Читать книгу The Devil's Paintbox - Robin Jarvis - Страница 9

Verne Thistlewood lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He’d jammed pillows against his ears, but could still hear his parents rowing.

That’s all they did nowadays: argue and stress about their finances. The Thistlewoods owned an amusement arcade, but back in the spring most of the machines had been dismantled to make ludicrous gadgets and weapons when an ancient feud had magically possessed the entire town. The people of Whitby had come perilously close to destroying one another in a bloody battle.

The arcade never recovered after that. The insurance company wouldn’t pay out to replace the damaged amusements and Verne’s parents had sunk into debt. The summer season was already here and the town was thronged with tourists, but with only a dozen machines still working the arcade simply wasn’t earning enough. It was desperate.

The front door slammed and the vibration travelled through the apartment. One of his parents, probably his mother, had stormed out. Always practical, she had taken a job as a cleaner in the very gym she could no longer afford to be a member of and that morning was her first shift. Verne let out a long and dismal breath. He imagined that, unless some miracle occurred, they were going to have to sell up and probably live in a tent – if they could find a cheap, second-hand one.

The boy glanced at the chest of drawers across from his bed. Miracles were possible, he knew that better than anyone. He had his very own mini miracle-maker hidden away among his socks.

Getting to his feet he opened the top drawer, reached into a corner and pulled out a bundled-up T-shirt. Pausing a moment while he listened to make sure his father was still downstairs, he carefully unwrapped the precious object within. The morning sun blazed over the richly engraved golden surface. It hurt his eyes to look at it. This was the Nimius, the most incredible magical device ever created. Verne placed it gently on his pillow and sat back on the bed. He never tired of looking at this amazing treasure. It was breathtakingly beautiful and there always seemed to be some new detail to see.

The Nimius had lain dormant since that crazy week in the spring. Verne didn’t know how to wind the secret mechanisms, and none of the levers or symbols would push or slide. He and Lil had spent many patient hours examining and testing it, without success. Verne suspected it was broken.

The Nimius was his great secret. Only two people knew that he still had it: one was his best friend, Lil Wilson; the other was the town’s resident witch, Cherry Cerise.

‘What’s driving me round the bend,’ he muttered, ‘is that you’re probably the most valuable thing in the world and here we are, barely scraping by.’

Taking it up once more, he let out a squeak of surprise as he felt an internal movement and a series of delicate clicks. Then, to his delight, some of the many symbols began to rise.

He and Lil had made a pact that if and when the Nimius became active again, he would let her know straightaway. His first thought was to call her, but then he stopped himself. Placing the Nimius back on the pillow, even more gently than before so as not to accidentally press anything, he opened another drawer and took out a notepad.

Turning the pages, he consulted the secret list he and Lil had made. They had studied the magical device very carefully, researching every one of its symbols and trying to figure out what they signified. The Wilsons owned a witchcraft-themed shop called Whitby Gothic over on the East Cliff and the reference books in there had proved very helpful. They had identified several astrological and alchemical signs, including the one for ‘air’, which had once enabled Verne to fly. Some others were easy, like the little hand inscribed with the lines important in palmistry – that was obviously something to do with fortune telling. Then there was a circle engraved with a strange compass-like pattern that Lil recognised as ‘the Wyrding Way’, which was supposed to keep the bearer from getting lost. There was the Eye of Horus, which was protection against evil, a scarab that represented rebirth, an owl that might be to do with wisdom, and some Viking runes.

Other symbols were more ambiguous and had question marks next to the drawings Lil had made of them. Lil and Verne had spent a long time discussing the ones with less obvious meanings. There was an oak leaf, which had remained a puzzle, although they knew that oak trees were important in Celtic mythology. (Verne had wondered if it might grant enormous strength and he had posed like the Incredible Hulk to demonstrate, which had sent Lil into hysterics because he was the absolute opposite.)

Verne scanned the list and turned to the Nimius to see if any of the newly risen symbols were of the obvious variety.

There was a rune inscribed on to an oval button: a vertical stick with two branches to one side. He found the corresponding entry in the notes, then grinned and punched the air.

It was the rune for wealth.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he pressed it. There was a click and the Nimius trembled. The other levers and switches sank slowly into the golden casing once more.

Verne waited eagerly, hardly believing how lucky it was that the very miracle he needed had been supplied so readily. But as the minutes ticked by his joy faded and he began to grow doubtful. He had half expected everything in the room to magically transform into solid gold, or diamonds to fly in through the window. Suddenly uneasy, he reached for his phone again, then decided to go and see Lil and tell her in person.

Rewrapping the Nimius in the T-shirt, he slipped it into his rucksack and hurried downstairs.

‘That you, Verne?’ his father called from the living room.

‘Just going over to Lil’s!’ he called back as he ran past.

Dennis Thistlewood appeared in the hallway, just in time to see the kitchen door close.

‘Hang on!’ he shouted. ‘Take this!’

He had pulled out his wallet and the last of his precious ten-pound notes were clutched in his outstretched hand. For some time Mr Thistlewood stood there, waiting. After a while, when Verne didn’t return, he shook his head in confusion and wandered back into the living room, letting the money fall from his fingers to the floor.

Verne cut through the amusement arcade. With only the front section in use, it was a sad place. The area at the back had once housed vintage automata, but was now filled with broken machines. In this dimly lit area, with its deep shadows, they looked melancholy and neglected. The boy quickened his pace and was soon surrounded by the familiar noises of the working slot machines near the entrance.

Only a handful of holidaymakers were playing them, spending whatever change they had rattling in their pockets. Clarke, Verne’s older brother, was sitting in the change booth, absorbed in a cheeky text conversation with Amy, his girlfriend.

Just as Verne passed by, every machine went crazy.

Lights and buttons flashed, buzzers blared and bells rang in a cacophonous riot. Clarke looked up, startled. Even the amusements that weren’t being played were going nuts. Jackpot after jackpot was clunking into position. There was a rush of silver as each machine spewed out a heap of money. Coins gushed down with such force they overshot the payout tray and cascaded to the floor. It took only moments for each amusement to empty, but the mechanisms continued to chug long after.

At first the bewildered customers backed away in alarm. Then they gave elated yells and were on their knees, shovelling the cash up with their hands.

‘What the . . .?’ Clarke shouted, as he leaped from the booth. ‘Wait, you can’t have that! There’s been some technical fault. Put it down!’

The holidaymakers laughed at him. This was brilliant! There were hundreds of pounds here, just waiting to be scooped into their pockets.

Clarke looked around wildly and saw Verne by the main entrance.

‘Don’t stand there gawking!’ he roared. ‘Get over here, or call the police.’

The people were like greedy seagulls going berserk over a discarded bag of chips. Clarke tried to stop them, but it was impossible. Passing between the spent machines and slipping on the coins, Verne ran to help.

‘Stop it!’ he pleaded. ‘It isn’t yours, you know it isn’t.’

To his surprise, they halted and turned to him, with faces drained of all expression. There was an eerie silence, broken only by a last coin falling from the push-and-drop. Then, as one, they advanced towards Verne.

The boy watched them nervously. They looked weird, with silly grins on their faces. He began to edge away.

The holidaymakers grabbed hold of Verne’s rucksack.

‘Get off !’ he cried. ‘You can’t have that. Let go!’

Afraid they were after the Nimius, he lashed out and stamped on a flip-flopped foot. The person didn’t flinch. Verne was about to kick the nearest shin when he realised that they were actually trying to give him all the money they had taken.

The rucksack dragged on his shoulders as each new load of coins was tipped inside.

‘All for you,’ they told him in flat, empty voices.

Verne struggled and managed to pull himself away. He ran to Clarke who bundled him into the booth for safety. The customers followed, their vacant smiles frozen in place, holding out hands that were still dripping with change.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Clarke demanded. ‘Get out, go on!’

‘We’ll leave it here for him,’ they said, casting the coins on to the floor in front of the booth. ‘We wish there was more.’

The crowd wandered from the arcade, blinking groggily when they reached the sunshine outside.

‘What. Was. That. About?’ Clarke uttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘They were like money zombies,’ Verne said with a shudder.

‘Always zombies with you, isn’t it? Look at the state of this place. I’m going to have to close up till I can sort it. How do I explain this to Mum and Dad?’

‘It’s like the machines were all hacked or got a virus or something,’ Verne said. ‘That’s not possible though, is it?’ He began tipping out the looted change from his rucksack.

‘Here, you’d better have this too,’ Clarke said.

When Verne looked up, his brother was holding out a wad of notes from the change booth’s till. Clarke was smiling vacantly.

‘What?’ Verne muttered faintly.

‘Take this money,’ Clarke told him. ‘There’s eighty quid. I can get more.’

Verne felt a knot tighten in his stomach, beginning to understand. This was the power of the Nimius. The wealth button was working, but not in a way he had expected or hoped for.

‘No thanks. You go sit down for a while. I need to see Lil – pronto.’

‘Do you want my phone then? It’s better than yours.’

‘No, really – I have to go.’

Swinging the rucksack on to his shoulder, Verne ran from the arcade.

It was a glorious summer morning. Pier Road was busy with tourists and a fresh salt breeze was blowing in from the sea.

Verne hurried along the quayside, dodging families who stopped in their tracks as he passed, staring then reaching for their wallets and purses. A corridor of unnatural silence formed in his wake as their gabbling voices and laughter were stilled. Keeping his eyes fixed on the way ahead, he ignored the unsettling attention, stopping only when he barged into a small girl who ran into his path.

‘This was for ice cream!’ she shouted up at him, thrusting out two pound coins. ‘I have to give it to you instead.’

‘No you don’t,’ Verne told her. ‘Go get your ice cream.’

‘Can’t!’ she replied fiercely and tears began to splash down her face. ‘It’s your money now.’

Verne shook his head and strode past her. The girl let out a desperate wail and tried to stuff the coins into the back pocket of his jeans.

Verne pushed her off and would have run, but the way was blocked by a huge red-faced man in a vest, whose bulging arms were sleeved in tattoos.

‘What you doin’ with my little Rebecca?’ he barked.

‘My ice cream money!’ she cried before Verne could answer.

‘You snatched her money off her?’

‘No!’ Verne protested.

‘He won’t take it, Dad,’ the girl sobbed. ‘Make him!’

The man’s fleshy face scrunched up and the veins bulged at his temples as he bent down to glower closely at Verne, his mouth twitching into a silly grin.

‘Her money not good enough, is that it?’ he asked.

A large hand grabbed Verne by the shirt while the other took the money and shoved it into his pocket. Then the man tore a thick gold chain from his own neck and tucked it in as well.

‘I got no idea why I just did that,’ he snarled through the fixed smile, ‘but you’d better get out of my sight before I change my mind and give you a slap you won’t forget.’

Verne didn’t argue. A large group was forming around them.

‘Scuse me!’ he shouted, barging through. ‘Got to go!’

‘Wait!’ urgent voices called after him. ‘Take this!’

Verne ran along New Quay Road, towards the swing bridge. His friend Lil lived across the river on the East Cliff and, at this hour on a Saturday, would undoubtedly be at the shop her family ran in Church Street.

Before he set foot on the bridge, squeals of astonishment broke out behind him. Glancing across the road he saw two cashpoints pumping out a blizzard of crisp banknotes. Thousands of pounds were spraying on to the pavement, faster than anyone could catch. Eager hands grabbed up fistfuls, then everyone turned to face the boy with the rucksack and started moving towards him.

Verne groaned and, as he did so, a gust of wind came funnelling down Flowergate and caught up the rest of the notes. They whirled like autumn leaves in a tornado, then came swirling over the road, heading straight for him.

He spun around and ran across the river. The vortex of cash pursued him, catching up before he was even halfway across the bridge. Next minute he was encased by a violent storm of money. When he tried to yell, some flew into his mouth. Spluttering and thrashing his arms to clear a space in front of his eyes, he lurched into Church Street.

In Whitby Gothic, Mike Wilson was unpacking a stock delivery.

‘Plastic pumpkin baskets?’ he exclaimed. ‘There must’ve been a mix-up – we never have tacky tat like this. I’ll ring the supplier and send it back.’

His wife, Cassandra, was sitting behind the till, removing black varnish from her fingernails.

‘I ordered it,’ she told him. ‘Punters expect it so we might as well flog it.’

Mike looked at her with concern. Ever since their schooldays, Cassandra had professed to be a witch and dressed accordingly. But lately she hadn’t bothered with her usual elaborate eye make-up and had started wearing baggy T-shirts and stretch leggings instead of the Victorian-style gothic dresses she loved.

‘You all right, Cass?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine,’ she said with a vague shrug.

‘Because you’d never normally allow a pumpkin in the shop. You’ve always said you can’t stand the Disneyfication of All Hallows’ Eve. We’ve always had traditional turnip lanterns.’

‘No one makes plastic turnip lanterns,’ she answered flatly. ‘And most of our customers couldn’t care less anyway. Don’t think I do any more either. Does it matter? It’s just junk for the tourists. I’m giving in to consumer demand.’

Mike thought she’d given in to more than that, but he kept quiet and took the box to the storeroom. As he returned to the main shop, a commotion in the street caused him to look out of the window.

‘What’s going on out there?’ he wondered. ‘Cass – come look at this. It’s snowing money!’

Church Street was choked with swarming banknotes. Shoppers and holidaymakers were leaping to catch them, pausing only to stare at the bizarre spectacle that came staggering over the cobbles. It was a churning cloud of money, reeling clumsily from one side of the street to the other.

A fifty-pound note blew against the shop window and Mike peered closely at it in amazement. A twenty joined it, then another cluster of fifties.

‘Them’s genuine!’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s a fortune in jumbo confetti flapping about out there. Has a bank exploded?’

The light dimmed as more notes papered the glass, and a small hand slapped the pane, right in front of Mike’s nose, making him jump. Then a familiar face thumped against the window and howled for help.

‘It’s Verne!’ Mr Wilson cried, wrenching the door open and plunging into the freak windstorm outside.

The strings of bells and charms that hung around the door frame rang and clattered madly as the tempest burst in, along with Verne. Cassandra hurried from the till to help. It took all their strength to slam the door shut as the screaming wind focused its full fury against it. For long, anxious moments it juddered and quaked, then all was suddenly quiet. The bells stopped jingling and the money that had flown inside with Verne fluttered gently on to the floor. Outside, the wind dropped to a soft breeze and three hundred thousand pounds went dancing down the street.

Verne sagged in Mike’s arms, gasping and shaking.

‘You OK?’ Mr Wilson asked.

‘Been better,’ he panted, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘Having a bit of a peculiar morning.’

‘No kidding. Your face and hands are bleeding.’

‘Paper cuts.’

‘I’ll get the first-aid kit. So what just happened – that wasn’t normal. Was it, er . . . was it . . . umm, you know?’

Smoothing her storm-lashed hair, his wife moved away from the door. She looked with disdain at the money littering the shop.

‘He wants to know if it was supernatural in origin,’ she said tersely. ‘You’d think, owning a witchcraft shop, my husband wouldn’t be so coy about it. Was it something to do with our Lil?’

Verne shook his head.

‘No, but it wasn’t a natural thing.’ He squirmed. ‘I, er, can’t say any more.’

‘I see,’ she said, bending down to pick up the notes. ‘More mysteries and intrigue we’re excluded from.’

‘Where’s Lil?’ Verne asked. ‘Isn’t she here?’

Before Mike could respond, his wife snorted.

‘Course Lil isn’t here. She’s with her. Where else would our daughter be these days?’

‘Go easy, Cass,’ Mike said. ‘So, Verne, how’s your mum and dad?’

The boy gave an awkward shrug.

‘Noreen still behaving like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum?’ asked Mrs Wilson. ‘She always did cut her nose off to spite her face.’

Verne frowned. She and his mother had fallen out. The Wilsons’ shop had made a large profit from the trouble back in the spring. In a moment of stress, Noreen Thistlewood had made a comment about it and a row had flared up that had not been resolved.

Mrs Wilson was about to say more when there was a beep from the counter, followed by the sound of the till drawer sliding open on its own.

Verne winced. The Nimius’s power was still exerting itself.

‘Take this,’ Cassandra said in a far-off voice as she pushed the cash she’d collected at him. ‘Mike, get the takings as well.’

Her husband went to the till, but Verne made a dash out of the shop.

Church Street was a lot emptier than it had been five minutes ago. Verne pelted over the cobbles, nervously hoping the supernatural gale wouldn’t return. He knew where Lil was now. There was only one ‘her’ who was that important to his best friend these days – Cherry Cerise.

Racing to a narrow entry that led to one of the yards behind Church Street, the boy rushed up to a cottage with a brightly painted yellow door and a letter box framed by garish red lips.

Verne rang the bell with one hand and knocked with the other.

‘Hey!’ a brash voice called from inside. ‘Get your sticky digit offa my ding-a-ling! What is this, a raid? I’m warnin’ you, I go from nought to riot real quick.’

The door was opened by a slender woman in her sixties, wearing a neon-blue wig and a minidress covered in large orange circles. She stared at him through yellow sunglasses.

‘For a puny stick insect,’ Cherry Cerise said, ‘you sure got a heck of a knock, kid. Say, you been messin’ with your dad’s razor? What gives with the face?’

She was about to usher him inside when the door of the adjoining cottage opened and a frail lady in her seventies hobbled out with a stick.

‘Wait!’ the neighbour called. ‘Don’t disappear just yet.’

Cherry braced herself. Mrs Gregson was not the most agreeable of neighbours.

‘What is it this time, Joan?’ she began. ‘My breathing keepin’ you awake at night again? And I can’t help it if I yelp when I wax my particulars. You’d know what that felt like if you let me take care of that moustache for you.’

The woman ignored her and jabbed a finger at Verne.

‘Saw this lad go by,’ she said, ‘and I have to give him something.’

She pulled out a purse. ‘Here’s what’s left of my pension this week,’ she said, tipping out a paltry seven pounds. ‘This was supposed to last me another five days.’

She thrust it at Verne, but he stepped away.

‘Stand still!’ she demanded. ‘I can’t catch you with this dodgy hip. If I fall and end up in hospital, it’ll be your fault.’

Verne could tell she was deadly earnest, so he took the money, intending to post it back through her letter box later.

Mrs Gregson hadn’t finished. The pensioner leaned heavily on her stick and twisted her wedding ring off.

‘Worn this over fifty year,’ she said. ‘But here, have it. You want me to get on me knees and grovel?’

Verne shook his head and took the proffered ring without resistance.

‘What’s goin’ on?’ Cherry demanded.

‘Witchery!’ Mrs Gregson spat back, and tears were coursing down her face. ‘What else would it be, with the likes of you next door – and her what lived there before you? Always been a witch’s cottage that one. When will you leave us ordinary Whitby folk in peace? When?’

Kissing her naked finger, she returned to her own home.

‘You got an Everest of explainin’ to do,’ Cherry told Verne. ‘Get inside.’

Clutching the wedding ring and the seven pounds, the boy obeyed.

The hallway of Cherry Cerise’s cottage was a delicate pink and smelled of roses and berries until she closed the door behind them. Then the walls dipped into a shade of violet.

Verne had grown accustomed to the interior changing colour to match the witch’s mood. What he wasn’t expecting was to find his best friend Lil sitting cross-legged and perfectly still on a chaise longue, with filaments of faint amber-coloured light threading and tangling around her raised hands. A stream of the same glimmering energy flowed from the centre of her forehead, slowly forming a halo around her.

‘Whoa!’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s all that?’

Lil grinned at him and the shifting lattice of light flickered.

‘Quick, take a photo with my phone!’ she urged, directing him with her eyes to a nearby cushion, where her mobile lay. ‘Mum’ll choke when she sees this.’

Verne did as he was told, but repeated his question.

‘It’s Lil’s aura,’ Cherry answered, following him into the parlour. ‘As a rule, they’re invisible, even if you’ve got the sight, but I gave it some zizz and lit it up so we could see how she’s progressin’ and maybe get a clue as to what kind of witch she might be. Her own powers are kinda weak and trembly right now, but they’ll get stronger the more she uses them and grows in confidence. Witches’ auras express themselves in different ways. Mine looks like my own personal disco – like a huge psychedelic Afro.’

‘Cherry thinks the way it’s forming knots around my fingers shows that it’s connected to my knitting,’ Lil told him. ‘Might be where my gift is strongest, which isn’t exactly the most fearsome or ostentatious deal ever.’

‘Knot and cord magic is an ancient form of the craft,’ Cherry chided. ‘Goes way back to the earliest practitioners. If done right, a charm created by a knot witch can store a crazy amount of force and be stronger than most of the later flashy spells and complicated hexes. Trouble is, I don’t know much about that kind of hoodoo so Lil’s gonna need a better guru than me.’

A bright blue star sparkled from Lil’s forehead and swiftly travelled the path of the halo before shooting into one of her ears.

‘What was that?’ Verne asked in surprise.

‘We think it might be psychic energy Scaur Annie left behind,’ Lil told him.

‘I s’pose being possessed by a seventeenth-century witch must leave its mark,’ the boy said.

‘Either that or it’s puberty kickin’ its heels,’ Cherry cackled. ‘But that’s all, folks. The light show is over. This old broad needs her twinkles back. Feelin’ kinda angsty already; a colour witch requires every drop of her spectrum inside of her.’

Moving her hands as if winding in a kite, Cherry drew the amber glow away from Lil’s aura and absorbed the light back into herself. She breathed in deeply as if refreshed, then turned to Verne.

‘Now then, kid, fess up. What’ve you been up to? Why’d old grumpy Gregson throw her dough and wedding band at you?’

The boy shifted unhappily and stared about the parlour, ashamed to meet the witch’s severe gaze. He noticed that since he was here last week, decorations of bright, crocheted flowers had been sprinkled around the seventies-themed room. They were Lil’s handiwork and demonstrated just how close she and Cherry had become.

‘I’ve done something really stupid,’ he blurted. ‘I just didn’t think!’

He pulled the rucksack from his shoulders and unzipped it with trembling fingers.

‘The Nimius!’ Lil exclaimed. ‘You got it working again? Brilliant! I told you it was just tired, not broken.’

‘You make it sound like it takes batteries,’ Verne said. ‘It’s not a phone that needs recharging. And no, it’s not brilliant actually, not at all.’

‘Lots of things need recharging,’ Cherry interrupted, easing herself into the egg-shaped wicker chair suspended from the ceiling. ‘What else do you think you’re doing when you’re in the land of snooze? Even magic can get exhausted – seizing control of half a town would drain anything. Or did it occur to you that your pimped-out gizmo might’ve just been waiting?”

‘Waiting for what?’ Lil asked.

‘Hey, I’m not the one who had Melchior Pyke’s avenging spirit squatting inside my wig stand,’ Cherry answered. ‘If anyone knows the answer to that, it’s the Twiglet Kid here. If a witch can leave her mark in your noodle, so can a magician.’

Verne shook his head. ‘You know, as soon as everything got back to normal, I forgot how to work it.’

‘Normal, he says,’ Cherry scoffed. ‘Kid, this town weren’t never what you call normal. Hate that word anyways. But that glittery little doodad should’ve been gotten rid of months ago, somehow. I keep tellin’ you – it’s way too powerful and we don’t know what it’s really capable of. Pyke didn’t write a user manual, or if he did it got burned up with his workshop.’

Verne’s brows creased. ‘But I’m sure I was meant to be its guardian.’

‘Oh brother, why has everybody got to be the chosen one these days? You seriously think you can keep that thing safe in your apartment, nestling in your skivvies? I’m surprised your mom’s not found it already, hawked it on eBay and jetted off to Vegas. Flattered though I am that you told me about it, you really should’ve clued in your folks as well. Secrets in families only do harm.’

Cherry stopped abruptly and stared at her own hand. Without realising, she had removed a bracelet studded with three ammonites from her wrist and was holding it out to him.

‘As the Whitby witch in residence,’ she began, ‘this is my symbol of office and is pretty darn priceless to me. So why am I giving it to you right now? Just what did you do, kid?’

‘I clicked the symbol for wealth,’ he confessed.

The violet-coloured walls shifted through different hues of red and the carpet turned tangerine.

‘Were you always this dumb?’ Cherry asked. ‘Everything you get through this mysterious force we call magic has to come from someplace, ’specially if it’s the in-your-face, heavy-handed macho kind like what’s in the Nimius. Masculine forces follow two basic principles – control and grab.’

‘Female energies are the healing and nurturing ones,’ Lil added.

‘And the smuggest,’ Verne said. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, honest. It’s just that everything’s so bad at home. Mum and Dad are at each other’s throats the whole time. Since they fell out with your folks it’s got so much worse.’

‘Wait,’ Cherry interrupted. ‘Your moms and dads have had a row?’

‘They’re not speaking to each other,’ Lil said, embarrassed.

‘My mum doesn’t even like me hanging out with Lil now,’ Verne continued miserably. ‘But she knows she couldn’t stop me. When the Nimius woke up earlier, I thought it was answering my wishes. I just wanted to make everything better.’

Cherry let her annoyance out with a long breath and the parlour dipped into softer tints of pale green, accompanied by a refreshing waft of peppermint and freshly mown grass.

‘Hey, I was gonna fix Lil and me a shake when you knocked,’ she said, nipping to the kitchen and returning with three tall glasses of milk, topped with creamy froth and impaled with straws. ‘What’s your favourite flavour?’

‘Chocolate,’ Verne said without hesitation.

‘And I know Lil’s is butterscotch, so here we go.’

Setting the tray down, she waved a hand over it. There was a pulse of pale light. The milk in one glass turned a rich velvety brown and the other a pale caramel.

‘It’s how I first realised I weren’t quite like everyone else,’ Cherry said, passing the glasses round.

Verne took an experimental sip. It was the most delicious milkshake he’d ever tasted.

‘On my sixth birthday,’ Cherry continued, ‘my daddy took me to a diner for a treat. I’d put on my prettiest new dress, candy pink with a white sash, pearl buttons, bobby socks and the dinkiest red shoes you ever saw. I was so proud to be out with him. He was shame-the-devil handsome, with his Sunday church suit and pomade in his hair. But even back then I was a contrary gal and, by the time the banana malt that I’d asked for arrived, I’d changed my mind and wanted strawberry instead. My daddy, who was just as stubborn as me, wouldn’t get it switched. So I held that glass in my hot little hands and glared at it like it was the worst calamity that ever befell a human being. Didn’t take long for that evil yellow malt to turn pink and start bubbling like a tar pit. I couldn’t stop it and I screamed. Then the glass exploded and there was strawberry gloop all over the diner. Ruined the dress and my daddy’s best suit. Never touched a banana since – but strawberries I forgave.’

She had taken up her own glass. It was now shot through with deep pink swirls and she applied her fuchsia-painted lips to the straw.

‘My daddy never took me no place again,’ she said presently. ‘He vamoosed soon after and it was just me and Mom and our daily war of wills till I ran away at thirteen.’

‘That’s so sad,’ Lil said.

‘It’s part of being a witch,’ Cherry warned her. ‘It’ll turn your life inside out and sometimes you lose those dearest to you. They can’t handle what you really are, but if you try to stifle it, pretend you’re somethin’ you’re not, you’ll make yourself miserable.’

‘We’re OK here though,’ Lil argued. ‘Everyone in Whitby knows you’re a witch now, and how we ended the curse.’

‘Oh sure, they know,’ Cherry agreed. ‘And they was real grateful at first, but folks don’t like being beholden. Gratitude wears thin real fast.’

‘I haven’t noticed anything like that,’ Lil said.

‘That’s the way it goes. You’d better get ready for the backlash.’

‘They can say what they like,’ Lil declared. ‘I’ve been laughed at all my life because of Mum and Dad. A bit more won’t hurt.’

‘I’ll always be Lil’s friend,’ Verne said. ‘I think it’s fantastic she’s a witch now!’

‘You’ve got a chocolate moustache,’ Lil told him.

Cherry smiled. The bond between those two was beautiful and strong.

‘Real friends are the truest treasure,’ she said. ‘They’re the family you choose and will be there when the real thing lets you down.’

‘I’m lucky with my parents,’ Lil countered. ‘They’ve been playing at being witches since they were kids themselves. Their idea of a date night was getting in the car, finding some remote spot and dancing round a bonfire in the nuddy.’

‘They don’t think they’re playin’,’ Cherry reminded her. ‘It’s a serious deal for them.’

‘Well, they don’t need to pretend any more. Their daughter is a proper witch.’

Cherry wasn’t so sure. She felt that Lil was being a bit blind to what was happening in her own family. Changing the subject, she tapped the Nimius with her straw.

‘So,’ she asked Verne, ‘how strong d’you reckon this wealthus-pocus is?’

‘Very,’ he answered firmly. ‘I was chased across the bridge just now by a furious cloud of money that the bank spat at me. The cashpoints vommed it out and I couldn’t get away.’

Lil started to laugh. ‘Like Winnie-the-Pooh and the honeybees?’ she cried. ‘Or money bees! I wish I’d seen that!’

‘Wasn’t funny!’ Verne protested. But his friend’s laughter was always infectious and he couldn’t help joining in.

Cherry bit her lip and tried to stay stern, but the walls were shimmering pink and gold, betraying her amusement, which made Lil laugh all the louder.

‘What if it never stops?’ Verne giggled. ‘What if the queen comes knocking – with the crown jewels in a wheelbarrow?’

They all laughed at that and were only stopped by an urgent banging on the front door. Looking at one another with shocked faces, they burst out laughing again.

The insistent, battering summons continued.

‘It better not be Her Maj,’ Cherry said, going to answer it. ‘This Biba minidress weren’t made for no curtseys – ooh la la!’

Verne turned the Nimius over in his hands. ‘Seriously,’ he groaned to Lil, ‘what am I going to do?’

In the hall Cherry gave a yell. They heard the front door smash against the wall and a tall figure came stomping into the cottage.

The face was hidden in the hood of a parka, fastened as high as the zip allowed. He wore trousers so baggy they were comical, but they were caked in mud and so were the shoes.

Striding into the parlour, the intruder took his hands from the parka’s pockets.

‘Can’t be!’ Verne gasped.

The walls and ceiling turned an angry scarlet as Cherry came storming after.

‘Just who d’you think you are, bustin’ in like this?’ she demanded.

The figure unzipped the coat and pulled the hood down, revealing his tin skull and torch-lens eyes.

‘Pardon this unseemly intrusion,’ Jack Potts apologised. ‘I could not help myself.’

The reels in his chest spun around and three oranges clunked to a stop. The ten pences that had been fed into his head earlier came gushing from the payout tray above his waist.

‘This is for you, Master Verne,’ he said, bowing formally. ‘How pleasant it is to see you again.’

And the left eye flickered.