The Power of Dark. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ be soft,’ Lil snorted. ‘It’s just the wind. You’ll be saying the weather gods are angry and need placating next – just like my mum.’

      ‘No I won’t. I’d say it’s the approach of the zombie apocalypse.’

      ‘You’re always saying that though.’

      ‘One of these days . . .’ the boy said with an exaggerated shiver as he waggled his fingers at her.

      The eerie noises outside intensified.

      ‘You want to spend the night on our sofa?’ Lil asked. ‘You can’t get home in this.’

      The prospect of staying at the Wilsons all night appealed, but so did the adventure of battling through the storm. Besides, Verne felt the need to demonstrate some courage after being bullied by Tracy Evans.

      ‘I’ll get going now,’ he decided. ‘Before it gets worse.’

      ‘Wait till Mum and Dad come back from the shop,’ Lil suggested, knowing they wouldn’t let him slog his way across to the West Cliff alone. ‘They’ll be here any time. Anyway, all your books are on the radiators.’

      But Verne had made up his mind.

      ‘I’ll pick them up tomorrow,’ he said.

      Pulling on his coat and scarf, he slung his still-damp rucksack over his shoulders and hurried through the hall to the front door.

      ‘I really don’t think you should go out in that,’ Lil cautioned. ‘Listen to it!’

      ‘I’ll be fine.’

      Lil’s forehead crinkled with concern, realising she couldn’t dissuade him.

      ‘Well, you be careful crossing the bridge!’ she said.

      ‘I’m not that flimsy! I won’t blow away.’

      ‘Text me when you get home safe, yeah?’

      Verne waved her worry aside and hurried out into Henrietta Street, but he wasn’t prepared for the ferocity of the storm. It was like being hit by an invisible train and he almost went flying. The wind raged up from Tate Hill Sands to tear his breath away and push him violently, pummelling him along. It was frightening and thrilling at the same time. Verne lumbered and staggered and lurched.

      The East Cliff was the older half of the town, with many passageways leading off to small courtyards, and the voice of the gale screamed from each opening. As Verne tottered past the foot of the 199 steps that led up to the graveyard and ruined abbey, the tempest came barrelling down them, knocking him sideways. Horizontal rain mixed with sand and sea spray stung his eyes. Suddenly afraid, Verne tried to turn back to the safety of the Wilsons’ cottage, but it was impossible and he was driven further up the street.

      The narrow ways were deserted. Shop signs swung wildly, while lamp posts shuddered, their quivering lights shaking the shadows. A large awning over a cafe was buckling, pulling on its fixings. A roof tile came crashing down in front of him, car alarms blared and window boxes were snatched from ledges, exploding like mortar shells on the cobbles below.

      Suddenly there was a rending of metal as the awning was ripped from the wall. It flew across the street, shattering windows and wrecking shopfronts as it twisted and rolled. Hearing the noise, Verne whipped round, just in time to see the tangle of steel and tattered canvas careering straight for him.

      Yelling, he raced away, but the heavy awning came banging and smashing after, riding the wind faster than he could run. Spinning and rebounding from one side of the street to the other, it bore down on him. The flailing steel struts whirled round like the runaway blades of a combine harvester, gouging chunks from walls and striking sparks from the ground. Verne knew he’d be killed if he didn’t get out of its way.

      With a desperate spurt of energy, he leaped aside into the turning for Market Place and dodged behind one of the broad pillars there. The awning rampaged by, chiselling deep cuts in the stone exactly where his head had been. It thundered along, until its lethal progress was halted when it smashed into the windscreen of a parked van.

      Catching his breath, Verne stumbled on. Hurrying down the even narrower passage of Sandgate, he approached what he knew would be the most dangerous part of this nightmare journey. Steeling himself, he rounded the corner and faced the swing bridge that spanned the River Esk.

      In that exposed spot, the gale was stronger than ever. It came sweeping in off the sea, throwing the boats in the harbour about like bath toys. The sheltering piers were no protection. Waves came crashing between them; whipped white and deadly by the squall, they charged up the seething river. Bales of foam surged over the harbour wall and streaked across the road, scattering in the storm. With bitter irony, Verne recalled what he had said to Lil. The possibility of being swept away was a very real one. He stared fearfully at the bridge ahead, where the waves were lashing through the railings, and let out a cry of surprise.

      There was a woman on the bridge.

      Even through the driving rain and the blizzard of foam flecks, Verne recognised her. No one else in Whitby dressed like that. It was Cherry Cerise, whom all the children laughed at. She was wearing a shocking-pink plastic raincoat, with a matching hood tied tightly under her chin and the nylon tresses of an orange wig were streaming wildly behind.

      She was standing in the exact centre of the bridge, facing the harbour mouth while wrathful waves broke around her. Miss Cerise was in her sixties and more than a bit strange, but Verne had never seen her do anything as weird as this before. He wondered if she was all right. She was perfectly still. Perhaps she was paralysed with fear.

      Forgetting his own terrors, he ventured on to the bridge, wading through the seething sea foam and clutching hold of the grilled railing. The bridge was juddering alarmingly.

      ‘Hello!’ he bawled, trying to make himself heard above the tempest. ‘Hello! Are you OK? Do you need help? You have to get off the bridge. Go home!’

      It was only when he drew close to her that she noticed him. The woman turned her pale face, eyes covered by rhinestone-rimmed sunglasses.

      ‘Who are you?’ she cried. ‘Scram, kid!’

      ‘You can’t stay here!’ he yelled back. ‘Where do you live? Let me help you.’

      Cherry Cerise jerked her head around and raised her hands as if to ward off the storm.

      ‘You hear that?’ she shouted manically. ‘There’s voices on the air. Powers are wakin’, kid – dark powers! Resentment! Hate! Vengeance!’

      Verne couldn’t hear anything but the clamour of the storm.

      ‘Come away!’ he pleaded, but the woman grabbed his shoulders and shook him roughly.

      ‘Run, kid!’ she shrieked in his face. ‘Save your own skin! But you won’t escape. None of us can! The ruin of everything has started!’

      Verne pulled himself free and it was then he saw that she had tied herself to the railing with the belt of her raincoat.

      A huge wave came smashing over the bridge, drenching them both. For the second time that day, Verne was thrown to the ground.

      Cherry СКАЧАТЬ