The Last Phoenix by Linda Chapman

“You’re really going to sell Fenella’s gold?”
    â€œYeah. So what?” Her look of disappointment bothered him, but he refused to show it.
    Milly bit her lip. “But Fenella gave us that gold—it’s special, it’s amazing, it’s…from her .”
    â€œBut I’ve promised the guys a night out tonight. Look, I won’t sell all of it,” Michael countered. “I just really need some cash if I’m going to get my mates back.”
    Milly looked skeptical. “If they were really your mates you wouldn’t need to keep them with money.”
    â€œOh, stick to singing your boring songs, Annie!” said Michael crossly. “I’m out of here!”
    Without a backward glance he jogged away through the clearing, along the driveway and started heading back into town. But as he ran along the footpath he knew he had only blown up at Milly because she was making sense. Even so, what was he supposed to do—give up and let Rick nick all his friends? He put his hand in his pocket and felt the phoenix gold. When I buy Rick his hot dog later, Michael thought, I hope he chokes on it .
    Thankful that even in Moreways Meet the shops were open till six on a Saturday, his first stop was the jewelers on High Street. They had a sign in their window that said WE BUY GOLD —perfect!
    The woman in the shop was starchy and pale with thick blond curls. Her cherry-red lips were pursed in disapproval as he wandered up to the counter in his scruffy jeans and rugby shirt.
    â€œHi,” he began, trying his most winning smile. “You buy gold, yeah?”
    â€œSometimes,” said the woman guardedly.
    â€œYou’ll want to buy this.” Michael pulled one of the pieces of phoenix gold out and slapped it on the counter.
    The woman’s eyebrows shot up so far they were almost lost in her hairdo. She picked the gold up and held it to the light, turning it around and looking at it from all angles. It gleamed softly. “It’s beautiful,” she said slowly. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen.” Her expression hardened as she turned back to Michael. “Where did you get it?”
    â€œIt used to be my gran’s,” he lied. “She left it to me in her will, and now I need to trade it.”
    â€œDo you, indeed?” the woman said, looking more closely at the gold. “Well, it hasn’t got a hallmark. It isn’t real gold.”
    â€œCourse it is,” Michael blustered.
    â€œI’m not sure what it is,” she went on, engrossed. “And besides, you’re a minor. I’d need your parents’ permission to even value it.” She looked at him again. “I’ll give you a form if you like and you can get them to fill it in.”
    Michael’s palms were sweating. “Can’t you just buy it off me right now? Say, a hundred quid?”
    The woman frowned at him. “Look, what’s going on? Where did you really get this? What’s your address?”
    The questions hit Michael like a barrage of bullets. His nerve broke and he snatched the gold back from her and barged back out the door. Stupid, he told himself. She’ll probably call the cops now, thinking you nicked it .
    Quickening his step, he headed toward the dowdy little maze of crooked alleys that led to his back-up plan—the secondhand shop, Junk and Disorderly. It was here that they’d left Skribble in the genie lamp after saying good-bye. It was weird how he had showed up outside Milton’s house, waffling on like that.
    Michael lingered in the cobbled street outside the junk shop awhile and caught his breath. If he looked furtive or anxious, the owner—Barry, his name was—might think the gold was dodgy too. And Michael knew this was his last chance to get the bar cashed in time to hit the multiplex that night.
    He pushed open the door. Barry looked up from his dog-eared paperback and nodded vaguely.