Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax (37 page)

“Hey, believe me, once the publicity machine revs into action, you can kiss your old life adios. There’ll be interview after interview. I’ve been doing some blue-sky thinking. Screw the trade stuff like The Bookseller, I see you on the covers of trendy lads’ mags – you’ve got that Noel Fielding, Russell Brand thing about you. There’ll be radio, television. We’re talking Jonathan effing Ross here and Oprah will be kicking your door down to get you in her book club when the US division swings into action. I promise. Those units will rocket off the shelves as if every bookshop was effing NASA!”

“I just want the books out there.”

“Sure you do. But it’s not just about the books nowadays – they’re only the first level. Our media arm will be looking at movie rights and console games and don’t forget audio – we can get anyone you like to read them on CD. I’m talking big A-listers here – real stars! The merchandise potential for this property is through the effing roof. You are going to be one mega-rich man!”

“I’m glad I called you,” the Ismus said. “Thank you for coming here at such short notice.”

“No, no – thank you!” the man said effusively. “You have made Terry Johnson one deliriously happy sales director. I’ll go to head office in London tomorrow morning and call an emergency meeting.”

“And they’ll listen to you?”

“What? You wouldn’t believe the power we sales guys have in there now. The editors can’t do anything if we turn our noses up at the pretentious stuff they try to show us. They have to publish what we want to sell and if we don’t like it, they effing well have to change it till we do. Oh, they’ll listen all right. We’ll be singing from the same effing hymn sheet by the end of it.”

He paused to take a breath and considered the green and cream dust jacket of the unit in his hands.

“We’ll have to change this though,” he said. “Bring it up to date. Our design department is effing amazing.”

“You can’t alter the text inside,” the Ismus warned. “I cannot allow that.”

“No, no!” Terry said hastily. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Some stuck-up editor might have a look and think it needs fiddling about with, but I’ll put my foot down and they’ll leave it alone… no – it’s the cover.”

“You may change the cover if you wish.”

“It really has to sing out on those shelves. It has to scream for attention out there. Shelf space is a battleground. Holographic film, foil type, embossing, feathers, rhinestones, even flashing lights; anything to get it noticed.”

“That sounds a trifle crass. It doesn’t need any of that. It’s a book, not a Christmas tree.”

“No, no, you’re right… but… hmmm.”

“Something else you wish to change?”

“Just shooting from the hip here, but the title, it’s a bit… limp and girly. The shops won’t like it. There’ll be resistance from key accounts.”

“Nevertheless, that is what the book is called.”

“OK, hear me out. Let me run this up the idea flagpole. What would you say if we put an X in the word Jacks? Huh? Huh? Dancing Jax – same title, just spelled different. It doesn’t mean anything, but it gives the thing a more edgy, contemporary vibe. The shops would lap that up.”

The Holy Enchanter grinned. “I like you, Mr Johnson,” he said. “You will remember to take some jars of minchet with you when you leave, won’t you? You can give them to the people at your publishing house. It’s only lip balm. Our Queen of Hearts makes it herself.”

“See – you’re creating your own merchandise already! Effing incredible!”

The pipe and tabor sounded again. This time it was joined by the sound of a lute and richly costumed nobles gathered to take part in a stately dance.

“Hey, time’s marching on,” Terry said. “I’d better go.”

“Will you not stay and watch the burning of the Bad Shepherd? We have the effigy ready and waiting.”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got a lot to do this afternoon, a lot to plan for tomorrow, and I really should sit down and have a read of this tonight.”

“Yes, you should.”

“I’ll be off then.”

“The Black Face Dames will escort you to your car, Mr Johnson. I’m giving you twenty copies to take to your meeting.”

Terry seized his hand and shook it firmly. “You’ll be hearing from me,” he promised. “This is going to be effing huge! We’re going to sell millions of these babies!”

“I hope so, Mr Johnson. I do hope so.”

The sales director made his way through the courtyard, followed by the three bodyguards carrying books and bags containing minchet. The Ismus watched him go. He leaned against the large metal door set into the great pillbox and chuckled to himself.

“My Lord,” a voice said. The Holy Enchanter turned and there was the Lockpick and the Harlequin Priests.

“Jangler!” he greeted the small man. “You have just missed the…” His voice trailed off when he saw their expressions. “What is it?”

The Lockpick clasped his hands across his chest and gave a heavy sigh. “We have a problem,” he said.

He looked over his shoulder at the Harlequins. They stepped forward and the Ismus saw that, between them, they had firm hold of a frightened Shiela Doyle.

Martin had not seen them pass by. He was on the other side of the courtyard. His attention had been fixed solely on the group of nobles who were pairing up to commence the courtly dance.

There was Sandra Dixon, wearing a gown of crimson velvet. She was trying to catch the eye of everyone present, flirting and smiling coquettishly. Opposite her was Conor Westlake, looking heroic in doublet and hose, and next to them…

Martin jolted upright. There was Paul!

Paul Thornbury was dressed in the horizontal gold and scarlet stripes of the Jack of Diamonds. His face was set and serious. His eyes roamed over the costume jewels of the ladies and the crowns of the Under Kings and Queens and the sight of them made him smirk covetously.

The dance began. It was very sedate and regal. They circled one another, joined hands, then changed direction.

Martin could only watch. He felt completely powerless. If he grabbed Paul and tried to make a run for it, there were at least a hundred people to get through before he reached the underpass. All he could do was wait and hope a better opportunity would present itself.

The dance continued.

At the end of the courtyard the Ismus was glaring at Shiela.

“I’m sorry, Ismus,” she said. “I’m sorry!”

He strode over, gripped her face roughly and examined her eyes.

“You are not my consort,” he declared. “You are not the Lady Labella!”

“I am!” she cried. “I mean, I can be again. Give me more of that stuff – you’ll see.”

The Ismus recoiled as though she was contaminated. “You have already had more chances than you are worth,” he said in disgust. “You are an aberrant.” He turned his back on her.

Shiela implored him to give her another chance, but he would not listen. He folded his arms and surveyed the Court. Shiela looked past him, to where a familiar face was staring intently at the dancers. She almost called out when she saw Martin Baxter, but she checked herself in time. At once she understood his predicament. He was waiting for an opportunity that would never come and any moment now the Ismus would spot him. There was no knowing what he would do then.

The woman thought feverishly. Her old teacher needed help. He needed a diversion. Uttering a convincing, fainting groan, she sagged and collapsed against one of the Harlequins. The Holy Enchanter twisted his head to sneer as she was laid on the steps that wound up to the pillbox’s roof. Through half closed lashes, she watched and waited till the Priests looked away. Then, snatching her chance, she raced up the steps.

“Get her!” the Ismus yelled. “Get her!”

The Harlequins went charging after.

Reaching the top, Shiela ran past the huge iron throne and teetered on the very edge of the concrete roof. It was a horrible height to jump from. The beach was far below and thick tangles of gorse hugged the concrete walls directly beneath. If, by some miracle, she managed not to break any bones, she would be ripped to ribbons in those bushes. Shiela uttered a grim laugh. Both options were better than staying here. The young woman leaped forward into the air.

Strong hands grabbed at her. The Harlequins plucked her back and dragged her away from the edge. Shiela began to scream, but the one who had once been called Miller clamped a hand over her mouth and held her so tightly she could hardly breathe.

The Ismus came prowling up the stairs. He regarded his former consort with contempt.

“Gag it,” he ordered coldly. “Then go fetch in our uniformed friends from outside. Everyone should be here to witness this.”

The crooked smile appeared. “And bring me the head of the Bad Shepherd,” he added.

Down in the courtyard the music had stopped and the dancing ceased. Everyone was gazing up to see what the commotion was. Martin didn’t dare take his eyes off Paul. If the boy disappeared from sight, he might never find him again. He didn’t even realise Shiela was here.

The Harlequin Priest formerly known as Tommo returned up the stairs, carrying the large papier-mâché head of the Bad Shepherd.

When the courtiers saw that garishly painted caricature, they commenced booing once more. Paul’s voice was among them. In the corner of his eye, Martin saw the dayglo glare of hi-viz jackets as the police officers emerged from the underpass. The Black Face Dames were with them. For an instant he thought they were coming for him, but they came running to join the throng, adding their jeers to the rest.

Martin’s heart leaped. Without the police on duty outside, it would be easier to get Paul away.

Then, he couldn’t believe it, he saw Paul glance furtively back at the market. It was empty; even the merchants had come to watch the proceedings on the roof and the revolting fruit was left unattended. Martin saw the boy snigger and take a black eye mask from the pocket of his tunic. He tied it around his head like the illustration of the Jack of Diamonds and tiptoed away from the crowd, stealthily making his way to the stalls.

“Give me your jools!” he sang to himself. “Give me your jools! Magpie Jack has itchy palms.”

He ran his thieving fingers over the minchet fruit and wondered which was the best, which should he steal? A shadow fell across the stall. The eleven-year-old started and looked over his shoulder. There was a man. It was the man Martin – Martin the aberrant.

The Jack of Diamonds tried to cry out, but Martin ripped the eye mask from him and stuffed it into his mouth.

“Sorry, mate,” he whispered, holding him securely. “Don’t struggle.”

But the boy did struggle. He kicked and arched his back. He grabbed at the minchet fruit and hurled it in the man’s face. It splattered against Martin’s temple and he wiped it away hurriedly, fearful in case the pernicious juice trickled down into his mouth.

Paul reached out again. Martin gritted his teeth and his temper flared. He didn’t have time to mess about – or be gentle. He hoisted the lad off the ground roughly and half carried, half dragged him to the steps leading down to the underpass.

On the great pillbox, the Harlequin Priests were tying Shiela on to the iron throne.

The Ismus faced the crowd. He held the papier-mâché head of the Bad Shepherd up high and shouted. “Shun the Bad Shepherd. Shun all enemies of the Dawn Prince. They must be hunted down. They must be punished. They must suffer. They must die!”

Below him the Court joined in and called for the death of all enemies of the Dawn Prince.

The Ismus revolved slowly on his heel and his eyes glinted at Shiela.

“I must find me a new Labella,” he said. “One who is deserving of my holy company.”

The woman writhed and strained against the ropes that tied her to the huge metal chair. The gag around her face bit into her mouth and she could not speak. Her one consolation was that she had seen Martin hurry down into the underpass with the boy and she was glad. She blinked her tears away and stared accusingly at the face of the man whom she had once loved. But she knew Jezza the human being had ceased to exist over a week ago.

The Ismus approached her with great solemnity and lowered the hollow, papier-mâché head over her own. Everything went dark.

“Bring the kindling and fuel,” she heard his muffled voice tell the others.

Shiela pulled on the ropes more desperately than ever. She wasn’t going to give up, not for a second.

Martin hurried through the tunnel. Paul was an impossible burden to carry. He squirmed and wriggled and did everything he could to make the man drop him. When they came to the statue of Mauger, Martin prayed the playing card pinned to his lapel would still allow him by. To his overwhelming relief, it did.

“Keep still!” he growled at Paul. “It’s for your own good!”

The sunlight was streaming into the smaller pillbox that covered the top of the steps ahead. The sight of it made Martin’s spirits soar. They were almost there. The possessed police were all in the courtyard and no one was going to stop them escaping.

“Thank God, thank God!” he uttered, reaching the concrete steps and hauling the boy up with him. An elated laugh sprang from his lips, but it was too soon.

Paul finally managed to spit the eye mask out of his mouth and he sank his teeth into Martin’s shoulder. The man yelled and the boy was free. He raced back down the stairs, but Martin screamed in fury and launched himself after him.

His hands caught him by the collar of the velvet tunic and he wrenched the lad off his feet.

“You’re coming with me!” he bawled, shaking him with rage. “I’ll knock you out cold if that’s what it takes and worry about the damage later. You hear me?”

“I hate you, you dirty aberrant!” Paul shrieked back at him. “Whatever!” Martin shouted in his face.

The maths teacher began heaving him up the steps again. Then he halted.

A shadow had fallen across the top of them, cutting off the sunlight. Martin’s heart thumped violently. A pair of trainers came into view as the person began to descend. It made its way down three steps then stopped.

Martin blinked. The daylight was flickering around the figure and dazzled him. Then he recognised it.