The Ogre Downstairs by Diana Wynne Jones Page A

know.”
    “Of course,” said the Ogre. “Come along, you two.”
    Caspar lingered. Malcolm hung back. “Just a moment,” Malcolm said.
    “Early closing,” said the old man firmly.
    “Come along,” said the Ogre, more firmly still.
    Despite all their efforts to loiter, in two seconds they were outside the door of the shop, each clutching a pink football he did not want. A key clicked in the door of the shop. A blind came down behind the glass, with the word CLOSED painted on it. That was that. As the Ogre led the way to the car park, Malcolm looked at Caspar despairingly.
    “Early closing means we’ve got to stay like this until lunch time tomorrow,” he said.
    “I know ,” said Caspar, “What did you have to make me taste that stuff for?”
    “It was your fault. You called me a liar. Watch out,” said Malcolm. “Don’t forget I’m bigger than you now.”
    “As if I cared!” said Caspar.
    The Ogre turned round, looking his most sinister. “Is something troubling you?” he enquired. “Nothing I can’t settle by crashing your heads together, I hope? And how about a word of thanks for the footballs?”
    “Oh – thank you,” they said, and miserably followed him to the car. When he had dropped them at school, they stood just inside the gate wondering what on earth to do with the footballs. They were so very pink.
    “I suppose he meant to be kind,” Malcolm said drearily. “Would Gwinny like them?”
    Caspar thought he had never hated the Ogre more. “No she wouldn’t. She hates pink. Let’s try leaving them in the cloakroom. Someone’s bound to steal them. What are we going to do ?”
    “Stay this way till tomorrow, I suppose,” Malcolm said, sighing heavily. “There’s the bell. Come on.”
    They trudged off to endure the afternoon. Caspar had hoped that it would not be too bad, since Malcolm’s year had football. But Malcolm played in goal. Caspar, who liked to be up front somewhere, had never kept goal in his life, and he let in almost every shot.
    “I thought that was one thing you were good at!” someone said to him disgustedly afterwards.
    “Yes,” Caspar snapped, thoroughly weary and cross. “But I broke my arm on Dale Curtis this morning.” And he marched away to the cloakroom, longing to get home. To his annoyance, the boy followed him, apologising. Caspar was just about to get rid of him, when it came to him that Malcolm could do with a friend – or he could, if he was going to have to be Malcolm for the rest of his life. So they talked about how horrible Dale Curtis was all the way to the cloakrooms. The pink footballs were still there. Nobody had even wanted to steal them. Malcolm was there too, looking at them morbidly.
    “What on earth are those?” said the boy.
    “Ogre’s eyeballs,” said Caspar. Malcolm gave a scream of insane laughter.
    “Not off his rocker, is he?” asked the boy.
    “No, but he’s not quite himself today,” said Caspar.
    He and Malcolm walked home together, nursing the footballs and mournfully considering all the possible troubles and misunderstandings waiting for them at home.
    “But not to tell anyone,” Malcolm insisted.
    “Not a darned soul,” Caspar agreed.
    “Caspar’s gone friends with Malcolm,” Johnny reported to Gwinny. “Would you believe that? They’ve both got pink footballs to prove it.”
    “Why?” said Gwinny. “Can I borrow a toffee bar?”
    “Only if you get out. I’ve got some experiments to do,” said Johnny. “If you ask me, it’s sinister. Caspar was awfully strange at school too.”
    Caspar was fairly sure Johnny was suspicious, but there was nothing he could do about it. He did his best to behave like Malcolm. He went up to the tidy room and put the pink football very neatly away in the glass cupboard, which was a thing he was sure Malcolm would have done. But as soon as Douglas came in, he realised how little he really knew about Malcolm’s habits and had to hurry away downstairs before Douglas