same rabbit food as her so she doesn’t get tempted. No pies or chips allowed and absolutely no cake.’
‘Your mum doesn’t need to diet; she’s always jumping about in a tracksuit. And you definitely don’t! Why d’you think Tracy Evans calls you “Flimsy”? What’s your mum going as – a bonier than usual skeleton?’
‘Same as always,’ the boy answered, in between mouthfuls. ‘Steampunk Edwardian airship pilot in a leather corset with goggles and a ray gun. She was gluing the brass cogs on her flying helmet earlier. And my dad’s going as her robot butler. His outfit is almost done. It’s going to look look pretty good actually.’
‘The way the steampunkers and goths compete with each other over their mad costumes is so funny. The get-ups are more elaborate every time. Nowadays you can’t just have a top hat; it has to have smoke coming out of it and flashing lights. And if you’re one of the undead, you’ve got to have movie-quality make-up, preferably with giblets hanging out.’
‘Why are our folks so embarrassing?’
Lil grinned. Their eccentric parents had been friends since their schooldays, and now she and Verne were best friends too.
She began tidying away her modelling tools and showed Verne the smart, leather-bound journal she had been given for her birthday. By a happy coincidence, Verne had presented her with a beautiful quill pen, fitted with a biro nib, the feather of which was the same shade of blue as Lil’s fringe. Using the pen, Lil had already filled a couple of pages with a list of archaic words discovered in her parents’ books. Those forgotten words were fun to say and she was determined to use them in everyday conversation if she got the chance.
‘Mirificus,’ she read aloud to Verne. ‘That means awesomely wonderful, and mulligrubs is when you’re feeling down and grumpy.’
‘I like mulligrubs!’ the boy said, repeating it to himself.
Sally stretched in her basket, then made her way to the back door, glancing backwards to let them know she wanted to go out.
The oven timer pinged. Leaving Verne to remove the badges, Lil pushed the door open for Sally. The wind was so fierce it snatched the handle from her hand and wrenched at the hinges. Lil scrunched her face against the battering rain.
At her feet, the little dog stood still, contemplating the severe weather. Lil gave her an encouraging tap on the bottom and the Westie hopped off the back step and ventured into the wild evening. Lil closed the door hastily and pressed her nose against the glass.
The small garden was hidden by gloom. Beyond the shed, the ground climbed sharply, becoming the sheer slope of the East Cliff. This row of cottages was directly beneath it. Lil couldn’t see the top; it was lost in the storm. Up there was the old graveyard that every tourist loved to visit and where the goths regularly draped themselves across crumbling headstones, posing for melodramatic selfies.
‘It’s horrible out there,’ she told Verne. ‘I don’t think it’s going to blow over any time soon.’
‘These badges are great,’ he said, putting the hot tray on the table. ‘Wish I was artistic like you. You draw and make stuff, you knit . . . Stop being so talented, it makes me sick. What’ll you do with the money from these?’
‘Oh, I’ve got . . . plans,’ Lil said mysteriously. ‘Colourful plans.’
Peering through the glass again, she could see no sign of Sally, but it was no use calling for her as the old dog was completely deaf. Lil didn’t want to get drenched fetching her in, so she reached for the small torch that hung by the door and shone it towards the far corner of the garden, by the shed. The beam flashed over Sally’s milky eyes and the dog came splashing through the puddles. Lil had a towel waiting.
‘You’re wet and filthy!’ the girl scolded.
Sally made contented and playful grunting noises as she let herself be dried. It was one of her favourite games and she was disappointed when Lil stopped.
The noise of the gale outside grew louder, angrier – raging in from the sea and howling down the cliff behind the cottage. The children looked at each other.
‘I’ve never heard anything like that before,’ Verne whispered. ‘It doesn’t sound normal. It’s spooky, like screaming ghosts.’
‘Don’t be soft,’ Lil snorted. ‘It’s just the wind. You’ll be saying the weather gods are angry and need placating next – just like my mum.’
‘No I won’t. I’d say it’s the approach of the zombie apocalypse.’
‘You’re always saying that though.’
‘One of these days . . .’ the boy said with an exaggerated shiver as he waggled his fingers at her.
The eerie noises outside intensified.
‘You want to spend the night on our sofa?’ Lil asked. ‘You can’t get home in this.’
The prospect of staying at the Wilsons all night appealed, but so did the adventure of battling through the storm. Besides, Verne felt the need to demonstrate some courage after being bullied by Tracy Evans.
‘I’ll get going now,’ he decided. ‘Before it gets worse.’
‘Wait till Mum and Dad come back from the shop,’ Lil suggested, knowing they wouldn’t let him slog his way across to the West Cliff alone. ‘They’ll be here any time. Anyway, all your books are on the radiators.’
But Verne had made up his mind.
‘I’ll pick them up tomorrow,’ he said.
Pulling on his coat and scarf, he slung his still-damp rucksack over his shoulders and hurried through the hall to the front door.
‘I really don’t think you should go out in that,’ Lil cautioned. ‘Listen to it!’
‘I’ll be fine.’
Lil’s forehead crinkled with concern, realising she couldn’t dissuade him.
‘Well, you be careful crossing the bridge!’ she said.
‘I’m not that flimsy! I won’t blow away.’
‘Text me when you get home safe, yeah?’
Verne waved her worry aside and hurried out into Henrietta Street, but he wasn’t prepared for the ferocity of the storm. It was like being hit by an invisible train and he almost went flying. The wind raged up from Tate Hill Sands to tear his breath away and push him violently, pummelling him along. It was frightening and thrilling at the same time. Verne lumbered and staggered and lurched.
The East Cliff was the older half of the town, with many passageways leading off to small courtyards, and the voice of the gale screamed from each opening. As Verne tottered past the foot of the 199 steps that led up to the graveyard and ruined abbey, the tempest came barrelling down them, knocking him sideways. Horizontal rain mixed with sand and sea spray stung his eyes. Suddenly afraid, Verne tried to turn back to the safety of the Wilsons’ cottage, but it was impossible and he was driven further up the street.
The narrow ways were deserted. Shop signs swung wildly, while lamp posts shuddered, their quivering lights shaking the shadows. A large awning over a cafe was buckling, pulling on its fixings. A roof tile came crashing down in front of him, car alarms blared and window boxes were snatched from ledges, exploding like mortar shells on the cobbles below.
Suddenly there was a rending of metal as the awning was ripped from the wall. It flew across the street, shattering windows and wrecking shopfronts as it twisted and rolled. Hearing the noise, Verne whipped round, just in time to see the tangle of steel and tattered canvas careering straight for him.
Yelling,