by Robin Jarvis
There was an edge of steel in the voice that answered.
‘Look at me, Tracy.’
‘What?’
‘Turn and look at me. It’s what you craved earlier, only this time you shall see my true self – not the boyish mask I have worn to deceive and dangle you. I release you from all such bonds; awaken and view me with a clear, unfogged mind.’
‘Stop it.’
‘Look at me – see the face of Mister Dark, whom Melchior Pyke once cut down from the gallows and revived by unnatural means. Gaze into these eyes that have stared on the coldest wastes of oblivion and beheld the terrors of the world.’
Tracy felt dread creep over her.
‘Why are you trying to scare me? I won’t turn round. I know what you look like. You’re lovely!’
‘Must I order Jack Potts to compel you?’
The robot straightened and the metal fingers that were made of kitchen utensils twitched in readiness.
‘Is it blood?’ Tracy asked. ‘You need some? I can cut my hand, give you loads – more than ever. You won’t get any of that from a robot!’
‘True, but Château Tracy is bitter, cloying and tart, bordering on vinegar. Fortunately I have a fresh veinyard in mind – someone from whom it will be a smooth delight to sip, someone with enough full-bodied vintage in them to form the bridge from one plane of existence to another. Someone who will make my new flesh strong.’
‘You seeing someone else?’ Tracy cried and her fear flashed to anger. ‘You . . . you dumping me?’
Spinning around, she glared at the writhing clot of shadow and let out a scream. The churning black cloud revealed a spectral figure, tall and lit with a ghastly radiance. His hair was lank and his head was held at a strange angle on his twisted, kinked neck. A horrific scar ran down his right cheek and through his lips, but it was the pitiless hate that shone in those foul, dead eyes that really terrified her.
‘Who are you?’ she protested. You’re not my lovely Dark!’
Cruel laughter banished the last fragments of his hold over her and Tracy staggered as though she’d been physically kicked. Panicking, she blundered back towards the door.
But the two Rottweilers were waiting by the Portakabin steps, and they snarled threateningly at her.
‘I shouldn’t try to get past them if I were you,’ Mister Dark warned.
‘Let me go!’ Tracy begged. ‘Let me go! Please!’
‘That would be . . . untidy of me. The meticulous arrangements must not be spoiled in any way.’
‘I won’t tell anyone. Just let me get away.’
‘I believe you. Then let us part on a sweeter note. One final kiss?’
Tracy shuddered. Stepping up to the hideous apparition, she swallowed her disgust and held her breath.
Mister Dark’s ghostly face bent down and the scarred lips lifted in a repugnant grin as he gave a signal to Jack Potts behind her back.
The reels in the robot’s chest ceased spinning and three skulls stopped on the winning line. Metal hands were around Tracy’s throat before she knew what was happening.
‘Gullible to the very end,’ Mister Dark said. ‘Such a pity you’ll miss the entertainment. The final humiliation of the Whitby witches will be spectacular. You’d have enjoyed that, you unpleasant, stupid girl.’
As Tracy slumped to the floor, he added, ‘You really did have a very pretty neck.’
Jack Pott’s left eye was flickering erratically.
‘What more would you like me to do, Master Dark?’ he enquired.
‘Firstly, find a shovel. And then – oh . . . so many things.’
Verne Thistlewood lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He’d jammed pillows against his ears, but could still hear his parents rowing.
That’s all they did nowadays: argue and stress about their finances. The Thistlewoods owned an amusement arcade, but back in the spring most of the machines had been dismantled to make ludicrous gadgets and weapons when an ancient feud had magically possessed the entire town. The people of Whitby had come perilously close to destroying one another in a bloody battle.
The arcade never recovered after that. The insurance company wouldn’t pay out to replace the damaged amusements and Verne’s parents had sunk into debt. The summer season was already here and the town was thronged with tourists, but with only a dozen machines still working the arcade simply wasn’t earning enough. It was desperate.
The front door slammed and the vibration travelled through the apartment. One of his parents, probably his mother, had stormed out. Always practical, she had taken a job as a cleaner in the very gym she could no longer afford to be a member of and that morning was her first shift. Verne let out a long and dismal breath. He imagined that, unless some miracle occurred, they were going to have to sell up and probably live in a tent – if they could find a cheap, second-hand one.
The boy glanced at the chest of drawers across from his bed. Miracles were possible, he knew that better than anyone. He had his very own mini miracle-maker hidden away among his socks.
Getting to his feet he opened the top drawer, reached into a corner and pulled out a bundled-up T-shirt. Pausing a moment while he listened to make sure his father was still downstairs, he carefully unwrapped the precious object within. The morning sun blazed over the richly engraved golden surface. It hurt his eyes to look at it. This was the Nimius, the most incredible magical device ever created. Verne placed it gently on his pillow and sat back on the bed. He never tired of looking at this amazing treasure. It was breathtakingly beautiful and there always seemed to be some new detail to see.
The Nimius had lain dormant since that crazy week in the spring. Verne didn’t know how to wind the secret mechanisms, and none of the levers or symbols would push or slide. He and Lil had spent many patient hours examining and testing it, without success. Verne suspected it was broken.
The Nimius was his great secret. Only two people knew that he still had it: one was his best friend, Lil Wilson; the other was the town’s resident witch, Cherry Cerise.
‘What’s driving me round the bend,’ he muttered, ‘is that you’re probably the most valuable thing in the world and here we are, barely scraping by.’
Taking it up once more, he let out a squeak of surprise as he felt an internal movement and a series of delicate clicks. Then, to his delight, some of the many symbols began to rise.
He and Lil had made a pact that if and when the Nimius became active again, he would let her know straightaway. His first thought was to call her, but then he stopped himself. Placing the Nimius back on the pillow, even more gently than before so as not to accidentally press anything, he opened another drawer and took out a notepad.
Turning the pages, he consulted the secret list he and Lil had made. They had studied the magical device very carefully, researching every one of its symbols and trying to figure out what they signified. The Wilsons owned a witchcraft-themed shop called Whitby Gothic over on the East Cliff and the reference books in there had proved very helpful. They had identified several astrological and alchemical signs, including the one for ‘air’, which had once enabled Verne to fly. Some others were easy, like the little hand inscribed with the lines important in palmistry – that was obviously something to do with fortune telling. Then there was a circle engraved with a strange compass-like pattern that Lil recognised as ‘the Wyrding Way’, which was supposed to keep the bearer from getting lost. There was the Eye of Horus, which was protection against evil, a scarab that represented rebirth, an owl that might be to do with wisdom, and some Viking runes.
Other symbols were more ambiguous and had question marks next to the drawings Lil had made of them. Lil and Verne had spent a long time discussing the ones with less obvious meanings. There was an oak leaf, which had remained a puzzle, although they knew that oak trees were important in Celtic mythology. (Verne had wondered if it might grant enormous strength and he had posed like the Incredible Hulk to demonstrate, which had sent Lil into hysterics because h
e was the absolute opposite.)
Verne scanned the list and turned to the Nimius to see if any of the newly risen symbols were of the obvious variety.
There was a rune inscribed on to an oval button: a vertical stick with two branches to one side. He found the corresponding entry in the notes, then grinned and punched the air.
It was the rune for wealth.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he pressed it. There was a click and the Nimius trembled. The other levers and switches sank slowly into the golden casing once more.
Verne waited eagerly, hardly believing how lucky it was that the very miracle he needed had been supplied so readily. But as the minutes ticked by his joy faded and he began to grow doubtful. He had half expected everything in the room to magically transform into solid gold, or diamonds to fly in through the window. Suddenly uneasy, he reached for his phone again, then decided to go and see Lil and tell her in person.
Rewrapping the Nimius in the T-shirt, he slipped it into his rucksack and hurried downstairs.
‘That you, Verne?’ his father called from the living room.
‘Just going over to Lil’s!’ he called back as he ran past.
Dennis Thistlewood appeared in the hallway, just in time to see the kitchen door close.
‘Hang on!’ he shouted. ‘Take this!’
He had pulled out his wallet and the last of his precious ten-pound notes were clutched in his outstretched hand. For some time Mr Thistlewood stood there, waiting. After a while, when Verne didn’t return, he shook his head in confusion and wandered back into the living room, letting the money fall from his fingers to the floor.
Verne cut through the amusement arcade. With only the front section in use, it was a sad place. The area at the back had once housed vintage automata, but was now filled with broken machines. In this dimly lit area, with its deep shadows, they looked melancholy and neglected. The boy quickened his pace and was soon surrounded by the familiar noises of the working slot machines near the entrance.
Only a handful of holidaymakers were playing them, spending whatever change they had rattling in their pockets. Clarke, Verne’s older brother, was sitting in the change booth, absorbed in a cheeky text conversation with Amy, his girlfriend.
Just as Verne passed by, every machine went crazy.
Lights and buttons flashed, buzzers blared and bells rang in a cacophonous riot. Clarke looked up, startled. Even the amusements that weren’t being played were going nuts. Jackpot after jackpot was clunking into position. There was a rush of silver as each machine spewed out a heap of money. Coins gushed down with such force they overshot the payout tray and cascaded to the floor. It took only moments for each amusement to empty, but the mechanisms continued to chug long after.
At first the bewildered customers backed away in alarm. Then they gave elated yells and were on their knees, shovelling the cash up with their hands.
‘What the . . .?’ Clarke shouted, as he leaped from the booth. ‘Wait, you can’t have that! There’s been some technical fault. Put it down!’
The holidaymakers laughed at him. This was brilliant! There were hundreds of pounds here, just waiting to be scooped into their pockets.
Clarke looked around wildly and saw Verne by the main entrance.
‘Don’t stand there gawking!’ he roared. ‘Get over here, or call the police.’
The people were like greedy seagulls going berserk over a discarded bag of chips. Clarke tried to stop them, but it was impossible. Passing between the spent machines and slipping on the coins, Verne ran to help.
‘Stop it!’ he pleaded. ‘It isn’t yours, you know it isn’t.’
To his surprise, they halted and turned to him, with faces drained of all expression. There was an eerie silence, broken only by a last coin falling from the push-and-drop. Then, as one, they advanced towards Verne.
The boy watched them nervously. They looked weird, with silly grins on their faces. He began to edge away.
The holidaymakers grabbed hold of Verne’s rucksack.
‘Get off !’ he cried. ‘You can’t have that. Let go!’
Afraid they were after the Nimius, he lashed out and stamped on a flip-flopped foot. The person didn’t flinch. Verne was about to kick the nearest shin when he realised that they were actually trying to give him all the money they had taken.
The rucksack dragged on his shoulders as each new load of coins was tipped inside.
‘All for you,’ they told him in flat, empty voices.
Verne struggled and managed to pull himself away. He ran to Clarke who bundled him into the booth for safety. The customers followed, their vacant smiles frozen in place, holding out hands that were still dripping with change.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Clarke demanded. ‘Get out, go on!’
‘We’ll leave it here for him,’ they said, casting the coins on to the floor in front of the booth. ‘We wish there was more.’
The crowd wandered from the arcade, blinking groggily when they reached the sunshine outside.
‘What. Was. That. About?’ Clarke uttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘They were like money zombies,’ Verne said with a shudder.
‘Always zombies with you, isn’t it? Look at the state of this place. I’m going to have to close up till I can sort it. How do I explain this to Mum and Dad?’
‘It’s like the machines were all hacked or got a virus or something,’ Verne said. ‘That’s not possible though, is it?’ He began tipping out the looted change from his rucksack.
‘Here, you’d better have this too,’ Clarke said.
When Verne looked up, his brother was holding out a wad of notes from the change booth’s till. Clarke was smiling vacantly.
‘What?’ Verne muttered faintly.
‘Take this money,’ Clarke told him. ‘There’s eighty quid. I can get more.’
Verne felt a knot tighten in his stomach, beginning to understand. This was the power of the Nimius. The wealth button was working, but not in a way he had expected or hoped for.
‘No thanks. You go sit down for a while. I need to see Lil – pronto.’
‘Do you want my phone then? It’s better than yours.’
‘No, really – I have to go.’
Swinging the rucksack on to his shoulder, Verne ran from the arcade.
It was a glorious summer morning. Pier Road was busy with tourists and a fresh salt breeze was blowing in from the sea.
Verne hurried along the quayside, dodging families who stopped in their tracks as he passed, staring then reaching for their wallets and purses. A corridor of unnatural silence formed in his wake as their gabbling voices and laughter were stilled. Keeping his eyes fixed on the way ahead, he ignored the unsettling attention, stopping only when he barged into a small girl who ran into his path.
‘This was for ice cream!’ she shouted up at him, thrusting out two pound coins. ‘I have to give it to you instead.’
‘No you don’t,’ Verne told her. ‘Go get your ice cream.’
‘Can’t!’ she replied fiercely and tears began to splash down her face. ‘It’s your money now.’
Verne shook his head and strode past her. The girl let out a desperate wail and tried to stuff the coins into the back pocket of his jeans.
Verne pushed her off and would have run, but the way was blocked by a huge red-faced man in a vest, whose bulging arms were sleeved in tattoos.
‘What you doin’ with my little Rebecca?’ he barked.
‘My ice cream money!’ she cried before Verne could answer.
‘You snatched her money off her?’
‘No!’ Verne protested.
‘He won’t take it, Dad,’ the girl sobbed. ‘Make him!’
The man’s fleshy face scrunched up and the veins bulged at his temples as he bent down to glower closely at Verne, his mouth twitching into a silly grin.
‘Her money not good enough, is that it?’ he asked.
A large hand grabbed Verne
by the shirt while the other took the money and shoved it into his pocket. Then the man tore a thick gold chain from his own neck and tucked it in as well.
‘I got no idea why I just did that,’ he snarled through the fixed smile, ‘but you’d better get out of my sight before I change my mind and give you a slap you won’t forget.’
Verne didn’t argue. A large group was forming around them.
‘Scuse me!’ he shouted, barging through. ‘Got to go!’
‘Wait!’ urgent voices called after him. ‘Take this!’
Verne ran along New Quay Road, towards the swing bridge. His friend Lil lived across the river on the East Cliff and, at this hour on a Saturday, would undoubtedly be at the shop her family ran in Church Street.
Before he set foot on the bridge, squeals of astonishment broke out behind him. Glancing across the road he saw two cashpoints pumping out a blizzard of crisp banknotes. Thousands of pounds were spraying on to the pavement, faster than anyone could catch. Eager hands grabbed up fistfuls, then everyone turned to face the boy with the rucksack and started moving towards him.
Verne groaned and, as he did so, a gust of wind came funnelling down Flowergate and caught up the rest of the notes. They whirled like autumn leaves in a tornado, then came swirling over the road, heading straight for him.
He spun around and ran across the river. The vortex of cash pursued him, catching up before he was even halfway across the bridge. Next minute he was encased by a violent storm of money. When he tried to yell, some flew into his mouth. Spluttering and thrashing his arms to clear a space in front of his eyes, he lurched into Church Street.
In Whitby Gothic, Mike Wilson was unpacking a stock delivery.
‘Plastic pumpkin baskets?’ he exclaimed. ‘There must’ve been a mix-up – we never have tacky tat like this. I’ll ring the supplier and send it back.’
His wife, Cassandra, was sitting behind the till, removing black varnish from her fingernails.
‘I ordered it,’ she told him. ‘Punters expect it so we might as well flog it.’
