Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax (36 page)

She cast about for something to write the answer on. There was nothing and she had neither pen nor pencil. Kneeling, she smoothed the soft, dry sand that had blown over the sea wall and drew the figures into it with her finger.

There was something weirdly familiar about that long number, something special and individual to her. Somehow it was a joke that she had shared with someone, when she was younger. This same number had kept cropping up in problems that were set for her. It was a rapport between teacher and student. But no… the number didn’t look quite right. Labella studied it through half closed eyes, trying to remember. Then she giggled softly, re-smoothed the sand and drew it the way it would have looked back then – on the digital display of a pocket calculator.

Labella stared at that. It still wasn’t quite right and she grinned as she realised why. The woman rose, walked around the patch of sand and then viewed the number upside down. At once the irises closed in around the black circles of her pupils.

“My number!”

Shiela Doyle gasped with shock. Her limbs went weak and she fell against the van.

“What am I doing?” she cried. “Oh, God – oh, God!”

She stared aghast at her purple gown. Then gazed fearfully over at the mass of people desperate to buy Dancing Jacks. Shiela pressed herself against the van and shrank away. She looked around wildly, until she saw a man sitting on the sea wall, bent over in despair.

Hitching up the hem of her gown, she ran to him.

“Mr Baxter!” she called. “Mr Baxter!”

Martin looked up. “Shiela?” he asked uncertainly.

“Yes!” she said. “Yes – it’s me! You brought me back! You got through – you woke me up! Oh, Mr Baxter!” She threw her arms about him and sobbed on to his shoulder.

Martin held her for a few moments. His mind was racing. So it was possible to break the book’s hold over people! It would be difficult and time-consuming, each person would respond to different stimuli, but it could be done. It wasn’t as hopeless as he had thought. The relief came crashing over him. The strain of the past days had been intolerable and he almost buckled as it finally snapped.

“Tell me,” he said, battling to keep it together. “Paul – do you know where he is?”

Shiela lifted a fold of her gown and wiped her nose on it.

“He’s with Jezza – the Ismus,” she told him. “At the corner of the Golf Club, on the way to the ferry, there’s a pillbox. It’s the entrance to a hidden courtyard. They’re all in there. There’s a celebration going on today – and a market.”

“More books?”

Shiela shook her head. “There aren’t many books left! There were only six crates of them. We’ve almost finished the fifth one here. The Ismus is keeping the last one back for ‘special readers’, whatever that means.”

“But that’s brilliant! This madness can’t spread without them!”

“It can with the minchet fruit!” she told him. “That’s what’s being sold in the market. They’re going to plant that disgusting stuff and grow it in gardens and nurseries. It’ll be everywhere.”

Martin was only half listening. “I’ve got to get Paul out of there before I can do anything about that,” he said. “Help me, Shiela, please.”

The woman glanced nervously back at the crowd clamouring in front of the van. “If I leave here now, Jangler and the Harlequin Priests will be on to us straight away,” she said. “You’ll have to go there on your own. We won’t be here much longer – there’s hardly any books left. I’ll get there as soon as I can. But you won’t get in without a playing card – Mauger won’t let you past – and today there’s no one below a nine permitted inside. Wear a ten and you’ll have no problem, they’re for knights and nobles. Get your lad out of there, Mr Baxter. You don’t have any idea what this is really about.”

Martin stared steadily into her eyes. “I do,” he said. “Believe me, I do.”

“No, you don’t!” Shiela insisted. “You don’t know what I do. That fruit isn’t just to turn people into slaves of that book. It’s to feed the creatures that are coming.”

“What?”

“The book is only the first part of it. There are things – horrible, terrifying things – waiting to come through, to crawl and creep among us. The Ismus, Jezza, Austerly Fellows, whoever he is, is wanting to turn this place – not just this town…”

“Into a vision of Hell,” the maths teacher murmured.

“Exactly. And when he’s done it, when it’s ready, the Dawn Prince is going to rise.”

Martin stepped away from her. He couldn’t think. It was too gigantic, too repulsively immense to comprehend. He forced himself to think of Paul. He had to focus on him.

“I’ve got to go,” he said.

“I’ll be there soon,” she promised. “For God’s sake, get the boy away from here. As far away as possible – and Mr Baxter… thank you.”

Martin nodded and sprinted back to Gerald’s car.

Shiela watched him leave. Then she turned back to the horde of expectant people and took a deep, calming breath. She had to blag it big time; she had to return and play the part of Labella again.

“Damn!” she cursed under her breath. “I’m gagging for a smoke.”

Steeling herself, she assumed an air of cool dignity and walked back to the van. The Harlequin Priests were waiting for her. Their grim, accusing eyes said it all and the tips of their pokers were pointing at the black diamonds on their robes.

“No,” Shiela whimpered.

Chapter 31

S
ing ye for the glory of the Dawn Prince, that his exile might end the sooner. Summon the minstrels and enter into the dance. In the Holy Enchanter’s name. So mote it be!

M
ARTIN DROVE
like a maniac through the deserted town. He stopped only to dash to a newsagent’s. The shop was closed. Martin kicked against the door with fury. He had to get in. He hammered on the glass and shouted at the top of his voice, but there was no answer and there wasn’t a soul to be seen along the street. He ran back to the car and popped the boot. There was no caramel-coloured leather outfit in there as he had suspected last night, but there was a spare tyre and a car jack. Martin seized the latter and hurled it at the newsagent’s plate-glass window. A cobweb of fractures appeared. He hurled it again and again. The window smashed completely. Martin stepped over the crunching glass crumbs and made a frantic search of the shelves.

When he found a pack of cards, he ripped it open. Then he tore the lid off a box of safety pins. He paused before leaving. He could hear the sound of voices chanting in the flat above. The newsagent and his family were reading from Dancing Jacks. He visualised them rocking backwards and forwards. With a fierce determination, he hurried back to the car.

Cliff Road was devoid of any other vehicles. Martin’s foot was right down and he raced along it faster than he had ever driven in his life. It was still only eleven in the morning. The sweeping view of the sea on his right was glittering beneath a bright winter sun and seemed almost blue for a change. Its clear beauty was lost on Martin. He wished he had thought to bring Carol’s mobile. He wanted to call her and assure her everything was going to be all right. In a few hours they would be driving away from this place with Paul. Then their real headaches would start – how could they convince anyone what was going on here?

Suddenly he saw a line of cars blocking the road up ahead. They were police cars and officers were standing on guard nearby. Martin slowed right down and wondered what was going on. As he drew closer, he could see the pillbox just beyond the blockade. The Ismus was apparently taking no chances. He pulled into the side, fumbled with the card pack for a moment then got out.

“Blessed be!” he called to the nearest policeman.

The chubby officer returned the greeting and glanced at the ten of clubs on Martin’s jacket.

“I am… Sir Darksilver!” the maths teacher declared hesitantly, struggling to remember what Douggy Wynn had spouted earlier. “This day I am to ride with my Lord Jack and… rid him of the worms.” Martin bit his tongue. That was so not right.

The policeman did not appear to notice. He bowed and waved him through. Martin couldn’t believe his luck and prayed that it would hold. How he was to get Paul out, past these guys, was something he’d worry about later.

The sound of medieval music was drifting across the road. He looked over at the dense shrubs of gorse that concealed the sunken courtyard and wondered what that metal structure was jutting above them at the far end. But there wasn’t time to stand and think. As casually as possible, he walked towards the concrete pillbox.

Once inside, he hastened down the steps that led to the underpass. The stagnant water had been pumped out and lanterns were suspended from iron hooks in the ceiling.

Martin caught his breath. There was a shape up ahead. It was the same shape that had chased him down the drive of Austerly Fellows’ house – the demon, Mauger.

He halted. The creature was unnaturally still, but Martin could feel a presence, an awareness beating out of it. He touched the card on his lapel and hoped it would give him protection. Shiela had said it would. Then, to his amazement, he saw that the monster was just a statue carved from stone. He almost laughed until he saw the blackened scorch marks across it. The maths teacher averted his eyes and hurried by.

Moments later he was ascending the second flight of steps, out of the tunnel and up into the Court of the Ismus.

The transformation of that place was complete. The weeds, sand and shingle had been cleared away and market stalls with colourful awnings crowded the area at the front. Martin stepped between them, staring about him in revulsion.

The stalls were groaning under the weight of produce. The bumper harvest of Austerly Fellows’ conservatory was here. They were bulbous growths he had never seen before. Sweaty-looking gourds, trays packed with fat and swollen grass, rows of translucent, waxy vegetables that reminded him of lumpy legume, and small, sloppy-looking fleshy fruit. But all of them were that same sickly greyish-yellow colour, and most of it was speckled with black mould. An unpleasant, rank sweetness hung in the air.

Crowds of people were queuing up to buy those nauseating wares. Most of them wore home-made fancy-dress costumes, but here and there he spotted what seemed to be professionally produced outfits. There was a woman in an elaborate black taffeta gown with a fan in her hands and a glittering tiara on her head. She was utterly absorbed in her role of the Queen of Spades and haggling with the mercers. Little dramas, fresh from the pages of the book, were re-enacted all around him. Everyone was living their character.

Martin moved through the market area searching for a glimpse of Paul. Then he found he could go no further. In the centre of the courtyard a morris dance was being performed. The spectators had formed a wide circle to watch and he couldn’t get past. A pipe and tabor were playing and he stared between outlandish hats and headdresses to view what was going on.

The three Black Face Dames were there. They were now in full costume. They wore battered top hats surrounded with feathers and were dressed solely in clothes the same colour as the ebony make-up that covered their features: shirts, waistcoats, boots, trousers that were rolled up and tied around with ribbons. Everything was black, as was the full skirt that covered the trousers. It could have looked ridiculous, but instead it looked strange and menacing. Two further figures were dancing with them. One was a bald man, covered in tattoos and with a ginger beard. He was dressed in an artist’s smock and scraps of colourful cloth had been sewn to it, imitating splodges of paint. Martin did not recognise him, but he knew the fifth man only too well. It was the Ismus.

It was unlike any morris dance the maths teacher had ever seen. They each carried a long stave in their hands and they smashed them, one against the other, in violent strokes. It was more like a vicious martial art than anything else. Martin winced at the brutal blows, and splinters of wood went flying into the flinching crowd. One of the Dames received a cut to his cheek and a river of red came pouring through the make-up. The morris men yelled and roared at one another and the moves became wilder and wilder. They leaped over swooping staves, they ducked when they came slicing at their heads, then with deafening shouts they leaped and swapped positions. It was a carefully rehearsed and breathtakingly savage display. One mistake and bones and skulls would have been shattered.

Martin hoped the Ismus would make such a mistake. He lifted his eyes above the crowd and gazed at the far end of the courtyard. The larger pillbox reared up into the clear morning sky. Bolted to its concrete roof was the oversized cast-iron throne. That was the metal structure he had seen jutting above the shrubs from across the road. It was a sinister, ugly object and Martin looked away quickly. He scanned the faces around him. Most were chewing something bought from the market, the putrid stains fresh on their lips. Where was Paul?

Just then the music came to a thudding stop. The morris men stamped and bowed to one another. The onlookers applauded then fell into a hush. They turned to the far end. Something was approaching. The people shuffled aside to make way and into the cleared space a macabre creature came prancing. It was a crude representation of a skeletal horse, with a startlingly carved wooden head and a fringed, rib-striped skirt draped over a wicker frame to conceal the operator within.

“Oss Oss Oss!” the crowd chanted, clapping their hands. “Oss Oss Oss!”

The creature paraded around the perimeter, demonstrating that its jaw was hinged, and it went snapping at squealing victims. After one circuit around, it came to rest near the dancers and bowed its head. The watchers buzzed with expectation. The show was not over yet.

Martin fidgeted with impatience. He couldn’t see Paul anywhere. How long would he have to wait until this was over?

A jet of flame drove the question from his mind. The fiery stream shot into the air from the back of the crowd. There were cries of admiration and mock fear and then another bizarre creation came lumbering into the centre.

“Scorch Scorch Scorch!” they called out.

It was a dragon, fashioned in the same way as the horse. This one was slightly more elaborate. The neck was longer and a forked tail swished from the back. It was covered in scales of green cloth and the head was fully articulated. The jaws on this did not move, but there was a flexible metal pipe fixed between them.

The dragon angled its head high and another torrent of flame went shooting in a wide arc over their heads. It did this several times. Once, when it was facing Martin, it paused and the man felt a rush of fear. He half expected the flames to come streaming towards him. But no, the painted eyes of the dragon veered away. Finally it came to a standstill opposite Old Oss. The two acknowledged one another with a little jig. Then another figure came into the circle.

At once every voice was raised in ‘Boos’ and heckles. Fists were shaken and angry shouts rang out.

Martin’s eyes widened as he saw this new creation. It was a tall effigy of a ragged, bearded man with a fierce and ugly face, and required two people to operate it. One carried the torso while the other walked in front, moving the arms via long poles. The head and hands of the unpopular character were made from papier-mâché and the robes it wore were of ripped sacking. It made the tour round the crowd to never-ending jeers before being conveyed out again.

“Drive the Bad Shepherd away!” the Ismus commanded. The ‘Boos’ increased until the effigy was lowered to the ground. Then the music began again.

The morris men danced around, more ferociously than before. The staves clashed and now daggers were held in the other hand. It was a hideously lethal form of orchestrated combat.

Martin found himself wishing for the Ismus to get battered and then stabbed for good measure. Then he caught sight of a man on the far side, taking photographs of the show with his mobile. In those surroundings, with these people, it was a jarring sight. He wondered who the man was. He appeared to be in his thirties and looked pretty smart in a dark blue suit with an open shirt collar. He fitted in here even less than Martin did.

There was another rush of flames from Scorch. The people cheered and the music ceased. The morris dance was over. There was applause and the horse and dragon followed the dancers out of the clearing. People began wandering across and back to the market. Martin pressed further in. Where was Paul?

The man with the mobile phone congratulated the Ismus as he came towards him.

“That was beeyootiful,” he said enthusiastically. “And that’s in the book as well, yeah?”

“The dances are all in there,” the Ismus answered. “As well as the music. The whole world is contained in those pages.”

The man shook his head in bewilderment. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he admitted. “I’ve been in this business over ten years and have never once encountered anything even remotely similar. You can forget everything else. This book beats everything hands down. It’s staggering!”

“Wait till you read it,” the Ismus said.

The man nodded eagerly and inspected the copy that the Holy Enchanter had given to him just before the dance began.

“And it’s been languishing someplace since 1936?” he said, flicking through the pages. “I can’t believe it. You sure you have the sole publishing rights, yes? The copyright is definitely yours and yours alone?”

“My solicitor can vouch for that. He has all the legal papers.”

“Beeyootiful, effing beeyootiful. Wait till I touch base with head office in the morning. We are going to shift so many units.”

“Units?”

“Books, I meant books. We call them units.”

“You make them sound like tins of beans.”

“Just a term for the accountants, don’t you worry about it. You won’t have to deal with them. It’s the marketing guys who’ll be all over you like eczema. They are going to wet themselves when they see all this. A book that is totally immersive. That’s got everyone in this town fired up and actually dressing as characters from it – even the police! Oh, wow – something with a bit of quality and substance going for it for a goddam change!”

“Aren’t the ‘units’ you publish quality?”

“Are you kidding? It’s the big chains and supermarkets that dictate what we put out there now. What they want is more of the same of anything that sells in bulk. Bookshops want to lure customers off the street so that’s why they demand crap by celebrities. Punters who never normally go into bookshops will queue for hours for the chance to gawp down a real live famous pair of hooters. They don’t care that the book is trash and that the dim celeb can hardly sign her own name, let alone write a novel. They don’t even care that her knockers are just as fake. It’s all about slapping a famous face on a cover and Joe Public touching the hem of that glamour. It’s the branding that sells it, not the rubbish inside. But this is different. It’s lush – and you’ve got a fully worked out brand of your own already.”

The Ismus smiled. “And am I to be famous?” he asked. “Oh, man, everyone will kill for a piece of you. When you come for your first meeting, they are going to freak. You’ve got it all going on: the personality, the style, the cult following here. You’re doing the PR girls’ job for them! They won’t have to dream up a gimmick to hang the campaign on. We’re not talking foul-mouthed ex-nuns, knee-jerk shockers to get the Daily Mail in a flap or one-hit wonder schoolkid authors here – it’s the real deal.”

“You think so?”