The Chocopocalypse Read online

  Then she spotted a familiar name. “ ‘The Positive in the Negative’ by A. T. Curtin.” She looked at Gran. “That’s you!”

  Curtin was her gran’s maiden name, and Jelly knew she’d worked in a laboratory when she was younger but had never asked her about it.

  “You’ve had your work published in a book?” Jelly asked now, surprised.

  “Oh, just bits and pieces, dear,” said Gran, her cheeks growing pink. “Nonsense, really. That was the last thing I had published before your mum was born. Well, the last thing I ever had published, in fact. Gave it all up, of course.” She settled herself against the cushions. “Back then it was a woman’s job to bring up the children, and I did it gladly.”

  Jelly nodded. She had heard all the stories of her grandad being the worst bus driver in the world, so it seemed a shame that Gran had had to stop her work instead. But Jelly missed him hugely. Her favorite memories of him were Sunday-afternoon visits, when after a roast dinner and a few bottles of chocolate stout he’d launch into a country western sing-along. She wished she could listen to him singing “A Cowgirl Stole My Horse” just one more time.

  “What kind of things did you do in your lab?” asked Jelly, breaking off another chunk of Blocka Choca.

  Gran smiled and gently ran her finger across her printed name. For just a moment, she looked different somehow—whether it was pride or sadness, Jelly couldn’t quite tell.

  “I was part of a team in London. Our research center was just around the corner from Downing Street, you know.”

  “Really?” asked Jelly. “That close?” She had just done a school report on Number 10 Downing Street, where the prime minister lived.

  “Oh yes,” replied Gran. “I could see the prime minister’s front door from the room where I worked.” She hesitated. “Well, you could see it from the ladies’ restroom…if you stood on a chair!”

  “So what did you do there?” said Jelly, leaning forward.

  “We carried out research and experiments to confirm that something didn’t work.”

  “That something didn’t work?” asked Jelly, confused.

  Gran laughed. “I suppose it sounds quite crazy when you say it out loud! But sometimes that’s science for you.”

  It didn’t make complete sense, but Jelly quite liked the fact that she didn’t fully understand it, and she looked at her gran with newfound admiration. Gran had been a real scientist, doing mad science things!

  “Can I read it?” Jelly said, straightening the book’s dog-eared pages and battered corners.

  Gran shrugged. “If you like. Not that it’s good bedtime reading,” she added with a laugh. “It’s so boring, it’ll probably send you right off to sleep.”

  A little while later, Jelly found out that it did exactly that!

  Sharp sunlight filled her bedroom as Jelly peeled the curtains back and opened the window. A lovely cool breeze was accompanied by the usual dawn chorus of trucks, cars and motorcycles.

  The M891 highway passed right by her house, just at the end of the back garden. Trucks and vans delivering chocolate were a constant part of life in Chompton.

  Jelly actually liked all the traffic; it made her feel like she was at the center of the chocolate world. Every morning she would watch the snaillike progress of the pollution-pumping vehicles and give the drivers a wave. Once in a while, she’d get a wave back. It always amazed her what people did while driving their slow-moving vehicles: shaving, eating, putting on makeup and even reading books!

  She waved to a truck driver who was picking his nose and got ready for school.

  —

  Half an hour later, Jelly was in the backyard, munching on toast and wondering whether to wear a cardigan. As usual, she had tied her long blond hair in a high ponytail, just like Mum. She loved the way it swayed about her head, and she strode about the yard purposefully to encourage its swooshing motion.

  “What are you doing at school today?” Dad shouted above the din of the traffic.

  Jelly shrugged. “Same as usual, probably,” she yelled back, and watched as Dad proudly watered the large clump of weeds in the corner of the garden. Nobody had the heart to explain to him that they weren’t actually flowers. Nothing they planted ever grew in their garden, probably because of all the pollution from the highway.

  Turning the hose off, Dad stood back to admire the mass of tangled stems and leaves with the odd small yellow bud poking out.

  “They’re coming along nicely, aren’t they?” he bellowed.

  “Yeah,” Jelly called back. “They’re…lovely. What are you doing today, Dad?”

  “Dave said he might have a job for me,” Dad said, and Jelly made a face.

  She didn’t like Dave much—her mum called him Dodgy Dave—but Dad sometimes did some work for him, like removing old kitchens or unloading trucks or installing wiring. Dad always promised he would never do anything “dodgy,” and Jelly believed him, but she was still worried that since he’d lost his job at the Big Choc Lot, he might be tempted.

  Putting it from her mind, Jelly decided it was a no-cardie-day. She waved goodbye to Dad and grabbed her schoolbag, swinging it in wide circles as she left the house.

  Mr. Walker, who lived two doors down, on the other side of Mrs. Bunstable, was standing on his lawn with his little Yorkshire terrier squatting beside him.

  “How is Truffles today?” asked Jelly, already knowing the answer.

  “It’s been three days now,” said Mr. Walker, frowning, “and we haven’t used a single poo bag. We can’t get his usual doggy chocs anywhere. They used to keep him regular!”

  Jelly looked at the straining Truffles and felt sorry for him. That had to be uncomfortable. “I’m sure he’ll be okay soon,” she said.

  She would usually give Truffles a gentle rub on the head but decided not to today. She wouldn’t like someone rubbing her head while she tried to have a poo.

  —

  Every morning, on her way to school, Jelly would walk down Cookie Way and past the old kids’ playspace Barmy Bounce on Bittersweet Street. She used to go there when she was little and had especially loved the ball pit and the holes in the mesh that weren’t meant to be there—she’d always had great fun confusing, and sometimes scaring, Mum and Dad by disappearing from the ball pit and turning up somewhere completely different.

  Sadly, it had been closed by the town council after Dad and Dodgy Dave had installed an Emergency Power Off button to shut down the electricity when needed. Dave’s dodgy wiring had caused the slushy machines to overheat and the bumper cars to go too fast! Someone’s dad had gotten stuck between two bumper cars without anybody noticing—until a group of Brownies pulled him free. He had sued Barmy Bounce for unlawful imprisonment, and the Brownies for assault.

  On the corner of Cookie Way and Bittersweet Street was a large bronze statue of Sir Walter Waffle holding out a block of chocolate. It used to be considered lucky to lick the block, but there was now a Hygiene Regulation sign (with a warning of a hefty fine) that said NO LICKING.

  The shop on the corner itself was Chompton-on-de-Lyte’s newest, trendiest and most expensive chocolate shop: Chox. It never seemed to have customers. Jelly wasn’t surprised—why would anyone pay high prices for fancy Chox chocolate when there were dozens of cheap chocolate shops just down the road?

  It was so expensive that Jelly had never dared go in before. But it was Gran’s birthday next week, and she wanted to get her some really special ginger chocolate in a nice box for her special chocolate drawer. She stared into the shop window. Twinkling lights and candles illuminated the display, and shining fabrics had been draped luxuriously around glittering purple and brown boxes. Some were open, displaying tiny, delicate dollops of dark chocolate. A sign, which had not been there yesterday, was stretched across the window:

  THE END OF CHOCOLATE IS UPON YOU!

  Just underneath it said NO CHILDREN, but Jelly thought the owner couldn’t mean that. No children in a chocolate shop? Maybe it was a joke�
�.

  She took a deep breath and pushed the door open. It buzzed loudly, which sounded as if someone was being electrocuted, and Jelly jumped, then felt a bit embarrassed.

  The first thing she noticed was how cold and unwelcoming the shop was. And it smelled somehow a little bit rotten. It reminded her of the teachers’ faculty room and made her shiver.

  Just as she was pondering whether to stay, a man at least as old as her gran popped up from behind a towering display of purple chocolate boxes. He had hair that was slicked back away from his face, an elaborate mustache and a long pointed nose. He glowered at Jelly through narrow eyes.

  “The sign says ‘no children,’ ” he snapped, pointing at an identical warning outside that was framed and on the wall.

  Jelly could not make out his accent. It wasn’t quite French or Spanish or Dutch, but then it wasn’t quite right for anything—almost like a combination of every language that existed. Jelly suspected he was faking it.

  “I’m s-sorry…but I’m only h-here because…I’d like some…some ch-chocolate, please,” she stuttered nervously. “It’s f-for my gran.”

  The man sighed impatiently. “Well, obviously you’re here to buy chocolate,” he hissed. “This is a chocolate shop.”

  “Yes…obviously…,” Jelly said, feeling awkward. “But what I wanted was…ginger chocolate.”

  “Ginger chocolate?” he spat, raising his thick eyebrows impossibly high.

  As he stepped out from behind the large display, Jelly was surprised to see him wearing some sort of brown safari suit—the kind people wore on documentaries about endangered animals. It looked exactly like it had been made out of Gran’s caravan curtains. In his hands were a cup and saucer, and one of his little fingers was sticking out at a perfect right angle (which was how Mum drank her coffee whenever they visited snooty Auntie Agatha). Jelly breathed in the distinctive aroma of hot chocolate, but it smelled a bit strong—bitter almost, and she could see that the color of it was almost black.

  “I am Gari—Garibaldi Chocolati—and I sell only the finest chocolate known to the human race!” he exclaimed. “The finest and the purest. I take the greatest care to find premium quality products from original sources.”

  He put down his cup and pointed to a wall full of framed photos of himself in various exotic locations. In each, he was wearing the same immaculate brown safari suit and inspecting sacks full of beans or fields of cacao trees.

  “I offer not just the best chocolate in this town, but the best chocolate in the world,” he went on, “and you want ginger chocolate!”

  “Um—yes, please,” answered Jelly, suddenly wishing she’d gone to get it somewhere else.

  “You’ll be asking for one of those hideous Blocka Choca bars next!” he went on.

  “Yes, I’ll have one of those too, please,” said Jelly, starting to get annoyed with this very rude man.

  Gari had just picked his cup up again but slammed it back down and disappeared behind the counter, tutting and sighing dramatically.

  As she waited, Jelly heard a crashing noise down a long corridor behind him. At the far end, she was sure she could see the ball pits and brightly colored walls of the old Barmy Bounce. It made sense, she supposed, realizing that the play area must be at the back of Chox. She could just make someone out in the distant gloom who seemed to be moving large boxes around (and maybe dropping a few). He seemed to be talking on the phone (so no wonder he was dropping things).

  Gari rummaged, tutted and sighed some more, until finally he dropped a tiny purple box onto the counter. The word “Chox” was written in swirly letters across it.

  “The only chocolate worth buying,” he purred, and flipped open the lid with a flourish.

  Jelly was hit by an invisible cloud of pungent, bitter chocolate. Her knees quivered, and suddenly she felt as if she might faint.

  “You may try a small sample,” said Gari, holding out the teeniest piece of almost-black chocolate on a toothpick.

  Jelly took the toothpick and cautiously put the chocolate into her mouth. It was awful!

  “It meets with your approval, yes?” asked the shopkeeper, arching an eyebrow.

  “Erm…well,” said Jelly, trying to breathe through her mouth and not her nose, and not to spit out the horrible chocolate.

  Closing the box, he snapped, “That’ll be twenty even.”

  “What?” blurted out Jelly. “Twenty smackeroos, for that tiny box?”

  He shrugged. “Prices have gone up.” He pointed to the sign in the window. “Because of the Chocopocalypse.”

  Jelly held open her wallet and peered inside. All she had was exactly twenty, which had taken her ages to save up especially for Gran’s birthday. She was planning on getting the chocolate and a few other things for Gran. She didn’t like this fancy Chox chocolate, but maybe Gran would….

  Feeling worried, she was about to hand Gari the twenty when she noticed a small white insect scuttle across the counter. It looked a bit like a wood louse, or the flying ants that were sometimes in their garden on really hot days.

  “Er, no thanks,” she said, backing away from the counter. “I’ll leave it for today.”

  She didn’t wait to hear what Gari said.

  The buzz of the door sounded as Jelly hurried from the shop, making her jump again, but she felt relieved to be out of that horrible place.

  Insects in a chocolate shop? she thought as she ran to school. Yuck!

  “Did you see that nut on The Seven Show last night?” asked Potsy Potter from the table behind Jelly. “He was saying that there’s going to be no more chocolate by Sunday. That’s scary!”

  “But you don’t actually believe it, do you?” asked Jelly, turning around.

  They were in the classroom, waiting for their teacher, Mr. Tatterly, to arrive for roll call.

  “Course I don’t,” he said, going red. “I’m not an idiot. I’m just saying—what a nut!”

  “You watch The Seven Show?” Maya, Jelly’s best friend, asked with a smile. “I mean, are you, like, a hundred or something?”

  “My mum and dad watch it,” he replied defensively. “It was just on. I wasn’t properly watching.”

  Both Jelly and Maya turned back around, grinning.

  “But did you see it, Jell?” whispered Maya. “That professor guy was officially creepy—and imagine if it was true. I mean, I know it isn’t true. But just imagine if it was!” Her mouth dropped open. “It’d be a serious nightmare.”

  “So do you watch The Seven Show?” asked Jelly, with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Well, it’s just on in the background—you know what I mean!”

  “Yeah,” said Jelly. “I know what you mean.”

  Mr. Tatterly stumbled into the classroom, books from his arms spilling out onto the floor. He tried desperately to hold on to some remaining books, tuck his shirt in and stop his glasses from falling off—but failed miserably at all three.

  “I’ll manage,” he said to no one in particular.

  He picked the books up and settled them into a pile on his desk, only for them to all slowly slide off, back onto the floor.

  “I hope everyone is progressing nicely with their science experiment videos,” he said, collecting the books up again and trying to find his glasses.

  Most of the class nodded, which made Jelly’s heart beat with alarm. She hadn’t even started yet, and she didn’t have a clue about what to do it on. It had been worrying her for ages, and because she had been worrying about it, she hadn’t started it. And because she hadn’t started it, she had worried about it even more. It was the eternal cycle of worry.

  “Remember,” continued Mr. Tatterly, picking up the last few books, “it’s about the scientific process, more than the content. It can be about anything at all. But it must include the four elements of…?” The class replied with a familiar silence.

  “The four elements of: question, experiment, results and conclusion,” he answered for them with a sigh. “I want you all
to upload your videos onto the school’s website, then watch everyone else’s and click the ‘like’ button on the video that you think explains the whole process the best. The deadline is this Sunday night, when I’ll check on the videos and count the ‘likes.’ ”

  Jelly’s heart sank. If she didn’t get enough “likes,” she might be moved down a group and end up with Dante Durden, who spent all day picking scabs off his knuckles. She had already been warned about “lack of focus” on her school report. But how could she focus when she worried too much about getting everything right? It wasn’t as if she couldn’t do the work—she just couldn’t do the work on time. Sometimes the lessons seemed to disappear before she’d started.

  “What’s the prize for the winner, Mr. Tatterly?” asked Potsy Potter, munching loudly.

  “Are you…eating…chocolate, Potter?” Mr. Tatterly tried to bellow, though his voice made him only slightly more frightening than a meerkat.

  “Er, yes, sir,” said a grinning Potsy, who wasn’t scared of Mr. Tatterly. (Actually, nobody was.) “It’s a Whopper bar. I’m eating it now in case there aren’t any left next week. I can sell you one if you like?”

  “That’s very kind of you, Potter,” said Mr. Tatterly, looking tempted. “But you and I both know that no one is allowed to eat food in school.”

  “Not even at lunchtime?” came a voice from the back.

  “Well…obviously at lunchtime…yes, but not during class is what I mean, and I think you all know that!”

  “But we’ve got to make the most of the chocolate, before it all disappears,” said a freckle-faced girl called Louise, who also had chocolate all around her mouth.

  “Ah yes,” laughed Mr. Tatterly. “The Chocopocalypse. I saw that last night on television. I mean…I didn’t actually see it myself, but my wife told me.”