The Devil’s Paintbox Page 11

  A crease lined Cherry’s brow, but at that moment unexpected reinforcements arrived to finish the task. Bats from every tunnel, cave, church roof, attic and barn around Whitby braved the daylight and flitted over the town, performing incredible feats of aerial agility as they caught and devoured the juicy banquet’s leftovers. Annie rocked on her bare heels and grinned proudly.

  ‘The ragged witch knowed a thing or two,’ she boasted. ‘None can gainsay that. And she had better friends than people, just see if she didn’t.’

  Verne turned his delighted face away from the bats and frowned at the girl.

  ‘Time for Lil to come back to us now,’ he told her.

  ‘Annie won’t be put in them shadows again,’ she refused, with a defiant gleam in her eye. ‘’Tis grand to feel proper sand ’twixt the toes, smell the brine and have the sun on your neck. Annie won’t give it up again.’

  Cherry removed her sunglasses.

  Annie tried to run, but Verne caught hold of her arms. She twisted, snatched at his hand and bit him. The boy yelled. Cherry grabbed her shoulders and held her firm.

  ‘Whoa now, you ain’t goin’ no place. You’re just shreds and scraps of Annie’s memories, not the real deal. We’re mighty grateful for what you just did, but don’t try claim jumpin’.’

  ‘I don’t want to be scraps no more!’ Annie answered. ‘I want this! I want proper life!’

  ‘What you’ll get is me jumpin’ in there again to kick your bony behind into touch and lock you in a memory dungeon so deep you won’t never climb out. Don’t think I wouldn’t!’

  Annie struggled, but Cherry’s eyes began to shine fiercely.

  ‘Do them tricks while you can!’ Annie said angrily. ‘Soon you won’t be able to do owt! What use is a colour witch with no colours left in her? Go on, have your little witch girl, but she won’t never be the same. I’ll stay by her closer than before, crouching and waiting and, when she’s weakest, I’ll take over!’

  Cherry gripped her more tightly than ever, a confused and scared look on her face.

  ‘What does she mean?’ Verne cried, nursing his hand. ‘Get rid of her. Bring Lil back!’

  ‘No colours?’ Cherry repeated. ‘Make sense. What are you talking about?’

  Annie laughed at her. ‘’Tis under your nose, yet you don’t see it. But then you’re blind to most matters. You haven’t unpuzzled it yet, have you? Not a whisper of a guess who it is standing behind the pain and loss and dealing out your ruin.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Cherry demanded.

  Annie grinned and closed her eyes. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’ll know him right enough, when he unmasks himself. He’s come back.’

  ‘Who has?’

  But Annie went limp and almost sank to the ground. Verne helped Cherry support her.

  ‘Tell me!’ Cherry shouted.

  ‘She’s gone,’ Verne said, staring searchingly into the unconscious girl’s face. The wild, primitive edge had softened into the features he recognised.

  ‘Lil,’ he called. ‘Lil. Can you hear me? Lil? It’s Verne. Come back. Wake up.’

  ‘She’ll be OK,’ Cherry promised.

  ‘You don’t know that. You had no right to barge into her mind and let that Annie person loose. No right at all!’

  ‘What else was I supposed to do, kid? It worked, didn’t it? She just needs to rest awhile. Let’s carry her home. Grab her legs.’

  The Wilsons’ cottage was nearby. Jack Potts opened the door to them and they laid Lil upon the sofa.

  ‘This calls for a strong pot of tea,’ the automaton said. ‘It will refresh and revive Mistress Lil when she awakens.’

  ‘Did none of those beetles get in here?’ Verne asked, looking round at the living room. ‘I can’t see any red splats.’

  ‘We were mercifully spared,’ Jack Potts answered. ‘Doubtless they would have reached us in due course.’

  ‘Lil’s mom not in?’ Cherry asked, wondering why Mrs Wilson hadn’t rushed to see her daughter.

  ‘I believe she is attending to her attire. One moment – I think that is her tread on the stair now.’

  Cherry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, pardon us for interrupting her titivating,’ she muttered under her breath.

  Heavy footsteps clumped down to the hall, and Cassandra Wilson swept into the living room.

  Even Verne raised his eyebrows. All his life he had been used to seeing Lil’s mother in her goth gear, but he had never seen her dolled up to this extent before.

  Mrs Wilson’s eye make-up was an elaborate work of art, with five separate colours spiralling out around the dramatic, thick black liner. Her lips were a deep, dark purple and her hair framed her face in rigidly lacquered waves. She was wearing one of her most expensive velvet bodices trimmed with ruffles of beaded black lace. A broad choker bearing a cameo made of jet was around her neck and a cloak that matched her lipstick, fastened with a silver moon brooch, draped from her shoulders.

  ‘Holy Liberace!’ Cherry declared. ‘How come you’re all trussed up like Frankenstein’s Easter egg?’

  Cassandra regarded her with barely concealed contempt.

  ‘What’s the matter with Lil?’ she asked, casting a cursory glance at the sofa.

  ‘Your daughter’s had a shock; the whole of Whitby has. Or did you miss what went down out there just now?’

  ‘I was otherwise engaged. Have you been causing more misery?’

  ‘Are you for real? You’re not tellin’ me you were so engrossed tarting up your face, you didn’t know what was goin’ on?’

  ‘In case you didn’t know,’ Cassandra replied acidly, ‘because of you and my daughter messing about with things you don’t understand and can’t control, my husband is extremely sick and was taken away last night. I’m on my way to him now and I wanted to look my best. I don’t suppose the likes of you would understand that.’

  ‘The likes of me?’

  ‘You have no family, do you? No one to care about, no one close.’

  Cherry bit her tongue.

  ‘Potts will see you to the door,’ Cassandra said coldly. ‘He can attend to Lil. You don’t need to hang around. Verne can stay, if he wants.’

  ‘You kickin’ me out?’

  ‘As I see it, you’re directly responsible for the deaths of everyone who has died of this disgusting sickness. Why would I want you in my house? Leave now or I’ll get Potts to eject you. I’m sure he’s quite capable of using force if necessary.’

  Cherry took a calming breath, sensing all was not as it appeared to be. Something had happened to Cassandra Wilson. She may have always been a silly and muddle-headed amateur, but now . . . there was a flinty confidence about her and Cherry couldn’t work out where it came from. She stared hard at her for a moment then turned to leave.

  ‘Look after Lil, kiddo,’ she instructed Verne, who was just as stunned by Mrs Wilson’s behaviour. The boy nodded distractedly.

  Cassandra stood aside as Cherry pushed by to go to the front door, where Jack Potts was already waiting to show her out.

  Cherry paused before leaving and turned back.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ she said to Mrs Wilson, eyeing her up and down, ‘I’d stop now, while you can – unless it’s too late already.’

  ‘Don’t come back here,’ Cassandra said, and the threat was unmistakable. ‘It wouldn’t be sensible.’

  Cherry made her way back to her cottage. An ambulance and fire engine hurried through the narrow streets of the East Cliff, on their way to attend the downed helicopter. They were followed by a police car that stopped outside the alleyway leading to Cherry’s cottage.

  She had only just returned home when Inspector Lucas knocked on the open door and entered without waiting to be invited.

  ‘Miss Cerise,’ the inspector addressed her. His stern face was peppered with acid blisters and tiny bites and he could barely contain his anger.

  ‘Walk right in, why don’tcha?’ she said. ‘Goin’ to throw me in the slammer because you think this is al
l my fault?’

  ‘Your tone is not appropriate, Miss Cerise. Twenty-seven people are now dead of the sickness, with a lot more expected to follow, and there were three crew on board that helicopter. Four of my officers are gravely ill and, without any backup from outside, I can predict the rule of law is going to break down pretty quickly here. So yes, I will formally ask you: is it your fault?’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, but no.’

  ‘Then who is responsible? For pity’s sake, this has got to stop! If you’re withholding information . . .’

  ‘Inspector, I wish I had nice easy answers for you, I truly do, but more people are gonna die and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop that. And, you know, hasslin’ me really ain’t the smartest move, cos I’m the only hope you got. Besides, the bad guys behind this are way outside your league and jurisdiction. I think there’s a human agent working with them, but I’m not a hundred per cent sure who that is yet.’

  ‘If you even suspect someone . . .’

  ‘I wouldn’t tell you. This isn’t some ordinary felony case. You got no idea what’s involved and if you did you’d soil your uniform. You just gotta let me deal with it, cos that’s what I’m here for. So thanks for the visit, but don’t get in my way or more people are gonna get hurt than is necessary.’

  ‘Actually, Miss Cerise,’ the inspector said, not bothering to hide his animosity, ‘the reason I came here was to warn you. Local feeling is running high and many people are already blaming you for this. If things turn ugly, I don’t have enough officers to protect you.’

  ‘Then call a freakin’ town meeting and get the mayor and councillor Jennifer Icypants Pidd to do their jobs and put people straight.’

  ‘I’d like to do that very much, Miss Cerise. Unfortunately, both of them died last night. Good day.’

  Cherry watched him leave. ‘I hate a pithy, slap-in-the-face exit line,’ she said. ‘But I hate what is happening to this little town a whole lot more.’

  She shook herself. The strain was beginning to wear her down, but there was so much to do.

  Climbing the stairs, she went into her spare room. It contained two wardrobes and one wall was covered in hats. On top of a brightly painted dresser, with different coloured drawers, was a cage.

  Cherry tapped the wire framework and something stirred in the straw.

  ‘Hey, Ziggy,’ she said, opening the small door. ‘You up for a spot of snoopin’?’

  A mouse’s small furry face emerged and stared up at her. Cherry removed her sunglasses and her eyes shone brightly.

  ‘Breakfast tea,’ Jack Potts said, bowing to deliver a rather lovely cup on its saucer to Lil who had finally come round. ‘An ideal reviver, with two sugars for shock.’

  ‘This was my nan’s special china,’ she said, sitting up. ‘No one uses this. It’s too precious.’

  ‘A fine example of Royal Worcester, with gold frilled edges and a most enchanting chime to the porcelain, like a sweet little bell. It should be used regularly, not hidden away in the corner of a cupboard.’

  ‘Put it back after this, yeah? And carefully – my nan loved it.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Verne interrupted.

  Lil blew across the steaming tea.

  ‘Escoimus,’ she answered.

  ‘Nauseous, queasy,’ Jack Potts translated.

  ‘But I’ll be OK. Did it work?’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Only bits, like a fading dream. Did we get rid of all those insects?’

  ‘If any got away, they’ll be too few to worry about. You totally saved the town.’

  ‘I didn’t. Annie’s memory did. Where’s Cherry?’

  ‘Your mum sent her packing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They had a bit of a barney. I don’t want to sound horrible or rude or anything, but your mum was a bit . . . strange.’

  Cassandra’s callous words the previous night came into Lil’s mind. The pain of them was still raw.

  ‘Where is she now?’ she asked quietly.

  It was Jack Potts who answered.

  ‘Mistress Wilson has gone to be with your father.’

  ‘She knows where Dad is? Where?’

  ‘In the ballroom of the Royal Hotel. Apparently the hotel has been commandeered as an overflow hospital.’

  ‘I spoke to my mum half an hour ago,’ Verne added. ‘Clarke’s there too.’

  Lil put the cup down without finishing her tea and jumped up.

  ‘Let’s get there then!’ she cried. ‘I can help them!’

  Once Lil had fetched her knitting bag, the two friends rushed out of the cottage. Jack Potts emitted a mechanical sigh, plumped up the squashed settee cushions and took the porcelain cup into the kitchen where he emptied, washed and dried it.

  Opening a cupboard to return it and the saucer, he paused, held the cup close to the window and gazed at the sunlight glowing through the fine china. Then he tapped it with one of his metal fingers and his eyes dimmed as he listened to the pure ring.

  ‘If I had a soul,’ he said wistfully, ‘this would be its eternal joy. A vessel fit to hold ambrosia, for goddesses to drink from. What everyday marvels and wonders humankind is capable of. Small perfections, that is where great happiness is found . . . do you not agree, Miss Cerise?’

  He turned to the kitchen table where a mouse with pale blue eyes was watching him from the shelter of the fruit bowl. Caught in the glare of the robot’s bright lenses, the mouse hesitated a moment, then darted away, scooting down the furthest leg and disappearing under a cupboard.

  Jack Potts hummed to himself, set the cup down on the window ledge and admired it some more.

  Lil and Verne made their way through the town, anxious to reach the Royal Hotel. The scarlet-stained streets were busy with people doing the same as them, trying to find their loved ones. Others were panic-buying food and essentials from the few shops that had opened and were lugging swollen bags back to their homes.

  Even though Cherry had insisted it wasn’t her fault, Lil couldn’t help feeling that it was. All the deaths, the horror and misery were down to her; she had set the whole thing in motion. It made her mother’s cruel rejection all the more terrible, because she was right.

  Hurrying over the river, they cut across the snaking Khyber Pass, clambering up the steep banks. The winding road had been cut into the cliff in Victorian times by the intrepid George Hudson, ‘The Railway King’, so that the building materials for his splendid hotel and ambitious Royal Crescent could be transported more easily. The crescent was only half completed, because he ran out of money, but the Royal Hotel was still a grand and stately edifice, overlooking the harbour.

  Several of the long white vans that had been so alarming last night were parked outside the main entrance and concerned visitors were hastening in and out of the hotel.

  Lil and Verne made their way inside and covered their noses immediately. The stench of the sickness was almost unbearable.

  The hotel’s reception area had been turned into a triage room, with one fraught and exhausted looking junior doctor trying to assess as many people as possible, and either allocate them space in the makeshift wards or send them home if their condition wasn’t too extreme or life-threatening. The fresh cases that morning were mainly bites and blisters, with one broken arm, which had occurred trying to escape the Carmine Swarm. The Yellow Scourge patients were already packed into the rooms beyond.

  The children slipped through. The hotel bar and restaurant had been cleared of furniture and every guest room had been robbed of its mattress and chairs of their cushions. They now covered the floor, leaving narrow aisles between tightly crammed rows. Most of the hotel staff had been struck down with the sickness, so it was left to the frazzled manager and one chambermaid to try and keep the place disinfected, but it was an endless task. Three nuns from the local convent had volunteered their services and they ministered to those who had no relatives to care for them.

  Verne and Lil were s
hocked to see how severely the sickness had progressed. The flesh of most patients was a deep sulphurous yellow and some had large swellings beneath the skin. Fever gripped them all and they muttered and groaned in their delirium.

  The children picked their way through. There were many faces they recognised. Lil could feel unfriendly stares following their progress and she heard reproachful whispers. Ignoring them, she looked for her father, but neither he nor Clarke was here.

  ‘Potts did say the ballroom,’ Verne reminded her.

  ‘This isn’t an emergency medical centre,’ she said with a shudder. ‘It’s a pest-house, like in the time of the Great Plague.’

  ‘This is a plague,’ Verne said.

  Leaving the restaurant behind, they found the ballroom and almost choked. It was a much larger space, packed with four hundred patients, and the smell was terrible. It was stifling too and the stale air was filled with the sound of suffering, prayers and despairing phone calls to friends and family outside Whitby.

  Shuffling forward, taking care not to tread on an outstretched hand or trip on bags or tangles of sodden linen, the two friends continued.

  ‘I know you!’ a small, tearful woman cried, lurching to her feet. ‘You’re friends with that mad old bag who says she’s a witch! Aren’t you supposed to be one yourself ? Don’t try and tell me any of this is normal. Just look at my Jim down there. He’s as yellow as a banana and too weak to open his eyes. If you can help, what are you waiting for? Or did you bring this down on us?’

  ‘I’m trying to find my dad,’ the girl answered apologetically. ‘If I can do anything, I will, but I have to find him first.’

  The woman sneered. ‘Your daft mother’s over there by the stage. She looks like Dracula’s ugly sister and she’s ponging out the place with her hippy stink – as if it didn’t reek enough already. This used to be a decent, God-fearing town, then you goths and witches and Lord knows what else moved in and took over. Deviants of the devil is what you are. This is a judgement on us for letting you live here.’