by Robin Jarvis
‘I could do no other, Miss Cerise. I must serve the master of the Nimius, to the best of my abilities.’
Cherry reapplied her glitter lipstick and checked her false eyelashes.
‘Did you have to serve him up to Mister Dark though? You sly son of a coat hanger?’
‘Trust me, it was the only way to keep him safe. Master Verne is in no danger now.’
‘Unless someone gets match happy and lights them bonfires too early. You’re taking one huge risk there.’
‘The stakes could not be higher.’
‘Guess so. I had Ziggy look in on Lil too, by the way. You think anyone’s capable of working out that brain baffler you left? Why not just write a note instead of being so cryptic?’
‘I dared not, in case it was discovered by one of Madam Wilson’s followers.’
‘The broken china was a neat touch on the pier.’
‘I fear Madam Thistlewood will not be pleased that I deliberately smashed one of her ornaments. But the deception was necessary. Mistress Lil must have more time. We must buy her that at whatever cost.’
‘Why’d you think I’m slappin’ all this on? I gotta be dazzlin’ tonight. Gotta stall them as long as we can.’
‘Are you quite ready?’
‘Is a turkey ever ready for Christmas?’
‘You look spectacular, if I may presume to say so.’
‘It’s the foxiest best this old broad has looked in years. Just wish I had an extra gimmick for when I make my entrance, give it some extra pizzazz.’
‘Miss Cerise,’ Jack Potts declared brightly, ‘have I ever shown you my bona fide party piece?’
Lil passed a hand over her brow. Her head was aching. She turned over and reached for Sally. Her little dog was not there. Thumping drums and fluting music drifted through the window. Her face clouded and Scaur Annie’s voice began to murmur.
‘Does I love a bonnie sailor, or shepherd? No sir.
Did I kiss the brave young soldier lad I met at Scarborough Fair?’
Lil snapped awake and sprang up.
‘No!’ she snapped defiantly. ‘You can’t have control! I’m stronger than you!’
‘For how long?’ the voice echoed in her mind.
‘As long as I have to be.’
She stared around the room, recognising it as Verne’s, and tried to remember how she had got here. The last she could recall was a blinding white light and a locking of her limbs. Then nothing until she thought she heard Verne calling her name.
She looked at the window. Why was it so dark outside?
On the chest of drawers, a paraffin lamp was burning and, by its light, she saw several objects had been carefully laid out.
There was a crochet hook, a ball of dark blue wool, a tea bag and, to her amazement, the final watercolour block – Warrior Blue.
‘Potts,’ she said, recognising the tea bag as one of his radical innovations. ‘What’s he done this for? Is it a message? What am I supposed . . .?’
She picked up the pigment, then reached for the wool. A smile of understanding spread slowly across her face.
‘Oh, you metal genius!’ she said.
Fifteen minutes to midnight.
There was an atmosphere of expectation and revelry down by the pier. The crowd were giving themselves to the rhythm of the music, but were impatient for the fires to be lit.
So too was Queller. Cassandra was feeding the altar bowl with incense and Dennis was gazing at his sons in anguish. Clarke had finally passed out and was slumped forward, only the ropes binding him to the central pole of the bonfire preventing him from falling.
Verne was slowly coming to. His head was nodding and his mouth was twitching. Dennis couldn’t believe this was happening to them.
Catesby was perched high on the rail that ran round the lantern room of the lighthouse. His bright yellow eyes scanned the dunes that lay over the town. Shapes were moving beneath the sand. Spreading his great bat wings, he flew down to his ghostly master.
At that moment the drums faltered and the frenetic primal dancing stopped.
Jack Potts walked between them, head held erect and balancing a vinyl record on his middle finger, carrying it at shoulder height like a French waiter with a tray. Stepping out on to the pier, he waited for total silence. Then his finger began rotating at forty-five revolutions per minute and he raised his other hand until its little finger made contact with the spinning disc.
There was a slight crackle from his tea-strainer mouth. Then the immediately recognisable opening bars of ‘You Sexy Thing’, a famous seventies song by Hot Chocolate, came blasting from both it and his ears.
Sashaying to the funky beat, Cherry Cerise made her entrance like she was venturing on to a dance floor and owning it completely. Her body worked that tune like it was plugged into her hips.
The colour witch was dressed in her disco best. Thigh-length lace-up boots, purple neon tights, hot pants encrusted with large pink sequins and a stole of citrus-orange faux fur. A long fuchsia wig flowed over her shoulders and a pair of rhinestone sunglasses practically covered half her face.
Reflecting the firelight, the sequins acted like a mirror ball and threw bright, shimmering circles around her.
Cherry promenaded on to the pier with enough confidence and glamour to shame an ostentation of peacocks. Even the Rottweilers tilted their heads from side to side. Cassandra was outraged, especially when Cherry sidled close and gyrated a bare shoulder at her.
Cherry boogied between the three bonfires and flicked her nylon tresses at an astonished Dennis as she took a good look at Verne. Then she danced back towards the altar where the ghostly Queller was glaring at her.
With one hand on her hip, she raised the other and wagged a disrespectful finger.
‘Enough!’ he bellowed.
Catesby flew to Jack Potts and raked his claws across the record, snatching it and spinning it through the air. It splashed into the sea. The sudden absence of music was startling.
‘Aww,’ Cherry said, disappointed. ‘I was diggin’ that. You need to mellow out some.’
‘Take her to the beacon,’ Cassandra instructed her coven.
‘A moment,’ Queller said. ‘It is midnight. Let her see the final humbling of her beloved Whitby.’
Casting a despising glance at Cherry, Cassandra swept to the altar and ran her hands over the antique box of watercolours.
‘Say, honey,’ Cherry said quickly. ‘Gotta tell ya, that hairdo really doesn’t suit. You look like a yard brush died on your head. Still, old Dark there, he ain’t choosy. Can’t afford to be with that face.’
Cassandra had half opened the lid. She closed it again. ‘His name is Queller, and he is the most attractive man I have ever seen.’
‘That what he told you? No way! He’s scammin’ you, sugar. He’s bad old Mister Dark and that ain’t his real face neither.’
‘I’m not listening to your lies.’
‘Open your peepers, sister. Take a good long look at him. Here, let me help. I’m an expert at illusions; think my gorgeousness is natural?’
Cherry cupped her hands and a sparkle of pink light formed in her palms. Before anyone could stop her, she blew it at Queller.
It shot into his shadow-wrapped form like a star into a storm cloud. He snarled and twisted and let out a furious roar that made the Rottweilers jump off the pier on to the sand. The handsome face sagged and distorted and his neck buckled as a fused knot of vertebrae pushed sideways. Finally a long scar split his face.
‘Well, hello there, gargoyle features!’ Cherry exclaimed. ‘That’s the real him, Cassy. That’s what you’ve been making cow eyes at all this time. Course, that wouldn’t matter a bean, if ’n he weren’t twice as repulsive on the inside, but take it from me, Mister Dark is one hundred per cent monster.’
Cassandra stared at the misshapen man. ‘I don’t care,’ she said simply. ‘I love him. He has given me what I’ve always wanted, the gift of magic. When he is alive once more, I shall
take care of him.’
Mister Dark let out a foul laugh and stepped up to Cherry. His ghostly fingers closed about her throat and he wrenched the sunglasses from her face.
‘Know when you are beaten, hag!’ he spat. ‘Now watch what happens to the town you were supposed to protect.’
Turning to Cassandra, he told her to reveal the last watercolour.
Mrs Wilson raised the lid and stared in confusion at the open box.
‘Why hesitate?’ Mister Dark demanded. ‘Drench all the stinking vermin in Warrior Blue!’
‘I can’t – the box is empty! There’s only the brush.’
Mister Dark thrust her out of the way. He snatched up the box and shook it.
‘Where?’ he raged. ‘Where is it? The contract must be fulfilled!’
He glowered at Jack Potts.
‘You, metal man. You did this. Where is Warrior Blue?’
‘I am not at liberty to answer that question.’
‘So the machine with scruples was still dishonest enough to lie. You will tell me or your young friend burns.’
He signalled to the coven. They pulled the flaming torches from the sand and stood ready by the Thistlewoods’ bonfires.
‘The runt roasts first,’ he said with a foul leer.
‘You cannot harm Master Verne,’ the robot replied calmly. ‘He is the safest of us all. He has the best protection from your violent hatred there can possibly be.’
A flicker of doubt snagged Mister Dark’s scarred lips. He stared at the boy on the bonfire.
‘What have you done?’ he demanded.
‘This lowly robotic drudge has put a stupendous spanner in your nasty works, Mister Dark. I have ensured that no one except Master Verne can ever operate the Nimius. Their fates are bound together.’
‘Another lie!’
‘Test it and see.’
Mister Dark glared at him then began to cackle.
‘But the final pigment has not been triggered, so the pact is incomplete. The Nimius will not be given to me anyway. The boy might as well scorch and bake.’
He gave the order. A torch was thrust into the wood under Verne.
Cherry sprang forward to kick the burning timbers away, but the coven seized her and others grabbed hold of Jack Potts.
Dennis Thistlewood strained on his ropes, but they wouldn’t give. He could only watch as flames began to lick upwards.
Smoke rose into Verne’s face. He coughed and raised his head.
‘Stop!’ a voice cried out. ‘Stop! You want your lousy paint block? It’s here!’
Lil Wilson pushed through the crowd, holding Warrior Blue aloft.
Mister Dark gestured to the robed figures. They released Cherry and Jack Potts and the robot rushed to cut Verne from the bonfire. Cherry dragged him clear and held him in her arms. He was groggy and disoriented.
‘Cassandra, my dear,’ Mister Dark drawled, ‘your deplorable daughter has something belonging to us.’
Mrs Wilson took the ritual dagger from the altar and paced menacingly towards Lil.
‘Give the pigment to me,’ she threatened.
‘Mum,’ Lil began, ‘listen to me . . .’
‘You have no importance, girl. Give me Warrior Blue.’
‘I brought someone with me. I went to the hotel before I came here. Look.’
She turned and beckoned a man forward.
Her father shambled on to the pier. His face was gaunt and sallow and his hair was plastered to his head with sweat, but he had found the strength to leave his sickbed. He leaned on Lil and stared at his wife in dismay.
‘Cass!’ he said. ‘What is this? What the hell have you become?’
‘Mike?’ Cassandra murmured, confused. ‘Is it you? I thought . . . I thought you’d gone . . . somewhere?’
Mister Dark called to her. ‘You don’t need either of them any more, my dear.’
‘That’s right,’ she said, tossing her head. ‘Me and Queller . . . no, Mister Dark, are together.’
‘You and that dead nightmare?’ Mike cried. ‘Cass! Snap out of it!’
There was a rumble in the distance and the crowd shifted uneasily. The sands around Whitby were quaking. Catesby slunk around the back of his master and hissed, scratching the stone with his claws. Down on the sand, the Rottweilers caught a strange scent and rushed up the nearest dune.
The humped ridge erupted and a beetle the size of a truck burst into the night air, its antennae thrashing. A sputtering roar blared from its dripping mouthparts and an acrid reek gusted across the sand. The grotesque head angled down and the dogs barked ferociously. The vast bulk sledged down the slope, then reared up on great, bristling legs.
The Rottweilers raced across the desert towards the East Cliff to escape, but the immense insect pursued them. Their yelping lasted only moments as the mandibles scooped them up. The giant beetle rocked unsteadily on its massive limbs, then it turned and the compound eyes bulged at the people gathered on the pier.
Panic and terror fuelled Cassandra’s followers and they scattered into the labyrinthine dunes. The huge insect went barrelling after.
Lil and the others watched in horror. The horrific beetle crested the dunes and plunged down the other side. They heard people screaming. Then they saw countless sand blizzards break out as other segmented legs burrowed up and more beetles came crawling on to the surface to go hunting. Cherry hung her head.
‘We didn’t win, did we?’ Verne uttered blearily.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I lost.’
Laughing callously, Mister Dark advanced towards Lil.
‘It would have been droll to observe the simple-minded swine destroy one another, emblazoned in blue warpaint. But this is far greater sport. What a week of diversion it has been. Watching my colourful poisons hatch out each day has afforded me much gratification, and I’m sure the Three beneath the waves would say the same. Yet now the merry gambols are almost ended, in fear and suffering. Hand the pigment to your mother.’
Cassandra was not aware of the devilish panorama unfolding across the town. Only the wishes of Mister Dark mattered to her. She brandished the dagger at Lil.
‘My new love is aching to be flesh and blood once more.’
Shaken, Lil turned an angry face to her.
‘There is no Warrior Blue,’ she told her flatly. ‘Jack Potts taught me a wonderful lesson. Any change is possible if you try hard enough. His speciality is tea bags; mine is wool. His fancy bags could make sawdust taste amazing. But my knot magic can have an even more awesome effect, ’specially on enchanted blocks of paint!’
She reached into her pocket, pulled out the small pouch she had crocheted just half an hour ago and slotted the watercolour inside. Pulling the drawstring, she tied it securely.
‘At first I was going to change it from Warrior to Navy Blue. But that wasn’t right either; this isn’t a town for warships. Whitby has always been about simple fishing folk – the bravest heroes in the world, battling everything nature can throw at them to bring the catch home. So now, when this touches the water, it will be Gansey Blue – the colour of those fishermen’s jumpers!’
Cherry watched her protégé with proud tears in her eyes.
‘Sock it to ’em, Lil!’ she cheered.
Lil grabbed hold of her mother’s fist and wrested the dagger from her. The blade clattered to the ground and the girl darted off. She ran along the pier to where the unnatural sand gave way to the sea and flung the paint block as far as she could. It sank beneath the waves without a splash.
Standing on the edge, she waited to see what would happen, but a robed figure grabbed her and she was hauled back towards the altar.
A profoundly deep, bass boom sounded many leagues below. A vast spout of seawater was hurled into the air and a tremor ran through the pier. The lighthouse shook and timbers fell from the beacon. Lil staggered. The coven fell on their faces, Cassandra went sprawling, Mike fell backwards and Cherry and Verne clung on to Jack Potts. The vibration rocked inland, w
here the gigantic Carmine Swarm tottered on the shivering sands and their prey stumbled.
Lil regained her balance and ran to help her father.
Mister Dark applauded. ‘I really must express my gratitude. Your naive and clumsy tampering will not have invalidated the terms of the contract; quite the contrary. All the colours have now been spent. There remains only the question of the final clause. That shall be addressed without delay.’
He turned to Cherry Cerise and his scarred face split into a gloating grin.
‘Take this witch to the beacon and burn her,’ he ordered the coven. ‘Let the Lords of the Deep know I have fulfilled my part.’
The hooded figures were picking themselves off the ground. Rising, they shook themselves and removed their robes. Underneath those velvet cloaks, each of them, including the women, was now wearing an old-fashioned fisherman’s gansey and oilskins. Their faces were bronzed and cracked by years at sea and their hands were calloused. Staring at the tormented town, their weathered features set hard and they pulled the sturdiest lengths of wood from the unlit bonfires. The timber stretched in their grasp and steel spearheads grew out of their tips. Without a backward glance, they marched off to the dunes to defend their homes.
Throughout the length and breadth of Whitby it was the same. Those who were still able-bodied, even the children, had taken the form of doughty mariners from the town’s glorious past. Leaving the emergency medical centres, church halls, schools and guesthouses, thousands trooped out on to the sands, bearing cruel implements used in the old whaling industry: barbed, arrow-headed or toggle harpoons, boarding knives, lances, blubber hooks, mincing knives, ropes and chains.
Under the uniting command of police inspector Brian Lucas, who appeared as a staunch, grizzled sea captain, they courageously advanced on the huge insects. Whaling guns fired and the battle to bring them down began.
‘Never underestimate what the folks in this town are capable of,’ Cherry said warmly. ‘They just need the right kind of nudge and the right kind of leader.’ Her gaze strayed to Lil.
Trumpeting screeches blared across the dunes and crimson founts sprayed into the air as harpoons bit deep. Luminous streams of acid squirted in high arcs, but the whalers dodged them easily. Rushing in, they hacked the tree-trunk-like legs and chopped them through. The first of the giant beetles toppled and crashed on to the sand.