The Devil's Paintbox. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ you command. But first I would very much like to flick a duster around and organise these bills and papers into alphabetical order. Can you direct me to a damp cloth and a ring binder?’

      Tracy had been listening to this with mounting impatience and confusion.

      ‘Hang on,’ she interrupted. ‘Dark, what are you wasting time on this thing for?’

      ‘Dearest truculent, tractable Tracy.’ The shadow mocked her in a harsher, more callous tone than he had used before. ‘You truly are the slowest-witted creature in creation.’

      ‘Don’t say that. I love you.’

      The voice laughed cruelly. ‘Love? What use have I of love? Obedience is all I desire.’

      ‘I do everything you tell me.’

      ‘You have completed your task well enough, but your usefulness is limited. To fulfil my pact with the Lords of the Deep, I require a servant who can venture into places barred to you, with more cunning than you possess.’

      ‘Servant? What do you mean? What about us? What about the future we planned together?’

      There was an edge of steel in the voice that answered.

      ‘Look at me, Tracy.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Turn and look at me. It’s what you craved earlier, only this time you shall see my true self – not the boyish mask I have worn to deceive and dangle you. I release you from all such bonds; awaken and view me with a clear, unfogged mind.’

      ‘Stop it.’

      ‘Look at me – see the face of Mister Dark, whom Melchior Pyke once cut down from the gallows and revived by unnatural means. Gaze into these eyes that have stared on the coldest wastes of oblivion and beheld the terrors of the world.’

      Tracy felt dread creep over her.

      ‘Why are you trying to scare me? I won’t turn round. I know what you look like. You’re lovely!’

      ‘Must I order Jack Potts to compel you?’

      The robot straightened and the metal fingers that were made of kitchen utensils twitched in readiness.

      ‘Is it blood?’ Tracy asked. ‘You need some? I can cut my hand, give you loads – more than ever. You won’t get any of that from a robot!’

      ‘True, but Château Tracy is bitter, cloying and tart, bordering on vinegar. Fortunately I have a fresh veinyard in mind – someone from whom it will be a smooth delight to sip, someone with enough full-bodied vintage in them to form the bridge from one plane of existence to another. Someone who will make my new flesh strong.’

      ‘You seeing someone else?’ Tracy cried and her fear flashed to anger. ‘You . . . you dumping me?’

      Spinning around, she glared at the writhing clot of shadow and let out a scream. The churning black cloud revealed a spectral figure, tall and lit with a ghastly radiance. His hair was lank and his head was held at a strange angle on his twisted, kinked neck. A horrific scar ran down his right cheek and through his lips, but it was the pitiless hate that shone in those foul, dead eyes that really terrified her.

      ‘Who are you?’ she protested. You’re not my lovely Dark!’

      Cruel laughter banished the last fragments of his hold over her and Tracy staggered as though she’d been physically kicked. Panicking, she blundered back towards the door.

      But the two Rottweilers were waiting by the Portakabin steps, and they snarled threateningly at her.

      ‘I shouldn’t try to get past them if I were you,’ Mister Dark warned.

      ‘Let me go!’ Tracy begged. ‘Let me go! Please!’

      ‘That would be . . . untidy of me. The meticulous arrangements must not be spoiled in any way.’

      ‘I won’t tell anyone. Just let me get away.’

      ‘I believe you. Then let us part on a sweeter note. One final kiss?’

      Tracy shuddered. Stepping up to the hideous apparition, she swallowed her disgust and held her breath.

      Mister Dark’s ghostly face bent down and the scarred lips lifted in a repugnant grin as he gave a signal to Jack Potts behind her back.

      The reels in the robot’s chest ceased spinning and three skulls stopped on the winning line. Metal hands were around Tracy’s throat before she knew what was happening.

      ‘Gullible to the very end,’ Mister Dark said. ‘Such a pity you’ll miss the entertainment. The final humiliation of the Whitby witches will be spectacular. You’d have enjoyed that, you unpleasant, stupid girl.’

      As Tracy slumped to the floor, he added, ‘You really did have a very pretty neck.’

      Jack Pott’s left eye was flickering erratically.

      ‘What more would you like me to do, Master Dark?’ he enquired.

      ‘Firstly, find a shovel. And then – oh . . . so many things.’

      Verne Thistlewood lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He’d jammed pillows against his ears, but could still hear his parents rowing.

      That’s all they did nowadays: argue and stress about their finances. The Thistlewoods owned an amusement arcade, but back in the spring most of the machines had been dismantled to make ludicrous gadgets and weapons when an ancient feud had magically possessed the entire town. The people of Whitby had come perilously close to destroying one another in a bloody battle.

      The arcade never recovered after that. The insurance company wouldn’t pay out to replace the damaged amusements and Verne’s parents had sunk into debt. The summer season was already here and the town was thronged with tourists, but with only a dozen machines still working the arcade simply wasn’t earning enough. It was desperate.

      The front door slammed and the vibration travelled through the apartment. One of his parents, probably his mother, had stormed out. Always practical, she had taken a job as a cleaner in the very gym she could no longer afford to be a member of and that morning was her first shift. Verne let out a long and dismal breath. He imagined that, unless some miracle occurred, they were going to have to sell up and probably live in a tent – if they could find a cheap, second-hand one.

      The boy glanced at the chest of drawers across from his bed. Miracles were possible, he knew that better than anyone. He had his very own mini miracle-maker hidden away among his socks.

      Getting to his feet he opened the top drawer, reached into a corner and pulled out a bundled-up T-shirt. Pausing a moment while he listened to make sure his father was still downstairs, he carefully unwrapped the precious object within. The morning sun blazed over the richly engraved golden surface. СКАЧАТЬ