Читать книгу The Power of Dark - Robin Jarvis - Страница 8

‘Is that mouse poo?’

Verne didn’t get an answer so he turned from the suspect deposits on the window sill to the kitchen table. Lil was carefully placing a batch of home-made polymer clay badges on a baking tray.

‘Ten green witchy faces, with pointy hats,’ she declared proudly as she slid them into the oven and clicked the timer round. ‘At four quid each in the shop, that’s forty quid and I get to keep thirty of it – not bad. If I can make another hundred before the next big Goth Weekend, I’ll be minted.’

‘Mouse poo?’ Verne repeated.

Lil shrugged.

‘They always come in from the cliff in bad weather,’ she told him. ‘We can’t leave anything out, like bread or biscuits or even bags of pasta. Mum swears she saw one with pale blue eyes and insists it was a paranormal visitation so she won’t use traps, and Sally can’t chase them any more, so we’re stuck with them.’

Verne wrinkled his nose at the droppings; they didn’t look remotely supernatural to him. Crouching down, he stroked the old West Highland terrier in her basket. Sally rolled over to let him tickle her tum.

The boy cast his eyes round the Wilsons’ eccentric orange and black kitchen. It was a weird combination of Macbeth and IKEA, just what you’d expect from a couple of modern-day witches. He loved coming here. It was the complete opposite of his own home above the amusement arcade where his dust-phobic mother vacuumed the carpets and curtains daily and nothing was ever out of place.

Lil’s parents were well known locally, being the owners of an occult shop in Church Street called Whitby Gothic, selling all manner of peculiar and supposedly magical things. They loved dressing the part too, mainly in black with a strong Victorian twist, which they had also foisted on Lil from the day she was born.

Whitby was the perfect place for such a shop. This small seaside town was famous for being the spot where Dracula had landed, bounding off a wrecked ship in the form of a large black dog. But it boasted many other legends and eerie tales of ghosts and monsters. They, combined with the haunting beauty of the ruined abbey and weathered graveyard, high on the East Cliff, attracted seekers of the supernatural and romantic dreamers like a magnet. It was no wonder Lil’s parents had grown up to be witches.

‘Can’t your mum and dad cast a spell to keep the mice away?’ Verne asked. ‘Or maybe just the non-paranormal ones? That should be peasy magic.’

The girl scowled at him.

‘No such thing,’ she said for the umpteenth time. ‘There’s no real witches in Whitby – or anywhere else. Just annoying people like my mum and dad who like to dress up and dance round fires making twits of themselves. Tragic, yes; magic, no.’

Verne wasn’t so sceptical, but before he could reply, his stomach growled loudly.

‘Borborygmus!’ Lil declared.

‘What? Is that a magic word, like abracadabra?’

Lil laughed. ‘It means belly rumbles,’ she explained. ‘It’s the latest find for my old word collection. I’ve been dying to use it. Great, isn’t it?’

‘Where’s that cake you promised?’

‘Sorry, I was so busy getting my badges ready, I forgot. We’ve still got plenty left over from my birthday yesterday. My mum might be a bit of a loon, but she’s a killer baker.’

Verne agreed. The cake was a moist chocolate sponge, filled with purple butter cream and green jam, topped with a cobweb of yellow icing and twelve black spiders. Mrs Wilson called it Scrumptious Wickedness, and it was.

‘Make it a big piece,’ Verne said as Lil took the lid off a large, rodent-proof tin. ‘My mum’s on a faddy diet so she can fit into her costume on the Goth Weekend and we’ve all got to eat the same rabbit food as her so she doesn’t get tempted. No pies or chips allowed and absolutely no cake.’

‘Your mum doesn’t need to diet; she’s always jumping about in a tracksuit. And you definitely don’t! Why d’you think Tracy Evans calls you “Flimsy”? What’s your mum going as – a bonier than usual skeleton?’

‘Same as always,’ the boy answered, in between mouthfuls. ‘Steampunk Edwardian airship pilot in a leather corset with goggles and a ray gun. She was gluing the brass cogs on her flying helmet earlier. And my dad’s going as her robot butler. His outfit is almost done. It’s going to look look pretty good actually.’

‘The way the steampunkers and goths compete with each other over their mad costumes is so funny. The get-ups are more elaborate every time. Nowadays you can’t just have a top hat; it has to have smoke coming out of it and flashing lights. And if you’re one of the undead, you’ve got to have movie-quality make-up, preferably with giblets hanging out.’

‘Why are our folks so embarrassing?’

Lil grinned. Their eccentric parents had been friends since their schooldays, and now she and Verne were best friends too.

She began tidying away her modelling tools and showed Verne the smart, leather-bound journal she had been given for her birthday. By a happy coincidence, Verne had presented her with a beautiful quill pen, fitted with a biro nib, the feather of which was the same shade of blue as Lil’s fringe. Using the pen, Lil had already filled a couple of pages with a list of archaic words discovered in her parents’ books. Those forgotten words were fun to say and she was determined to use them in everyday conversation if she got the chance.

‘Mirificus,’ she read aloud to Verne. ‘That means awesomely wonderful, and mulligrubs is when you’re feeling down and grumpy.’

‘I like mulligrubs!’ the boy said, repeating it to himself.

Sally stretched in her basket, then made her way to the back door, glancing backwards to let them know she wanted to go out.

The oven timer pinged. Leaving Verne to remove the badges, Lil pushed the door open for Sally. The wind was so fierce it snatched the handle from her hand and wrenched at the hinges. Lil scrunched her face against the battering rain.

At her feet, the little dog stood still, contemplating the severe weather. Lil gave her an encouraging tap on the bottom and the Westie hopped off the back step and ventured into the wild evening. Lil closed the door hastily and pressed her nose against the glass.

The small garden was hidden by gloom. Beyond the shed, the ground climbed sharply, becoming the sheer slope of the East Cliff. This row of cottages was directly beneath it. Lil couldn’t see the top; it was lost in the storm. Up there was the old graveyard that every tourist loved to visit and where the goths regularly draped themselves across crumbling headstones, posing for melodramatic selfies.

‘It’s horrible out there,’ she told Verne. ‘I don’t think it’s going to blow over any time soon.’

‘These badges are great,’ he said, putting the hot tray on the table. ‘Wish I was artistic like you. You draw and make stuff, you knit . . . Stop being so talented, it makes me sick. What’ll you do with the money from these?’

‘Oh, I’ve got . . . plans,’ Lil said mysteriously. ‘Colourful plans.’

Peering through the glass again, she could see no sign of Sally, but it was no use calling for her as the old dog was completely deaf. Lil didn’t want to get drenched fetching her in, so she reached for the small torch that hung by the door and shone it towards the far corner of the garden, by the shed. The beam flashed over Sally’s milky eyes and the dog came splashing through the puddles. Lil had a towel waiting.

‘You’re wet and filthy!’ the girl scolded.

Sally made contented and playful grunting noises as she let herself be dried. It was one of her favourite games and she was disappointed when Lil stopped.

The noise of the gale outside grew louder, angrier – raging in from the sea and howling down the cliff behind the cottage. The children looked at each other.

‘I’ve never heard anything like that before,’ Verne whispered. ‘It doesn’t sound normal. It’s spooky, like screaming ghosts.’

‘Don’t be soft,’ Lil snorted. ‘It’s just the wind. You’ll be saying the weather gods are angry and need placating next – just like my mum.’

‘No I won’t. I’d say it’s the approach of the zombie apocalypse.’

‘You’re always saying that though.’

‘One of these days . . .’ the boy said with an exaggerated shiver as he waggled his fingers at her.

The eerie noises outside intensified.

‘You want to spend the night on our sofa?’ Lil asked. ‘You can’t get home in this.’

The prospect of staying at the Wilsons all night appealed, but so did the adventure of battling through the storm. Besides, Verne felt the need to demonstrate some courage after being bullied by Tracy Evans.

‘I’ll get going now,’ he decided. ‘Before it gets worse.’

‘Wait till Mum and Dad come back from the shop,’ Lil suggested, knowing they wouldn’t let him slog his way across to the West Cliff alone. ‘They’ll be here any time. Anyway, all your books are on the radiators.’

But Verne had made up his mind.

‘I’ll pick them up tomorrow,’ he said.

Pulling on his coat and scarf, he slung his still-damp rucksack over his shoulders and hurried through the hall to the front door.

‘I really don’t think you should go out in that,’ Lil cautioned. ‘Listen to it!’

‘I’ll be fine.’

Lil’s forehead crinkled with concern, realising she couldn’t dissuade him.

‘Well, you be careful crossing the bridge!’ she said.

‘I’m not that flimsy! I won’t blow away.’

‘Text me when you get home safe, yeah?’

Verne waved her worry aside and hurried out into Henrietta Street, but he wasn’t prepared for the ferocity of the storm. It was like being hit by an invisible train and he almost went flying. The wind raged up from Tate Hill Sands to tear his breath away and push him violently, pummelling him along. It was frightening and thrilling at the same time. Verne lumbered and staggered and lurched.

The East Cliff was the older half of the town, with many passageways leading off to small courtyards, and the voice of the gale screamed from each opening. As Verne tottered past the foot of the 199 steps that led up to the graveyard and ruined abbey, the tempest came barrelling down them, knocking him sideways. Horizontal rain mixed with sand and sea spray stung his eyes. Suddenly afraid, Verne tried to turn back to the safety of the Wilsons’ cottage, but it was impossible and he was driven further up the street.

The narrow ways were deserted. Shop signs swung wildly, while lamp posts shuddered, their quivering lights shaking the shadows. A large awning over a cafe was buckling, pulling on its fixings. A roof tile came crashing down in front of him, car alarms blared and window boxes were snatched from ledges, exploding like mortar shells on the cobbles below.

Suddenly there was a rending of metal as the awning was ripped from the wall. It flew across the street, shattering windows and wrecking shopfronts as it twisted and rolled. Hearing the noise, Verne whipped round, just in time to see the tangle of steel and tattered canvas careering straight for him.

Yelling, he raced away, but the heavy awning came banging and smashing after, riding the wind faster than he could run. Spinning and rebounding from one side of the street to the other, it bore down on him. The flailing steel struts whirled round like the runaway blades of a combine harvester, gouging chunks from walls and striking sparks from the ground. Verne knew he’d be killed if he didn’t get out of its way.

With a desperate spurt of energy, he leaped aside into the turning for Market Place and dodged behind one of the broad pillars there. The awning rampaged by, chiselling deep cuts in the stone exactly where his head had been. It thundered along, until its lethal progress was halted when it smashed into the windscreen of a parked van.

Catching his breath, Verne stumbled on. Hurrying down the even narrower passage of Sandgate, he approached what he knew would be the most dangerous part of this nightmare journey. Steeling himself, he rounded the corner and faced the swing bridge that spanned the River Esk.

In that exposed spot, the gale was stronger than ever. It came sweeping in off the sea, throwing the boats in the harbour about like bath toys. The sheltering piers were no protection. Waves came crashing between them; whipped white and deadly by the squall, they charged up the seething river. Bales of foam surged over the harbour wall and streaked across the road, scattering in the storm. With bitter irony, Verne recalled what he had said to Lil. The possibility of being swept away was a very real one. He stared fearfully at the bridge ahead, where the waves were lashing through the railings, and let out a cry of surprise.

There was a woman on the bridge.

Even through the driving rain and the blizzard of foam flecks, Verne recognised her. No one else in Whitby dressed like that. It was Cherry Cerise, whom all the children laughed at. She was wearing a shocking-pink plastic raincoat, with a matching hood tied tightly under her chin and the nylon tresses of an orange wig were streaming wildly behind.

She was standing in the exact centre of the bridge, facing the harbour mouth while wrathful waves broke around her. Miss Cerise was in her sixties and more than a bit strange, but Verne had never seen her do anything as weird as this before. He wondered if she was all right. She was perfectly still. Perhaps she was paralysed with fear.

Forgetting his own terrors, he ventured on to the bridge, wading through the seething sea foam and clutching hold of the grilled railing. The bridge was juddering alarmingly.

‘Hello!’ he bawled, trying to make himself heard above the tempest. ‘Hello! Are you OK? Do you need help? You have to get off the bridge. Go home!’

It was only when he drew close to her that she noticed him. The woman turned her pale face, eyes covered by rhinestone-rimmed sunglasses.

‘Who are you?’ she cried. ‘Scram, kid!’

‘You can’t stay here!’ he yelled back. ‘Where do you live? Let me help you.’

Cherry Cerise jerked her head around and raised her hands as if to ward off the storm.

‘You hear that?’ she shouted manically. ‘There’s voices on the air. Powers are wakin’, kid – dark powers! Resentment! Hate! Vengeance!’

Verne couldn’t hear anything but the clamour of the storm.

‘Come away!’ he pleaded, but the woman grabbed his shoulders and shook him roughly.

‘Run, kid!’ she shrieked in his face. ‘Save your own skin! But you won’t escape. None of us can! The ruin of everything has started!’

Verne pulled himself free and it was then he saw that she had tied herself to the railing with the belt of her raincoat.

A huge wave came smashing over the bridge, drenching them both. For the second time that day, Verne was thrown to the ground.

Cherry Cerise leaned into the gale and started singing.

‘You’re off your head!’ the boy yelled at her.

He didn’t wait any longer. If she wanted to get soaked and risk her life out here, that was her business. At least he’d tried to help.

Clinging to the other railing, he made his way across the bridge and ran on to the quayside of the West Cliff. He was almost home. Before rushing there, he paused and turned back for one final glimpse of the deranged woman.

Verne blinked and rubbed his eyes. Strange lights seemed to be shining from her hands. Bright colours were pulsing and glowing over her outstretched palms. The boy shook his head and backed away. It was an insane night; he must be seeing things. He was exhausted and anxious to get indoors – and he couldn’t wait to text Lil.