The Devil’s Paintbox

by Robin Jarvis

  First published in Great Britain in 2017

  by Egmont UK Limited

  The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

  Text and illustration copyright © 2017 Robin Jarvis

  The moral rights of the author/illustrator have been asserted

  First e-book edition 2017

  ISBN 978 1 4052 8024 2

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1733 5

  www.egmont.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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  A colour a day to brighten our play. But once begun can’t be undone, till all are gone and washed away.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  TRIALLUM

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Back series promotional page

  TRIALLUM

  Indistinct shapes, blacker than the eternal night that reigned over this furthest region of the sea, guided the shadowy figure to the place appointed. A pale luminescence glimmered from the mouth of an unseen cave and a monstrous terror of the uncharted abyss, with a forest of teeth, swam forward. The glow emanated from countless growths on its grotesque head and by that ghastly radiance the spirit of Mister Dark found he was standing upon a finger of rock at the edge of an immense trench that no light would ever reach.

  The creature circled him and he could feel many hostile eyes spying from crevices in the surrounding stones. Foul voices, thick with slime, were gargling and whispering; distorted shells scurried and barbed tentacles reached towards him. The water seethed with resentment.

  If Mister Dark had been a living man he would have been paralysed with terror, for beyond these attendant courtiers he could sense he was in the presence of Them.

  The Lords of the Deep were watching.

  Mister Dark’s nerve almost failed. Malignance crashed over him in violent pulses. Dropping to his knees, he waited for Their judgement.

  He could feel Them invading his mind, shredding through the intricate plots and schemes and laying bare his most secret desires.

  ‘Forgive me! I humbly beg you!’ he cried. ‘Indulge me this one more chance. I swear this time I shall succeed.’

  Shuddering, he shrieked in pain as he felt Them withdraw sharply from his thoughts and he fell forward, nearly plunging into the trench.

  The sea grew even colder and he waited for a pronouncement.

  In that remote region there was no concept of time, no way to measure the hours. He did not know how long he remained on that perilous outcrop.

  Eventually he heard sounds approaching. Something was scuttling up the rock. Rising, he saw two crab-like claws rear over the edge, followed by the helmet of a Roman gladiator.

  ‘Emissary,’ Mister Dark greeted it. ‘What is the decision?’

  The creature within the helmet poked its stalk eyes through the visor at him.

  ‘You are fortunate,’ came the gurgling voice. ‘Your scheme has found favour. The terms are agreed. If you succeed, your requests will be granted.’

  ‘Thank Their exalted Majesties!’ Mister Dark called out.

  The helmet bobbed up and down on spindly legs and the pincer claws snapped in irritation.

  ‘Know this,’ the emissary warned. ‘Should you fail, there is no returning. You will suffer Their full wrath and endure torment – forever more.’

  Mister Dark smiled grimly. ‘I shall not fail. I too have scores to settle with Whitby and its witch. When she is defeated, and I compel her to watch the destruction of everything she is pledged to protect, I shall offer up her overwhelming despair unto Them as sacrifice. Whitby’s doom is assured.’

  ‘It had better be,’ the emissary hissed.

  The girl on the bicycle squeezed the brake and slid off the saddle when it halted sharply. Tracy Evans hadn’t ridden one of these since she was ten years old and she hadn’t enjoyed it then. She cursed under her breath. It would have been easier – and a lot less exhausting – to have stolen a car.

  So here she was, twenty miles out of Whitby, at half past one in the morning, breathless with the exertion and pale from the anaemia that had afflicted her since the spring.

  Shivering and sweating on this warm summer night, Tracy wiped her dripping face and looked at the stretch of road ahead. She was on a remote tract of countryside at the edge of the moors. There were no street lamps and the moon was behind clouds, but the lonely road was not featureless. Her destination was close and lit by stark bulbs.

  MCKENZIE METALS a large sign declared near the wide, gated entrance. FERROUS AND NON-FERROUS SCRAP & END-OF-LIFE VEHICLES SPECIALISTS.

  It was a sprawling plot of urban refuse surrounded by fields and hedgerows. The large scrapyard was fenced by high corrugated iron sheets topped with barbed wire, snarled with dirty tatters of old plastic bags that fluttered in the light breeze. Tracy and her cronies had always called rustling rags like that ‘witches’ knickers’ and the memory brought a sad smile to her face. She hadn’t spoken to Bev and Angie for months. She had been told she didn’t need them any more: only one person mattered in her life now.

  Tracy grunted at the momentary stab of regret. It was a mark of weakness and she despised that. Clenching her jaw, she concentrated on the matter in hand.

  Beyond that forbidding perimeter she could see irregular hills of rusting cars, battered cookers and dirty washing machines. The skeletal arm of a crane towered above everything and its shadow cut deep across the road.

  She took a phone from her pocket and stroked the screen that was sticky with drying blood.

  ‘Dark?’ she spoke urgently. ‘Dark, are you there?’

  The screen glimmered pale green and a pair of eyes appeared, as hypnotic and powerful as the first time she had beheld them and fallen under their spell.

  ‘I am never far from your side, my sweetest heart,’ a reassuring voice answered.

  Tracy pressed the phone to her lips and kissed it.

  She believed the voice belonged to the ghost of the most gorgeous lad she’d ever seen. For several months he had been the ultimate secret boyfriend, communicating via her phone when she smeared the screen with her own blood. He had told her he was the agent of mysterious ancient beings and they were going to grant him new life once he had completed a task for them. But the weeks had dragged by and her heart’s one dream was still only a phantom.

  ‘Tonight we’ll finally be together, yeah?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘Proper like you promised, not just on my phone or a shadow. It’s been so long. Sometimes I don’t believe it’ll ever happen. I can’t stand it!’

  ‘It is no simple matter to cross the bridge from death to life. Special measures must be in place, and this time there must be no resistance, no interference from the witch of Whitby.’

  ‘That Cherry Cerise is a mad old bag, everyone knows it.’

&
nbsp; ‘And yet she managed to hinder our previous endeavour – she and her acolyte.’

  ‘Lil pigging Wilson!’ Tracy spat. ‘She’s nothing. I’d love to smack the smug smiles off both their faces.’

  The voice chuckled softly.

  ‘Together we shall do so much more than that.’

  ‘Makes me heave, seeing them lord it, thinking they’re better than everyone else. Hope they suffer, real bad.’

  ‘Oh, they shall, do not doubt it. They dared to obstruct the will of forces far beyond them and such insolence is never forgiven.’

  ‘I’m so gonna snog your handsome face off, the first second you’re here for real!’

  ‘Not before I kiss the life right out of you, dearest girl. Now make haste. Go to the entrance.’

  ‘It’ll be locked.’

  ‘Do as I say. You have brought the coins?’

  Tracy shook the other pocket of her jacket. It was heavy with change.

  ‘Every ten pence I could find,’ she said. ‘Went through my mum’s purse, our Liam’s money box and I pinched the charity tin from the post office, about seven quid’s worth. What’s it all for?’

  There was no answer. Leaning the bicycle against a hedge, Tracy approached the wide double gate. Another sign warned of guard dogs. Tracy eyed it and chewed her lip. Close by there was a metal door set into one half of the entrance and she gave it a testing push.

  ‘Told you it was locked.’

  ‘Hold up the device,’ the voice ordered.

  Tracy raised her phone. The green light shone brighter and she heard bolts being dragged across on the other side of the metal. With a rusty squeal the door swung inward. Immediately, ferocious barking broke out. Two large Rottweilers with chests like barrels came tearing across the yard from a dilapidated lean-to.

  Tracy lunged for the door to snatch it back again, but the voice forbade her.

  ‘Do not fear the beasts. I shall shield you from their bite. Trust me and enter.’

  The girl stepped inside. The savage dogs rushed towards her, their great jaws snapping. Instinctively Tracy froze and squeezed her eyes shut. A stream of black smoke poured out from her phone and took shape behind her. The barking grew fiercer and closer – and then, abruptly, it ceased. She heard large paws skidding on gravel, followed by a frantic, tumbling scramble.

  Tracy opened her eyes to see the dogs cowering, staring fearfully at something over her shoulder. Their ears were flat and they were whimpering. Then, timid as lambs, they bowed and rolled on to their backs, exposing their throats. Cold laughter mocked them.

  ‘Rise and dance the jig of Dark for me.’

  The Rottweilers flipped over. With a grunting effort they reared their hulking bodies on to their hind legs, and pranced around each other like circus poodles.

  Tracy felt the hairs on her neck bristle and a chill breath blew across her shoulders.

  ‘You’re here!’ she cried excitedly. ‘Dark! You’re here!’

  ‘Do not turn around,’ the voice warned, close to her ear.

  ‘Why? Why can’t I see you?’

  ‘No questions. We have not yet claimed what we came for.’

  A slice of yellow light cut a diagonal across the yard as a door in a Portakabin opened. A grizzled nightwatchman in a vest and wielding a baseball bat descended the steps.

  ‘Kong! Tank! What were that racket for? What’s up with the pair of you?’

  He cast a cautious glance about the towering stacks of twisted metal. The cigarette he was smoking dropped from his lips when he saw his fearsome dogs capering in a circle, performing before a sickly-looking teenage girl.

  ‘Hoy!’ he yelled, striding forward. ‘Who the ’ell are you and what you done to my dogs? Tank! Kong! Down! Get here!’

  The man’s urgent, angry stride faltered when he saw the sinister, curdling shape of mist and shadows behind Tracy.

  ‘What’s that?’ he blurted. ‘W– What . . . what is it? Get out! Get out of here! I’ll call the police, that’s what I’ll do!’

  Backing away, he spun around and started running for the refuge of the Portakabin. As he fled he flung the bat from him, knowing it would be no use against what he had just seen.

  ‘Supper time, my sprightly ballerinos,’ the shadow said.

  The Rottweilers dropped to all fours and bolted after their owner. They caught him just as he reached the steps and dragged their former master under the lean-to.

  A silly smirk lifted Tracy’s mouth. Her own will was so crushed by the domination of her ghostly boyfriend that she felt no shock or revulsion and, when the terrible sounds ceased, she had forgotten there had ever been a nightwatchman.

  ‘That small lodging,’ the shadow said. ‘What we seek is in there.’

  Tracy dutifully crossed the yard and stepped up into the Portakabin. It was the firm’s office, but it was a chaotic tip. The desk was buried under heaps of invoices and unfiled mail, and Post-it notes covered every spare surface. In one cluttered corner was a toaster, kettle, radio, pyramid of dirty mugs and a small fridge. A portable DVD player had been placed on top of a tool chest, and the movie it was playing had been paused mid-explosion.

  Tracy’s eyes flicked over the more unusual items rescued from the heaps outside: old enamel signage, Victorian brass bath fittings, mismatching golf clubs, a dented saxophone, a variety of antique lanterns hanging from the ceiling, assorted trophies and ornaments that included three Eiffel Towers, a box of spoons and tangled costume jewellery.

  ‘To your left,’ the voice said to her.

  The girl looked quizzically at a coat stand smothered with overalls, scarves and parkas.

  ‘Over there,’ she was urged.

  Tracy began pulling the garments clear, then let out a snort of surprise. Underneath was a man-sized figure made from bits of scrap. A vintage fruit machine formed the chest, on to which was bolted a pair of bellows. It wore a leather tailcoat and a pair of baggy trousers over metal, chain-operated legs. The drooped head was made from old tins, cut up and shaped into a rudimentary skull, and the face was an adapted hockey mask with a brass tea-strainer mouth and torch lenses for eyes.

  ‘This is what we came for?’ she asked. ‘It’s just a load of tat.’

  ‘It is an automaton, built by one deep in the thrall of the Nimius, at the very epicentre of its influence.’

  ‘What – one of those mad machines the West Cliffers cobbled together when the town went mental? I thought they fell apart when it wore off ?’

  ‘This splendid gentleman was special, and he has held the golden Nimius in his metal hands.’

  ‘But it’s broken.’

  ‘Look to the side of the head, my love.’

  Tracy saw a coin slot and realised why she’d been ordered to bring the ten pences. When she had fed in a handful of money, she stood back and waited.

  A small green indicator light began to flash on the tin skull and the bellows wheezed in and out. The reels of the fruit machine lit up in the robot’s chest and spun around slowly until three cherry symbols juddered to a stop on the centre line. There was a snap of electricity and the eyes flashed on. The bicycle chain that ran from the head into the shoulders grew taut and the contraption raised its hockey-mask face.

  ‘What has occurred?’ a perplexed metallic voice asked. ‘What is this untidy midden? Where have the glorious forces of Melchior Pyke gone? I was busily serving refreshment when my coin time ran out. Have I missed the entire battle? Has the genius creator of the Nimius defeated the ragged witch and her unholy army?’

  ‘The soul of Melchior Pyke has departed this sphere,’ the shadow informed him. ‘Never to return.’

  ‘My master is gone? Then what is the purpose of Jack Potts now? My principal function is to serve the Lord Pyke. I was granted sentience for that alone.’

  ‘Do you know me?’

  The torch lenses shone past Tracy’s shoulders at the shifting shape behind her. An amber light on the side of the tin skull flickered in recognition.

&n
bsp; ‘You are the wraith of Mister Dark,’ the robot declared. ‘In life you were my master’s manservant; you aided him in his great endeavour.’

  ‘Aided be damned! I was more than mere assistant. Without Mister Dark he would not have been able to complete a tenth of the work on the Nimius. My hand fashioned it as surely as his and therefore I claim ownership. There can be no dispute of this and you, who were born of its power, owe me, its true master, your allegiance.’

  The reels in the robot’s chest revolved again.

  ‘Your reasoning is sound,’ he said after a short, considering pause. ‘Henceforth, Jack Potts shall serve Mister Dark. What is your bidding? You wish me to fetch the Nimius from its present keeper?’

  ‘Not yet. There is still a task ahead of us. In the town of Whitby there remains the last in a bedraggled line of insolent witches that has plagued this coast for far too long. I am charged by the Lords of the Deep to bring it to a humiliating end. You, my servant, will aid me in this. We have an elegant web of deceit to weave and, at its conclusion, not only shall I possess the Nimius, but I shall be a living man once more.’

  ‘As you command. But first I would very much like to flick a duster around and organise these bills and papers into alphabetical order. Can you direct me to a damp cloth and a ring binder?’

  Tracy had been listening to this with mounting impatience and confusion.

  ‘Hang on,’ she interrupted. ‘Dark, what are you wasting time on this thing for?’

  ‘Dearest truculent, tractable Tracy.’ The shadow mocked her in a harsher, more callous tone than he had used before. ‘You truly are the slowest-witted creature in creation.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I love you.’

  The voice laughed cruelly. ‘Love? What use have I of love? Obedience is all I desire.’

  ‘I do everything you tell me.’

  ‘You have completed your task well enough, but your usefulness is limited. To fulfil my pact with the Lords of the Deep, I require a servant who can venture into places barred to you, with more cunning than you possess.’

  ‘Servant? What do you mean? What about us? What about the future we planned together?’