Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax (18 page)

Paul stared at it suspiciously, half expecting it to move. He was ready to believe anything about that book now. The faded green and cream cover that had seemed so charming when he first saw it on Sunday now repulsed him. Knowing what the contents had done to people, he saw it as threatening and deceitful. It was a cheerfully painted mask to disguise the evil within.

His eyelids closed.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the bed and the book was in his hands.

The boy did not know how he had got there. He gazed at the bound work of Austerly Fellows and the flesh on his neck crawled once again. He could almost feel a cold breath brush softly across the back of his head.

He uttered a helpless gasp and tried to pull his eyes away from the cover. He wanted to look at the door and run towards it. But the book wouldn’t let him.

Then, very slowly, he was forced to open it.

He saw the map. Elements of the drawing seemed to be moving. The banners were fluttering on the castle’s battlements; the gibbet was swinging; a breeze was ruffling the treetops of the forest that grew around the witch’s tower.

Paul’s young, shaking fingers turned the first page and he saw the picture of the empty throne, then the introduction by the infernal Mr Fellows.

He turned again – to the first chapter.

“Come and get it!” his mother’s voice yelled up from the kitchen.

The spell was broken. The boy shrieked and flung the book away from him as if he had been bitten. He breathed hard. It had almost got him. He had almost read the first line and then he would have been lost – like Graeme and Anthony and the rest.

Dancing Jacks was lying open but face down by the skirting board. Paul could not bear to look at it. What had that evil man done? What foul inspiration had Austerly Fellows poured into its pages? What diabolic hands had guided his pen?

Paul shivered then cried out again. The book had moved. It had turned over while he was not looking. The open pages were now visible and displayed a drawing of the Jack of Diamonds. The character bore a resemblance to Paul.

The boy snatched his feet off the floor and tucked them under him.

“Martin!” he shouted. “Martin!”

There was no response. If the maths teacher had his headphones on in his sanctum, he wouldn’t be able to hear anything.

Paul glanced at the door and was about to call for his mother when he realised the book had moved again. This time it was halfway across the carpet. It was trying to get back to the bed. It was going to make him read.

“No!” the boy whispered.

Ten minutes later, Carol called up to both of them again. Their tea was getting cold on the table. There was no answer. It had been hell at the hospital that day. The press were all over the place again, trying to interview anyone who had known Shaun Preston, desperate to dig up any dirt on him. Carol was exhausted and in no mood to be taken for granted by the men in her life. She stomped upstairs, ready to drag the pair of them down by their ears.

She found her son’s room empty. Thinking he was in the sanctum, she looked in.

Martin was standing at the window staring out at the garden below. The headphones were still in his ears.

“What the hell is he doing?” he asked. Carol stood beside him and looked down.

There was Paul. He had dragged the rusted barbecue, which they never used, on to the patio and had started a fire in it with old newspapers.

Curious, they both went downstairs.

“What’s going on?” Carol called as she stepped on to the patio.

Her son poked the flames with a long barbecue fork. Thick smoke and glowing ashes were streaming upward.

“Paul?” Martin said as they approached him. “What’s this about?”

The boy held up his other hand. In it was his copy of Dancing Jacks. He had wrapped layers and layers of Sellotape around it, binding it tightly shut. He wasn’t taking any chances.

“It has to be burned,” he told them. “It’s not safe.”

Carol and Martin stared at him, shocked and concerned.

“You’re going to burn a book?” his mother asked, perplexed.

“It’s too dangerous to have in the house,” he answered. “It’s bad, Mum. It does things to people.”

Martin took a wary step closer. “Paul,” he began. “I know you had a frightening experience today. Why don’t we go inside and talk about it? You don’t need to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” the boy replied gravely. “Before this thing gets at us as well. It has to be burned! It’s evil!” He prepared to throw the book into the flames.

“But I’ve read it, Paul,” Martin said. “There’s nothing harmful in it, nothing that would cause your friends to snap like they did. It’s just an old-fashioned, and pretty dull, kids’ book.”

The boy wavered. “You’ve read it?” he asked uncertainly.

“Enough to be bored by it.”

“You mean that?”

“Jedi’s honour.”

“Did you rock backwards and forwards?”

“Eh? It didn’t play Status Quo at me.”

Paul moved around the barbecue, placing it between him and the adults.

“And your name’s still Martin?” he asked.

Carol was annoyed. “Stop,” she said sternly. “What’s got into you? You don’t mess about with fires. Come in, right now.”

“Is your name still Martin?” the boy repeated, taking no notice of her.

Martin nodded slowly. “You know it is,” he said, really getting worried for him.

“Then tell me the Ismus is a stupid freak.”

“What?”

“The Ismus is a stupid freak – say it!”

Martin thought it would be best to humour him. “OK, the Ismus is a stupid freak.”

Paul let out a breath of relief. That was proof enough. He looked at the sealed book in his hand and, with contempt and revulsion, cast it into the blazing barbecue.

“You didn’t have to burn it!” his mother shouted. “You could have given it to a charity shop.”

The boy shook his head, watching as the edges of the hardbacked cover blackened and smoked. The Sellotape withered and melted and Paul averted his eyes before it could flap open. “It’s the only way to be sure,” he said, quoting Sigourney Weaver in Aliens.

Carol and Martin didn’t know what to say. Paul had never behaved like this.

Suddenly there was a splutter and crackle in the flames as the pages caught light. The fire burned emerald and crimson and a pillar of fierce colour went shooting skyward.

Everyone jumped back. There was a roar and a burst of purple sparks. The garden was lit by a brilliant glare that dazzled them. Paul covered his face with his hands, but as he snapped his eyes shut, he thought he had glimpsed something, something travelling up that column of flame. It was so bright it remained for some moments as a ghostly image on his retina and terrified him. He fell to the ground.

And then it went dark. A chill breeze came gusting into the garden. The fire was extinguished and oily black smoke coiled out of the barbecue. Only ash was left behind.

Carol and Martin wiped their faces. Carol crouched over her son and quickly but expertly checked for burns.

“Did you see it?” Paul cried, struggling out of her arms and running to the barbecue. Raking the fork through the ashes, he shuddered then threw it away.

“See it?” Carol asked, her concern changing to anger. “You could have killed us. You’re not stupid so what did you do that for?”

Her son looked at her in confusion. “Do what?”

“The fireworks,” Martin answered. “Why did you put fireworks in there? Good God, Paul. They could have exploded in our faces.”

“You know how many horrific burns we get in the hospital every November because of careless, stupid idiots like you!” Carol shouted. “I just can’t believe you did that! I can’t believe it! Where did you get them from?”

The boy stared at them, wide-eyed. “I didn’t!” he protested. “There weren’t any fireworks. It was the book!”

“Paul!” Martin said sharply. “Drop it.”

“Why won’t you believe me?” he cried. “Since when have I ever messed about with stuff like that? It was the Dancing Jacks – I swear it!”

Their faces told him they would never believe his version, even though it was the truth. It was an impossible thing to accept. He thought so – and he had actually seen it. There was no way he could ever convince them or anyone else.

“Get inside,” Martin ordered.

The boy glanced upwards. He knew what he had seen. He knew it was real. In the middle of those flames, streaking into the sky, there had been a figure – a figure with horns.

Chapter 19

S
o in rides he, the best of all. The Jack of Clubs, so strong and tall. Chivalrous and brave is this dashing Knave. Animals and damsels they are in his thrall.

T
HE PIER AT
Felixstowe was once the longest in East Anglia. When it first opened in 1905, it stretched 800 metres into the North Sea, with a landing stage for steamers at the very end. It had even sported an electric tram to transport passengers and their luggage to and from the shore. Now only a little over an eighth of the pier remained and that was unsafe and closed to the public. The amusement arcade at the shore end still buzzed and dinged and blinked with lights, but the high planked roadway over the water would never open again and would eventually be demolished, by man or the sea.

The building in which the amusements were housed was raised on concrete pillars over the downward-sloping shore. The waves slopped and swilled around the base of them, patiently nibbling and gnawing away.

That evening, under the green mossy concrete of the arcade’s elevated floor, a lone figure sat brooding in the growing darkness.

Conor Westlake came here when he was troubled. He liked to sit on the damp, smooth sand in the spot where, when he gazed out to sea, the wooden posts of the pier were aligned directly in front of him and receded out to the horizon, forming a pillared corridor. He would sit there, projecting his mind along it, trying to leave his body and its problems behind, to journey out to the doorway of light at the far end and escape everything.

It had been an uncomfortable day. Owen Williams had told him that Kevin Stipe’s parents had asked if he would be a pall-bearer at their son’s funeral. Many of the young people who had died in the Disaster were being buried next Sunday. There was also going to be a special memorial service for them that morning. Owen wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to refuse, but he didn’t want to carry a coffin with the dead body of his friend in it.

Conor had listened to his concerns with a guilty heart. Kevin’s parents really should be told that their son died trying to help the others out of that car. He had died a hero. Conor couldn’t hold on to that secret any longer. He had to tell them, and the police, everything he knew. First thing tomorrow, he’d call the incident number and make a statement.

He had been so preoccupied with this heavy burden that he hadn’t been aware of the strange happenings at school. At lunchtime the number of lads who enjoyed a kick-about was depleted and when he saw them sitting cross-legged on the edge of the field, reading, he hadn’t thought anything of it. He hadn’t even heard about the attack on Mrs Early.

Taking out his mobile, he called up Emma Taylor’s number. There were grieving people who could be consoled by what he had to tell them. She was as impervious to feelings as the concrete posts around him. Knowing what he had to do to clear his conscience, he decided. His thumb jabbed at the buttons hastily as he texted her. He didn’t owe her any consideration, but it wouldn’t hurt to warn the selfish cow.

She could whine or yell or slate him as much as she liked, but he couldn’t live with it any longer. The message’s envelope icon went flying away on the mobile’s screen. He imagined it zooming down the corridor under the pier, trying to find Emma Taylor’s phone.

It was almost dark out there now. The lights of container ships twinkled in the remote distance and Conor rested his chin on his knees as he stared at them, wishing he was on board. What sort of life was there for him here? He had always wanted to be a professional footballer. The fame, the money, the cars, the attention, the WAGs – that incredible world was a life he craved so much. He ached to be a part of it. To wear the sharp suits and endorse endless products, be invited to the most exclusive parties and rub shoulders with A-list movie stars, have lads just like him filled with adoration and envy. To have tens of thousands of fans chant his name at matches and worship his skill. To be someone unique and special, to have what the media tantalised and promised could be his. Yes, he thirsted for that. Ever since he could remember he had wanted that diamond existence. He had built every dream and hope on it.

Conor covered his eyes. At the age of fifteen he had finally realised he simply wasn’t good enough to play in the Premiership. He wasn’t even talented enough for the lesser clubs. What was left? Nothing. No other dream could ever replace that one and the certainty of that crushed him. Those glittering hopes had washed down the drain and that universe was totally unattainable. He would stay stuck here, in this grey and empty corner of nowhere, forever. What was the point?

He sat hunched over for some time. When the inevitable reply buzzed in, like a furious wasp in his pocket, he glanced at it without a flicker of surprise. Then he switched off the phone.

“She’ll wear out that ‘F’ key,” he said to himself.

A movement in the corner of his eye caused him to turn his head. Someone was on the beach nearby.

It was a girl, perhaps about his age, wearing a long and summery dress, printed with delicate pink and yellow flowers. There was a pale pink sash tied around her waist. The cotton was surely far too thin for this brisker, off-season weather. She was tall and willowy and her long, dark hair was pinned up on to her head. She had left her shoes on the beach and was twirling about in the shallow waves, arms raised, with her face upturned to the darkened sky.

Conor stared at her, fascinated. Hidden as he was in the deep shadow beneath the arcade, she was totally unaware she was being watched.

He smiled. She looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. Simply being there, capering and splashing in the sea with the wet sand beneath her feet, was enough to make her glad. It was innocent and childlike – she had to be freezing though. The girl was humming and singing snatches of a song he didn’t recognise, but, with a start, he realised he did know that voice.

“Sandra Dixon!” he called out in surprise.

The girl faltered in her gambolling and whirled around, unable to see who had spoken. Conor emerged from his hiding place and she moved a little further into the water.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

The girl stared at him dumbly. There was something about her eyes that made him wonder if she was sleepwalking.

“Aren’t you cold?”

She shook her head and moved deeper into the sea so that the waves rolled over the hem of the bridesmaid’s dress she had worn the previous July. It was the only long dress she owned.

Conor looked at her bare arms. They were stippled with gooseflesh and she was shivering.

“You are cold!” he said. “You’ll catch your death in there.”

“I am dancing for the Lord Ismus!” she said suddenly. “I have no minchet with which to anoint myself. But if I sing and dance prettily enough, he might notice and bear me away through the starlight – to the Great Revel.”

“The only place you’ll be going is to the hospital with pneumonia,” he warned.

She gazed upwards, her face expectant and yearning. “I must dance,” she called out. “The Jill of Hearts must dance the most daintily of all the ladies at Court.”

“Come out of there!” Conor told her.

Sandra did not answer, but backed even further into the water until it reached her thighs.

“I’m not going in after you!” the boy said firmly.

She swayed and bent, this way and that, in the water. Then she turned round and round, gesturing with her arms, like an intoxicated ballerina.

“I must hold every man’s fluttering heart captive,” she called out. “I must catch them like scarlet butterflies in my cupped palms. I must entrance. The courtiers must adore me.”

Conor’s concern had turned to fear. The sea was now up to the girl’s waist. What had got into her? She was supposed to be clever, wasn’t she? Perhaps the beating Emma had given her had done more damage than anyone had realised.

“Damn,” he swore under his breath. He scrambled out of his coat and kicked off his trainers. “We’re both going to get pneumonia.”

The boy stepped into the sea, gasping at the icy bitterness of the water. How could she bear it?

When Sandra saw him, she thrust her hands in front of her and retreated even further.

“Stop!” he yelled.

“I must dance!” she cried. “I must be noticed by the Ismus!”

“Sod him!” Conor said through chattering teeth.

Sandra shrieked and moved backwards. The waves were breaking over her back now. Soon they would be over her shoulders.

Conor halted. Every step he took drove her deeper into the sea.

“All right!” he called. “I won’t come any closer.”

In the black expanse of the North Sea, her chalk-white face stood out starkly. Those dreaming, glassy eyes scanned the night sky, searching and hoping.

Conor looked around helplessly. The promenade was empty. The string of coloured lights that festooned the length of it showed that no one else was about. What could he do? How could he reach her? Then his eyes rested on the shoes she had left behind. There was a book beside them.

“Dancing Jacks!” he said. The girl’s face turned to him at once. “You know the holy text?”

“I bought one of those as well.”

She gave a joyful cry. “Is it not the most glorious enchantery?” she asked.

“I dunno, I haven’t read it.”

“You must!”

“Why the hell should I? You won’t come out of there.”

“But it will save you!”

“I’m not the one who needs saving here!”

“You are in the dark oubliette of ignorance. Read it and enter the Light – be as one with the courtiers of the Dawn Prince. This is only the empty grey place of sleep. You must wake up to your real life.”

“You come here and I’ll think about it.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Sandra took a step forward, but her foot slipped on a loose stone and she vanished below the waves.

Conor watched her white face disappear under the water. Could she swim? He had no idea. Some moments later her head came bobbing back up – even further from the shore and her arms were thrashing wildly. She was too far out and could no longer feel the bottom beneath her feet.

“Bloody knew it!” he swore.

With a fierce yell, full of annoyance and irritation, he charged into the waves and leaped into the freezing sea.

When he reached Sandra, she was kicking and crashing about in the water frantically. The back of her hand smacked him wildly across the face as he swam close and he shouted at her to stay calm.

“I am the Jill of Hearts, I am the Jill of Hearts,” she cried shrilly. Conor grabbed her and began towing her back to the shore. Presently they came staggering up the beach, stuttering with the wet, wintry cold, their clothes stuck to their shuddering bodies.

“So… so… fro… frozen…” she said in gulping, shallow breaths as if aware of it for the first time.

Conor threw his coat over her shoulders.

“M… My thanks, Sirrah,” she gasped, pulling the garment tightly around.

“Let’s get you home,” he told her, passing her shoes as he pushed his feet into his trainers. He was the coldest he had ever been, but she was blue with it. “If we run, it might warm us up a bit.”

Sandra looked into the sky once more. “My Lord is not there,” she observed with disappointment. “He is gone to the revel without me.”

“Come on!” Conor urged.

Sandra picked up her book. “Such peace and joy you will find in these blessed pages,” she said.

“I never read books,” he answered impatiently. “Don’t even colour them in nowadays.”

Her own words were lost on her.

“You made a promise to read it,” she reminded him.

“No, I didn’t.”

“As the cloak of night is my witness, I heard you.”

“I said I’d think about it, you dopey nutcase! Now can we get going before my voice gets any higher? I want to play like Beckham, not sound like him. I’m a bloody brass monkey stood here.”

To his annoyance she laughed and pointed at him. “I know you now,” she said. “He who braves fire and water to rescue maidens, he whom the beasts and birds adore. You are the Jack of Clubs.”

“I’ll be SpongeBob SquarePants if it means we can get going!” Conor retorted, jumping from one foot to the other and rubbing his arms.

“You may lead me, Knave,” she said with a flirtatious smile.

At that moment Conor was too chilled and angry with her to notice, let alone care. This was the second time he’d saved someone in the past few days. At least barmy Sandra had thanked him. Emma hadn’t even mentioned it.

Their paths home ran together for a distance and they hurried as fast as they could to keep the gelid blood moving in their veins. When it was time to split up and go different ways, Sandra returned his coat and curtseyed in her wet dress.

Conor thought she looked ridiculous and he hoped none of his mates would ever hear about this.

“You’ll go straight home, yeah?” he asked. “No running back to the beach or anywhere else?”

She looked at him as though shocked by the very idea. “I am daughter to one of the Under Kings,” she said in a superior tone. “Do you think I am unaware of the proprieties?”

“Oh, get over yourself,” he said, totally fed up of her mad games. “Good night, gallant Knave. See you on the morrow.”

The boy shook his head and jogged away.

When he returned home, he ran past the open living room door, from where the TV was blaring, went straight upstairs and had a hot shower. The horrendous cold had seeped deep into his bones and it took some time before he felt normal again.

Afterwards, cocooned in a fleece and joggers, he flopped on to his bed and stared at the ceiling. That Dixon girl was totally off her head. He would never have thought it of her. She had always seemed so stuck-up and dull. Why did she keep going on about that cheap book?

Sitting up, he wondered where he had thrown his copy when he returned from the boot fair on Sunday. A few minutes’ searching revealed it beneath a heap of discarded clothes. He looked at it curiously. Sitting back on the bed, he turned to the first page and began to read…