The Power of Dark Page 4

  A low, threatening growl sounded in his throat as he recognised it as one of those strange creatures who lived in the caves beneath the cliff. Melchior Pyke’s main intent in coming to Whitby was to speak with those legendary aufwaders, who alone possessed the knowledge vital to his true work. However, those small, secretive beings had so far evaded Mister Dark and his irritation had turned to anger.

  His eyes glinted as he stared into the night. Now perhaps there was a chance. Scaur Annie had the complete trust of those creatures; he had witnessed the young witch speaking to them several times. His master’s new plan was to use her to approach them.

  Mister Dark grinned unpleasantly. Sir Melchior Pyke had inveigled his way into the most strongly guarded libraries of distant empires and enticed the deepest mysteries from the wise; he would certainly be able to charm a low, beggarly girl into doing his bidding.

  As he turned to leave, Mister Dark rasped his thumb and forefinger together, and crackling whiskers of blue fire spat from his hand.

  Verne sat back in the little change booth, surrounded by the raucous din and flashing lights of his family’s amusement arcade. It was so mean of his father to make him do this Saturday morning shift when everything was happening across the river on the East Cliff.

  ‘What happened then?’ he asked urgently, speaking into the phone clamped to his ear.

  Lil’s voice rattled on, hardly stopping for breath.

  ‘So I come to, with Sally barking like mad and this stinking skeleton right on top of me!’

  ‘No! What did you do?’

  ‘I booted it off and the head went rolling under my bed. I grabbed Sally and we legged it out of there.’

  ‘That is so awesome. And you say the telly wants to interview you? When’s that happening?’

  ‘They’ll be here any minute. Come over. It looks like a bomb went off !’

  Verne rested his head on the counter in front of him and groaned. ‘I can’t budge till twelve,’ he said. ‘My folks aren’t back yet. It’s just me here.’

  ‘All your lot are over here, having a gawp.’

  ‘What? That is so not fair!’

  ‘So many gongoozlers, you wouldn’t believe it.’

  ‘So many what?’

  ‘Gongoozlers.’

  ‘That one of your funny old words?’

  ‘Yes, it means an idle spectator. The street’s packed with them right now.’

  ‘I’d like to do some gongoozling myself.’

  ‘Can’t you close up and pop over for ten minutes? The skellies are going to be taken away soon. They’re all in bits across the back gardens.’

  ‘Nooo! Don’t let them till I’ve had a look!’

  ‘Get a move on then!’

  Lil ended the call and Verne gave a forlorn whimper.

  ‘I’ve got the mulligrubs,’ he uttered.

  He replayed the footage Lil had sent him and felt a pang of envy that even the frightening final seconds of the lunging cadaver couldn’t scare away. Glancing over at a sulky-looking woman on the push-and-drop amusement, he wished the teetering coins would cascade into her handbag so she’d leave. They didn’t and she was soon in front of his booth for the fourth time that morning, demanding change for a fiver.

  As Verne was passing across yet more piles of ten-pence pieces, they were both startled by the noisy jingle of falling coins and she stared back at the machine in gasping outrage. A teenager had usurped her place and a deluge of silver was cascading into the metal gutter in front of him.

  ‘That’s mine!’ she snapped, marching up to the boy, tight-lipped with fury. ‘You’re stealing my money!’

  The boy looked round in confusion.

  ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘I was on that!’ she told him.

  ‘Not when I got here.’

  ‘That money is morally mine!’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ he laughed.

  ‘Disgraceful!’ she fumed. But unless she actually fought him for the coins, there was nothing more to be done, and he looked more than capable of fighting back. Giving him one final withering glower, she stomped off.

  The boy winked at her, which only infuriated her more, and she left the arcade almost frothing at the mouth.

  ‘I hate sore losers,’ the boy said, bringing his swag to the booth to convert into notes.

  ‘Thanks a bunch, Clarke,’ Verne said, not returning his older brother’s cheeky grin. ‘That’s Tracy Evans’s mum. First the boyfriend, now the mother. I’ll cop it on Monday. She fed her housekeeping into that machine. That’s their Sunday dinner you’ve got there.’

  ‘Tasty!’ the boy laughed.

  ‘You know Dad doesn’t like you claim-jumping, Clarke,’ Verne said. ‘It looks iffy.’

  ‘Oi, I won that fair and square. I didn’t know the old misery was playing it. I just saw a load of dosh going begging. Would’ve been barmy to walk past.’

  ‘He still won’t be happy.’

  ‘Well, he’s not going to find out, is he?’

  Verne gave a crafty smile. ‘That depends,’ he said. ‘If you take my place here for the next hour, I’ll forget all about it.’

  Clarke laughed. ‘No need for blackmail. That’s why I came back from the East Cliff. I knew you’d be itching to go have a nose over at Lil’s. Don’t say I never do nothing for you.’

  ‘Cheers!’ Verne said gratefully as he scrambled out of the booth.

  ‘No longer than an hour though!’ Clarke called after him. ‘I’m taking Amy to Scarborough on the Vespa at half one!’

  Verne was already out of the arcade, pulling on his coat and running along Pier Road towards the bridge, wriggling his arms into the straps of his rucksack.

  It was the first fine dry day in weeks and the gulls were making the most of it, filling the sky with shrieks and screams. Below them, the sea was calm and the river was quiet. All the fishing boats had put out and the harbour was the emptiest it had been all winter. There was some damage to windows and cars on this side from last night’s storm, but Verne wasn’t interested in any of that.

  Hurrying along the quayside, he looked across to the opposite bank, beyond the red-brick walls and terracotta roofs, up to the long reach of the cliff. Emergency fencing was being installed at the edge of the churchyard. The damaged area where the ground had slipped away was clearly visible. It looked like a huge, ugly bite had been taken out of that grassy ridge. Verne could see tantalising holes in the dark soil, which were almost certainly yawning graves, and figures in hi-vis clothing were conducting a careful search.

  ‘They’re collecting the bones already!’ he muttered, anxious there’d be nothing to see by the time he got there.

  Reaching the small swing bridge, he pushed through the people, busy about their Saturday, and realised he’d forgotten all about his encounter with Cherry Cerise. He wondered how long she had remained bound to the rail last night and what on earth she had been doing.

  Running, he made his way into the narrow cobbled lanes of the East Cliff, past the small openings leading to little courtyards, and headed towards Henrietta Street. A determined clean-up operation was taking place, yard brushes were out in force and broken windows had already been boarded over. The van that the awning had smashed into had been towed away and a great crowd had gathered at the bottom of the 199 steps. Verne couldn’t get past and he stared upwards to see what was going on.

  On one of the flat stages, which had been built into those old steps to let bygone coffin-bearers have a rest on their climb to the churchyard, stood Lil and her mother, Cassandra. They were being interviewed by a TV news crew, with the landslip and the obliterated gardens plain to see behind.

  ‘A sunny day this morning.’ Cheeky chappy local news reporter Nigel Hampton addressed the camera. ‘A far cry from the scene last night when severe storms battered the north-east coast. But here, in the Yorkshire town of Whitby, famed for its links with Dracula, hurricane-force winds were recorded – and something else too, but more of that i
n a moment. As you can see behind me, a large section of the waterlogged cliff fell away, causing damage and destruction and forcing many people out of their homes to spend the night in emergency accommodation. Some of the town’s oldest inhabitants were also disturbed, as we’ll discover. Twelve-year-old Lilith Wilson here saw it all from her bedroom.’

  ‘Lil,’ the girl interrupted.

  The man smiled. ‘Lil, I do apologise. And what a cute little pup you’ve got.’

  The man reached out to pet Sally, who was in Lil’s arms. The dog responded by biting his fingers.

  ‘She’s not a puppy,’ Lil corrected. ‘She’s almost sixteen and she’s deaf and half blind. She doesn’t like it when strange hands suddenly loom up at her like that.’

  Cassandra Wilson leaned over. ‘Startles her you see,’ she said. ‘You should never try to stroke an unfamiliar dog anyway. You wouldn’t like being prodded and pawed at by total strangers, would you? Or maybe you would.’

  The reporter’s trademark cheeky smile tightened on his face as an audible parp tooted from Sally’s rear end.

  ‘She gulps her water down,’ Lil explained.

  ‘Bless her,’ he managed to say. ‘So here I am with Lil and Cassandra Wilson in the aftermath of the storm. But before we come on to that, our viewers might be wondering why you’re in fancy dress? I thought the big Goth Weekend wasn’t for another few weeks.’

  Lil’s mother gave a dramatic toss of the head. She had spent longer than usual in front of a mirror that morning. Her plump face was powdered pale, with broad, coal-black lines accentuating her eyes and stark blackcurrant lipstick outlining her mouth. A necklace of Whitby jet sat on top of her bosom that had been pushed high under her chin by a black bodice, and a hooded cloak was fastened at her throat by a silver brooch in the shape of a bat.

  ‘It isn’t fancy dress,’ she announced, with flash of her Cleopatra eyes, and a flourish of her many-ringed fingers. ‘I am a witch, as is my husband, and these are just my everyday clothes. What is more, we firmly believe that last night was no ordinary storm. It was supernatural in origin, a sign of some momentous power at work.’

  ‘Witches?’ the reporter cut in with a wink to camera. ‘With broomsticks and frogs?’

  ‘Are you mocking my faith, Mr Hampton? Please don’t do that. I’m sure you don’t want me to file a complaint against you and your station for religious intolerance.’

  ‘No, no!’ the man spluttered hastily. ‘Please, I meant no offence. But witches, surely . . .?’

  ‘There are plenty of us about,’ she told him. ‘My shop couldn’t survive if it had to rely solely on Goth Weekends. Even in this small town there are three covens and you’d be amazed at how many witches come here for their holidays to soak up Whitby’s special atmosphere.’

  ‘Your shop?’

  ‘Whitby Gothic,’ Mrs Wilson said, plugging the business shamelessly to the camera. ‘It’s on Church Street. Caters for all your occult needs, whether that be a scrying crystal, obscure reference books, incense, ritual candles, robes – and yes, even broomsticks and frogs. Check out the shop’s website; everything is available online and there’s a ten per cent discount if you order today.’

  She pointed to the badges she and Lil were both wearing.

  ‘Genuine Whitby witches,’ she declared proudly. ‘My daughter makes them herself and we sell them. Aren’t they wonderful?’

  ‘If we could just get back to what happened last night . . .’

  Mrs Wilson grew serious once more. ‘Yes,’ she said darkly. ‘Ancient forces have undoubtedly been unleashed.’

  ‘Where were you when the cliff collapsed?’

  ‘Me and Mike, my husband, were inside the shop, down the far end of the street, but it was so loud we still heard it. I sensed at once it was something other. I had consulted the runes you see. Poor Lil, look at the bruise on her forehead.’

  Nigel Hampton turned to Lil. ‘Can you describe what you saw?’ he asked.

  ‘There was a huge rumble and a massive chunk of the cliff came crashing into our garden,’ she told him.

  ‘Obliterated under a mountain of soil,’ her mother put in. ‘I had all my spring bulbs coming up, and the herbs I use in my potions and philtres – now they’re buried under half the cliff.’

  ‘Bit of an exaggeration, Mum,’ Lil said.

  ‘We can’t return to the cottage until the surveyors say it’s safe,’ Mrs Wilson continued. ‘We had to sleep in the shop last night.’

  The reporter turned back to the camera and in his most serious voice said, ‘And then something even more bizarre took place. The landslip left many old graves exposed and what can only be described as a tornado came twisting across the gardens below. This is what happened.’

  He paused to allow the footage from Lil’s phone to be edited into the piece later, then turned to her as if he had only just watched it, instead of three hours earlier when Mrs Wilson had emailed it to the station.

  ‘Chilling to the marrow,’ he declared. ‘I can’t imagine what was going through your head as you recorded that – especially when that skeleton came straight for you. Did you think it was one of the undead? A flying demon? Or black magic?’

  ‘We don’t have black magic here!’ Mrs Wilson interrupted, bristling indignantly.

  ‘I knew it was only being blown by the wind,’ Lil answered, stony-faced. ‘But it was still freaky.’

  ‘You weren’t scared even a tiny bit?

  ‘Nah!’ she fibbed. ‘It was just nature going off on one. And this means I get my room redecorated – result!’

  ‘And that nasty bruise is where the skull struck you?’

  ‘Yeah, it really clonked me one and sent me flying, but I gave it a bigger wallop back and knocked its block off.’

  ‘Ancient forces,’ Mrs Wilson repeated starkly. ‘Old powers are awakening. This is just the start, and I say unto Whitby, beware! I’ve cast the witch’s runes . . . have I already said that?’

  ‘Yes you have.’

  ‘We sell a starter bag for just £12.99.’

  The reporter turned to the camera again. ‘This is Nigel Hampton in the spookier than usual town of Whitby.’

  He waited a moment, smiling down the lens – a smile that vanished as Mrs Wilson’s voice called out, ‘You can see that footage again on our shop’s website – and don’t forget it’s discount day.’

  ‘Let’s go and talk to the vicar now,’ he told the camera guy. ‘And we’ll need some juicy close-ups of the graves. Skeletons would be heaven, but if they’ve already been zipped up, let’s at least see them being carted off.’

  Without bothering to thank the Wilsons for their contribution, Nigel started ascending the steps to the church, grumbling about his knees.

  The crowd below began to disperse slowly. Some went about their shopping, but most went to view the damage down Henrietta Street.

  ‘We should get a lot of lovely online trade today,’ Mrs Wilson said, rubbing her hands together. ‘You’ll be famous, Lil. I wonder how many hits that video will get?’

  ‘Can we go home now?’ the girl asked. ‘I want to have a bath and get changed.’

  ‘Your dad’s with the surveyors now. The glazier’s mending the window, but your room will need a thorough clean. Will you be OK?’

  ‘How’d you mean “OK”?’

  ‘OK as in there’s been a dead body in your bedroom all night long. I’ll need to do a purification ritual to cleanse it of negative forces and then place pouches of agrimony on the window sill. It’s a herb of virtue and will give protection.’

  ‘A mop and a bucket of hot soapy water would work better. Besides, it doesn’t bother me. I’ve seen worse frights on the Goth Weekends. I’m just looking forward to a proper room makeover.’

  ‘The insurance will cover that,’ her mother said. ‘You know, Lil, I was thinking – you could really go for it. Sable-black walls, with lush purple curtains, tied back with black ropes with enormous tassels and a lampshade like a bloodshot e
ye.’

  ‘No, none of that,’ Lil said sternly. ‘I’ve had enough haunted-house decor to last a lifetime. I want a total change. I want daffodil walls, a pale blue ceiling and a lime-green door.’

  Mrs Wilson pulled a face. ‘You’re not serious?’ she gasped. ‘That’d be hideous, like living in a jar of jelly beans.’

  ‘And a white fluffy rug to put my bare feet on,’ Lil said, her voice trailing to a dreamlike murmur. ‘Soft and warm when I wake, as the last star leaves the night and the brim of the sea fills with pale fires and the gulls greet the dawn. No more cold sand ’twixt my toes and a small fire to cook crabs over. Then shall I whistle for a gentle wind to bring the boats safe home.’

  ‘Sand? Crabs? Whistling? What are you talking about?’

  Lil frowned and touched her bruise. She suddenly felt light-headed and took a few deep breaths to steady herself.

  ‘Are you sickening for something?’ her mother asked. ‘I could find a charm for that.’

  Lil shook her head. The strange dizzy sensation had passed. She glanced down the steps and spotted Verne waiting below. Waving, she took Sally to join him and they started to walk towards Lil’s home.

  ‘How’d it go with the telly bloke?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Was a bit of a clotpole, but it was fine. Mum kept banging on about the shop though.’

  ‘That vid you sent me was beyond amazing. I told you it was the zombie apocalypse. I’d have freaked if that thing came at me!’

  ‘Well, maybe I was a bit frightened,’ she confessed. ‘Just a tiny bit. OK – loads. And so was Sal. The worst part was the wind blowing through its mouth right into mine – yeurgh! And don’t tell Mum or Dad, cos they’ll only make a huge fuss, but I think I was out cold for a few minutes. Had the weirdest dream. At least, I think I did. Can’t really remember.’

  ‘So are there any bones still lying about?’ Verne asked ghoulishly. ‘Can I see?’

  Lil shrugged. ‘I think they’ve taken them away now. They were just mucky old sticks and lumps – nothing special.’