The Beast of Seabourne (12 page)

“See you tomorrow,” Ellie yelled through the wound-down window of the estate. “And don't forget your lucky hat. I want to win this thing.”

With that, they were off, leaving Oz with Ellie's words ringing in his ears. In truth, he'd almost forgotten about the tournament. He'd been too busy thinking about auramals and priest's holes and Bendle. He was still thinking about them as he rummaged in the mudroom for his boots later that evening, when Mrs Chambers stuck her head around the door. Oz noticed that she still bore that slightly harassed look he'd seen in the bedroom.

“Be honest, Oz,” she said, piercing him with an anxious gaze, “what did Ellie and Ruff think of my colour schemes?”

“Umm,” Oz said as he searched for something not too damning to say.

“I know they're different,” Mrs Chambers added quickly, “but it's what's in vogue. And we need to do something different to get tenants in, don't you think?” “Umm—” Oz said.

“Look, I know that Rowena can seem a little bit…

unusual in her approach, but with this, I think she's spot on.

I mean, students like jazzy things, don't they?”

Oz sent the fridge an involuntary glance. Four cake fridge magnets held up a calendar, underneath which was hidden a childish drawing of a black dog. That drawing had become their way of keeping an eye on his mother's illness—a vicious sadness that had, thankfully, been mostly controlled for the last couple of years. The understanding was that, if Mrs Chambers ever felt the dread blue funk of sadness creeping over her, she should shift the calendar and make the drawing visible. Oz, too, had the exact same option if he felt his mum was behaving strangely. Any sign of the black dog peeking from behind the bright photo of tulips and daffodils that adorned this month's calendar was something they were both keen to avoid. There were certain times when Oz kept a close eye on it, like his dad's birthday or at Christmas, but even on a normal week, Oz found himself glancing in its direction now and again just for reassurance. He was glad to see that it was all flowers today.

“I think you should go with your instincts, Mum,” he said, seeing her face relax into her usual smile.

“They hated it, didn't they?” she said.

Oz grimaced in apology. “I'll go back and ask the nice man on the paint counter at Homebase. He asked me if I was doing a rainbow stencil when I bought all the test pots.” She eyed the boots dangling from his hand. “Football tomorrow?”

“Five-a-side tournament. I'll be out most of the day.”

Mrs Chambers nodded. “I'll make lunch for suppertime, then. Got everything?'

“Can't find my tracksuit bottoms or my hat.”

“That's because they're in the wash.” Oz made a panic-struck face. “Don't worry. We'll put them in the tumble dryer. Now, want any supper?”

Oz ate a large bowl of Cheerybix and chatted to his mum while carefully managing to avoid the topic of Mr Eldred and the morning's events. Later, as he lay in his bed, there was no escape from the hop, skip, and jump his mind did over Bendle, a bear, and a blue van. Snatches of memory kept popping up along with jagged fragments of conversation, one of which in particular haunted him.

“Can you smell his stink? Is it him?”

What had the woman meant? Oz lifted his arm and sniffed his armpit. He'd had a shower before bed, and all he could smell was fresh pine and mango from the body wash his mum had left for him to use.

They'd been Gerber's people—he knew it.

He felt a fresh wave of mingled revulsion and anxiety wash over him. There had been no direct contact between the Chambers and Jack Gerber since the Rollins episode, and there wasn't likely to be, as Mrs Chambers had threatened to brain him with a saucepan if either he or Heeps came anywhere near. Yet, Oz could still tell she was not fully convinced a millionaire businessman like Gerber could be behind such out-and-out weirdness. Thinking about Gerber triggered a deep sense of loathing in Oz and, as always, brought his mind back around to his dad.

He'd talked it through with his mother many times, but even so, he remained very confused about what had actually happened the night of his father's accident. The facts were that there'd been a crash involving no other vehicle. The weather had been dry and visibility good. Nothing to help explain why Michael Chambers had driven head-on into the pillar of a railway bridge at seventy miles an hour.

There were other highly unpalatable “facts,” too; there'd been a whiskey bottle on the passenger seat and whiskey in Michael Chambers' stomach. But there had been none in his blood, and he certainly wasn't drunk. A quick snifter to summon up whatever sort of befuddled Dutch courage he'd needed to hurl a car at a stone pillar, maybe? Even that explanation foundered on the rock of certainty Oz had about his dad's hatred of the stuff. Why whiskey? Why not the duty-free Calvados his dad had bought at the airport that morning? The one and only alcoholic drink he enjoyed as a once-a-year Christmas treat?

Oz squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to banish the dreadful, dark images that crowded in on him. No matter what the circumstantial evidence showed, Oz knew in his heart and with every ounce of his being that his dad could never do such a thing. Others did not share his doubts.

Outside Penwurt, Oz still had to endure pitying looks of sad understanding when in polite company. He'd also suffered malicious taunts from the not-so-polite Pheeps. Yet it was the look of sympathy tainted with knowing pity, which he came across almost daily, that was so hard to bear.

Such a terrible shame. What could possess someone with such a lovely family and a splendid home to do such a thing?

Eldred's phrases rang in his ears, and he felt his face burn again. Oz had grown to hate the words and despise the looks, but he'd learned to use his loathing of other people's pity. It was turning into something that burned inside him, sometimes flaring into a white-hot desire to prove that his dad could not, and did not, do what people said he'd done. And prove, too, that somehow, all these strange and disparate things were tied together.

Yet, even with the wonderful Soph, and even after digging deeper into the mystery that was Morsman's artefacts, Oz felt they were no further forward. He knew in his heart Gerber wanted Penwurt and the artefacts, and that he and Soph, and everything else that had happened, were linked to his dad. But that was like knowing that the sun was in the sky without an awareness of what it was or why it would rise tomorrow morning. Knowing something to be true often only needed faith, but convincing others required evidence.

Oz turned over in his bed. As always, it seemed anything and everything to do with Soph ended up with more questions than answers. He ought to speak to Caleb, because this was an Obex issue, but since mentioning Eldred, Oz had the impression Caleb had been avoiding him and the subject. Anyway, Caleb was halfway to Bulgaria by now.

Frustration had been no stranger to Oz these last couple of years, but after today, he felt convinced something had changed. A stone had been lifted to reveal something unpleasant beneath. Gerber was no longer content to lie down and lick his wounds. The Puffers were coming, and Oz felt strangely excited at the thought. It was the only way to find out the truth, no matter how frightening and horrible the enemy.

Oz awoke early the next morning to golden light filtering through the curtains. It took a few seconds for the events of the day before to register again, and for a moment, Oz felt a terrifying conviction something was under his bed, sniffing him out like the auramal of yesterday. However, the sound was merely the wafting of the curtain against the windowsill. He sat up and remembered it was Sunday. Slowly his anxiety faded, and the first stirrings of excitement played an arpeggio on his spine. He got up, drew open the curtains, stared out on a bright blue morning, and felt his spirits soar. Today was the Seabourne under-thirteen mixed league's five-a-side competition and barbeque. Oz put on his kit and went downstairs, to find his mother already in the kitchen, making sandwiches.

“Morning, Oz.” Mrs Chambers leaned in for a kiss just before Oz demolished a glass of orange juice. “The works?”

“Yes, please.”

The “works” consisted of a small hill of bacon, eggs, tomatoes, baked beans, and toast, which Oz bolted.

“So, tell me again, what is this today?” Mrs Chambers asked as she watched Oz devour the food, with a look of faintly awed amusement.

“Five-a-side, only there has to be at least two girls and two boys in the five out on the field at any one time.”

“So your five are you, Ellie, Ruff, and who?”

“Niko, Sandra Ojo, Mena Roopa, and Pete Williams,” Oz said through a mouthful of toast and jam. “Squad of seven.”

“And it's the last time you'll be able to play with Ellie, is that right?”

Oz nodded. Today had a bittersweet edge. The last fling of the season, and the last time the local Soccer League Association allowed girls and boys to play on the same teams.

“I still think that's a bit mean,” Mrs Chambers said. “Ellie can look after herself.”

Oz nodded slowly in a way that let his mum know she'd just pronounced the understatement of all time, since Ellie was more skilful and tougher than most of the boys in Oz's year. “She can, yeah, but not every girl is Ellie, and then you've got idiots like Skinner who grow about an inch a month. I've seen his brothers, and if they're anything to go by, he'll be huge by the time he's sixteen. If he collided with someone like Natasha Stilson, running flat out, he could do some real damage.”

“I suppose so.” Mrs Chambers gave a reluctant nod.

“So, there are seven in the squad, and we're Lions A. There's a Lions B too, and every other team has done the same, split their league team into two five-a-side teams.” Oz finished explaining the competition's set-up and then added, “And afterwards, there're burgers and hot dogs and stuff. So, Ruff will be happy.”

Half an hour later, Oz waved goodbye to his mother and ran out to a white van that pulled up outside, “We Are the Champions” blaring from its speakers.

“You up for it, Oz?” Mr Adams, Ruff 's dad, asked as Oz got into the van next to Ellie.

“Yup,” Oz said, waving his kit bag. “Ham and ketchup sandwiches, drinks, lucky hat, the lot.”

Mr Adams grinned at him lopsidedly in the rear-view and sped off. He wore a bobble hat on his head, but his flyaway hair still managed to poke out in several places. He got them to the park and pulled up but didn't get out. Instead, he left the engine idling as he helped unload kit before wishing everyone luck again and roaring off.

“Your dad's not staying, then?” Oz asked. He couldn't remember a game they'd played where Mr Adams hadn't been shouting encouragement from the touchline.

“He's got a job on. Some woman wants her patio finished by Easter. Said he'd try and come along later.”

“He can't miss the barbecue.” Oz frowned.

“Oh, look, they've put the flags out already,” Ellie said brightly as they stepped through the car park gate into the playing fields.

Oz followed Ellie's pointing finger towards the two pitches and barely managed to resist the urge to thank Ellie for stating the obvious. After all, they'd flown the flags exactly the same way last year and the year before. However, there was something in Ellie's forced, shrill tone that told Oz she'd said it for the sake of deflecting the conversation more than to provide information. Sandra Ojo and Pete Williams joined them as they hurried across to the Lions' encampment behind the goals of one of the pitches. A mound of kit bags, discarded training tops, and empty energy drink bottles lay scattered on the ground.

Most of the players were already having a kickabout, but Oz noticed one familiar face, its owner sitting cross-legged on the ground.

“Hey, Niko,” Ruff said. Niko looked up, nodded, and then returned his attention to the gizmo in his hands. Curious, Oz walked over.

“What's that, new phone?”

“New smartphone. It came with the laptop from Mr Heeps. Does everything except the dishes.”

They peered admiringly at the device.

“Keep an eye on it. You see who's behind us,” Ruff said.

Oz turned around and saw the Skullers had set up camp just twenty yards away. As if on cue, a burst of jeering laughter emerged from the dozen or so players seated on the ground. Oz saw that Jenks and Skinner sat right in the centre, with Jenks holding court.

“Come on, let's go and warm up,” Oz said, ignoring them.

“I have to finish something first,” Niko said.

Ruff and Oz exchanged glances and shrugged before running over to join their teammates. Although the sun shone, it was still barely April, and the wind gusted briskly across the open expanse of the park. Oz, in goal, kept his warm-up gear on and his lucky beanie hat pulled down over his ears. It had been a long, cold season, and the hat had saved his ears from frostbite on many occasions. Oversized and black with a red diamond pattern, it had been a present from his mum the Christmas before, after she'd seen an Italian goalkeeper wearing something quite similar in a Champions League match on television. She'd thought the Italians' jerseys most fetching in pink and blue, and Oz was grateful that she'd just gone for the hat and not the full kit.