Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax (20 page)

The noble was about to give in and let Urlwin have its wish when everything changed.

Further along the cliff, where the gorse and twisted trees grew thickly, a cloud of black smoke was rising. The woods and thickets were on fire. The contented, carefree neighing of the herd was replaced by frightened whinnies and the horses charged away from the crackling flames. Then, from the shrubs, still wielding the burning torch he had started the fire with, came a demented, shrieking figure.

The Jack of Clubs gasped fearfully. It was the Bad Shepherd.

He was tall, with shaggy hair, and dressed in dirty grey robes. Bawling vile curses, he whirled the flaming brand over his head and ran, raging, into the midst of the herd – smiting hindquarters with it and setting tails and manes alight.

“Foul villain!” the Jack of Clubs shouted in fierce outrage.

The day was filled with the terror of the horses. They screamed and stampeded. To escape the evil flames, some leaped blindly over the cliff and their high voices continued to scream till they hit the rocks below.

The Jack of Clubs drew his short sword and spurred his own steed about. With a defiant yell, he went galloping towards the herd, to do battle with the Bad Shepherd and cleanse the land of his disgusting presence once and for all.

The panicked herd had left the insane man behind and he was staring with cruel delight at the chaos and damage he had caused. Throwing back his bearded head, he let loose a deranged laugh. Then he saw the Jack of Clubs racing towards him, making his way through the jostling herd, and he laughed all the more insanely.

The fire spread with awful speed through the dry shrubs and grasses. With that on one side and the cliff on the other, the track way was narrow. Urlwin and the Jack of Clubs were surrounded by frightened horses and could not steer a course through them. The untameable beasts were so desperate to flee, their rolling eyes barely noticed the noble on his stallion and they barged and pushed against them. Alarm and horror drove each one and their hooves pounded frantically over the sandy ground.

It was impossible to ride against that whinnying tide and the Jack of Clubs could only watch as the Bad Shepherd raised a mocking finger and shook his head. Then he tossed the torch aside and strode off, out of sight.

“One day I shall hunt you down!” the noble vowed. But his main concern at that moment was trying to remain in the saddle. Then, to his horror, he felt Urlwin drop beneath him. And a new threat replaced that of the fire.

The stampede had weakened the already soft ground. The entire cliff path was giving way.

The noble heaved on the reins and Urlwin staggered from the pit that juddered and buckled beneath its hooves. The ground began to slip and slide. Holes and trenches gaped open. Horses tripped and stumbled. The screaming increased.

With renewed urgency, Urlwin battled on – to bear its beloved master to safety. It snorted and pushed through the untamed beasts all around. But it was no use.

There was a deep rumble and a long slice of the cliff vanished. The horses that were running there were suddenly gone. Then another stretch of ground fell away and more beasts went toppling down to the rocks far below. The sand under Urlwin’s hooves was quaking. With one final, determined effort, the stallion drove its forelegs deep into the shaking ground and bucked. The Jack of Clubs was flung from the saddle. He flew through the air, high over the ears of the herd, and landed in the long grass beyond.

“Urlwin!” he shouted, scrambling to his feet immediately. “Urlwin!”

Braving the wild kicks of the terrified herd, he darted forward, to lead his faithful horse from danger.

The cliff trembled and a huge section broke away. Urlwin’s proud head reared for a moment and then it, with the horses nearby, went slithering out of sight.

“No!” the Jack of Clubs cried. “Urlwin! Urlwin!”

There was another ominous rumble and more horses disappeared. Only a small group of them were left and the fire was getting closer, cutting off any escape.

Fear and smoke poured over the diminishing cliff path. The horses that remained pounded around in circles, their thumping hooves accelerating the cliff’s collapse.

The Jack of Clubs felt the ground lurch beneath him and he was hurled off balance. The largest chunk of cliff so far went crashing down. The young noble’s legs were thrashing in the empty air. There was nothing below him except a precipitous drop to the ruin and carnage that spilled over the shore. Catching hold of the gnarled branch of one of the twisted trees, he hauled himself out of danger, but the sandy earth kept breaking away under him. He flung himself forward, into the choking smoke of the burning thickets, and hoped the roots there would bind the ground more securely. But the heat of the encroaching flames was intense and he knew he could not remain in that place long.

Anxious, he searched for a way out. Then he saw it. A natural tunnel formed between the gorse and tortured trees. It was filled with black smoke, but so far the flames had not reached it. If he could make his way through there, he would come to safety on the other side.

The hope soared in his heart and he lunged towards it. Then, with his escape in sight, he heard a sound that made him halt and whirl around.

A narrow promontory was jutting out over the broken cliff and there, standing upon it, shivering and tossing its terrified head, was the last survivor of the untameable horses. It was a foal. It could not have been more than two weeks old. Its long, stilt-like legs were splayed and its large ears were flicking wildly. It had just seen its mother break on the merciless rocks below and the ground upon which it stood was already beginning to tip.

The Jack of Clubs could not bear it. If he ran through the smoky tunnel now, he could save himself, but the foal would certainly perish. He could not let that happen.

Tiptoeing along the crumbling edge, he held out his hands and the foal stared at him with round, horror-filled eyes.

“Hush now,” the noble called to it. “This way. Steady, don’t be scared.”

The foal shied and the earth gave way. The foal slipped and only its forelegs remained on the ground.

It whinnied mournfully and fell.

Jack’s hands shot out. He seized the foal by the neck, the shoulders, then below the ribs and hauled it back on to the disintegrating spur of ground. They struggled and he pulled it further on to the cliff. The sand dribbled away under them.

For a moment they lay there, both panting and spent. Then the Jack of Clubs sprang to his feet.

“We can’t stay here!” he told the petrified foal. “The fire will soon fill our only escape. Come, this way.”

The foal’s large, brown eyes looked up at him. Tears were streaming down its face. The Jack of Clubs thought it was merely because of the acrid smoke, but then he heard a noise that wrung his heart.

Not all the horses had died in the fall. Some were still alive down there. But they had fallen into deep pools ringed by sharp rocks and could not get out, whilst others had landed in quicksand. Their terrors were still enduring.

“Don’t listen,” he said to the foal, cupping his hands around its quivering head. In a gentle, broken voice, he began to sing.

“Shush now, don’t hear the noises. Shush now, I won’t let go. Stay with me – don’t look back. Come with me – come with me. Fear no more. Shush now, shush now.”

The foal lumbered up and let itself be led away from the treacherous edge. The Jack of Clubs sang to it the whole time, keeping his eyes locked with those of the frightened animal. The fire had now reached the tunnel and was licking into it. The swirling smoke within was even thicker than before.

Still singing, the Jack of Clubs guided the foal into the churning fumes that engulfed them both completely…

Conor Westlake crashed back against the pillows of his bed, coughing and spluttering from the smoke on the pages. He wiped his stinging eyes. Then fell asleep, exhausted – with his copy of Dancing Jacks clutched tightly in his hand.

“I am the Jack of Clubs,” he murmured fitfully. “I am the Jack of Clubs.”

Chapter 20

C
HECKING HIS EMAIL
was the first thing Paul Thornbury did the next morning. Trudy’s reply was so curt it was rude. The boy wondered why insulting messages from total strangers bothered him. They shouldn’t, but they did. It just wasn’t nice. Some people forgot another human being was going to read their words. A little politeness and civility went a long way in the cold world of cyberspace.

He knew there wasn’t any point sending another email to her or trying to explain. Perhaps there was something else he could try. First of all he had to face his mother and Martin.

Last night had been a trial. They were convinced he had put fireworks on the barbecue and sat him down to lecture and scold him. Then they tried to understand what was going through his mind. Did he need to see the counsellor? Was this a symptom of his shock over witnessing the Disaster? They were sure Paul’s newfound pyromania was connected to the horrific explosions down at the Landguard.

He had sat there quietly while they went on and on at him. He preferred it when they were shouting than when they attempted to empathise and got it so very wrong. There was absolutely nothing he could say. Any mention of Dancing Jacks was immediately drowned out by their armchair psychoanalysis. Eventually Paul promised never to do anything like that again and then was hugged compassionately before he trudged to bed.

At breakfast it was just as bad. His mother wanted to show him he could tell her anything. Yet the one thing he was desperate to tell her, the only thing that was important, she was not prepared to listen to.

Eating his cereal was an ordeal. Every mouthful seemed to be scrutinised by them. He knew the worst was still to come. Martin would have another go at interrogating him on the way to school.

The journey seemed to drag that morning. He sat there, not listening to the maths teacher’s earnest speeches. Paul was only eleven years old. He had no idea how to make anyone listen and take him seriously. If real life had been like one of Martin’s sci-fi DVDs, he would have some outstanding proof to stun them with so they couldn’t fail to believe those books were evil. But this wasn’t anything like that. Nobody believed him. What could he do? How could he stop what was happening all around him? He couldn’t go to the police with this if his own mother refused to listen…

The boy knew it was hopeless. It was only going to get worse. More people would read the book. More people would change. How far would it spread?

It was way too much for him to deal with alone.

They arrived at the school and Paul made the right noises to satisfy Martin that he had taken in what had been said. He was glad to go to registration.

Anthony and Graeme were naturally absent so he found himself sitting alone as the register was taken and announcements made.

Paul was distracted by three of the girls in the class. Little Molly Barnes sat in the middle, showing the other two a book she had started reading last night. All three were rocking slightly on their chairs.

How could he fight this?

In the staffroom Martin learned that Mrs Early would not be in that day and maybe not for the rest of the week. The attack had shaken her more severely than she had been willing to admit.

“I know it’s nowhere near the same degree as those two lads,” Mr Hitchin, the chemistry teacher, said, “but a lot of pupils are acting out of character. Did anyone else notice that yesterday?”

“I think it’s a reaction to the Disaster,” somebody answered.

Martin pricked up his ears.

“What does that counsellor the police provided say?” he asked. “I haven’t actually seen her about. What’s her name?”

“Something Clucas, I think.”

“It’s Angela, isn’t it?”

“I thought it was Ayleen.”

“Well, whatever it is, I think Paul could do with paying her a visit and talking last Friday night through.”

“That Anthea Clucas is starting to get in my clack!” Barry Milligan’s gruff voice barked as he came marching in. “She’s swigged enough herbal tea to sink the Bismarck in and handed out Jaffa cakes and sympathy to a grand total of seven kids all week. I could have done that myself.”

“It wouldn’t be herbal tea you’d be drinking though, would it, Barry?” Mr Wynn said acidly.

“Isn’t there a sunbed pining for you someplace?” the Head asked. The games master pretended not to hear.

“You know what she’s suggesting?” Barry continued to the others. “Group therapy sessions. She’s taken over one of the music rooms and wants half a dozen kids at a time to go in there to share their experiences and draw pictures, blah blah blah. She wants to read poetry to them.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Mrs Yates said. “Some children might not want to be seen going to her on their own. A few at once isn’t anywhere near so bad and they may open up a bit more readily. She’s a trained professional – she knows what she’s doing.”

Barry shrugged. “Well, whatever this ‘Blessed be’ thing is that’s going round,” he said, pouring himself a black coffee, “she’s caught it as well. God knows what sort of happy-clappy poetry she’ll be reading the kids, but I don’t think Jesus would want any of our lot for a sunbeam.”

“Have a word with her, will you, Barry?” Martin asked. “See if she can fit Paul in sometime.”

“Will do, squire. If you think it’ll do him any good. She’ll be gone by next week though. Once the memorial service is over this Sunday, I think we can start getting back to normal again.”

“And when can we look forward to waving goodbye to you?” Mr Wynn asked dryly.

“Oh… long before any of your shoddily coached teams ever win a trophy,” Barry answered. “Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a truly ironic name?”

The games teacher scowled and left the staffroom, huffing and blowing.

“Something I said?” Barry asked with mock innocence. “How can someone with muscles like that be so thin-skinned? Do you think it’s a side-effect of all the tanning he does? He’s what’s known as a Mangerine.”

“So you’ll put Paul’s name down for the counsellor today?” Martin reminded him.

“Consider it done. He and five of his cohorts can trot off to her this afternoon and she can ‘Blessed be’ them all she likes.”

Martin thanked him, little realising the danger he had just placed the eleven-year-old in.

That morning Anthea Clucas, the counsellor who was supposed to be there to help the children talk through the trauma of the Disaster, saw eighteen pupils. When they emerged from the commandeered music room, none of them were the same.

Sandra Dixon was running a temperature that morning and so her concerned mother kept her off school. She could not understand why her daughter’s bridesmaid’s dress was on the floor in a sopping wet heap. She couldn’t get any sense from the girl. She just wanted to be left alone with a book. Perhaps she should call the doctor?

“No, good mistress,” Sandra said when she heard her mother suggest this. “I would be more soothed if you were to stay and read to me.”

“You’re too old for that!” Mrs Dixon replied. “Have you spoken to Debbie yet? She rang last night wondering why you’d gone so quiet on her. You two used to be so close…”

“Please,” the girl insisted. “Read just a page or two. It would give me such comfort – and you too, I believe.”

And so her mother sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed and began to read to her…

Emma Taylor had spent an anxious night and felt haggard and more irritable than usual from lack of sleep. She had half expected the police to turn up on the doorstep before she left the house. Had that gormless Conor grassed her up or not? She only went into school with the intention of finding out and trying any means she could to deter him if he hadn’t already.

At registration she found him hunched over the desk and was surprised to discover he was reading a book, an actual book, not one of the football programmes he usually pored over. She punched him on the shoulder.

“So you snitched on me yet or what?” she demanded bluntly. The boy lifted his gaze and seemed to look right through her.

“What’s up with you?” Emma snorted. “Can’t read and think at the same time?”

His blank expression changed as he seemed to vaguely recognise her. “You remind me of the Jill of Spades,” he said faintly.

“You what?”

“You are the Jill of Spades,” he said more definitely.

“Watch your mouth!”

“I have no liking for the House of Spades’ cruel daughter.”

“I definitely don’t dig you if that’s what you mean.”

“Leave me – I am still angry for what you did to the noble Accipiter.”

Emma’s forehead scrunched up. “You idiot – it were a knackered Fiesta an’ it weren’t my fault.”

“It was a fine hunting bird. Too good for your murdering hands.”

“You been sniffing your trainers, you gonk? All I want to know is, have you called the filth yet? Are they gonna come knockin’ or what?”

Conor leaned back in his chair, revealing as he did so the playing card he had pinned to the lapel of his school blazer that morning. It was the Jack of Clubs.

“Your deeds and caprices shall find their own dark rewards,” he told her. “One day your plots and schemes will misfire and you will be caught in your own nets.”

“Is that a no?”

“It is a caution you should heed.” And with that, the boy returned his attention to the book.

Emma stood there, confused and speechless. What was he going on about? Was he threatening her? When the bell rang for the first lesson, she was none the wiser.

At lunchtime she went to the football field to try and speak to him again, but Conor was not there and only three lads were half-heartedly kicking a ball about instead of the usual dozen or so. Moving through the playground, she began to notice that playing cards were pinned to the jackets and jumpers of other pupils. Most were simply number cards, but here and there were picture cards. She could not think what their significance was. Emma was usually on top of all the trends and crazes, and swiftly decided which to adopt and which to ridicule. Had a band brought out an album that had slipped beneath her radar? Perhaps it was sport-related, in which case she didn’t care. It would make sense if Conor was showing some kind of allegiance to a team, but playing cards were a weird way of doing it.

Seeing a small boy in Year 8 standing alone in a corner by the defunct drinking fountain, she strode over and jabbed at the five of diamonds secured to his blazer.

“What’s this then, you dork?” she interrogated him. “What’s it about?”

Instead of being intimidated, as she had expected, the boy looked at her in the same far-off way that Conor had earlier.

“I be a page to the House of Diamonds,” he answered proudly.

“You what?”

“There be uproar in the West Tower this day,” he said. “My Lord, the Knave, has stole the King of Hearts’ great Healing Ruby and will not tell where it be stowed ’less His Majesty’s fair daughter buys the information with a kiss. The Court be outraged and the Jill of Hearts swears she won’t be bartered with, like a cabbage in the market. I be keeping out the way, for tempers be running hotter than spitting goose fat in every quarter.”

“Is this off the telly?” Emma snapped.

“’Tis the honest truth!” the boy swore. “I heard the Constable himself declare it. Oh, what scandal! When the Ismus hears of it, Magpie Jack had best fly.”

The boy was so adamant and sure that Emma stepped away from him, unnerved.

“Blessed be,” he said, returning to his daydreaming.

Emma looked around the playground. Other children stood apart and alone like him, with the same rapt expression on their faces. But there were also groups gathered in tight circles, reading from books. All of them were wearing playing cards on their uniforms. The girl hadn’t seen anything like this before. Whatever was going on, it was unnatural and she didn’t like it. She wished Ashleigh and Keeley were here. They would have found something to laugh at in this creepy behaviour. Emma missed them more than she had ever thought possible. She wondered how she would feel on Sunday when they would be buried.

Paul Thornbury had received the message from Martin that he and five of his classmates were to see the counsellor in the last double period that afternoon. Paul rolled his eyes when he heard. Martin was still convinced he needed to discuss the Disaster so that he wouldn’t mess about with fireworks again. Why wouldn’t anyone listen to him? He thought about the counsellor, Mrs Clucas, and wondered what she was like. If he could get just one adult on his side, he wouldn’t feel so isolated and useless.

Standing in the playground, he too saw the playing cards some of the other children were wearing and he realised for the first time just how many pupils that book had affected.

“Or infected,” he murmured to himself.

It was like a swiftly spreading disease. Even the teachers on break duty scratched their chins at the new craze of wearing playing cards. When they discussed it among themselves in the staffroom afterwards, Mr Roy thought this fad should be nipped in the bud and the cards banned.