The Devil's Paintbox. Robin Jarvis

out of here! I’ll call the police, that’s what I’ll do!’

      Backing away, he spun around and started running for the refuge of the Portakabin. As he fled he flung the bat from him, knowing it would be no use against what he had just seen.

      ‘Supper time, my sprightly ballerinos,’ the shadow said.

      The Rottweilers dropped to all fours and bolted after their owner. They caught him just as he reached the steps and dragged their former master under the lean-to.

      A silly smirk lifted Tracy’s mouth. Her own will was so crushed by the domination of her ghostly boyfriend that she felt no shock or revulsion and, when the terrible sounds ceased, she had forgotten there had ever been a nightwatchman.

      ‘That small lodging,’ the shadow said. ‘What we seek is in there.’

      Tracy dutifully crossed the yard and stepped up into the Portakabin. It was the firm’s office, but it was a chaotic tip. The desk was buried under heaps of invoices and unfiled mail, and Post-it notes covered every spare surface. In one cluttered corner was a toaster, kettle, radio, pyramid of dirty mugs and a small fridge. A portable DVD player had been placed on top of a tool chest, and the movie it was playing had been paused mid-explosion.

      Tracy’s eyes flicked over the more unusual items rescued from the heaps outside: old enamel signage, Victorian brass bath fittings, mismatching golf clubs, a dented saxophone, a variety of antique lanterns hanging from the ceiling, assorted trophies and ornaments that included three Eiffel Towers, a box of spoons and tangled costume jewellery.

      ‘To your left,’ the voice said to her.

      The girl looked quizzically at a coat stand smothered with overalls, scarves and parkas.

      ‘Over there,’ she was urged.

      Tracy began pulling the garments clear, then let out a snort of surprise. Underneath was a man-sized figure made from bits of scrap. A vintage fruit machine formed the chest, on to which was bolted a pair of bellows. It wore a leather tailcoat and a pair of baggy trousers over metal, chain-operated legs. The drooped head was made from old tins, cut up and shaped into a rudimentary skull, and the face was an adapted hockey mask with a brass tea-strainer mouth and torch lenses for eyes.

      ‘This is what we came for?’ she asked. ‘It’s just a load of tat.’

      ‘It is an automaton, built by one deep in the thrall of the Nimius, at the very epicentre of its influence.’

      ‘What – one of those mad machines the West Cliffers cobbled together when the town went mental? I thought they fell apart when it wore off ?’

      ‘This splendid gentleman was special, and he has held the golden Nimius in his metal hands.’

      ‘But it’s broken.’

      ‘Look to the side of the head, my love.’

      Tracy saw a coin slot and realised why she’d been ordered to bring the ten pences. When she had fed in a handful of money, she stood back and waited.

      A small green indicator light began to flash on the tin skull and the bellows wheezed in and out. The reels of the fruit machine lit up in the robot’s chest and spun around slowly until three cherry symbols juddered to a stop on the centre line. There was a snap of electricity and the eyes flashed on. The bicycle chain that ran from the head into the shoulders grew taut and the contraption raised its hockey-mask face.

      ‘What has occurred?’ a perplexed metallic voice asked. ‘What is this untidy midden? Where have the glorious forces of Melchior Pyke gone? I was busily serving refreshment when my coin time ran out. Have I missed the entire battle? Has the genius creator of the Nimius defeated the ragged witch and her unholy army?’

      ‘The soul of Melchior Pyke has departed this sphere,’ the shadow informed him. ‘Never to return.’

      ‘My master is gone? Then what is the purpose of Jack Potts now? My principal function is to serve the Lord Pyke. I was granted sentience for that alone.’

      ‘Do you know me?’

      The torch lenses shone past Tracy’s shoulders at the shifting shape behind her. An amber light on the side of the tin skull flickered in recognition.

      ‘You are the wraith of Mister Dark,’ the robot declared. ‘In life you were my master’s manservant; you aided him in his great endeavour.’

      ‘Aided be damned! I was more than mere assistant. Without Mister Dark he would not have been able to complete a tenth of the work on the Nimius. My hand fashioned it as surely as his and therefore I claim ownership. There can be no dispute of this and you, who were born of its power, owe me, its true master, your allegiance.’

      The reels in the robot’s chest revolved again.

      ‘Your reasoning is sound,’ he said after a short, considering pause. ‘Henceforth, Jack Potts shall serve Mister Dark. What is your bidding? You wish me to fetch the Nimius from its present keeper?’

      ‘Not yet. There is still a task ahead of us. In the town of Whitby there remains the last in a bedraggled line of insolent witches that has plagued this coast for far too long. I am charged by the Lords of the Deep to bring it to a humiliating end. You, my servant, will aid me in this. We have an elegant web of deceit to weave and, at its conclusion, not only shall I possess the Nimius, but I shall be a living man once more.’

      ‘As 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,