Robin Jarvis-Jax 02 Freax And Rejex (3 page)

“But the harlequins I mentioned earlier, and the priestess, as well as certain other characters in your entourage, I notice they don’t wear a card. Why is that?”

“They are the aces; they are special. They don’t need to.”

“I don’t see a card on you either. Does that mean you’re an ace?”

He laughed softly. “No,” he told her. “I suppose you could say I’m the dealer.”

“Yeah!” Harlon Webber quipped in the studio. “You look like one, pal!”

Kate continued. “But could you ease the growing fears and genuine concerns that we in America have about this book and its inexplicable power over the people of Britain? Can you understand why it would be viewed as strange, even menacing and sinister, from the outside?”

“Of course it must appear odd to any outsider, but let me allay your fears and concerns. There is nothing to be afraid of. The benefits it has brought our society are endless.”

“And yet, just under two months ago, there was civil unrest in all your major cities. People were protesting against this very book, in scenes reminiscent of the clashes in the Middle East. We all saw the CNN footage of those battles in the streets and the Internet was disconnected throughout the UK for almost three whole weeks. How do you account for that? Were there not also several deaths?”

“There are no riots now,” the Ismus assured her. “Those misguided
crowds were agitators who had not read the book and did not understand why it was important they should do so. The deaths were regrettable accidents, no more. Such violence could never occur again.”

“Because the anti-Jax groups have now read the book and are under its, and therefore your, control?”

“Like I said, there are no riots now. In fact, across the board, crime isn’t just down – it’s non-existent.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“It’s true. The last reported crime was over a month ago, that’s all types of crime. Just doesn’t happen now.”

“That’s incredible.”

The Ismus grinned at her.

“Isn’t it?” he said. “Then there’s the sale of prescription drugs such as Prozac and Valium – down to nil. People don’t need that junk any more. They don’t need any type of drug, legal or otherwise. Drug and alcohol rehab are things of the past; every former user and addict is now completely clean.”

“I’m finding this very hard to accept, Mr Ismus.”

“Just Ismus.”

“You’re saying clinical depression has been cured by this book? That violent and petty felonies have been wiped out by this book? That dependence on hard, Class A drugs such as heroin has been totally eradicated by this book?”

“You should take a look inside one of our maximum-security prisons. Now they’ve each got four teams of Morris Men and their own internal league.”

“That really is astonishing.”

“It’s just one of the joys of
Dancing Jax
,” the Ismus told her. “It has united this broken country. Made it into a better place.”

“So can you explain just how that has happened? What exactly are the readers of this book getting from it? What is the power it has over them?”

The Ismus looked into Kate’s eyes until she found it disconcerting
and uncomfortable, but she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her. She’d interviewed more powerful people before – or so she thought.

“It gives them order,” he said. “That’s what people want, but are too conditioned to admit. They want to believe in a simpler world where the burden of choice doesn’t exist, where they know who they are and how their jigsaw life fits into the larger pattern. To know and to belong…”

“The burden of choice?” Kate interrupted. “Excuse me, but
freedom
of choice, free will, freedom of speech are what define us, especially we Americans; our constitution is founded upon that. How can you call it a burden?”

He waved a hand in airy dismissal, which she felt insulted and antagonised by. “What a pretty illusion that is,” he said. “The choices you think are yours are just smoke and mirrors. What choice is there in this world where all the shops and food outlets are the same? Take the Internet, for example; where is the choice there?”

“I don’t see what you’re driving at. There are an infinite number of choices on the Internet.”

His face assumed a pitying, patient expression. “Millions of people online,” he said. “You’d think there should be unlimited choices, unlimited options open to them. But that isn’t what they want.”

“It isn’t?”

“Too much choice is confusing. As I said, they want order; they want to be told what to buy and from whom. People need herding. That’s why the chaos of the Internet is being tamed and moulded, by every one of their sheeplike clicks of the mouse. They’re building boundary walls within infinity because they’re terrified at the prospect of something so limitless and arbitrary.”

“I can’t say that I agree with…”

“It’s a waste of your spearmint-scented breath to deny it. There is only one place to download music, one auction site, one social network site, one search engine, one place to share your videos, one place to buy books, one encyclopaedia and one way to pay for it all… and you say you believe in the
illusion of choice? Come now, are attractive women still pretending to be less intelligent than they are to get by in what they see as a man’s world?”

Kate refused to let herself get nettled by him any further and switched back to the book.

“And what about the people here who haven’t been seduced by
Dancing Jax
?” she asked.

“Interesting word choice. Yes, there are a very few sad individuals. Less than a fraction of a per cent of the population who just can’t appreciate the power and beauty of
Dancing Jax
.”

“Is it not true that those very people are now facing discrimination, persecution and violent oppression?”

“That’s profoundly untrue; they deserve our pity and understanding, and get plenty of both.”

“Not according to my sources.”

His eyes locked on her and Kate, despite being a veteran of war reporting in some of the most dangerous hot spots of the world, felt a stab of fear unlike anything she had ever experienced.

“Now I wonder what those sources can be?” he asked.

“I can’t disclose that.”

“You don’t have to. I can guess. Tell me, do you always give credence to paranoid conspiracy theorists with personal grudges? Martin Baxter is just a jealous, embittered maths teacher from Suffolk. His grievance isn’t with
Dancing Jax
. It’s with me. His ex left him to become my consort. Her son is also with me; the boy is one of our four prime Jacks – the Jack of Diamonds. Martin Baxter just doesn’t know when to let go. I feel sorry for the man, I really do. He should move on.”

“Is that why he’s in hiding?” she pressed. “Is that why he’s too afraid to even meet with me and communicates via email only? He is very outspoken and critical of what you and your book have done here.”

“The guy is delusional and a militant agitator. He’s wanted by the authorities here for stoking the very unrest you were talking about earlier. His accusations against me and
Dancing Jax
have been totally discredited and
condemned and the papers uncovered some very unpleasant, shameful details about his personal life. Why would you even listen to someone like that?”

“Sir, what I’m more interested in is the treatment of the people who haven’t embraced your book. What is happening to them?”

The Ismus looked down the lens again and continued. “I intend only to help those people, to try and enable them to come join the rest of us and reap the same incredible rewards from this amazing work. Just as I hope to share it with other countries, yours included.”

“Sir,” she repeated without any respect in her tone. “The rest of the world is watching what is occurring here, watching extremely closely. Washington will not permit this controversial book to be published in the US if it provokes such heated demonstrations and turns citizens into brainwashed zombies who think this life is not their real existence. I really don’t think you can expect the book to be published anywhere else but here.”

The Ismus grinned at her. “And yet,” he said, “earlier this month, at the Bologna International Book Fair,
Dancing Jax
was sold to many different countries. At this very moment it’s being translated into nine languages. I can’t wait to see those foreign editions, I really can’t. The words of Austerly Fellows are going global.”

The interview ended on his crooked smile and the picture cut once again to Kate Kryzewski outside the Savoy.

“And so there you have it, the current situation in the United Kingdom. I still can’t begin to understand it, but I will say this and once again echo the words of Brandon from Wisconsin: ‘Wake up, America’.”

The camera did a slow zoom on her face.

“Do not permit this book to get a foothold in our country,” she warned. “Do not let it take root; do not let
Dancing Jax
brainwash our citizens, our precious children, as it has here. Never let the Land of the Free become subject to the tyranny of this insidious book. If you receive a copy from a relative or friend over here, destroy it immediately. Don’t even leaf through the pages. Don’t give it a chance to hook you in. America, I love you. Be
vigilant. This is Kate Kryzewski for NBC Nightly News, reporting from London, England.”

The familiar environment of the studio snapped back on air. With eyebrows slightly raised, Harlon Webber appeared as calm and professional as ever and ready to introduce the next item.

Suddenly a voice yelled out in the studio and Jimmy the cameraman ran in front of Camera Two. He raised his right arm, brandishing a copy of
Dancing Jax
for millions of Americans to see.

“Hail the Ismus!” he roared, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth and dotting the lens. His eyes were wide and the pupils dilated so much that hardly any iris could be seen. “Hail the Ismus!” he continued to bawl until Security dragged him away. “Hail the Ismus! He is amongst us!”

E
ARLY MORNING AND
it was overcast, almost chilly. Not quite the glorious sunshine they were hoping for in the first Friday of May. Perhaps later on it would brighten up a little, in time for the special arrivals. Still, everything else was perfectly in order.

The man now known as Jangler, or the Lockpick, after the gaoler character in
Dancing Jax
, ran through his checklist one last time and twirled his fingers through the neat little grey beard that sprouted from his chin. Meticulous and methodical in habit and training, he made a bluff mumbling sound under his breath as he satisfied himself he had missed nothing. Everything was organised, nice and tidy. Turning, he glanced up from his clipboard and peered over his spectacles at the holiday compound behind him.

Up until three months ago, this idyllic retreat in the heart of the New Forest had been a favourite place for hostellers and school parties on outward bound trips. The main block housed the kitchen, refectory and lecture room, while seven lesser buildings were dormitories. They were designed to resemble log cabins, with various degrees of success, but the cumulative effect was not unattractive. They looked sufficiently picturesque and rural, surrounded as they were by trees and bedecked with spring flowers in a myriad of pots and window boxes and fluttering heraldic banners and bunting. It looked good on camera and that was the important thing today.

Jangler drew a tick on his list. He enjoyed drawing ticks. They signified something had been completed. It was a leftover habit from his previous existence as a solicitor in a drab, file-filled office in Ipswich. Before the power of
Dancing Jax
had taken control, his former name had been Hankinson, but he hardly ever remembered that now. He had spent that entire former life waiting for this. Through the generations, his family had
been disciples of Austerly Fellows and were entrusted with keeping the documents and secrets of that incredible personage safe down the decades.

He continued to twiddle with his beard and checked the list once more.

The news crews were assembled inside the main block for the press conference that the Ismus had convened. With two exceptions, everyone there was in the thrall of
Dancing Jax
. Reporters were dressed in medieval-type clothing, with a playing card pinned somewhere on their outfit. They showed a nauseating deference to the personage of the Holy Enchanter when he came striding in. The lecture hall popped and flared with white light as camera flashes went wild. The Ismus paraded up and down, so that everyone could get a great photo, and the tails of his velvet jacket whipped about him as he strutted before them.

Five chairs were lined up at the front, facing the press. Occupying four were the Jacks and Jills, the teenagers from Felixstowe who had become the embodiment of the lead characters in the book. They were now the most famous teens in Britain. Their faces appeared everywhere, endorsing products that suited their royal personalities. No magazine or newspaper was complete without photographs of them and there were endless articles about the minutiae of their lives in this drab world. Each had their own reality TV show.

Currently, the one featuring the Jill of Spades had the highest ratings. The girl had been responsible for the Felixstowe Disaster the previous autumn, in which forty-one young people had died, and the consequences of her confession were most entertaining to watch. At the moment, she was out on bail and her trial was due to commence in two months’ time. It promised to be a total circus. The Audience Appreciation Index figures for her programme were unprecedented. Her sly, devious ways made it unmissable viewing. The British public were hooked, not only on
Dancing Jax
, but also on her outrageously amusing antics in this world.

Kate Kryzewski and Sam, her unshaven cameraman, waited for the applause to die down as the Ismus took the vacant seat in the middle. His bodyguards, three burly men with blackened faces, stood behind him and
two Harlequin Priests assumed their positions at either end.

“Blessed be to you,” the Ismus addressed everyone.

Again Kate and Sam were silent while those around them responded.

The Ismus smiled.

“My loyal subjects,” he began, “I crave pardon for summoning you, but I wished to explain the events taking place here this weekend. It has come to my attention that in this Kingdom of ours there are certain children who have not yet found their way to the Realm of the Dawn Prince. The words of the sacred text have as yet been unable to reach them.”

The news teams began to murmur and some people spat on the floor in contempt.

“Do not be hasty to judge and denounce them as aberrants,” the Ismus chided gently. “Some paths meander and veer deep into shadowy woods before rejoining the true way. We must practise patience and show kindness to these sad wretches. Consider how isolated and empty their unhappy existence must be. To be locked in this drabness with no waking in the real world and no sight of Mooncaster’s white towers to set their hearts a-racing. They are to be pitied and must be guided to the right path. Have faith that, given time, the hallowed text will heal them of their ignorance. We are going to give them the weekend of their lives to atone for any sorrows they have endured. Glorious Mooncaster-themed fun, packed with games and feasts worthy of Mistress Slab, the castle cook, interspersed with communal readings led by our finest Shakespearean actors.”

The assembled press clapped and cheered at this most charitable intention. The Jacks and Jills joined in. Even the Jill of Spades seemed moved by this benevolence.

“Excuse me,” Kate interrupted.

“Miss Kryzewski!” the Ismus greeted her. “We meet again. How good of you to accept my invitation back to these shores.”

“It wasn’t easy,” she replied. “There are no direct flights from the US to Britain any more. Not since planes started to land back home with every passenger and crew member having been inducted into this… whatever
you want to call it, somewhere over the Atlantic. Sam and me had to fly to France and come here on the Eurostar.”

“I hope the regrettable misunderstanding between our two countries will soon be resolved,” he said. “It must be very inconvenient for so many people.”

“The ‘misunderstanding’, as you call it, will stay in place for as long as your book continues to pose ‘a clear and present danger’ to our citizens. Since our last meeting, there have been outbreaks of violence across Europe. In the cities where
Dancing Jax
is being translated there have so far been two murders, one suicide and a German publishing house was the scene of an all-out battle between the staff. Do you still insist this book is anything but a negative and destructive force?”

“Change is always resisted,” the Ismus replied. “Every advancement mankind makes is met with suspicion and mistrust. Man’s first instinct is to smash what he fears and doesn’t understand. Luddites hatch faster than bluebottles, but their lifespan is just as brief.”

Kate hadn’t come all this way to hear the same old tunes. With this latest report, she was determined to cut through the tinsel and tights of this unhealthy mania and expose the man behind it as the pernicious dictator he really was. She wanted to put the Holy Enchanter right at the top of America’s Most Wanted List. The American Ambassador and his staff had been recalled from London, but they too were under the book’s insidious spell. They, together with the passengers and crews of the planes she had mentioned, were currently being detained at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California and undergoing psychological testing. Last week in Illinois there had been a tragedy involving three families who had come into contact with just one smuggled copy of the book. There had been five separate incidents in other states.

So far the President was dragging his feet over ‘the UK Issue’, as it had become known, and his procrastination was infuriating many. The Republicans were calling it a ‘Jaxis of Evil’. Kate intended her report to put even more pressure on him to finally initiate strong, maybe even military,
action. She was going to provide irrefutable evidence that
Dancing Jax
was a weapon of mass mind destruction.

She was aware the other news crews around her were shifting in their seats, casting hostile glances in her direction, but she took no notice and continued to goad the Ismus. If she could get that soft-soap façade to crack just a little…

“So let me get this straight,” she said. “You’re rounding up all the minors who haven’t yet been brainwashed and bringing them here? Is that correct?”

His face might have been made from marble. “Only those between the ages of seven and sixteen,” he explained. “Any younger would be unthinkable. We are not barbarians.”

“And over the course of this weekend,” she carried on, “you’ll be hoping to work your voodoo on their impressionable minds? Isn’t that more than a little sinister?”

The Ismus laughed at her. “It is no more sinister than one of your Renaissance Fairs!” he said. “But a hundred times more authentic and joyful – and with a greater purpose.”

“So what happens after this jolly weekend? What happens to those kids who still haven’t found their way to your narrow idea of paradise? What will you do to them then? Have them put away?”

“That is why the gentlefolk of the press are here,” he answered suavely. “To inform their audience to treat such individuals with compassion.”

“That would certainly be a change from what I’ve heard…”

“You will insist on listening to scurrilous rumours. I assure you, and the rest of the world, that my only desire is to repair any wrong or hurt that has befallen them and usher in a new age of kindness and consideration for those little ones who, through no fault of their own, are shut out. They are still a precious part of the Dawn Prince’s flock, remember – and our future after all.”

Kate folded her arms. She wasn’t buying any of this snake oil.

“Sounds like a blatant PR exercise in damage limitation to me,” she
said. “It’s got ‘desperate stunt’ stamped all over it.”

The Ismus’s eyes glittered at her.

“Why don’t we go outside,” he suggested, “and see what delights we have planned, before the children arrive? I’m sure your readers and viewers would find it most fascinating. The world should see what merry times are to be had in this, united, kingdom. There is nothing for them to be afraid of.”

He rose and his entourage moved with him to the doors. The crowd of press followed.

Kate hung back with Sam.

“I thought he was going to set his goons on you just now,” Sam said, lowering the camera. “Don’t push him too far, Kate.”

“He may be a crazy-assed sociopath,” she replied, “but he’s not stupid. He needs to keep us sweet right now. His grand plan isn’t going as smooth as he expected. He’s more anxious than ever to show the world his warped vision of Merrie Olde England.”

“I don’t get why he asked you back here in that case. You’re never going to give him a glowing testimonial.”

The woman agreed. “Just remember what I told you,” she warned. “Eat and drink only what we brought with us. If someone offers you anything, don’t touch it, not even if it’s an unopened can of soda.”

“Sure thing! Hey, do you think it’s true the Queen of England thinks she’s a miller’s wife and now bakes all the bread in Buckingham Palace?”

“Nothing would surprise me any more. OK, let’s go out there and do our job.”

The sun was finally attempting to break through the cheerless clouds and the spring flowers threw out their deepest colours. Four horses, arrayed in the pageantry of Mooncaster’s Royal Houses, were standing patiently by one of the cabins. A group of mummers were rehearsing and the narrow road outside the compound was already lined with cars and vans. Musicians and brightly dressed folk in the best replicas of Mooncaster apparel had arrived to make this an extra special celebration.

Here and there, in the gathering crowd, snatches of song could be heard and toes were pointed as steps of courtly dances were practised and instruments were plucked, or strummed or blown into. One of the horses leaned forward and grazed idly on the cascading blooms of a hanging basket.

With this in the background, Kate recorded an introductory segment to camera, explaining the farcical pantomime that was being put on today for the world to witness.

It was another forty minutes before the first cheerfully painted coach came lumbering up the forest road. The Ismus and his tame press crews stepped forward to welcome the weekend’s special guests.

“Here they are!” he declared, holding his arms wide. “Our lost and lonely lambs. What a time they shall have; what pleasures and adventures lie in store for them.”

Pulling Sam through the crowd, Kate Kryzewski ploughed her way to the front and directed his lens up at the coach’s windows as it slowed to a stop.

Dozens of young faces were pressed against the glass.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Those poor kids. They look shell-shocked.”

No one would have believed the children in the coach were coming for a “glorious” weekend. Their little faces were sombre and still and a measure of fear dimmed every eye. Some had been crying. The adults who sat beside them had not bothered to wipe those tears away. Kate scanned along the wide windows. There was a mix of ages. Some appeared as young as seven but, here and there, were sullen teenagers who refused to look out and were staring morosely at the headrest immediately in front of them. Only the adults in the coach seemed excited to be here. They were all grinning and pointing and waving and laughing.

The door of the coach slid open.

At once the musicians struck up a joyous tune and the carollers sang a Maying song from the book.

“Welcome!” the Ismus called. “Welcome, one and all!”

The parents of the children rushed out, keen to breathe the same rarefied air as the Holy Enchanter and see the Jacks and Jills who were now seated upon the horses and were saluting and nodding in greeting.

Kate hadn’t even tried to interview any of those four. They were too deeply immersed in this madness to shed any light on it. They were living puppets, enslaved to the wishes of the Ismus, and had almost forgotten their original identities completely.