The Devil’s Paintbox

by Robin Jarvis

  ‘Most of the money ended up in the river!’ the bank manager ranted. ‘We’ll never get the rest of it back. It’s even trending on Twitter with its own hashtag, #whitbyfreecash. How am I going to explain this to senior management? They won’t believe it if I tell them it was black magic!’

  ‘Wash your dirty mouth out!’ Cherry snapped at him. ‘If you don’t apologise, right this instant, I’ll cast a spell to make you fart in five different colours every single time you shake hands with someone at the bank. I can do it, you know.’

  Mr Jackson let out a strangled cry of panic.

  ‘They’ll call you Rainbow Jacksy,’ Cherry added with a mischievous cackle.

  ‘Why don’t we all calm down?’ Jennifer Pidd spoke up, her oval face wreathed in a fake, politician’s smile. ‘We haven’t come here to antagonise you, Ms Cerise. It goes without saying that my fellow councillors and I completely understand we owe you a debt of gratitude for what you did back in the spring.’

  ‘Too right you do. Ain’t a single one of you would be here if I hadn’t saved your asses.’

  Mrs Pidd’s smile widened, making her nostrils gape even further.

  ‘We just think it would be in everyone’s interest if this sort of event didn’t occur again,’ she said. ‘Or if it did, perhaps you could give us prior warning? Keeping the earlier events a secret has been very trying for everyone in this community.’

  ‘Oh, poor them,’ Cherry said. ‘We witches have been keeping schtum for several thousand years. We managed somehow, all on our little lonesomes.’

  ‘You don’t have to shoulder this burden in secrecy and solitude any more. If there’s anything Whitby can do to assist you, the council is listening. But we cannot sanction unexpected and illegal acts like today.’

  ‘Gee,’ Cherry said, returning the insincere smile with one of her own. ‘That’s mighty swell of you. When the next attack comes, from the deepest reaches of the sea, by beings so ancient not even a geologist could imagine them, I’ll send for you in your kitten heels, and you can whack ’em about the tentacles with your knock-off Hermès handbag. That’s real reassuring.’

  Mrs Pidd lost no composure, but there was ice in her voice when she replied. ‘Yes, well, if such a threat exists, and we have only your testimony after all, I’m sure this country’s naval forces can deal with it. There’s no need for amateur and homespun deterrents, however well intentioned.’

  She paused. Cherry was looking at her strangely, with her head tilted to one side.

  ‘What . . . what are you doing?’ Mrs Pidd asked.

  Cherry winked at her. ‘I was just wonderin’ what kinda underwear a zipped-up dame like you goes for. I’m guessin’ big and sensible. See, the next time you’re at any official function, I’ll fix it so your knickers fly off and hit the most important person in the room right in the kisser. Would that be a first for you, sweetheart?’

  Jennifer Pidd’s smile crashed down into her chin and she spluttered with outrage and disgust.

  ‘Miss Cerise, please!’ the inspector said forcefully.

  ‘Cherry!’ Rory Morgan cut in with chuckling camaraderie. ‘Love the music, by the way, big fan of David Bolan here, adore his stuff.’

  ‘Oh brother,’ Cherry muttered.

  ‘Call me Rory, or just Roar, cos I’m a bit of a tiger. So I’m a mega supporter of yours, always speak up for you at council meetings. Definitely Team Cherry, that’s me – huge fan. I’ve been wanting to reach out and touch base with you, invite you into the offices to have a crucial meeting for a while. What I would love, and I’ve sounded out the guys on the tourist board – they’re big fans of yours too by the way – what I would love, love, love is to build on Whitby’s robust reputation for all things spooky and take it forward, to the next level. When people round the world hear the word Whitby, I want them to immediately think “magic”. Now there’s a hashtag and poster slogan for you #WhitbyisMagic.’

  ‘How’re you going to manage that, Mr Morgan?’ Cherry asked flatly.

  ‘That’s down to you. You bring the shazam factor to the table. It doesn’t have to be much, a few tricks that can’t be explained. Maybe three or four a month to get the ball rolling and people talking. Then you could pull back and start on the bigger stuff. It would be incredible for tourism, ’specially if you save the real spectaculars for the winter months. Obviously, you’d be in for a healthy slice of the pie.’

  ‘You’re asking me to perform some “tricks” to help sell more ice creams?’

  ‘Now don’t dismiss it straight off. If you’d prefer to do it anonymously, we’d totally respect that. We could really work up a blinding campaign with that.’

  ‘Whitby is magic,’ repeated the mayor. ‘I like it.’

  Cherry took a long breath then scratched her forehead.

  ‘You know,’ she began. ‘Soon as I opened the door and saw y’all, I was expecting the usual rude and ignorant insults, which Jacksy and Jennifer supplied with predictable monotony and a generous dose of halitosis. But I wasn’t anticipating an offer of crass hexploitation. I really gotta congratulate you, Mr Morgan, you made me realise I’m still shockable. That’s a real achievement. Now I think you’d better leave before I have time to cook up something extra special for you, although how you could be made to appear even more of a grade A . . .’

  Her words faltered and she had to catch her breath. A wave of dizziness swept over her and her legs weakened. She almost fell head first into the mayor.

  ‘You all right, Miss Cerise?’ the inspector asked in alarm as he reached out to steady her.

  ‘Did you feel that?’ she asked in a shocked gasp.

  ‘Feel what?’

  ‘Like a part of me was torn out. You didn’t feel it? Something is real wrong.’

  Cherry clutched her chest and stared past him and the others at the narrow entrance to the yard. There was a commotion in Church Street beyond. People were calling out in astonishment and wonder.

  ‘I gotta see,’ she said, lurching forward.

  Out in the quaint, cobbled road, the crowds of holidaymakers were staring along the street. Shouts of disbelief were echoing around and some people were holding phones aloft, recording the scene.

  Rushing from Henrietta Street was an impossible spectacle. Everything was changing colour. Walls of houses, window frames, roof tiles, flowers in hanging baskets, even the cobbles were all turning a vivid yellow. It was as if a giant, invisible paintbrush was speeding through the street. The rampaging colour reached a parked blue van. There was a jolt and suddenly even the tyres were yellow. At the foot of the church steps the inexplicable yellow tide went shooting up the cliff, turning each of the 199 steps and the handrail the same bright shade of daffodil.

  Cherry stumbled into Church Street just in time to see the unnatural force come sluicing down it. Nothing escaped that magical flood of colour, not even people. It tore past them like a sunny storm, sending them spinning or snatching the breath from their mouths.

  Cherry threw her hands before her face and yelled words of protection, but it was too late. The power pummelled into her and sent her teetering sideways. The unstoppable force raged on down the street.

  ‘Yep, that . . . that will do it,’ Rory Morgan uttered in an awestruck voice behind her. ‘Whitby is magic all right.’

  Gasping, and feeling faint, Cherry turned to look at him. He too was now dressed from head to toe in yellow, and so was she, even down to her lipstick.

  So was Jennifer Pidd, who stared around her, aghast.

  ‘How are we going to cover this up?’ she cried. ‘This isn’t something the town can keep secret. There are thousands of outside witnesses! What have you done?’

  Cherry didn’t stay to argue. Pushing through the incredulous tourists, who weren’t sure whether to be terrified or impressed, she hurried to the church steps and began climbing. When she was level with the town’s chimneys, she gazed down upon Whitby and her face went pale.

  The whole of the East Cliff w
as yellow, even the grass and the gravestones in the cemetery behind her. There wasn’t a patch of any other colour anywhere. Every building was the same, including St Mary’s Church and the abbey itself. And there was no sign of it stopping.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun sparkling over the river, Cherry saw the swing bridge quickly change. Then, road by road, house by house, the whole of the West Cliff was engulfed. It took only minutes for the tsunami of yellow to reach the whalebone arch and the grand hotels behind.

  The preposterous vista was at once startling and curiously beautiful. This strange, new, monochrome world looked as if it was made entirely from cheese, with rich apricot shadows. Overhead the gulls were shrieking louder than usual. They too had been transformed and were swooping and squabbling in their new plumage, like monstrous canaries.

  ‘What a foul-up!’ Cherry uttered. ‘If I weren’t wearing these platform boots, I’d kick myself. Why didn’t I stop Lil taking that paintbox? I was too busy worrying about the wrong thing!’

  Growing fearful, Cherry ran back down the steps. She had barely set foot in Henrietta Street when she noticed the intensity of the surrounding colour was fading. The yellow was dissipating, billowing over the surfaces in tattering streaks. By the time she reached the Wilsons’ cottage it had almost completely disappeared and her own clothes and wig were back to their usual garish selves.

  Lil and Verne were out in the street, looking across the harbour at the West Cliff.

  ‘Wasn’t it glorious?’ Lil cried when she saw her. ‘It was the most mirificus thing ever! Even the lighthouses went yellow. Did you see them? They looked like massive corn on the cobs!’

  ‘I wanted the river and the sea to change too,’ Verne said excitedly. ‘And be like an ocean of custard. But it was still the best thing ever!’

  ‘Shame it’s vanishing now,’ Lil lamented. ‘I hoped it’d last longer. That’s what I call cheering the place up. No amount of yarn bombing could ever match that!’

  They watched as the last traces of the eerie yellow rippled away from the streets and houses, shredding and melting into nothing. The world appeared darker without it.

  ‘Boring and grey and ordinary,’ Lil said.

  ‘Honey,’ Cherry said. ‘We need to talk about them paints of yours. That’s some serious megaton magic. No wonder they was buried all that time. They ain’t safe.’

  ‘I just thought they were normal paints,’ Lil said. ‘All I did was put a bit of water on the yellow. Then the box started to shake and, before we could dive under the table, there was a sort of yellowness explosion. You should’ve seen our kitchen!’

  ‘It didn’t hurt you?’

  ‘No, we were winded and felt like we’d blasted off in a rocket, but fine. Jack Potts made sure we were OK and we ran out here, soon as we realised what was going on.’

  ‘I need to take another look at that box,’ Cherry said.

  Presently they were back in the Wilsons’ kitchen, gathered around the table. Jack Potts was cleaning the cupboards, throwing away the occasional tin at the back that was out of date.

  The paintbox looked the same as before, except that now the compartment that had housed the yellow pigment was empty.

  ‘It figures,’ Cherry declared. ‘I guess each colour is a one-time deal.’

  She passed her hand over the box once more, but this time the probing light took longer to shine from her palms and was noticeably weaker than before.

  ‘I’m bushed,’ she said, dropping into a chair. ‘Today has clobbered me. I’m only gettin’ the same reading anyway: myself reflected back. What I want to know is who made it, why, and what power went into it? Must be something pretty major.’

  ‘You sure I can’t use them again, just once more?’ Lil asked hopefully. ‘I’d love to see the town turn bright red.’

  ‘The worthies of Whitby would disagree with you. I just had a visit from them and I expect you two will get the same. You better make sure Potts is out of sight when they call.’

  ‘I can insinuate myself into the most cramped cubbyhole,’ the automaton volunteered helpfully. ‘Perhaps a wardrobe or broom cupboard? And, whilst secreted there, organise the storage to its optimum efficiency.’

  Verne was looking at his phone. ‘I’ve got texts from Dad and Mum asking if I’m OK,’ he said. ‘I’d better get home. The arcade was in a right state when I left.’

  Picking up his rucksack, he waved goodbye and let himself out.

  Lil examined her mobile. ‘Nothing from my parents,’ she said, wondering why they hadn’t tried to contact her. ‘But #Whitbyisyellow is all over Twitter.’

  ‘You can’t keep a lid on something that mind-blowing,’ Cherry said. ‘I better mosey on home too. Haven’t felt this beat in a long time.’

  ‘You taking the paintbox with you?’ Lil asked.

  ‘What for? It came to you, it’s all yours. Just keep it safe and don’t be tempted to use it again.’

  Lil promised. ‘And I’ll make that badge for you. If you still want it?’

  ‘More than you can guess, babe. And the sooner the better. Hey, sorry about the way I shooed you guys out earlier. We still good?’

  ‘Sisters in witchery,’ the girl replied, grinning.

  Cherry gave her a hug and soon Lil was left alone with Jack Potts.

  ‘I simply won’t be content until I scrub this floor,’ he said. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea before I commence, Mistress Lil? I see you have many different varieties, most impressive. I believe I shall be very comfortable here.’

  ‘Provided we can convince Mum,’ Lil reminded him.

  ‘I can be extremely persuasive,’ he said, flexing his metal fingers inside the rubber gloves. ‘I’m certain she can be made to see the advantages of the arrangement. I am looking forward to having extensive chats with your mother.’

  Lil looked at him. ‘Is there a loose connection in your eye? Every now and then it flickers.’

  ‘Sometimes the ghost gets into the machinery,’ he replied with a metallic chortle. ‘Nothing to concern yourself over.’

  ‘OK, I’ll have that tea then, please.’

  ‘Perpetually delighted to serve.’

  As Cherry passed through Church Street on the way to her cottage, she saw a small crowd gathered round a young family. The father had collapsed and his wife was kneeling on the cobbles, tending to him. Beside them, a toddler in a buggy was crying.

  ‘You’re shivering, Joe!’ the woman cried, wiping her hand over her husband’s icy forehead. ‘Better get you to a doctor.’

  The onlookers muttered advice and one of them offered to call an ambulance.

  ‘I’ll . . . I’ll be fine,’ the man stuttered as he trembled. ‘Just feel a bit . . . a bit achy and nauseous. Give me a minute. Might have been them prawns we had.’

  A sudden spasm made him crunch up. Jerking his head to the side, he vomited a jet of bile across the street. Then he passed out.

  ‘Joe!’ his wife yelled. ‘Joe!’

  A woman hurriedly dialled the emergency services. Before she could give any details, she too began to shiver and the phone slid from her hand. It crashed to the ground and so did she.

  Cherry’s eyes followed the trail of virulent fluid the man had expelled as it trickled between the cobbles towards her feet. It was repulsive and unnatural, shot through with veins and branches of putrid phlegm. Further down the street a woman carrying shopping staggered against a wall and fell. A man close by dropped like a stone. Then another. They all began retching.

  ‘Scourge Yellow,’ Cherry breathed in horror. ‘The yellow scourge . . . oh my Lords, don’t let it be true! What has Lil unleashed?’

  ‘You’ve been watching amateur YouTube footage of an inexplicable phenomenon that took place this lunchtime, here in Whitby on the North Yorkshire coast, when everything turned yellow. So far no one has been able to provide an adequate explanation, but it has been suggested that it was a sophisticated publicity stunt by a leading paint manufacturer. If so, did
the chemicals used trigger the devastating illness that has since gripped the area? I’m standing in front of Whitby Hospital, which is unable to cope with the sheer number of cases.’

  Local news reporter Nigel Hampton was almost unrecognisable in a protective suit and polythene helmet, which muffled his voice.

  ‘In the six short hours since, over seven hundred people have been stricken, with that figure rising steadily. Emergency services are stretched to the limit. The hospital here is overflowing, with some patients having to be treated in the car park. With me is consultant Hillary Lonsdale.’

  The camera pulled back to reveal a tall, thin man with a grave face, also wearing a protective suit, but without the headgear.

  ‘Dr Lonsdale,’ Nigel said, his face still turned to the lens, ‘thank you for taking time out on this hectic day to speak to us. What is your assessment of this alarming situation?’

  The consultant answered in a measured, authoritative tone.

  ‘It is alarming,’ he agreed. ‘I have never seen anything like it in all my thirty-two years in the medical profession. You have to understand that this is still at a very early stage; we don’t even know what we’re dealing with yet.’

  ‘Was it toxic chemicals?’

  ‘Highly unlikely. This is extremely contagious. Eight of my staff have been taken ill, but we have patients who have contracted this in their own homes, having had no contact with any other cases. Perhaps an airborne pathogen? We just don’t know at the present. We are running tests, but this is demonstrating the classic signs of being a virus.’

  ‘Virus?’ the reporter repeated, visibly cringing. ‘What are the symptoms? Can you tell us that much?’

  ‘There does seem to be a pattern. First, there is extreme fatigue and weakness of the limbs. Then fever and projectile vomiting, followed by loss of consciousness. After several hours, jaundice sets in. We have two critical cases that are giving us great cause for concern.’