Obsidian Pebble by Rhys Jones Read Free Book Online

shopping. Buzzard, as someone might say.”
    â€œEnglish doesn’t have to be in until Wednesday,” Ruff said. “I haven’t even started it yet.”
    â€œSome of us managed to get it all done despite being in Centre Parks with a million cousins wanting to play Scrabble or go swimming or biking every single minute of the day,” Ellie said, turning haughtily away with her nose in the air.
    â€œYeah, well, not everyone’s perfect,” Ruff said.
    â€œSo I’ve noticed.” Ellie gave him a hundred-watt smile and ducked just in time to avoid the thrown football. They clambered into the van and Oz watched them leave.
    â€œBest of luck,” he shouted after them. “And watch out for the Skullers’ dirty tricks.”
    â€œWe will,” Ruff yelled back, “don’t you worry.”
    â€œSee you tomorrow, Oz,” yelled Ellie.
    Oz walked back through the quiet streets with that word “tomorrow” ringing in his ears. Tomorrow meant school. Yes, he’d see Ellie and Ruff all day, but Seabourne County was pretty big and full of all kinds of people, not all of whom Oz enjoyed the company of. And then, of course, there was homework. Oz groaned inwardly. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.
    He exited the park and crossed a few roads and then turned a corner into Magnus Street. Fifteen yards along the pavement he passed a parked people carrier with all its windows rolled down. The four occupants, a man, a woman and two small children, had their heads poking out of the windows and were staring up at the houses, nostrils flaring.
    â€œSay, excuse me?” said the driver as Oz walked by. “Do you live around here?”
    Oz turned. “Yes, I do.”
    The driver wore a baseball cap and a golf shirt stretched across a chest that was very broad, but not as broad as the belly beneath it. Written on the cap was the word “Broncos.”
    â€œThis is a mighty fine street, with its architecture and gardens and all. And old, I guess?”
    Oz nodded. “Some of the houses are sixteenth century.”
    â€œSixteenth century?” He turned to the woman in the passenger seat. “You hear that, Darlene? Sixteenth century. Holy moly.”
    Oz wasn’t surprised to see them there. After all, Magnus Street was on the visitor’s map under “Historic Seabourne; a grand street where years ago the Great and the Good built large impressive houses so that everyone would know how important they were.”
    The man in the baseball cap regarded Oz. “Guess it’s seen better days, but what is it we can smell?”
    â€œSmell?” Oz said, suppressing a smile.
    â€œYeah. We’ve driven all over Scotland and the North of England—”
    â€œAnd Wales, Daddy,” said a small voice from the back. “Remember, all those funny names?”
    â€œWales, too, but we’ve never come across anything like this.” The man frowned and shook his head. “We’ve been up and down this street half a dozen times and we still can’t figure it out. Fact is, it doesn’t really smell of anything I can put my finger on. But it’s so darned zingy, makes you just want to suck it all in and then do it over again.”
    â€œWhat might happen.” Oz nodded and smiled. “That’s what you can smell. Whole street’s full of it.”
    He turned to walk away and left them staring after him. There was no point continuing the conversation because he’d already given them the only answer he knew. There were nicer, more colourful and brighter streets by the dozen in Seabourne, of that there was no doubt. And to the casual observer the houses on both sides did look a little run down and in need of a lick of paint.
    Yet there was something about Magnus Street—some hard to define quality that no one could quite explain. It was as if the atmosphere was thick with the suggestion of things yet to be and the