The Devil’s Paintbox Page 12

  ‘Come on, Lil,’ Verne said, pulling his friend away. ‘You don’t need to listen to this.’

  Lil could see that the people nearby shared the woman’s views and she was grateful to Verne for getting her past them.

  With her back resting against the raised platform of the stage, Cassandra Wilson sat next to her husband, stroking his head and singing softly under her breath. In those ghastly surroundings she looked more bizarre than ever. Four frankincense sticks were smouldering by his bed and the threads of their cloying smoke wound around her.

  Lil rushed to her father and clutched his hand. He looked pale and was clammy to the touch, but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. She noticed a herb pouch had been strung around his neck.

  She eyed her mother nervously, afraid of the hurtful things she might say.

  ‘How is he?’ she asked.

  ‘Better than when I got here. I’ve invoked protective and purification forces and given him a charm for healing. Don’t wake him; let the herbs and incantation do their work.’

  Lil knew that what her mother called magic was meaningless nonsense, but she said nothing and reached into her bag for the crocheted hearts she had made.

  ‘Put them away!’ Cassandra snapped harshly. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near him with your stupid wool. Haven’t you done enough damage already?’

  Her voice was so loud it carried halfway across the room. The praying ceased and people stared. One delirious patient began to scream.

  ‘But this will work,’ Lil insisted.

  ‘I said, put it away.’

  Reluctantly, Lil stuffed the hearts back into her bag.

  ‘Can we talk about what you said last night?’ she asked after a pause. ‘We can’t go on like this. You can’t have meant it.’

  ‘Course I did.’

  ‘So . . . where does that leave us?’

  Mrs Wilson shrugged. ‘Don’t you think there’s more important stuff going on right now? Everything can’t always be about you all the time.’

  ‘I never said it was!’

  ‘When this is over, we’ll sort out a different living arrangement. Until then we’ll just have to put up with it. I won’t be in the house much while Mike’s here anyway.’

  ‘Different living arrangement?’ Lil uttered in disbelief. ‘What, you want to get rid of me? Move me out?’

  Mrs Wilson ignored her and turned to Verne to inform him that his family had been moved into the games room. The boy had been so astonished at her treatment of Lil he could barely reply with a stilted ‘thank you’. He gave his friend’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and headed off to find them.

  ‘You might as well go with him,’ Cassandra told her. ‘You’re no use here. I don’t want you hanging around, getting in the way, and your father certainly doesn’t need you.’

  Lil reeled.

  ‘I’m your daughter! I love you! You’re my mum! Why are you doing this?’

  She stared into her mother’s ornately made-up eyes and was distressed and horrified to see the bleak coldness there. There wasn’t a trace of maternal love left.

  ‘Get going,’ Cassandra said. ‘I’ve arranged a TV interview and they’ll be Skyping any moment. I don’t want your sulky face in my eyeline.’

  ‘So that’s why you’re decked out like a gothic Christmas tree! It’s because you’re going to be on the telly. And you say it’s all about me?’

  Wiping her eyes, Lil could bear it no longer. She called to Verne and hurried after him.

  Unruffled, Cassandra returned her attention to her husband.

  ‘Lil?’ the sick man murmured, stirring in his sleep. ‘You there?’

  ‘Hush,’ his wife said, dabbing his forehead with a black lace handkerchief. ‘We don’t need her. I can make you well again. I’ve been promised.’ Smiling, she touched her neck and ran her fingertips along the choker.

  Her phone began to ring.

  Since the outbreak of the Yellow Scourge, many of those trapped in Whitby had been speaking to the media. They shared their dramatic stories of how swiftly and radically their lives had changed and how they feared for the lives of their loved ones. The owner of Whitby Gothic was the first interviewee to defy the local conspiracy of silence and claim that these dire events were outside science and the natural order.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ the TV newsreader said in response to Mrs Wilson’s assertion. ‘You’re saying that this unidentified illness is the result of black magic?’

  ‘Absolutely! There is a malevolent force at work here and I know who’s behind it.’

  The newsreader shook his head at the large screen in the studio, where Cassandra’s outlandishly made-up face stared back at him in deadly earnest.

  ‘Since you contacted us earlier, Mrs Wilson,’ he said, ‘we’ve done some research and found that you’re quite the publicity seeker. Don’t you think exploiting this immensely serious emergency for your own ends is rather cheap and shabby?’

  ‘You can sneer all you wish. That doesn’t alter the facts. This town is under supernatural attack.’

  ‘Medical experts are saying it’s a new mutation of a rare virus; not one of them has mentioned witchcraft.’

  ‘They’re wrong. Closed minds like yours are the reason evil breeds. I could vanish in a cloud of glittery smoke right before your eyes and you still wouldn’t believe in magic.’

  ‘I wish you would.’

  He turned away from her, the annoyance and disgust on his face plain to see. She was replaced on the screen by a graphic of the town as he gave an update of the situation.

  In the Royal Hotel, Lil’s mother put her phone away. Her confidence and composure weren’t even slightly dented. Every resident here knew she was right. They would support her.

  Lil spent the rest of the afternoon with the Thistlewoods. Clarke’s condition had worsened and Verne broke down when he saw him. One side of his brother’s face was covered in pustules and he was struggling for breath. The only doctor in the building hadn’t examined him since they arrived in the middle of the night and the broad-spectrum antibiotic he had given Clarke had had no effect at all.

  ‘Please, Lil!’ Noreen implored. ‘Help him. He can’t fight it much longer.’

  And so Lil repeated what she had done previously. When she pressed a crocheted heart into Clarke’s hand he looked slightly better and his breathing sounded easier. But within half an hour the blue wool had turned yellow and he was as bad as ever. So she did it again, and then again.

  In between her treatments, Lil started on a larger crochet work. Her fingers moved incredibly fast and she closed her eyes to concentrate. After three hours, when she had almost run out of wool, she had crafted a medium-sized blanket and, calling on the energies of the First Mother, covered Clarke with it.

  The change was immediate and startling. The blanket sparkled and the hideous yellow retreated from his skin. The pustules withered and he opened his eyes and asked for a drink of water.

  His family were overjoyed. They held and kissed him and praised Lil. Verne hugged her tightly.

  ‘I think that will last longer than the hearts,’ she said.

  The other people present begged her to do the same for their loved ones, but there wasn’t much yarn left. It was a horrible position to find herself in, deciding who to help. Eventually she chose a six-year-old girl called Paula, whose forehead was a mass of yellow fluid and whose arms were covered in boils. Lil managed to crochet a square that was only a quarter of the size of the one she had made for Clarke, but she put just as much effort and focused thought into its creation.

  Placing it across the little girl’s chest, Lil called on the same forces and the wool sparkled as before. The ugly swelling on Paula’s forehead deflated and her arms began to clear.

  Her parents couldn’t thank Lil enough, but she felt it was the very least she could do and wished she had more wool to help the others.

  The day’s exertions had left her drained and dead on her feet and she remembered she
hadn’t eaten a thing. Dennis Thistlewood offered to do a food run, but his wife could see Lil needed to go home and rest properly.

  ‘I saw your mother today,’ Noreen added. ‘Only at a distance, across the other side of the ballroom. I’ve not seen her so tarted up since she first started going out with your dad when she was a lovesick teenager. I really must make it up with her.’

  Lil didn’t know what to say. She was so exhausted, she knew she would collapse in tears if she explained how things stood with her mother. Verne came to her rescue.

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ll stop here tonight with my folks, but call me if you want anything and I’ll dash right over.’

  ‘I feel so useless,’ Lil confessed as they made their way through the hotel. ‘I should be doing a lot more for everyone here.’

  ‘You’re worn out. You’ll be no good to anyone if you faint. You need a solid night’s sleep. Remember, there’s another colour to get through first thing in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t need reminding of that. What’s going to happen this time? Hard to imagine it getting any worse than it already is, but obviously it will.’

  ‘No point worrying until tomorrow. Just go eat something and put your head down.’

  ‘I’d better collect the paintbox from Cherry on the way back. I don’t think she likes having it in her cottage.’

  They had reached the reception where the doctor was sprawled across a sofa, taking advantage of a quiet moment before the next case was brought in.

  Lil pushed open the main door and stared out across the harbour. In the evening light Whitby looked the same as ever, tranquil and cosy, the inspiration of countless artists. She said goodnight to Verne, but before she went he tugged on her hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘What you’re doing for Clarke and that little girl – it’s awesome. I know your mum is being horrible. If it gets too much, you’re more than welcome to stay at ours. You can even bring Sally’s ghost with you. Mum and Dad won’t mind.’

  A tear ran down Lil’s cheek. She brushed it away hastily. Taking a breath, she managed a smile and nodded.

  ‘And what I’m trying to say,’ he continued, his eyes looking past her, at the darkening sky, ‘and making a right Klumsythumbs pig’s ear of it as usual, is that I’m dead proud to be your friend. You’re amazing – don’t you listen to anyone who says otherwise.’

  Lil didn’t know what to say, but when she hurried away she found herself feeling better than before.

  Hours later, when the town was quiet, and the hands on the clock of St Mary’s Church moved beyond twelve, two figures walked past the graveyard, towards the entrance of the abbey.

  In full funereal splendour, with a damask cloak lined with purple satin and dripping with jet jewellery, Cassandra Wilson strode across the car park, followed by Jack Potts in his parka.

  The craggy ruins of Whitby Abbey were surrounded by a high stone wall. Access to the grounds was through the visitor centre. The door was locked and all the lights were off.

  ‘How do we get in?’ she said impatiently. ‘Where is Queller?’

  ‘A moment, if you please,’ Jack Potts said.

  The robot jolted and stood rigid. A stream of pale grey-green vapour poured from his hood. It spilled to the ground and formed a column of smoke that took on the ghostly shape of the man Cassandra knew as Queller.

  Mrs Wilson grinned to see his dashing face again.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ she greeted him breathlessly. ‘I thought we were meeting in the abbey grounds? It’s more romantic there. The perfect setting for an assignation.’

  ‘It is not prudent to enter there yet, my dear,’ his rich voice answered.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have kennelled my pets therein. They must be very hungry by now. I would not wish for any harm to come to you, sweet Venus-bosomed lady.’

  Cassandra was so deep in his power, she would have done anything he asked. Jack Potts took her left hand and cut across it with his finger. The woman winced. Then, from his pocket, he took a paintbrush with a gold and black handle.

  ‘Isn’t that the one from my daughter’s paintbox?’

  ‘The very same.’ Jack Potts replied. ‘I took the liberty of abstracting it before we left. I shall return it as soon as we go back. She will never know.’

  ‘But what’s it for?’

  ‘To summon an old friend of mine,’ Queller told her, with an enigmatic smile.

  The robot brought the paintbrush to her hand and dabbled it in the pool of blood that had welled in her palm.

  Cassandra flinched. The brush hairs felt stiff and sharp as they poked and dragged along the fresh wound. She wanted to pull away, but didn’t like to appear weak. She looked up at Queller’s face; his eyes were closed and he was whispering words she couldn’t understand.

  Then the sensation changed. It felt as if a small, rough tongue had taken the place of the brush and was lapping up her blood.

  Jack Potts withdrew the brush, but the licking sensation persisted. With blood dripping from the hairs, the automaton traced an outline in the air and an ethereal form shimmered into view. It was a large cat, with ridged scars on his head clamped together by metal staples. Grafted to his shoulders was a pair of great bat wings.

  ‘Catesby!’ Queller welcomed. ‘It is agreeable to see you again, you wicked old sheep killer.’

  The feline apparition continued drinking Cassandra’s blood.

  ‘Catesby!’ Queller said more forcefully. ‘She is not for you. You’ve supped enough to summon you. Don’t be greedy.’

  The cat’s ears flattened against the scarred skull and he hissed. Baring a set of savage fangs, he lunged at Mrs Wilson’s exposed wrist.

  ‘No!’ Queller commanded, lashing out and sending the creature spinning with the back of his hand.

  Catesby spread his wings and reared up, slashing the air with vicious claws.

  ‘Know who is master!’ Queller thundered. ‘It was I who made you, I who razored and sawed you open, spliced morsels of ape brain into your cloven skull and stitched flight to your back. I can unmake you just as easily and deny your patchwork body the life that is promised. Obey me.’

  His wings thrashed and yellow eyes gleamed with resentment, but the ghostly cat flew down and alighted on Queller’s shoulder. The man stroked the scarred head and rubbed his fingers together. Blue sparks sizzled and Catesby pressed his metal staples into them, purring like an engine.

  ‘Yes, you had forgotten that blissful joy, had you not? But I have need of you. Fly to the abbey yonder. There you shall find two ravenous beasts. They are yours to tame and command.’

  The cat nuzzled against him once more then soared up, over the high wall.

  Cassandra stared after it in fear and shock.

  ‘Bind your hand, dear lady,’ Queller told her. ‘You must not squander your delicious scarlet juices.’

  ‘That . . . that thing!’ she exclaimed. ‘What was it?’

  ‘A cosseted darling from my former life. He is most useful. If the abbey is to be our meeting ground, it must be guarded and Catesby is such a diligent watch cat.’

  ‘I’ve heard the name before. Lil spoke of it . . . didn’t she?’

  ‘Do not overtax yourself, my love and why speak of the daughter you hate?’

  ‘I . . . don’t know. It seemed important – something I should remember.’

  At that moment, hideous yowls and terrified animal screeches broke out behind the abbey wall.

  ‘Ah,’ Queller said with a chuckle, ‘Catesby has found my pets and is instructing them in the ways of the new order.’

  ‘Excuse me, Master,’ Jack Potts interjected, tilting his head on one side. ‘We are not alone. Someone is approaching from the south-east.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Queller said. ‘What curious, midnight creature roams abroad in this stricken town? What secretive work are they about?’

  ‘They shall round the corner of Abbey Lane in approximately fifty
-seven seconds,’ Jack Potts informed him.

  ‘Pull your hood low,’ Queller instructed. ‘I shall melt into the shadows. Cassandra, my love, go meet this unexpected interloper.’

  The woman nodded and began walking across the car park. The moon was wrapped in thin clouds, so the abbey plain was smothered in a dim gloom. Soon she heard furtive steps running on the footpath beside the high wall that surrounded the abbey and a figure dashed into view. It halted when it saw Cassandra and jerked its head around like a hunted animal.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Mrs Wilson called out.

  ‘You live here?’ answered a female voice. ‘You live in Whitby? Yeah? Not with the military or special forces or some crap like that?’

  ‘I live in Henrietta Street.’

  The stranger jogged over, but it was so dark Cassandra couldn’t see her properly until she was close.

  She was a girl in her early twenties, dressed in a baggy, badge-covered camouflage jacket, with a rucksack and a cycling helmet with a camera attached.

  ‘Really thought I’d be challenged coming along here,’ she declared. ‘Was sure there’d be an inner security fence to breach.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sure, yeah, of course – they call me Orkid,’ she said, holding her hand up for a high five that Cassandra didn’t acknowledge. ‘Me and my group have set up camp, close as we could get. We’re part of the anti-capitalist, anti-globalisation, anti-big-pharma alliance, the Living Planet Conscience Coalition. You heard of us, yeah? Leaves in Tears?’

  ‘No. Aren’t you afraid of the virus?’

  ‘Come on, there’s no virus. That’s a DA Notice cover-up ordered by the government. It’s no coincidence Fylingdales is only a spit and a cough down the road here. There’s been a leak or some accident with the emissions from their cell-frying radar. I’ve got a Geiger counter and I’m going to prove all you poor sods here have suffered a massive dose of radiation and blow this dirty lie wide apart.’

  ‘You’re mistaken. You can’t scientifically measure what’s happening here.’

  Orkid ignored her and removed her rucksack, taking out a small yellow and black device.

  ‘Sensitive to really low levels of microsieverts so it’ll tell me in seconds how bad it is.’