The Power of Dark

by Robin Jarvis

  ‘Everyone’s gone crazy,’ he said to his brother. ‘Just look at them. They’re behaving as if it’s all perfectly ordinary.’

  ‘What you on about?’ Clarke asked, following his gaze. ‘It all looks fine to me.’

  Before Verne could answer, an unmanned vehicle made from the chassis of an old pram, carrying the morning’s post, came trundling down the road. Sets of rotating, snapping barbecue tongs were mounted on the sides and they snatched up the mail, flinging it into letter boxes.

  Verne ducked as the automatic postie rolled by and two envelopes went skimming over his head, shooting with implausible accuracy through the arcade door.

  ‘That’s what I’m talking about!’ he spluttered to his brother. ‘That’s just absurd. It’s ridiculous.’

  Clarke shrugged.

  ‘Seems OK to me,’ he said. ‘Someone should’ve invented that ages ago.’

  Verne stared at him in confusion.

  ‘You can’t see it, can you?’ he said. ‘You’re caught up in it too.’

  ‘Ha!’ Clarke laughed. ‘Have you been wearing lipstick?’

  But Verne didn’t hear him. Fear was clenching his stomach. He had the awful suspicion that somehow he was responsible for this. He felt sure the strange light that had shone from the Nimius had brought about this transformation. But how? And why? What was the point of turning half the town into crazy inventors, making the most stupid machines he’d ever seen?

  ‘There’s got to be a reason,’ he told himself. ‘This has to be just the start of whatever it is.’

  ‘You going to school or what?’ Clarke asked. ‘Oi! Verne! Snap out of it!’

  Verne started.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Where’s the Vespa?’

  ‘Round the corner here,’ his brother said. ‘She’s better than ever.’

  Verne didn’t know much about bikes. When he saw Clarke’s pride and joy, he thought it seemed a bit bulkier than usual under the seat, and two new chrome exhausts had been added.

  ‘I thought Dad was out here with you?’

  ‘He’s gone to the lock-up to start building the big stuff,’ Clarke said. ‘Now, put this helmet on, get behind me – then hold on for dear life.’

  ‘Dear life?’

  ‘You betcha!’ Clarke whooped.

  A torrent of flame punched from the exhausts. The scooter reared up, then roared down Pier Road. Verne wailed and clung to his brother desperately as the world shot by. But instead of turning up the Khyber Pass and heading to the school, Clarke rode on to the stone pier and within seconds they were speeding over the wooden extension, scorching the planks as they went.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Verne yelled. ‘We’re going to crash!’

  ‘You haven’t seen what this baby can really do yet! Hold tight!’

  Verne saw the end of the narrow pier come flying to meet them. He clamped his eyes shut, waiting to smash into the railing. Instead, he felt the scooter tilt back and launch. They soared through the air in a perfect arc, then plunged down towards the open sea.

  Inwardly yelling, Verne held his breath.

  There was a terrific splash, followed by a throaty revving, and then the Vespa was riding the waves like a jet ski. It bumped and sped over the water, sending up a spout of white foam in its wake. Clarke steered it around and they whooshed between the two piers, reentering Whitby via the harbour. Their furious passing caused all the fishing boats to rock and Verne couldn’t stop himself laughing. It was exhilarating. They charged beneath the swing bridge and tore up the river. Then Clarke drove up a slipway, left the water behind and they were back on the road again.

  ‘Yes!’ he whooped. ‘The first amphibious Vespa!’

  He delivered Verne to the school gates, wet but exactly on time.

  ‘Just you wait till I fit the rocket launchers!’

  ‘The what?’ Verne cried, but Clarke was already zooming down the road.

  Verne frowned and decided he really needed to speak to Lil. But that would have to wait until break.

  And so the strangest school day he had ever known began.

  Verne quickly noticed that most of the children who lived on the West Cliff had brought in yet more home-made gizmos. Many were simple, like automatic spectacle wipers and little gadgets that marched pens from pencil cases and waited to be told what to write, in beautiful copperplate. Others were more exotic – one girl in his class had created an ‘Inkbug’, a metal creature that looked like a beetle. Carrying three coloured felt tips, it crawled up and down her arm, drawing elaborate faux tattoos.

  Most were mischievous. One of the boys set a clockwork ‘Shoelace Muddler’ on the floor, which scurried under the desks to snip through laces, tie two pairs together or tangle them irrevocably with countless knots. Another boy had invented a ‘Mugly’ torch that projected big noses, warts, beards and acne on to any face. He spent the first ten minutes of the lesson making a girl from the East Cliff look like a gross troll while the teacher’s back was turned.

  It quickly dawned on Verne that the victims of these practical jokes all lived on the other side of the river. None of them had brought in any strange contraptions. He stared at them curiously. The Easties were unusually quiet and solemn-looking. He noticed that the girls were wearing as much black as the uniform allowed and had painted their nails to match. They had pendants round their necks or small velvet pouches like the herb talismans sold in the Wilsons’ shop. Even the boys from the East Cliff looked grave, with pale faces, and he was astonished to see that three were wearing eyeliner and one had dyed his hair.

  ‘Gadgets versus goths,’ Verne muttered under his breath, then added, with annoyance, ‘and quite right too . . . destroy the stinking witches.’

  He shook himself. Why had he said that?

  Before he could ponder any further, Mrs Fullerton sensed something was going on and caught sight of the Mugly torch. It was confiscated straight away and then the teacher came striding towards Verne.

  ‘This isn’t a sculpture class!’ she told him sternly.

  Verne didn’t understand what she meant until he gazed down at his desk. He jumped back so sharply his chair squealed over the floor. An aggressive-looking stick figure made from pencils, with pieces of eraser for feet, a protractor shield and a compass spear, was crouched on his desk. Next to it, in many disassembled pieces, was his pocket calculator and some of the electronics had been incorporated into the unpleasant-looking warrior.

  ‘I didn’t know I was doing that!’ the boy blurted out truthfully.

  Mrs Fullerton reached forward to take the figure away. As her hand came near, the compass struck out and stabbed her. She yelped in pain.

  ‘Sorry, Miss!’ Verne cried. ‘That wasn’t me!’

  ‘Put it in the bin!’ she demanded. ‘What’s got into all of you today?’

  The children stared at her dumbly. Then one of the boys from the East Cliff said, in a disconcerting monotone, ‘You don’t live in Whitby, do you, Miss? You should go home. You don’t belong here.’

  ‘East and West only, Miss,’ another told her.

  ‘No outsiders.’

  At break time, Mrs Fullerton described the experience to her colleagues in the staffroom. Some of the other teachers were just as concerned as she was, but the members of staff who lived in Whitby told them they were overreacting. Mr Derby, the Head, assured everyone there was no need to be alarmed. Mr Derby also lived in Whitby.

  In the playground, the children were unusually quiet, but there was a simmering tension. No one was playing. The two groups did not mingle and there were many huddled gangs conspiring in whispers.

  Verne spent most of the break trying to find Lil. With only minutes left, he discovered her sitting in a corner, knitting quietly, surrounded by balls of wool.

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Been looking for you everywhere. You OK?’

  ‘Course,’ she replied. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Sorry about yesterday and how I treated you. I was freaked out, b
ut that’s no excuse.’

  ‘Don’t matter,’ she said.

  ‘So how’s it gone with you this morning? It’s crazy, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The way everyone’s acting today, and all these preposterous inventions that shouldn’t work but do.’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  Her disinterest began to annoy him.

  ‘If you’d look up from your stupid knitting for a minute, you might see what’s going on around you!’ he said. He gave one of the woollen balls a kick, but instead of sending it rolling, he felt a crackling pain shoot up his toes and sizzle along his leg.

  ‘Ow!’ he cried, hopping in a circle. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Looks like cramp – and my knitting isn’t stupid. It’s wonderful. If you hadn’t been so obnoxious yesterday, you’d have seen why. Your loss.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a better secret,’ he snapped back. ‘An amazing one! I was going to share it with you, but tough. You’re as bad as the other Easties. Just another miserable goth. No, you’re worse. You’re just like her – a dirty Whitby witch.’

  ‘Who’s “her”?’

  ‘You know! You’ve got the same look in your eyes.’

  The bell rang, putting an end to the argument. But as the day wore on, things grew steadily worse. The gadgets became more dangerous and threatening. One was fitted with the blades of pencil sharpeners and scurried up a girl’s back, shaving a stubbly path through her hair.

  The children of the West Cliff laughed and so did the teacher. The girl and the others from the East side glared at them coldly.

  During the afternoon break, the boy who had invented the ‘Gothscalper’ was cornered by his victim. She and a cluster of her friends surrounded him, chanting and pacing round and around with hands clasped. When they eventually moved away, the boy was huddled on the ground, covered in boils and howling in agony.

  Then everything changed. A chill wind blew across the playground and the air became heavy and oppressive. The atmosphere was charged with aggression and hundreds of fights broke out. The possessed pupils lashed out at one another in a violent riot.

  The unaffected teachers were horrified. There was nothing they could do to stop it. Eventually, someone called the police. Two cars arrived, but the officers were from both sides of the town and they joined in. School was dismissed and the fierce brawling surged out into the streets.

  Verne didn’t take part in the fighting; he had watched it at a distance, like a general overseeing his troops in battle. He didn’t seek out Lil again. Just the thought of her made him angry and he wanted to hit her. He couldn’t understand how they had ever been friends and decided she must have tricked him. That was typical of witches; they were such deceitful creatures.

  He thought of the Nimius and wished he had brought it with him. It would have made short work of these ignorant heathens and he couldn’t wait to be reunited with it. The mysteries of its function were clear now. The last traces of the boy’s resistance had been vanquished, burned along with his scarf and a will far more powerful than Verne’s own had gradually asserted itself throughout the day. He remembered the amazing things the Nimius was capable of and knew how to operate it.

  After school he took the longer way home to avoid bumping into Lil. As he entered the flat above the arcade, he was greeted by Jack Potts who bowed before him.

  ‘Welcome back, Master Verne,’ the robot said. ‘I have prepared for you a nutritious tea and laid out all the tools and apparatus you will require later.’

  Verne looked at the butler anew. He was no longer afraid of him; a formidable intelligence now burned behind Verne’s eyes.

  ‘Call me by my true name,’ he commanded. ‘You know full well who I am.’

  Jack Potts bowed even lower.

  ‘I do indeed, your lordship,’ he said. ‘It has taken longer than I expected for you to assume total control of the child.’

  ‘His obstinate, juvenile mind was unusually strong. But the struggle is over.’

  ‘Congratulations, your lordship. And it is my honour to give you this. I found it whilst tidying his sock drawer.’

  Jack Potts raised his metal hands. He was holding the Nimius. The boy took it reverently.

  ‘My crowning achievement,’ he said, caressing the golden treasure. ‘We shall never be parted again.’

  ‘What are your orders, your lordship? When do the hostilities commence? There are still refinements to be made, weapons to be perfected. Everyone has been most industrious throughout the day, but we are not quite ready.’

  ‘Let it be known,’ the boy told him, ‘that the war begins at dawn and Sir Melchior Pyke will lead the West Cliff into battle.’

  Tracy Evans did not attend school that day. When she awoke there had been a lengthy text waiting. Her new boyfriend gave very specific instructions, which she was to obey to the letter if she wanted to be with him.

  And so she made her way down to the Scaur beneath the cliffs, picking a slippery path between the rock pools until she reached the designated spot, and there she waited. Hours passed and Tracy stood, shivering and shuffling her feet. The air that gusted in off the sea cut through her. She checked her phone constantly, but no more texts beeped in. She wished she could talk to Angie or Bev about what had happened, but Dark had sworn her to secrecy. She didn’t know that her two cronies were kicking and thumping each other in the school playground because they lived on opposite sides of the town.

  Eventually, the tide turned and started creeping closer; the outlying pools and sloping black rocks were lost under the encroaching waves. Tracy began to fear she would be cut off. If she didn’t head back soon, she wouldn’t be able to reach the town at all.

  Anxiously, she gripped her phone and sent urgent texts to Dark. There was no reply. Taking a badge from her pocket, she pricked her thumb with the pin and squeezed blood over the screen.

  ‘Please,’ she begged, with one eye on the advancing waves. ‘Where are you? No one’s here. You said there’d be someone here.’

  Even as she snivelled, she caught sight of a round object bobbing and rolling in through the waves. It was made of metal and a little larger than a football. As it came closer, she stared in surprise, recognising it as the helmet of a Roman gladiator. The metal was rusted and fused together, but the visor grill, crest and neck guard were still identifiable.

  The helmet rolled on to the rocks close by and Tracy took a step towards it. She wondered if it was worth any money and was just reaching down to touch it when the helmet flinched and took several scuttling steps backwards. Tracy gave a yell.

  The helmet turned around so the visor was facing Tracy, who saw that the barnacle-covered legs of a crustacean were lifting it off the ground. Glistening black eyes on stalks poked through the grill and regarded her keenly. Then there came a burbling, sloppy sort of sound and the creature inside spoke.

  ‘Give,’ it demanded. ‘Give.’

  Tracy was too taken aback to respond.

  The helmet jerked forward and a hooked, crab-like pincer shot out and nipped her ankle.

  Tracy yelped, then remembered her instructions. Reaching inside her rucksack, she took out her lunch box.

  ‘Are you the emissary?’ she asked. ‘Sent by Them ? Yes, of course you are. I’m to pay you with food, live food. You like the warm blood of the land, don’t you?’

  ‘Blood is the bridge! Blood is the price!’ the creature said. ‘Give!’

  Tracy peeled back the perforated lid.

  ‘Bit late for breakfast,’ she said with a weak laugh, ‘but here’s Eggs and Bacon.’

  Her brother’s hamsters were already scrambling to get out of the Tupperware box. Tracy scooped them up briskly and handed them over.

  Two pincers flashed out from the rusted helmet, seized the small animals and snatched them inside. There was a repulsive chattering of mouthparts, a slobbering and crunching of small bones.

  Tracy looked on impassively, too deeply un
der Mister Dark’s control to comprehend what she had done. The entire population of Whitby, her family, friends, everyone she knew, was going to die, but she didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was being with her dream boyfriend; she had no thoughts or emotions beyond that.

  When the meal was over and small, satisfied grunts issued from the helmet, she asked, ‘So what’s the answer?’

  The eyes poked out at her again. Then they angled right and left and the helmet revolved to make sure no one else was around.

  ‘The assurance is given,’ the strange voice uttered. ‘The one named Dark will be granted extra powers and, when the violence is unleashed, no hurt shall come to those who stand within the seal. That has been promised.’

  ‘He’ll be able to come through, be alive, with me, yeah?’

  The eyes retracted into the shadowy interior and the helmet lifted on six segmented legs.

  ‘With you? Yes. With you, yes. You are needed. He cannot live again without you. He values your sweet, precious life most highly.’

  A scratchy sound, like cruel, thin laughter, followed. Then a wave came splashing up the rocks. The helmet jumped, almost in fear, and danced around in agitation.

  ‘We did not speak,’ it told the girl hastily. ‘There are watchers everywhere. I do not know you. I must return.’

  Spinning about, it set off towards the sea, charging into the water, muttering and making contented sucking noises.

  ‘Eggs and Bacon, Eggs and Bacon,’ it said with relish before being engulfed by a foaming wave that swept it away.

  Tracy checked her phone and sent a text.

  I did it. They agreed. Can’t wait 2 c u 4 real!!!

  There was no reply, but the sea came swirling around her shoes. The girl shrieked and went charging back along the submerged rocks towards the town.

  Wandering home through the East Cliff, Lil was so preoccupied that she hardly noticed how much it had changed during the day. The cobbled streets reeked of incense and occult symbols had been painted on windows and walls. Candles flickered on every sill and there were talismans and charms nailed to every door. The only places free of this were those areas she had decorated with her knitting.