The Power of Dark Page 5

  ‘The thing that flew at you was!’ he cried. ‘That skull was horrible – looked like it was deliberately coming to get you!’

  Lil laughed. ‘You’re as bad as my mother, with her doom-mongering. She laid it on real thick for the telly just now. Gave them the whole witchy works, she did.’

  ‘Well, it creeped me out. It was evil!’

  ‘Just bones, Verne. The very old, long-buried bones of someone who croaked hundreds of years ago.’

  Verne laughed. ‘You crack me up. You don’t believe in anything. I mean, there’s your folks being all hocus-pocus with their amazing shop, and you won’t even give it the time of day when it comes flying through your bedroom window!’

  ‘One more time, Verne – no such thing as magic. It doesn’t exist, full stop. Why do you keep banging on about it?’

  ‘Because it’s exciting,’ he said honestly. ‘OK, maybe it’s not magic, but aren’t you even a bit curious as to who the skeleton was? All those years ago it was a living person, someone’s dad or brother or . . .’

  ‘No,’ Lil said sharply. ‘It was a woman.’

  ‘How’d you know that?’

  ‘I . . . I dunno. The long hair, I suppose.’

  ‘They all had long hair in those days, didn’t they? Or was it wigs?’

  Lil raised her face and looked down Henrietta Street, towards the end row of cottages where she lived.

  ‘It was a woman,’ she muttered, her fingers touching a necklace Verne hadn’t seen her wear before. It was made of three ammonites threaded on a grubby string. ‘A young woman, full of rage and bitterness.’

  ‘Just old bones you said!’ he reminded her with a laugh. ‘Well, hurry up, maybe they missed some.’

  Before they could approach the cottage, a tall, slim man with receding hair and a square beard came out to meet them. It was Lil’s father and he was dressed almost as eccentrically as his wife, with his rectangular pale-green-tinted spectacles, crisp linen granddad shirt and a waistcoat of dark blue silk.

  ‘Can we get back in now?’ Lil asked him. ‘Verne wants to get his school books.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Mike Wilson said. ‘The council guys are still checking for structural damage and making sure it’s safe. But listen, last night – you did leave straightaway, didn’t you? You didn’t, er, move anything?’

  ‘Such as? No, I got out of there fast as I could.’

  ‘And you didn’t see anyone hanging around? You locked the door after you?’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘If there was something else, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? This isn’t a game, Lil, it’s very serious. It isn’t a toy, not like the resin replicas we sell. Do you understand?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘They’ve looked everywhere,’ her father said, frowning. ‘It isn’t where you said it was.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘The thing that crashed into your room last night.’

  ‘What? You saw the vid, Dad. I wasn’t dreaming it!’

  ‘Oh, the skeleton was there all right,’ her father said. ‘They’ve taken that away.’

  ‘Then what are you going on about?’

  ‘They’ve taken the body away, Lil. But the head . . . they can’t find the head. The skull has disappeared.’

  Lil and Verne took Sally down to Tate Hill Sands. The Westie was off the lead and ambling slowly, investigating the many varied smells of the beach. The storm had left behind clumps of glistening seaweed and great chunks of driftwood. The two friends were still discussing the mystery of the missing skull.

  ‘Maybe someone broke in?’ Verne suggested, kicking up the soft sand.

  ‘The skeleton had already done that!’ Lil answered. ‘Besides, what would a burglar want with it? Why not take the telly or something valuable? There were plenty of other skulls just lying about in the gardens if that’s what they really wanted.’

  ‘It’s going to be all over school on Monday. They already think you’re weird; now they’ll call you a grave robber, stealing body parts for evil magic.’

  ‘Casting spells using dead bodies is necromancy,’ Lil said. ‘White witches don’t do that.’

  ‘Tracy and her gang don’t care about facts. They want you to be making potions out of baby fat and eating bats. They’ll probably say you caused the whole thing in the first place. You saw how scared they were of you yesterday.’

  ‘If they’re dumb enough to believe in that codswallop, they deserve to be scared.’

  ‘I believe in it.’

  ‘Well, you’re bonkers. I don’t scare you, do I?’

  ‘Nah, we’ve known each other since we were in nappies.’

  ‘Mine were black. I’ve seen the photos – and my dummy had plastic fangs!’

  ‘Ha – brilliant.’

  ‘You were the only kid who didn’t scream when I turned up at your parties and the only one who ever came to mine.’

  ‘I’ve always loved going to your house. It’s full of fantastic things.’

  Lil smiled.

  ‘Witchy tat and way too many sepia prints of Victorian Whitby,’ she said. Then added, ‘Verne, you don’t believe I took that manky head, do you?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It would be a cool thing to have though.’

  ‘Don’t be weird.’

  They had walked to the water’s edge and followed it round to where the sand gave way to dark grey rocks. The beach was deserted except for a solitary figure sitting on one of the largest boulders, gazing out to sea, leisurely casting daffodils on to the gently lapping waters.

  She was slender and dressed in garish, clashing colours, topped off with a long lime green wig. It was unmistakably Cherry Cerise.

  ‘I forgot to tell you!’ Verne whispered. ‘I saw her last night. She’d tied herself to the bridge and was singing and flapping her arms about. She’s an absolute flake.’

  Lil regarded the woman with new interest. Cherry Cerise was another of Whitby’s eccentric oddities. She kept herself to herself and her odd appearance and abrupt manner were enough to keep the nosiest at bay.

  ‘She does dress loopy,’ Lil said. ‘But then look at us Wilsons.’

  ‘Yeah, but your mum and dad are witches and they’re walking adverts for the shop. Makes perfect sense. She just looks like a rainbow threw up on her. She was waving torches around last night you know.’

  ‘Torches?’

  ‘There were coloured lights anyway. She was shining them into the wind. Crazy!’

  ‘I think she looks fun.’

  The thin woman turned her head towards them and her mouth twisted with displeasure when she saw the two children staring at her.

  Throwing the last daffodil on to the water, she left the rock and went striding past, enormous sunglasses firmly on her nose and bangles and bracelets clattering at her wrists.

  ‘Can’t go anywhere in this town no more without bumping into ungroovy goths every way you turn!’ she snarled. ‘Place is infested with them. Like rats or roaches in capes. Lords save me from mass melancholia and universal drabness!’

  ‘Told you she was a dingbat,’ Verne said with a chuckle. ‘I don’t think she even recognised me from last night. Mind you, she had sunglasses on then as well.’

  ‘She’s got a point about the clothes,’ Lil said. ‘I never want to wear black ever again. Listen, I’ve been working on a grand plan.’

  ‘What sort of plan?’

  ‘Can’t tell you yet. But I’m going to wake this miserable town up and bring some colour to it.’

  ‘How’d you mean? Is it a secret? You know I can keep them.’

  ‘I know, but . . . I want to see if it’s doable. I’ve already made a good start, and I’m ready to put phase one into action so you’ll find out very soon.’

  ‘Don’t say you’ve got a secret until you’re ready to spill. That’s really aggravating. You –’

  Verne cut himself off
as he realised the time. He’d been away from the arcade much longer than he’d said.

  ‘Got to go! Clarke will kill me. Listen, can you come round later with my books? We can go through that homework.’

  Lil looked evasive. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if Mum or Dad can bring them. I’ve got to get my room sorted – unless I’ve been arrested for skull rustling. And Sal really needs a bath, plus I want to carry on with my secret project.’

  ‘You’re very annoying today,’ he told her.

  Lil looked around. ‘Hang on, where is Sal?’

  Verne glanced back down the beach, but there was no sign of her and it was no use calling her name.

  They split up. Lil ran over the sand to see if Sally was heading for home and Verne made his way round the base of the cliff, searching behind the rocks.

  Presently he shouted, ‘She’s here!’

  Sally was by the edge of a small pool, pawing at something gingerly and giving it dubious sniffs.

  Verne tapped her gently, to get her attention.

  ‘Dead crab?’ the boy said. ‘You’ll be sick if you eat that . . .’

  His expression changed. It wasn’t a crab at all. Sally had discovered the skeletal remains of a human hand – yet another gruesome relic torn from the cliff high above by the storm.

  It was black with age and parchment-like skin was shrivelled over the bones. The fingers were clenched round what appeared to be a large clod of mud, but Sally’s curious paws had scored little trenches into it. Verne’s eyes widened when he saw glimpses of gleaming gold.

  He reached down and scraped more of the mud away. The revealed gold reflected the sunlight up into his eyes. Verne caught his breath and took the strange find in his hands. What could it be?

  ‘She all right?’ Lil called, approaching.

  Verne started and, for some reason he couldn’t explain, furtively slipped the severed hand and whatever it was holding into his rucksack.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, a little flustered. ‘She’s fine. Panic over.’

  Sally’s tail wagged when Lil stooped to stroke her head. Then the dog turned her good eye to Verne, expecting him to show what she had been clever enough to find.

  ‘I really have to go,’ the boy said instead.

  ‘We’ll walk with you to the road,’ Lil offered.

  ‘No time. Got to race back.’

  And he darted off, with the macabre discovery stowed safely in his rucksack.

  When Verne reached the amusement arcade, he found Clarke and his girlfriend Amy both squashed into the change booth. They didn’t seem to mind how late he was and seemed almost disappointed to leave.

  Verne spent the next hour unable to concentrate on anything other than the mysterious object Sally had discovered. He was desperate to take it out of his rucksack and examine it closely. Five times he dispensed the wrong change and he was too distracted to take much notice of the customers who complained. He didn’t understand why he had hidden it from Lil. Perhaps it was because she was being secretive herself and he wanted a secret of his own.

  When his mother finally arrived to take over, he hurried out of the back of the arcade, ran up a flight of metal stairs and let himself into their home. The Thistlewoods lived on the building’s top two floors.

  Thinking he was alone, Verne nearly jumped out of his skin when he ran into a tall figure in the hall. It was his father’s steampunk costume for the approaching Goth Weekend, hanging from the banister – a Victorian robot butler made from a leather tailcoat, overlaid with copper tubing. The face was an adapted hockey mask, with old torch lenses for eyes and a brass tea-strainer for the mouth. It was the first time Verne had seen it fitted together and it was very impressive. Taking a firmer grip on the straps of his rucksack, he started to go upstairs.

  ‘That you, Verne?’ a voice called out from the living room.

  ‘Yes!’ he answered.

  ‘Give us a hand, will you?’

  The boy froze, wondering if his dad somehow knew what he was sneaking into the house. Turning back, Verne stuck his head round the door, feeling guilty.

  He needn’t have worried. His father was kneeling by a large wooden cabinet, peering into an open panel beneath the glass front. It was a vintage, coin-operated automaton from the 1930s. There was a collection of these old amusements in one corner of the arcade and they were still popular with the tourists. For one old penny, purchased for twenty pence at the change booth, the motor inside made crudely carved figures judder into life and act out a scenario with basic jerky movements. The themes were either morbid or humorous. There was a haunted house, an execution with an axe, a gruesome mortuary, the hallucinations of a drunkard and one of a newly-wed couple that transformed into a henpecked husband and his rolling pin-wielding wife. Verne liked the morbid ones best.

  The automaton Verne’s father had brought upstairs into the apartment, and was currently examining, depicted an American execution by electric chair. It hadn’t worked for years and Dennis Thistlewood was often tinkering with it.

  ‘I’m trying to fit that motor I got off eBay,’ he told his son. ‘Could do with some help; make sure I don’t lose any vital bits.’

  Normally, Verne would have leaped at the chance. He loved those old automata and had always wanted to see this one in action. The head of the condemned prisoner was supposed to light up when the fatal moment came. But today the boy was impatient to get away.

  ‘You know I’m useless at that, Dad,’ he said.

  ‘OK, Klumsythumbs,’ Mr Thistlewood said, using the name Verne had called himself due to various botched attempts at repairs in the past. ‘So what do you think of Mr Potts?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve called my robot butler outfit. Looks good, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Why Mr Potts?’ Verne asked, recognising the twinkle in his father’s eye that usually preceded a terrible joke.

  ‘First name Jack,’ Dennis said with a chuckle and an emphatic wink. ‘Jack Potts, get it? Because we own an arcade . . .’

  Verne groaned loudly and headed for the door, leaving his father sniggering, head stuck back inside the cabinet, tapping connections and scratching his chin with a screwdriver.

  Rushing upstairs, Verne closed his bedroom door and drew the severed hand from his rucksack, placing it on his desk. Catching his breath, he gazed at the artefact in fascination. It was a right hand, most likely a man’s judging by the size. From the state of the bones, he guessed that the wrist had been hacked through long ago. It hadn’t snapped off last night. It must have been buried like this and had lain in the ground for hundreds of years.

  Verne placed his own hand next to it. How small it was in comparison. The guilt kicked in again – he knew he shouldn’t have taken it. It wasn’t too late; he could return it to the beach now and no one would ever know what he had done. But the blackened bones exerted a curious power over him, so he didn’t move and continued to sit and stare.

  Carefully, he touched the withered skin. It was hard as old leather. He wondered again what that dead hand was holding. The fingers were locked firmly in position and Verne had to prise them open. Three of them snapped like twigs and broke off.

  The boy didn’t seem to notice or care. He lifted the muddy clump from the dead palm and weighed it in his own. It was unusually heavy for its size. Where he had scraped the soil away, the glitter of gold danced across his eyes.

  Hastily, he pulled a T-shirt from a drawer and wiped the rest of the mud clear. Then he gazed down at the wondrous treasure in astonishment.

  ‘Oh wow . . .’ he murmured. ‘Just wow.’

  At first he thought it was an old-fashioned pocket watch, but it was shaped more like a hazelnut and was too big to squeeze into a waistcoat pocket. There was no winder visible either and no loop to fasten it to a chain. It appeared to be made entirely from gold that was as bright as the day it entered the ground.

  Verne’s fingertips stroked the cold surface. It was more beautiful and i
ntricately patterned than anything he had ever seen. The graveyard mould of centuries was embedded in grooves round the strange symbols etched across the surface and Verne was thrilled to discover that many sank down and clicked back up when he pushed. Others looked as though they might swivel across or twist, but there was too much dirt blocking the movement and he didn’t want to force a delicate mechanism or break a hidden spring.

  Marvelling, he searched for a catch that would flip the front open. It was obviously an extremely valuable trinket or scientific instrument of some sort, but what? He had no idea. Perhaps it wasn’t supposed to open. There was no obvious split down the middle.

  Putting it to his ear, he shook it gently. It didn’t rattle. If there were any clockwork parts inside, they weren’t loose. A few crumbs of soil dropped out.

  Verne turned it over and examined it more closely. He recognised some of the designs from books and items in the Wilsons’ shop. This meant one thing to him – they must be magical!

  Then he noticed, running between the crowded symbols, a scrolling banner, engraved with a single word.

  Verne carried the precious object over to his computer and began to search the web. He quickly found that the word was Latin, but was still puzzled when he read what it meant.

  ‘Beyond measure.’

  Putting the device in front of his keyboard, he shook his head, perplexed.

  ‘What the heck are you?’ he murmured.

  When Lil got home, her bedroom was still in a terrible state. There was mud and broken glass everywhere.

  With the help of her father, she sponged down every surface and the carpet was taken up and thrown out. Sally made herself comfortable on the settee downstairs and kept out of the way, her good eye watching the TV they switched on for her.

  The one thing that dismayed Lil was the discovery that her Lucky Duck, a small glass ornament from the local Whitby glassworks, had been smashed. Her late grandmother had bought it for her on the day she was born and, in spite of her scorn for all things superstitious, she couldn’t help feeling that perhaps this was a bad omen.