The Devil’s Paintbox

by Robin Jarvis

  The memory faded, melting into a golden mist.

  Back in her cottage, Cherry kissed the Polaroid.

  ‘He knew,’ she said. ‘He knew.’

  Verne and Lil waited while she composed herself.

  ‘The electric’s off in here,’ Verne said eventually. ‘I think the whole town has gone fzzzst.’ Cherry put the wallet away.

  ‘That’s just a part of it,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes. ‘But neither of you felt nothin’? No bad and twisted memory that made you wanna die?’

  ‘No,’ the children said together.

  ‘Guess it don’t work on everyone, just like the sickness didn’t. But Despairing Black will find its victims. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a Verne and Lil to save them.’

  As she spoke they heard a bitter cry from one of the nearby cottages.

  ‘So it starts,’ Cherry said. ‘And with no power, this town really is cut off. We’re totally on our own now.’

  Within just a few metres of the barricade, nothing electrical was working. Even landlines were dead.

  Cherry, Lil and Verne hurried through the East Cliff. The oily mist was still curdling into doorways and creeping over the cobbles. Wails of anguish followed in its oozing wake.

  ‘What can we do?’ Lil cried. ‘We can’t save people from their own despair!’

  ‘Get to the bridge,’ Cherry urged. ‘This old broad ain’t quittin’ yet.’

  The swing bridge was thickly carpeted with the black mist. Two women had climbed on to the safety rail and were contemplating the deep river flowing beneath.

  ‘Good mornin’, ladies,’ Cherry called, in as sunny a voice as she could muster. ‘Why don’t y’all get down from there? I got somethin’ real neat to show you. You’ll love it.’

  The women turned ashen faces to her. It was as if they bore the burdens of the world on their shoulders. Cherry knew she had to be quick.

  Holding up her hands, she put her thumbs and forefingers together and two bright points of pink light flared up. She blew on them and they floated like glowing thistledown towards the despairing women. Glimmering through the air, the magical lights flew to their foreheads where they radiated out, forming shining stars on their brows.

  ‘I know you’re deep in the pit of pain right now,’ Cherry said coaxingly. ‘And can’t see a way out. You think the walls are too high to climb, but that just ain’t the truth. This light is the promise of a better day. Push the darkness behind you and concentrate on the pretty pink star. When night closes over your dreams and you’re flounderin’ in the dark, remember there are stars out there, and inside yourself, to guide you and keep you safe.’

  The women clambered down from the rail. Cherry touched their foreheads lightly.

  ‘Go home,’ she suggested. ‘And sleep.’

  The insidious mist had reached the West Cliff, winding up the Khyber Pass and climbing the steep, narrow ways behind Flowergate.

  ‘Up there!’ Lil cried, pointing at the Royal Hotel where a figure in a white coat was standing on a fourth-floor window ledge.

  ‘It’s that doctor,’ Verne said. ‘He’s going to jump!’

  ‘There’s more on the quayside!’ Lil shouted. ‘Cherry! Do something!’

  ‘Quick, Verne,’ the witch said. ‘Go fetch your dad. Hurry.’

  The boy raced off and she turned to Lil.

  ‘I got me just one card left to play. Don’t be scared and don’t say nothin’ till it’s done.’

  Cherry closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. Lil held on to the iron latticework of the bridge rail and watched.

  ‘I call upon the warmth and protection of the First Mother!’ Cherry announced in a firm ceremonial voice as she folded her arms across her chest. ‘I rouse her strength and compassion. For mercy’s sake, may I be a conduit for her nurturing energies. By daylight’s eye I summon thee; with the moon’s tears I charge thee. Pierce every shadow; banish the titans of hopelessness that seek to crush our fragile spirits. Let a flame of hope burn in every downcast heart. This is the supplication of the Whitby witch! I beseech thee, use up the colours that are left unto me.’

  Cherry’s head slumped forward and she started speaking in a weird guttural language. A shimmering radiance welled up in the witch’s flesh and the ends of her nylon wig began to lift. Letting out a tremendous yell that made Lil jump, she threw out her hands and flung her head back. A dazzling globe of light blasted from her, like the detonation of an enormous firework. Millions of scintillating particles went shooting over the town, punching through walls and rocketing down narrow streets. On top of the Royal Hotel, a fiery pink spark exploded against the doctor’s shoulder and sent him crashing back through the window he had climbed out of. All over Whitby that most desolate, forsaken moment was punctured by a spark of hope. The black mist retreated, pouring into drains and cascading over the harbour wall to sink into the river.

  ‘You did it!’ Lil cried, scanning the town. ‘Cherry! You did it!’

  The witch said nothing. Lil glanced at her and sprang forward.

  Cherry’s face and hands were grey and she wilted into Lil’s arms. The girl sat on the pavement with Cherry’s head on her lap. She felt for a pulse and was frightened by how parched and shrivelled the witch’s skin had become. It was if all the goodness had been siphoned off. The pulse, when she found it, was incredibly faint, but at least she was alive.

  Lil stroked Cherry’s face and carefully straightened her wig.

  ‘Hang in there. You can’t leave us yet. There’s still so much we’re going to do: you, me and Verne. You don’t get to ditch this mad disco early, before they play the best tunes, Cherry Cerise. You’re the Whitby witch – you’re going nowhere. I won’t let you.’

  Presently, Verne returned with his father and Lil asked him to carry Cherry home.

  Dennis took Cherry in his arms. She was lighter than Verne and her emaciated arms and legs dangled like sticks. It was no labour at all to bear her down Church Street and soon he was carrying her up the stairs of her cottage where he laid her gently on her bed.

  ‘She looks like a wizened zombie,’ Verne observed with unhappy bluntness.

  ‘She sacrificed her colours,’ Lil said. ‘Her whole spectrum, every bit of magic she had in her, to save everyone.’

  ‘What the heck happened?’ Mr Thistlewood asked. ‘It was crazy at the hotel, with people bawling and threatening to do themselves in. I had to stop a nun from chucking herself out the window. Then coloured stars were whizzing about everywhere and the wailing stopped.’

  ‘When I got there the nun was kissing him,’ Verne said.

  Staring down at Cherry’s withered face, he added, ‘Is she going to die?’

  ‘Not if I’ve got anything to do with it,’ Lil answered with fierce determination. ‘But I’m going to need one hell of a lot of wool.’

  ‘There’s tons in the hotel,’ Dennis told her. ‘After what you did for Clarke and that little girl yesterday, all the families brought every ball they could find, but . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘They might not let you have any if they know who it’s for. There’s nasty talk going round. Noreen and me have both heard it. People are saying all this, the sickness, the insects, is Cherry’s doing.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’

  ‘I know! And I’ve tried to put them right, but they won’t have it. And I’m sorry, Lil, but I think they’re getting all this from your mother.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cassandra’s been doing her herbs and spells for anyone who asks and it seems to work a bit. Nothing like what you can do, but it’s enough to impress most people in there. Anyway, that’s where the rumours about Cherry are coming from.’

  ‘Your mum’s lost it,’ Verne said flatly.

  ‘I know,’ Lil agreed. ‘I don’t know what’s got into her. I’ll try and talk to her later. I must do what I can for Cherry first. Verne, will you stay and look after her while I dash home and get my knitting gear?’

 
‘Course I will.’

  Mr Thistlewood left and Verne gazed around Cherry’s bedroom. It reflected her 1970s taste, with garish orange and pink woodwork, tasselled lampshades and framed posters of David Bowie, Steve McQueen and Roberta Flack. But the walls and ceiling were grey, the same ghastly shade as her skin.

  ‘It’s weird being in her cottage and not having the walls change colour all the time,’ he said.

  ‘They’ve been getting paler ever since I first used the paintbox,’ Lil said. ‘I think it’s been robbing her power right from the start, leeching the colours out of her. She knew, but she never said anything. She’s been having trouble with even simple magic, like her party trick.’

  ‘She looks old. I never thought of her as old,’ Verne said. ‘She was always so full of life. Poor Cherry.’

  ‘Don’t leave her on her own while I’m gone.’

  ‘As if !’

  ‘Sorry. I won’t be long.’

  Verne pulled the padded stool from the dressing table and placed it by the bed. Sitting down, he looked into Cherry’s face and took hold of her hand.

  ‘Lil will be back before you know it,’ he said. ‘She’s unbelievable with her knitting thing. She’ll get you back to normal in no time. Chocolate milkshake for me, remember.’

  Cherry’s hand was cold.

  Lil burst into the Wilsons’ cottage and flung herself up the stairs to her room where she dragged every item of clothing she had ever knitted from her wardrobe and stuffed it into bags.

  ‘Bright colours only,’ she told herself. ‘Verne can unpick and I’ll knit it up. But that’s going to take time. What I need is a machine to do the unpicking . . .’

  She slapped her forehead and, with the bulging bags in her hands, ran back down the stairs to the kitchen.

  Jack Potts was seated at the table, motionless, his head bent over scattered tea bags. Every caddy and box of flavoured tea in the house was arranged before him.

  ‘I forgot,’ she groaned. ‘You’re electric and kaput like everything else.’

  The robot raised his head and looked at her.

  ‘I was immersed in deliberation,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Lil. Can I be of service?’

  ‘The paintbox didn’t zap you?’

  ‘Ah, is that why the vacuum cleaner no longer functions? I did wonder if I had offended it in some way. Appliances can be so touchy. I must also apologise to the freezer: earlier I unjustly called it an incontinent vulgarian.’

  ‘I need you to come with me.’

  ‘But I am engaged in important research.’

  ‘What, with tea bags?’

  ‘Decidedly so! I have devised a radical new method of brewing the cups that cheer but do not inebriate. It will revolutionise the beverage industry. Consider these many different varieties, so much wasteful packaging.’

  ‘I don’t have time for this. Get your parka on.’

  ‘I should prefer to remain here. I was just preparing to snip open . . .’

  ‘Why are you arguing? I need you at Cherry’s.’

  ‘Oh, if you insist.’

  A short while later they were in Cherry’s bedroom and Jack Potts was unravelling jumpers and scarves faster than any human could, and winding the individual colours into separate balls.

  ‘I notice there are a great number of deaths occurring at the moment in Whitby,’ he said. ‘Is that usual in this resort, for this time of year?’

  ‘It’s not usual at any time of year!’ said Lil. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Ah. My small talk is not all it should be. I was constructed to be a butler. I can draw the perfect bath, boil the perfect egg, iron a garment with complicated pleats, but there are gaps in my basic general knowledge.’

  ‘You’re telling me. Anyway, Cherry isn’t going to die.’

  ‘You speak with such passion and negativity about human death.’

  ‘Course she does!’ said Verne.

  ‘Even though you know it is merely the end of one form of existence and the beginning of another?’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Lil said. ‘I keep forgetting you’re only a machine.’

  ‘If death is so bad, then to cause a death is also bad?’

  ‘That’s murder,’ Verne told him. ‘It’s the worst crime there is.’

  ‘It is not like opening a door for someone? That is considered good manners.’

  ‘No!’ both children said.

  ‘Then it is a difficult concept for me to understand. When I can no longer function or be repaired, that will be a final end to Jack Potts. Your flesh and bone frame is but a prison for your spirit.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ Verne said. ‘Life is precious and wonderful!’

  The automaton’s left eye started to flicker.

  ‘One completed ball of lemon-coloured wool,’ he declared, changing the subject.

  Lil began to crochet.

  By the end of the evening, Lil’s young fingers ached.

  She had completed a multicoloured blanket, with an emphasis on pink. But, when she had placed it on Cherry, nothing happened. The wool did not sparkle and there was no change in the witch’s condition. Lil’s hopes and confidence in her own abilities were dashed. Yet there were other people who needed her help.

  Arranging a care rota with the Thistlewoods, so that Cherry was never on her own, as she felt uneasy about leaving her with Jack Potts, Lil spent the rest of the day at the hotel making blankets for patients in the games room. At least there she was relieved to see that her magic still worked.

  Without electricity, the spacious hotel rooms grew dark quickly when the sun began to set. Torches were no use, so candles were in great demand. Lil’s mother had fetched a haul from Whitby Gothic and their flickering flames made the ballroom look like a church or temple. Lil had tried to speak to her about Cherry, but Cassandra declared she was too busy caring for the sick, and her followers made it plain that Lil wasn’t welcome in the ballroom. She wasn’t even permitted to visit her father.

  Food was becoming a problem across the town. Without daily deliveries, supplies were running low. There was nothing fresh left and all the frozen produce had defrosted. The only solution was to cook everything before it spoiled and share it out. Luckily the big hotels and many houses had gas cookers, but other inhabitants had to devise different means of boiling water or warming tins of beans.

  Lil spent the night on Cherry’s bedroom floor. There was still no change. As the girl curled herself up and tried to go to sleep, she wondered how she and Verne would deal with whatever new terror the paintbox would hurl at them. Without Cherry to help it was a daunting and fearful prospect.

  ‘Three watercolour blocks left,’ she said. ‘So that’s three more days and then it’s over. Oh, please be over.’

  She fell into a disturbed slumber in which she dreamed something was scuttling across the roof and scratching at the window frame. Then she thought she heard Sally barking and jumping up at the window. There was a hasty, scrabbling retreat outside. After a time, a wet nose and silky fur nuzzled next to her.

  That night the abbey ruins were aglow with flame and giant shadows cavorted across the stones. Within the grounds a celebration was taking place. Cassandra was crowned High Priestess of Whitby by her followers, and half a pig, stolen from a butcher’s cold store, was roasted on a large fire. A makeshift throne had been put on one of the broken pillars and, from that exalted position, Cassandra commanded the music to commence.

  The revellers were drunk on looted alcohol and they tore off their clothes to dance naked round the flames. Some held pig’s heads in front of their faces.

  Standing at the edge of the firelight, Jack Potts observed the worst of human nature then turned away and faced the abbey wall.

  High overhead a winged shape circled over Whitby, mewling a gloating cry.

  Lil woke early. The first thing she did was check on Cherry. The woman was still unconscious, but Lil was delighted when she saw that the strong brig
ht colours of the blanket had turned pale.

  ‘Must be doing something then,’ she told herself, greatly encouraged.

  While she waited for Verne to arrive, she set about using up what was left over of yesterday’s wool. If she had looked out of the window, she would have noticed that much of the sill had been nibbled and eaten away in the night.

  At roughly seven o’clock, because neither of them knew exactly what the time was, she and Verne were in the courtyard with the paintbox.

  ‘Sahara Sand,’ she read aloud. ‘And there’s a picture of a camel.’

  ‘Are we going to be invaded by savage dromedaries?’ he asked, only half joking. ‘Or what if it’s sphinxes? What do we do if sphinxes come galloping at us?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if pyramids burst out of the ground,’ said Lil. ‘Let’s just get it started.’

  Taking up the paintbrush, she dipped it in the water jar. Before she applied it to the pigment, Verne took hold of her other hand.

  Lil wet the paint, then they stood well back.

  ‘Good luck,’ Verne whispered to her as the paintbox began to quake.

  The box revolved on the stool, slowly at first. Then it spun faster and faster. The pigment block rippled and spat. There was a deep rumble that shook the courtyard and one of Cherry’s window boxes fell off the ledge. A hot wind came gusting over the rooftops and tore round the cottages, swinging the hanging baskets and howling in the alleyway. The children were thrown back, their clasped hands dragged apart. Lil’s hair lashed her face and the breath was ripped from her lungs. Verne was flung off his feet and went flying backwards into a corner.

  Squinting against the baking gale they saw a column of gritty, ochre-coloured smoke rise from the box. Unaffected by the desert squall it climbed steadily upwards, like a genie from a bottle. Higher and higher it ascended until it towered over the town, forming a dense, muddy mantle, which spread across both sides of the river. The sunlight that filtered through was brown and bathed Whitby in sepia tones, like the Victorian photographs of Frank Meadow Sutcliffe.

  The roasting wind ceased as abruptly as it began.