LITMIR.BIZ

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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 Cerise leaned into the gale and started singing.

      ‘You’re off your head!’ the boy yelled at her.

      He didn’t wait any longer. If she wanted to get soaked and risk her life out here, that was her business. At least he’d tried to help.

      Clinging to the other railing, he made his way across the bridge and ran on to the quayside of the West Cliff. He was almost home. Before rushing there, he paused and turned back for one final glimpse of the deranged woman.

      Verne blinked and rubbed his eyes. Strange lights seemed to be shining from her hands. Bright colours were pulsing and glowing over her outstretched palms. The boy shook his head and backed away. It was an insane night; he must be seeing things. He was exhausted and anxious to get indoors – and he couldn’t wait to text Lil.

      At the Wilsons, Lil had carried Sally upstairs because the steps were too steep for her. As usual, the little dog had broken wind all the way, a habit that had earned her the nickname ‘furry bagpipe’.

      Changing out of her school uniform, Lil viewed the contents of her wardrobe with a scowl.

      ‘I have got to get rid of these drab clothes and cloaks,’ she said. ‘I’m sick of the whole goth thing. I’ve been shoved into bodices and black lace since I was a baby. I need some bright colours in my life.’

      She cast her eyes round her bedroom. The walls were a dark blood-red and the woodwork and ceiling were black. It was high time for a change – and not just for her. She was close to launching a daring scheme, which the money from the badges would help fund. By the time she was done, Whitby would be a blaze of colour and the forthcoming Goth Weekend would have the gloominess slapped out of it.

      Delving into the back of her wardrobe, she reached for a large bag filled with balls of wool and colourful knitting. Lil was a fast and skilled knitter. She made witchy tea cosies and other woolly novelties for the shop, but this stash was part of her secret plan. She wasn’t the only one who was fed up with the austere black costumes that thronged the streets. Lil was sure the locals would appreciate her campaign to brighten up their hometown.

      Before she could pull the bag out, her mobile rang. Lil hoped it was Verne, but it was her mother.

      ‘You all right there, luv?’ Mrs Wilson asked. ‘Your dad and me are stuck in the shop waiting for this shocking weather to ease off.’

      ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ the girl answered.

      ‘If you’re scared on your own I can send your father over. I’ve drawn a chalk circle round him, performed a protection spell, given him my rain hood and put a sachet of rowan under it so he doesn’t get struck by lightning, and he’s chewing some ginger that he can spit into the wind and ward off the worst of it, so he’ll be OK.’

      ‘He’ll get soaked! Don’t send him out in this. I’m not frightened of a stupid storm. Besides, I’m not on my own; I’ve got Sal here.’

      ‘Fat lot of good she is. Now are you sure, darling? Because I’ve been casting the runes as well and they say something terrible is going to happen.’

      ‘Oh, Mother, stop it.’

      ‘This is no ordinary storm, Lil. It’s a warning – or worse.’

      ‘Save that for the customers.’

      ‘Light a votive candle and invoke the forces of protection like I’ve showed you.’

      ‘Bye, Mum. Gotta go.’

      Lil ended the call. Her mum was always a bit over the top and right now Lil could do without the melodrama. She checked her phone for texts, but there were none. She hoped Verne was OK. He should have reached home by now.

      The storm outside was louder than ever. Her bedroom window rattled furiously in the frame and, in spite of her scepticism, the girl felt a cold shiver run down her spine. Maybe her mother was right. There was something strange and unnatural about the ferocity of this weather. The hairs rose on the back of her neck and Lil began to feel afraid.

      Although she was deaf and half blind, Sally had also

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