttered. But then, catching sight of the strange look on Oz's face, she added, “What's up with you?”

“Nothing,” Oz said mischievously. An idea had sprouted in his head and was rapidly taking hold. “I'm just waiting for your usual question, that's all.”

“The one you always say no to?” Ellie said. “What's the point?”

“Maybe one day I'll say yes,” Oz said.

“What does that mean?” Ruff said exasperatedly. “Do you want to play or not?”

“Well, since you're short of a goalie, why not?”

There was a long, frozen moment as first Ellie's jaw, quickly followed by both Mr. Adams' and Ruff's, clunked open.

“Really?” Ellie squealed.

“I reckon I could do with the exercise,” Oz grinned.

Everyone in the van started talking at once.

“We'll have to register you—”

“The goalie jersey is bright green—”

“Stop standing there like a buzzard—”

Ten seconds later, Oz was bundled into the van and Mr. Adams roared around to Magnus Street.

“I should be back by about half past twelve,” Oz said to a flummoxed but smiling Mrs. Chambers as he emptied his kit bag looking for his gloves.

“What's brought all this on?” she asked breathlessly, reaching into the airing cupboard for socks and shorts.

“They need my help,” Oz said, shrugging.

* * *

The park where Ellie and Ruff and all the other teams in the league played on Sunday mornings had ten pitches. The team all gathered behind one set of goalposts and listened to Ruff's dad giving instructions. Since it was a mixed league, there had to be a minimum of five girls in each team. Oz knew two of the other girls on his. One was Sandra Ojo, whose voice he'd recognized even before seeing her, and the other was Lottie Barnes. Of the boys, there was Niko, whom he knew, too, but the rest of the players were new to him.

“Now, as you know, we're a bit low on reserves today, but Oz here has stepped in to lend a hand. He'll be playing in goal for us,” said Mr. Adams as they gathered at one end of the pitch.

The rest of the team gave Oz half-hearted waves and a few “all rights” and “wotchas,” but all in all they looked like a defeated team before they even went on the pitch.

“I know you must be downhearted after last time, but today is a fresh page,” said Mr. Adams. “And you never know what's going to happen until you try. I want close marking on their front three; we'll play the ball wide when we can to Ellie on the left and Lottie on the right. They'll take the ball forward and get some crosses in, okay?”

Everyone nodded.

“Right, follow Steve and we'll get warmed up.”

Steve, one of the other dads, took the team off to the side and started some warm-up drills. Oz was given a bright-green goalie shirt, which did, indeed, look brand new.

“That's because Bashir doesn't ever do anything to get it dirty,” Ruff hissed as Oz commented on its condition.

As he pulled his head through, Oz could see the Skullers all laughing and joking on the far side behind the other goalposts. They wore black and white quartered shirts and looked very confident. Oz was on the point of joining the others for the warm-up when Mr. Adams grabbed him gently by the elbow.

“A quiet word, Oz,” he said. “No one is expecting miracles. Just do what you can and, more importantly, enjoy yourself. Their big centre forward is a bit of a donkey, but he is the league's top scorer. He likes to take on goalies—always feints left and takes the ball right. Just remember that. Oh, and thanks for helping out.” He gave Oz a clap on the back, smiling broadly.

Oz nodded, trying to quell the butterflies doing loopde-loops in his stomach, and went to join the others. Ten minutes later, they were running on for the start of the match. Ellie and Ruff had gone very quiet, and Oz had never seen them both so nervous.

“By the way, what are we called again?” Oz yelled to Ruff, who was in midfield.

“Leckwith Lions,” Ruff called back. “It's the name of our sponsor.” Ruff pointed to the front of his shirt, where the words “Leckwith Building Supplies” were emblazoned across his chest. Oz had one last look around and blew air down into his gloves. The goalmouth was bigger than the ones they played with in school—full size, in fact. But it was the same size as the one he'd drawn on the wall at home, and so he knew its dimensions well enough. It was the Skullers to kick off and, with the ball at his feet in the centre circle, Jenks looked up and for the first time saw who was in goal opposite him. He called to Skinner and pointed at Oz. Then, loud enough for everyone to hear, Jenks called out,

“Hey Skinner, they've got Chambers in goal. They must be desperate.”

“Definite hat-trick for you, then, Jenks.” Skinner let off a hyena snigger.

The referee blew his whistle for the start of the game. There were twenty-five minute halves in this league, and the first five of Oz's new amateur career were pretty frantic. The Skullers laid the ball back to Jenks, who immediately sent a long, floating shunt up the middle towards Oz as a tester. Oz balanced himself and took the ball cleanly ten yards in front of goal, and was delighted to hear a cheer from the supporters and even more delighted to see the look on Jenks' face as his teammates rounded on him for wasting possession.

Oz ran forward and thumped the ball downfield. After their drubbing a few weeks before, the Lions had clearly done their homework and were close marking the Skullers' attack. Even so, Oz found himself having to catch two crosses and parry one long-distance shot bound for the top right-hand corner of the net, all in the next ten minutes. But through hard work and Oz's skill, the Lions kept the Skullers' forwards at bay for the whole twenty-five minutes.

At halftime Mr. Adams, grinning from ear to ear, gave Oz a segment of orange. “Oz, I had no idea you could play…I mean, I knew you could play, but…where have you been for the last two seasons?”

“Practising,” Oz said truthfully.

“Well, keep it up. You're having a stormer.”

The second half started much like the first, with Oz tipping a shot over the bar and leaping to cut out a cross meant for the number nine's head, as well as diving low to save a neat shot from the Skullers' left wing, a small but very nippy girl called Natasha Stilson who Oz knew vaguely from his year. She sent Oz a flashing smile as he got up, mud-splattered from the save.

Skinner, who had spent most of the first half niggling away at Ruff by pulling on his shirt and calling him names whenever the ref's back was turned, suddenly began to play very dirty. After one particularly blatant foul, in which Ruff's legs were taken from under him and which earned Skinner a booking, Ellie had had enough. At the next stoppage, she ran back to Oz.

“Next time you boot the ball up-field, send it towards Skinner.”

“Okay,” Oz said, noting the dangerous glint in Ellie's eye.

The chance came three minutes later, when Oz caught a back header from his fullback and thumped the ball up towards Skinner. It bounced once and Skinner leapt to head it up to his inside right. But just as Skinner jumped, Ellie flew in from her wing and launched herself at the ball. If anyone had any doubts that she was into taekwando, they were pretty certain of it a second later as she connected with the ball in a perfect bicycle kick. Unfortunately for Skinner, she did so two feet away from his head, sending the ball careening towards Skinner's face at full force.