The Devil’s Paintbox

by Robin Jarvis

  ‘Is it life-threatening?’

  ‘At the moment, I believe it could be, for vulnerable groups: the elderly, sick and very young.’

  ‘Can you give the rest of us any advice?’

  The doctor looked into the camera. ‘Stay at home,’ he said. ‘Call your GP and report your symptoms, but do not move from your house. Right now there is nowhere that can take you.’

  Behind them an ambulance pulled out of the hospital.

  ‘That will be one of the critical cases,’ Dr Lonsdale said. ‘They are being transferred to an isolation unit in Scarborough.’

  The camera focused on the ambulance as it drove down Spring Hill. The vehicle was still in shot when it began weaving across the road, out of control. It pulled sharply to the right, then accelerated, scraping against a wall, before careering round the bend and disappearing from view. There was a loud crash.

  The consultant was already running down the hill, pursued by the camera operator, before Nigel Hampton realised what was happening. His mind filled with the prospect of TV journalism awards, he set off after them.

  The ambulance had smashed into the corner of the Bagdale Hall Hotel at the bottom of the hill. The rear doors had popped open and the medical attendant inside was lying dazed across the patient.

  Dr Lonsdale glanced at them, then dashed round to the front. The driver was lying unconscious across an inflated airbag and the windscreen was covered in yellow sick.

  ‘This needs containing,’ the consultant said grimly.

  Nigel Hampton came huffing up. ‘If this can strike so . . . so unexpectedly,’ he began. ‘So sudd–’

  The inside of his helmet splattered with yellow and he keeled over. The picture went black and cut to the BBC news studio.

  Cassandra Wilson turned off the television and looked at her daughter.

  Lil was curled up on the sofa in their living room, clutching a cushion under her chin. Her parents had closed the shop early, after a customer had fallen ill. Lil had spent the past hour explaining everything that had happened that day. She had never seen her mother look so angry and she wished she’d never set eyes on the paintbox.

  ‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ Cassandra asked. ‘This is all your fault. What if they die? Have you thought about that? What possessed you to meddle with it?’

  ‘I didn’t think it would do any harm. I thought they were only paints.’

  ‘That’s just it!’ her mother shouted. ‘You didn’t think. You’ve been messing about with magic for a full five minutes and you believe you know everything. I had a feeling something like this would happen. I blame that mad Cerise woman. You were a sensible girl before you met her.’

  ‘It’s not Cherry’s fault,’ Lil said loyally.

  ‘Don’t waste your breath. You’re not to see her again. Do you hear me?’

  ‘You can’t forbid me.’

  ‘Yes I can. It’s not normal, a barmy old woman like that spending so much time with a child.’

  Lil stared at her mother in disbelief. ‘Why are you being horrible?’ she cried. ‘You never used to be so mean.’

  ‘Go to your room,’ Cassandra ordered. ‘You don’t speak to me like that! I’m your mother!’

  Lil looked across at her father who had been listening in troubled silence, but he muttered his support for his wife and Lil gave a fierce grunt of frustration.

  Jack Potts appeared in the doorway with a tray.

  ‘Is this an appropriate moment for buns?’ he asked.

  ‘And that,’ Mrs Wilson said, jabbing a pointing finger, ‘isn’t going to stay in this house. I’m not having the Thistlewoods’ steampunk rubbish in here.’

  ‘He doesn’t have anywhere else to go!’ Lil protested.

  ‘It isn’t a he. It is a creepy machine and not my problem. It can go jump off Tate Hill Pier for all I care.’

  ‘The house has never looked so clean and tidy,’ Mike Wilson ventured, before a thunderous glance from his wife subdued him.

  ‘As you wish,’ Jack Potts declared, bowing over the buns. ‘I shall leave as soon as it is dark, if that is convenient for you? I prefer the anonymity of night. My own clothes will be dry by then. I thank you for the temporary loan of yours, Mr Wilson.’

  ‘You can keep them, if you want,’ Mike offered.

  ‘That is not necessary, but I am appreciative nevertheless. To avoid further embarrassment, I shall go and stand in the rear garden until the light fails. Please enjoy the buns. I made them with cinnamon. Mistress Lil told me how fond of it you are.’

  Putting the tray down, he left the room.

  ‘How can you be so cruel?’ Lil stormed out of the room. Her parents heard her stomp up the stairs and slam the door of her bedroom.

  ‘This isn’t like you, Cass,’ Mike said gently. ‘What’s the matter? You’d tell me if you weren’t well, wouldn’t you?’

  His wife glared. ‘Today our daughter’s selfish meddling with forces she doesn’t have the first clue about has caused an epidemic. And you think there’s something wrong with me? I’m going for a walk. I need fresh air.’

  Up in her room, Lil got out her phone to text Verne and discovered some messages from him. His brother Clarke was gravely ill.

  Lil flung herself on her bed and wept. Her mother was right: this was all her fault. If she hadn’t been so stupid, so proud of her own fledgling abilities, none of this would have happened. After several minutes’ sobbing into the pillow, she felt a wet nose push against her neck and a small tongue licked her ear.

  Lil reached out. For an instant she ran her fingers through silky fur, then it was gone.

  ‘Bless you, Sal,’ she whispered.

  Sitting up, she wiped her eyes, furious at her own self-pity.

  ‘No one needs your tears, Lilith Wilson,’ she scolded herself. ‘This is your mess, so stop bawling and do something about it.’

  Reaching for her knitting bag, she pulled out a crochet hook and balls of coloured wool, and set to work.

  Wrapped in one of her black velvet cloaks, which looked out of place over her stretched jersey leisurewear and trainers, Mrs Wilson ascended the 199 steps. Even though it was only early evening, they were deserted. Here and there the stones were fouled with putrid rivers, where tourists had succumbed to the illness during the afternoon. She avoided the livid yellow blobs that were still wet and glistening.

  At the summit, she wandered into the graveyard, before glancing back at the familiar view. The streets down there were empty too. In the distance she could see lines of flashing blue lights and a helicopter was hovering above the traffic on the A171, shining a searchlight on the cars below.

  ‘Poor Whitby,’ she murmured. ‘And poor me.’

  Casting her eyes downwards, Cassandra meandered between the headstones. She couldn’t possibly tell Mike what was really the matter. He wouldn’t understand. Even she was confused by it, but one thing was certain: she despised herself for it.

  Walking along the exposed clifftop she stared out to sea. A coastguard boat was patrolling beyond the harbour mouth. Night clouds were already gathering, thick and mountainous. It would be dark early.

  Leaning against a tomb, she watched the light gradually fail and was so wrapped in her own thoughts that she was startled when someone spoke behind her.

  ‘Mrs Wilson?’

  Cassandra turned to find Jack Potts standing there, his face hidden by the zipped-up parka.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t you worried someone might see you?’

  ‘There is nobody about,’ he answered. ‘People are too afraid to leave their homes. We are quite alone and unobserved and night’s candles are already burning.’

  ‘Good time for you to go then,’ she said.

  ‘You left your phone behind, so Mr Wilson sent me to find you. A state of emergency has been declared. The town is now under quarantine. Every road out of Whitby is being barricaded, no one is permitted to leave. So you see, I am trapped here. I must find some bol
thole until the crisis is over, perhaps a neglected shack or overturned rowing boat.’

  ‘Quarantine?’ she repeated, and realised what the blue flashing lights meant in the distance. ‘How long for?’

  ‘I do not know. I was constructed mainly for ironing shirts and getting the most from a crevice tool, not virology. Mr Wilson also wished me to tell you that Mistress Lil has gone missing.’

  ‘There’s only one place she’ll be,’ Cassandra said with a shrug. ‘Round at that mad old bat’s house. She just couldn’t wait to disobey me.’

  ‘Are you referring to Cherry Cerise? Forgive me, I am but a humble mechanical domestic and the delicate nuances of human interaction are foreign to me, but do I detect disapproval on your part towards her?’

  ‘Can’t stand her,’ Cassandra answered sharply.

  ‘Because of her friendship with your daughter?’

  The woman reared her head to answer in stinging tones, then seemed to deflate and she stared off into the distance.

  ‘Because of what she is,’ she said after a pause. ‘She’s a witch, a proper one.’

  ‘You are prejudiced against such people?’

  A cool breeze was blowing in from the sea. Cassandra pulled the velvet cloak tightly about her, then continued, talking more to herself than Jack Potts.

  ‘Ever since I remember, I’ve always been drawn to the gothic. Hardly surprising when you’re born here, where history and legend brush against you every day. I felt it was in my blood. As a kid, I watched the old Hammer horrors on TV and when I was fifteen all I wanted for Christmas was Christopher Lee to bite me on the neck. I read every book about the occult I could find and decided being a witch was my true destiny. I dressed the part, married a lad who felt the same and we even started a business around it. Being a witch was my everything and I thought I had all I’d ever wanted.’

  Frowning, she gave a slight shiver.

  ‘Then that old curse possessed the town and the flower-power reject everyone used to laugh at, and who I used to pity, revealed she’s some sort of official secret witch and can actually do proper, flashy magic. She’s got it dripping from her fingers, like runny nail varnish. And I saw my life as it truly was for the very first time. I was the local nutter, living a massive lie, just one huge sad joke. Can you imagine how that felt? No, I don’t suppose you could.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Robots don’t have feelings.’

  ‘You misunderstand. I ought to have been clearer. I meant, why were you fooling yourself ? Why was your life a lie?’

  ‘Because, as Lil says, I was only pretending. No natural talent, just . . . just a useless, deluded pudding in too much eyeshadow, spouting gibberish. And, as if to rub my nose in it, Lil ups and gets . . .’ Her voice trailed off and she shook herself.

  Jack Potts tilted his head at her. ‘Surely you know that not even the greatest magicians of history were born with such gifts? They attained power by channelling energies from outside themselves. Even Sir Melchior Pyke relied on his instruments, arcane studies and the skills of his manservant. If you so desired, you too could be the conductor of paranormal forces.’

  ‘You don’t think I tried? I used to make myself faint calling on the Goddess. I’ve fasted, jumped over fires, swum naked under the full moon, drunk revolting potions . . .’

  ‘I crave your pardon, but that does sound highly ineffectual. There are more direct methods of contact.’

  Jack Potts unzipped the parka and pulled the hood down. ‘If you wish, I could demonstrate and act as a transceiver, boosting the signals from one plane to another. Would you like to see things that are usually hidden from mortal eyes?’

  Not really believing him, Mrs Wilson gave a weary nod.

  Jack Potts reached into one of his pockets, drew out several ten-pence pieces and pushed them into the side of his tin head. Then he spread his arms wide and tilted his head back. The left eye began to flicker and flash. On his chest the bellows pumped faster, the reels spun around until three skulls stopped on the win line and the indicator lights blazed green.

  From his tea-strainer mouth there came squeals and static as he tuned through wavelengths. The eerie noises went wailing across the churchyard and Cassandra began to grow uneasy. She shifted apprehensively and stared into the deepening gloom around them.

  ‘Stop now,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t like it.’

  But the automaton stood as motionless as an iron scarecrow, and the unearthly din grew shriller until it hurt her ears. Clamping her hands over them, she backed away. Then the sounds were gone, soaring too high for human hearing, replaced by a silence that seemed to buzz inside her head.

  Shapes began to crackle in the surrounding shadows, with figures, lit by a cold grey light, jumping in and out of view. Cassandra saw a woman in a crinoline and bonnet moving between the tombs, singing softly to herself. A boy in a cap, no more than six years old, ran by. An old couple holding hands and gazing lovingly at one another shuffled through the grass. A man in a frock coat was stooping before his own headstone, glowering at the eroded, unreadable surface. The clifftop thronged with the spirits of people long dead.

  Cassandra spluttered and gulped great gasps of the night air. She couldn’t believe it, but she wasn’t afraid. She was thrilled.

  The countless ghosts wandered over graves and passed through the walls of the church, taking no notice of her.

  When a stout gentleman with well-groomed whiskers ambled by, she cleared her throat and tried to address him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Can you hear me? Can you see me?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t bother with that one,’ an amused voice told her.

  Cassandra spun around. Lounging against a headstone, with arms folded and long, booted legs casually crossed, was the spectre of a distinguished-looking man in Regency clothing, with glittering eyes and a self-assured grin.

  ‘Why not?’ she asked, marvelling that she was actually conversing with a spirit.

  ‘Because he was deathly dull when he was alive, and now he’s dead he’s simply dull.’ The ethereal stranger let out a short laugh, then looked around.

  ‘Why would you want to engage with any of them anyway?’ he asked. ‘They’re such a stagnant and insipid herd. At least the three babies who haunt the far corner have a dash of vivacity in them. They like to lure people to the edge with their plaintive crying and trip them over the side. Mischievous rascals. But the rest, they have no interests beyond the mundane trifles that measured their humdrum lives. They’re not in the least curious as to what happens beyond the boundaries of this moribund boneyard – oh and the endless, droning litanies of remembered ailments and what carried them off in the end . . . I could merrily strangle each and every one, if it would have any effect.’

  ‘And you’re curious, are you?’ Cassandra asked. ‘About the world outside?’

  ‘Ravenously so!’ he answered, flashing an attractive smile as he sauntered forward, hands clasped behind his back. ‘I’m positively blunderbussing with questions. Why do so many of you breathers stroll around with cigarillo cases against your ears and why do you shout into them?’

  Cassandra laughed. ‘They’re phones,’ she said, then realised she had to explain what those were. ‘Erm . . . devices we use to speak to people far away.’

  ‘Dead people? Ah, I understand. That would account for the trance-like state you enter into when you stare at them.’

  ‘Ha, no. Living family and friends mainly – and business contacts.’

  ‘I was never any good at business, not the honest variety anyway. Dame Fortune was my living, especially cards. Unfortunately I was discovered harbouring one knave too many one evening and my reward was a blast of lead in my vitals. Ah, but where are my manners? As there is no one here to perform society’s niceties and introduce us, necessity allows me to introduce myself. My name is . . . no – you shall call me Queller. That will meet both our requirements.’

  Cassandra was fascinated by him. He m
ust have been a handsome rake when he was alive. He looked no older than thirty, with a mane of thick dark curls, and was the perfect image of a Jane Austen romantic hero.

  ‘And how would you know what a twenty-first-century woman requires?’ she asked.

  ‘Your species has not changed in the centuries that my disreputable bones have lain ’neath sod and soil. You want what every female has always wanted.’

  ‘Oh really? What’s that then?’

  ‘Whatever you cannot have,’ he answered with a lusty chuckle.

  ‘Bet you were a smash at balls and parties,’ she said dryly.

  He looked her steadily in the eyes and she found his direct stare compelling.

  ‘In life,’ he admitted, ‘I had a lion’s portion of passionate liaisons. Those memories have kept my mouldering remains warm in the chill grave. What a calamity of Fate that you were not born in my time, for we should have had a most sprightly dalliance.’

  ‘Is a ghost actually flirting with me?’ she asked, amused yet flustered to feel her cheeks blushing. ‘Watch it, Casanova, I’m a married woman, with a daughter and a self-cleaning oven, not to mention the cellulite.’

  ‘Fear not, dear madam, I was but having a game with you. I know what it is you truly want. You wish to penetrate the spheres invisible and open the hearts of ancient mysteries. You would be a conjuror – a sorceress.’

  Cassandra blinked at him. ‘How did you know that?’ she asked. ‘Can spirits read minds?’

  Queller laughed and clapped his hands. Then he put a finger to his lips, guiltily. ‘I confess, before you could see me I was listening to everything that passed between you and your metal manservant earlier. I learned what it is you wish for by ear alone. I should deem it a privilege to offer my services to so gracious and discerning a lady. Might I know your name, you buxom enchantress?’

  She snorted with laughter. ‘Cassandra Wilson,’ she replied. ‘What service do you think I need, Mr Queller?’

  ‘Why, a spirit guide of course. You want to pierce the veil, investigate the deeper questions of existence, do you not? I can be of inestimable value in that regard, dearest Cassandra Wilson. That would redress the balance.’