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 got no idea why I just did that,’ he snarled through the fixed smile, ‘but you’d better get out of my sight before I change my mind and give you a slap you won’t forget.’
Verne didn’t argue. A large group was forming around them.
‘Scuse me!’ he shouted, barging through. ‘Got to go!’
‘Wait!’ urgent voices called after him. ‘Take this!’
Verne ran along New Quay Road, towards the swing bridge. His friend Lil lived across the river on the East Cliff and, at this hour on a Saturday, would undoubtedly be at the shop her family ran in Church Street.
Before he set foot on the bridge, squeals of astonishment broke out behind him. Glancing across the road he saw two cashpoints pumping out a blizzard of crisp banknotes. Thousands of pounds were spraying on to the pavement, faster than anyone could catch. Eager hands grabbed up fistfuls, then everyone turned to face the boy with the rucksack and started moving towards him.
Verne groaned and, as he did so, a gust of wind came funnelling down Flowergate and caught up the rest of the notes. They whirled like autumn leaves in a tornado, then came swirling over the road, heading straight for him.
He spun around and ran across the river. The vortex of cash pursued him, catching up before he was even halfway across the bridge. Next minute he was encased by a violent storm of money. When he tried to yell, some flew into his mouth. Spluttering and thrashing his arms to clear a space in front of his eyes, he lurched into Church Street.
In Whitby Gothic, Mike Wilson was unpacking a stock delivery.
‘Plastic pumpkin baskets?’ he exclaimed. ‘There must’ve been a mix-up – we never have tacky tat like this. I’ll ring the supplier and send it back.’
His wife, Cassandra, was sitting behind the till, removing black varnish from her fingernails.
‘I ordered it,’ she told him. ‘Punters expect it so we might as well flog it.’
Mike looked at her with concern. Ever since their schooldays, Cassandra had professed to be a witch and dressed accordingly. But lately she hadn’t bothered with her usual elaborate eye make-up and had started wearing baggy T-shirts and stretch leggings instead of the Victorian-style gothic dresses she loved.
‘You all right, Cass?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine,’ she said with a vague shrug.
‘Because you’d never normally allow a pumpkin in the shop. You’ve always said you can’t stand the Disneyfication of All Hallows’ Eve. We’ve always had traditional turnip lanterns.’
‘No one makes plastic turnip lanterns,’ she answered flatly. ‘And most of our customers couldn’t care less anyway. Don’t think I do any more either. Does it matter? It’s just junk for the tourists. I’m giving in to consumer demand.’
Mike
