The Devil's Paintbox. Robin Jarvis

to go and see Lil and tell her in person.

      Rewrapping the Nimius in the T-shirt, he slipped it into his rucksack and hurried downstairs.

      ‘That you, Verne?’ his father called from the living room.

      ‘Just going over to Lil’s!’ he called back as he ran past.

      Dennis Thistlewood appeared in the hallway, just in time to see the kitchen door close.

      ‘Hang on!’ he shouted. ‘Take this!’

      He had pulled out his wallet and the last of his precious ten-pound notes were clutched in his outstretched hand. For some time Mr Thistlewood stood there, waiting. After a while, when Verne didn’t return, he shook his head in confusion and wandered back into the living room, letting the money fall from his fingers to the floor.

      Verne cut through the amusement arcade. With only the front section in use, it was a sad place. The area at the back had once housed vintage automata, but was now filled with broken machines. In this dimly lit area, with its deep shadows, they looked melancholy and neglected. The boy quickened his pace and was soon surrounded by the familiar noises of the working slot machines near the entrance.

      Only a handful of holidaymakers were playing them, spending whatever change they had rattling in their pockets. Clarke, Verne’s older brother, was sitting in the change booth, absorbed in a cheeky text conversation with Amy, his girlfriend.

      Just as Verne passed by, every machine went crazy.

      Lights and buttons flashed, buzzers blared and bells rang in a cacophonous riot. Clarke looked up, startled. Even the amusements that weren’t being played were going nuts. Jackpot after jackpot was clunking into position. There was a rush of silver as each machine spewed out a heap of money. Coins gushed down with such force they overshot the payout tray and cascaded to the floor. It took only moments for each amusement to empty, but the mechanisms continued to chug long after.

      At first the bewildered customers backed away in alarm. Then they gave elated yells and were on their knees, shovelling the cash up with their hands.

      ‘What the . . .?’ Clarke shouted, as he leaped from the booth. ‘Wait, you can’t have that! There’s been some technical fault. Put it down!’

      The holidaymakers laughed at him. This was brilliant! There were hundreds of pounds here, just waiting to be scooped into their pockets.

      Clarke looked around wildly and saw Verne by the main entrance.

      ‘Don’t stand there gawking!’ he roared. ‘Get over here, or call the police.’

      The people were like greedy seagulls going berserk over a discarded bag of chips. Clarke tried to stop them, but it was impossible. Passing between the spent machines and slipping on the coins, Verne ran to help.

      ‘Stop it!’ he pleaded. ‘It isn’t yours, you know it isn’t.’

      To his surprise, they halted and turned to him, with faces drained of all expression. There was an eerie silence, broken only by a last coin falling from the push-and-drop. Then, as one, they advanced towards Verne.

      The boy watched them nervously. They looked weird, with silly grins on their faces. He began to edge away.

      The holidaymakers grabbed hold of Verne’s rucksack.

      ‘Get off !’ he cried. ‘You can’t have that. Let go!’

      Afraid they were after the Nimius, he lashed out and stamped on a flip-flopped foot. The person didn’t flinch. Verne was about to kick the nearest shin when he realised that they were actually trying to give him all the money they had taken.

      The rucksack dragged on his shoulders as each new load of coins was tipped inside.

      ‘All for you,’ they told him in flat, empty voices.

      Verne struggled and managed to pull himself away. He ran to Clarke who bundled him into the booth for safety. The customers followed, their vacant smiles frozen in place, holding out hands that were still dripping with change.

      ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Clarke demanded. ‘Get out, go on!’

      ‘We’ll leave it here for him,’ they said, casting the coins on to the floor in front of the booth. ‘We wish there was more.’

      The crowd wandered from the arcade, blinking groggily when they reached the sunshine outside.

      ‘What. Was. That. About?’ Clarke uttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

      ‘They were like money zombies,’ Verne said with a shudder.

      ‘Always zombies with you, isn’t it? Look at the state of this place. I’m going to have to close up till I can sort it. How do I explain this to Mum and Dad?’

      ‘It’s like the machines were all hacked or got a virus or something,’ Verne said. ‘That’s not possible though, is it?’ He began tipping out the looted change from his rucksack.

      ‘Here, you’d better have this too,’ Clarke said.

      When Verne looked up, his brother was holding out a wad of notes from the change booth’s till. Clarke was smiling vacantly.

      ‘What?’ Verne muttered faintly.

      ‘Take this money,’ Clarke told him. ‘There’s eighty quid. I can get more.’

      Verne felt a knot tighten in his stomach, beginning to understand. This was the power of the Nimius. The wealth button was working, but not in a way he had expected or hoped for.

      ‘No thanks. You go sit down for a while. I need to see Lil – pronto.’

      ‘Do you want my phone then? It’s better than yours.’

      ‘No, really – I have to go.’

      Swinging the rucksack on to his shoulder, Verne ran from the arcade.

      It was a glorious summer morning. Pier Road was busy with tourists and a fresh salt breeze was blowing in from the sea.

      Verne hurried along the quayside, dodging families who stopped in their tracks as he passed, staring then reaching for their wallets and purses. A corridor of unnatural silence formed in his wake as their gabbling voices and laughter were stilled. Keeping his eyes fixed on the way ahead, he ignored the unsettling attention, stopping only when he barged into a small girl who ran into his path.

      ‘This was for ice cream!’ she shouted up at him, thrusting out two pound coins. ‘I have to give it to you instead.’

      ‘No you don’t,’ Verne told her. ‘Go get your ice cream.’

      ‘Can’t!’ she replied fiercely and tears began to splash down her face. ‘It’s your money now.’

      Verne shook his head and strode past her. The girl let out a desperate wail and tried to stuff the coins into the back pocket of his jeans.

      Verne pushed her off and would have run, but the way was blocked by a huge red-faced man in a vest, whose bulging arms were sleeved in tattoos.

      ‘What you doin’ with my little Rebecca?’ he barked.

      ‘My ice cream money!’ she cried before Verne could answer.

      ‘You snatched her money off her?’

      ‘No!’ Verne protested.

      ‘He won’t take it, Dad,’ the girl sobbed. ‘Make him!’

      The man’s fleshy face scrunched up and the veins bulged at his temples as he bent down to glower closely at Verne, his mouth twitching into a silly grin.

      ‘Her money not good enough, is that it?’ he asked.

      A large hand grabbed Verne by the shirt while the other took the money and shoved it into his pocket. Then the man tore a thick gold chain from his own neck and tucked it in as well.

      ‘I