Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax (22 page)

After several minutes, Paul tore himself away. He was on his own again; one small lad against forces he couldn’t begin to imagine or comprehend.

Leaving the estate agent’s behind him, he dragged his feet past the shops, not caring where he was going. What could he do? Perhaps Trudy was right. But could he really sit back and let the rest of the school become zombies to that old book? How could that be safer? The evil influence would spread out from there. No one would escape it. He thought about that old house and wondered just where it was and what awful horrors it might contain. What had really happened to Trudy’s friend Geoff? Paul had never seen an adult as coldly terrified in real life as Trudy had been when she was talking about that place.

Staring at the pavement, he was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the vehicle crawling along beside him, or hear the doors open and slam when it stopped. Only when he saw a pair of new, pointed, black velvet shoes on the ground in front did he look up and see the man standing before him.

“Well, if it isn’t the boy who wanted a magic book about wizards, and then burned it,” the Ismus greeted him with a contemptuous snarl.

Chapter 21

T
he golden bugles sounded clear and loud, the baying hounds tore through the village and the horses galloped after. The Royal Hunt had begun.

P
AUL LET OUT
a yell of surprise. He dodged around sharply to run away, but two men with blackened faces were directly behind him. One of them seized him roughly by the collar and spun him about.

“Almost a century ago,” the Ismus began, “…so long ago now… there was a certain shouty little Austrian with a grandiose plan and a stupid moustache. He was a book burner too. But none of the works he burned were as important as the one you destroyed, boy.”

His ferret-like features were a grim mask of barely suppressed anger. He squinted at the lad in front of him.

“So much time and effort had been invested in that ridiculous, overblown scheme,” the gaunt man continued, stooping to speak close to the boy’s face – breathing a foul, dank reek at him. “I suppose you could say we were rivals for our Lord’s attention, back in those far-off days. And yet my much subtler, far more potent, plan was shelved in favour of his tiresomely loud campaign. What a disappointment both he, and it, proved to be for the Dawn Prince. I knew it would fail. Wars don’t work – you can’t conquer and subdue everyone by force – and where is the long-term fun in that anyway? The pen really is mightier and absolute control so much more satisfying.”

“You’re mental!” the boy shouted, looking around for help. A knot of fright and alarm was twisting in his stomach. To his dismay he saw he had wandered off the main road and they were in a small side street. There was no one else in sight. Paul struggled, but the black-faced man held him firm.

“Let me go! Who do you think you are?”

“You know who I am,” the Ismus chuckled. “You spent the whole of last night and today thinking about me. It’s really rather flattering.”

“You’re not him!” Paul shouted. “You’re not Austerly Fellows! You can’t be!”

“I am the Holy Enchanter,” the man told him, a crooked smile stealing over his face. “And people who play with matches must pay the inevitable penalty. You didn’t really think you could burn one of the sacred texts, one of my blessed works, without me being aware of it? The Dancing Jacks are my spores, boy. I put everything I learned, everything I was, into their creation. Nine years I laboured, and those nine years were the culmination of a lifetime’s study of the teachings and truths of many ancient faiths, from fallen and forgotten empires. Each book is the kernel for a dormant seed and they are a part of me.”

Paul called out again and the Ismus laughed at him.

“No rescue, no salvation,” the man taunted. “You live in the wrong times for that. There are no champions left. This modern world has degraded into such wonderful compost. It has become so delightfully low, so ripe and ready to accept anything without question. Awash with cardboard heroes; empty, acquisitive approval-seekers with perfect teeth and Italian suits. There is no substance, no value, just labels. Acclaim and prestige are showered, so liberally, over the undeserving – for so little – whilst anything of true merit and worth is jeered at and derided. What fertile loam for my Dancing Jacks to root in and flourish.”

He paused and watched the fear on the boy’s face. “Let me tell you what is going to happen,” he continued. “Firstly, we’re going to go for a little drive. Then, when you’re sitting comfortably, I’ll read to you. Won’t that be nice? Three chapters should do it. And, just to make certain you’re fully… captivated, you will taste the minchet. You’ll love that, boy – I promise.”

“You’re crazy – the lot of you!” Paul shouted.

The Ismus grinned at him and tapped a forefinger on the boy’s temple. “You don’t know the meaning of the word,” he chuckled. “I could rot your mind completely if I chose to. If you only knew how shifting is the sand upon which the citadel of your sanity is built.”

Paul thought of Trudy’s friend Geoff and he shook his head violently.

“This will be so much more amusing though,” the man told him. “You see, once you’re inside the Realm of the Dawn Prince, you won’t ever want to leave. This life here and now will be grey drudgery and every moment you spend away from the pages of Dancing Jacks will be a torment. Each sacred word will be like oxygen to you. Only there shall you find colour and flavour, so brilliant, so intense that everything else is stale and flat. But because you were so foolish as to consign your own book to the flames, you won’t be getting another. Oh, no, I’ll make certain you’ll be denied that. How will you cope without one? I have no idea, but it will be fascinating to find out.”

“You know what I think?” Paul interrupted defiantly.

“What, what do you think?”

“I think – I’m really glad I’m wearing Docs!”

With a defiant yell, he stamped on the Ismus’s foot with the heel of his Doc Martens. The Holy Enchanter roared with pain and the bodyguards sprang forward to attend him. Paul elbowed one of them in the ribs. Then he darted between them and ran, as fast as he could, back to the main road.

“Never mind me!” the Ismus bellowed at the men. “Get him – get him!”

Limping to the camper van, he sat on the sill and nursed his throbbing foot. He ground his teeth in anger and speckles of black mould bloomed across his face.

Paul pelted along Hamilton Road. He could hear the clomping boots of the two men chasing him, but he knew he was faster.

Not bad for someone who spends every spare minute on his computer!
he thought to himself.

Shops and shoppers raced by. He swerved around shambling pensioners pushing their tartan bags on wheels and jumped over a startled dog tethered to a lamp post. Then, up ahead, he saw a sight that made him call out with joy. A police car was parked at the side of the road and a chubby policeman was giving a woman directions.

Paul punched the air and slowed down. He glanced behind. The black-faced bodyguards were still chasing, but he reckoned that by the time they caught up, he would have had the chance to tell the policeman everything. He wouldn’t mention the book, or Austerly Fellows, just that they had tried to drag him into a van. That would be enough to detain them and get the law on to that crazy Ismus character. It couldn’t have worked out better.

Holding his sides, because he felt a stitch coming on, he came jogging up behind the policeman.

“…and then take a right into Cobbold Road and you can’t miss it, Madam,” the uniformed man was saying.

“Thank you, officer,” she answered gratefully.

The policeman held up a hand as she set off. “Blessed be,” he said.

At the sound of those two words, Paul stood stock-still. The newfound hope and confidence were wrenched from under him. His face fell. The policeman turned around and looked at him with glassy eyes.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

Paul was too shocked and afraid to speak. He could see the red pattern of a playing card showing faintly through the white cotton of the officer’s shirt pocket. He shook his head and took a step back.

The officer stared at him questioningly. Then he lifted his gaze and looked along the street – at the two bodyguards running towards them.

Without needing to turn, Paul knew exactly what he was looking at and he saw a flicker of realisation cross the policeman’s face.

“You’d best come with me,” the officer began. “Don’t make a scene. Get in the car.”

He reached out to take hold of the boy’s shoulder, but Paul leaped off the kerb and ran across the road. A horn blared as a car screeched to a halt when he ran in front of it. The driver cursed at him, but the boy was already charging round a corner. The stitch in his side was agony, but Paul did not stop.

He had never been in any sort of trouble. His mother had taught him to respect the law. But now here he was, running from the police like a fugitive. The boy knew he had to get home. But he couldn’t risk being seen along any of the roads. He would have to run though gardens and round the backs of houses, jump over fences and hedges. And what then? There was no one he could trust. No one he could talk to. Would Martin or his mother believe any of this or would they think he was simply making up a ludicrous lie to make them forget the previous night’s ‘fireworks’? Paul was certain they would think the latter.

For almost an hour he dodged and hid, making a gradual, skulking progress through the town, towards their house. When any vehicle came in sight, he vanished behind a wall or ducked around a shrub or postbox.

Once a police car drove by. Peering through the privet, he saw that it was not the same one as earlier. Two different officers were inside. Should he leap out and try to make them listen? Or were they a part of it as well? Paul shrank further back and kept silent.

It was dusk when he finally reached the street where he lived. He peered cautiously round the corner to check it out. Everything appeared normal enough. There was no sign of that Volkswagen – or any police cars. They couldn’t possibly know where he lived anyway, could they? But then how did that creepy, skinny man know he had burned the book? Remembering the fiery shape that had shot out of it, Paul wondered if each copy contained such a creature, somehow embedded in the pages – or woven into the words themselves.

Glad to be home, he hurried towards the house. Then he stumbled to a stop as the lean figure of the Ismus stepped out from behind their neighbour’s fence and blocked his way. Paul looked nervously around. The camper van was turning into the road.

“You try anything and I’ll yell my head off!” the boy warned. “You won’t get away with that here.”

The man laughed with scorn. “Oh, the terror and tyranny of Neighbourhood Watch,” he mocked.

“Just get away from me!”

“I have been thinking,” the Ismus said. “And I have had a revelation – an epiphany if you like. I have changed my mind about what to do with you. You see – I know what role has been assigned to you in my Lord’s Kingdom. As yet, it has not been taken up by any other and, although that does not matter, there can be only one prime example of each courtier, one true form to whom all other followers of the part must look. That is going to be you, boy. You have just proven yourself to be most… appropriate. When this petulance and stubbornness are over, and you have finally embraced the sacred work, come find me. Bring what you know you must as payment and perhaps a copy of Dancing Jacks will be yours after all.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re on about.”

“Not yet, but you will and I shall be waiting.”

“There’s no way I’m ever going to read that book!” the boy shouted.

The Ismus smirked unpleasantly. The van stopped and he sauntered over to it, with only the slightest of limps betraying the bruised foot in his velvet shoe.

“Just don’t try my patience too far,” he advised as he got in. “The next time you attempt any violence on my Hallowed Person, you will do worse than die.”

He nodded to the black-faced man at the wheel and the van moved off. The Ismus’s dark eyes remained fixed on Paul until the Volkswagen disappeared round the corner.

The boy exhaled. He was drenched in cold sweat. Fumbling with his key, he let himself into the house and hurriedly shut the door behind him.

Martin’s head appeared from the living room.

“So,” he began sternly. “Where did you vanish to this afternoon?”

The boy couldn’t think of a convincing lie. “Where’s Mum?” he asked instead.

“Already gone to work. She’s had to change shifts and don’t change the subject. Where were you?”

Paul groaned. “I didn’t want to see a stupid counsellor,” he said. “I don’t like this new attitude of yours,” Martin told him.

Paul was too tired and stressed to offer any argument. “It won’t happen again,” he said meekly.

“You had us both worried sick!” Martin continued. “You might have phoned or texted where you were. When you weren’t around after school, I didn’t know what to think. I’m surprised at you. Where did you go?”

“Into town.”

“Into town? What for?”

The boy wanted to tell him everything, about Trudy, about the Ismus, about the policeman. But even he, thinking about those things, in these normal surroundings, thought they sounded fanciful and absurd. He couldn’t expect Martin to believe him.

“That’s the sort of behaviour I expect from the Year 10 deadheads!” Martin was beginning to rant. “You’re better than that – or at least I thought you were!”

“I’m sorry, OK.”

“No, it’s not OK. Don’t you ever put your mother through that again! She even rang Gerald and your gran to see if you’d gone to either of theirs. I’d best call and tell both of them you’re back, and you – you ring Carol and apologise.”

Paul nodded and took his mobile from his bag. He had forgotten all about it that afternoon. He hadn’t even switched it on once he had left school. Eight missed calls and five texts from Martin and his mother immediately came beeping in. Paul looked at them guiltily, but there was something massive at stake here. If only they would listen to him, they would understand.

The boy was about to call his mother when he hesitated and smacked his forehead for being so stupid. Of course there was an adult he could trust, someone who had always been a good friend and would listen to him without prejudice, without shouting him down. He could hear Martin speaking to that person right at that very moment, his piano teacher – the wonderful Gerald.

Twenty minutes later, after leaving a grovelling message on his mother’s voicemail, Paul sent Gerald a text.

A reply came back almost straight away.

Paul was always impressed at how fast Gerald could text and his messages were always spelled correctly, with no abbreviations and with the correct punctuation. He sent a “Thanx” back and turned to his computer. That evening his Google search for Dancing Jacks turned up twice as many results as yesterday. He prayed Gerald would know what to do.

Later that night, when most of the town had retired to bed, a straggly pilgrimage could be seen moving along the seafront. There were almost thirty figures. All were female: women and girls of varying ages. They had slipped outdoors without the knowledge of their partners or parents and each of them was headed towards the concrete pillbox, close to Felixstowe Ferry Golf Club. Wearing only nightdresses that billowed with the keen wind gusting in from the North Sea, they trod barefoot over sand, shingle, tarmac and gravel. Their eyes were half closed and they walked with slow and dreaming, almost dance-like steps.