Robin Jarvis-Jax 02 Freax And Rejex (8 page)

His devoted followers shifted uneasily. They had never seen him in this humour before. The Harlequin Priests pointed to the blue patches on their motley robes and the Black Face Dames did not know what to do. The Jacks and Jills drew close to one another. No one understood what ailed their Lord.

Then, abruptly, the Ismus tossed his head back. The crooked smile returned and the blemish faded.

“Why do we delay here?” he announced, casting off the disconcerting mood. “We should be giving those precious children a rousing welcome. We must make their stay here one they will never forget… for as long as they live.”

J
ANGLER HAD WATCHED
the crowd hurrying from the camp, chasing after that bothersome American reporter, with only the mildest of interest. There was still much to do on his timetable and this would be the perfect opportunity to show the newly arrived children their accommodation.

With his clipboard under his arm and the iron hoops at his belt clinking and rattling with large keys, he marched over to both groups. The winkle-picker shoes he wore, to go with his medieval gaoler’s outfit, were new and he hadn’t had time to break them in. They pinched his toes and chafed his heels. It was spoiling his enjoyment of the day.

“Now then, if I could have your attention,” he began, in his usual officious manner. “While His Highness, the Holy Enchanter, is otherwise engaged, I will show you where you are to be billeted.”

The children were looking anywhere but at him. The older ones were pulling their bags from the luggage holds in the coaches while the youngest were gazing around the camp, unsure and afraid. They eyed one another shyly. Trust had been ripped from their lives, but they were desperate for friendship and company. They were damaged and wary, but soon the first hesitant smiles were exchanged.

It was more difficult for the teens.

“That’s my case there, that pink one – and that one!” Charm’s voice shouted. “Careful – they’re genuine Louis Vuitton repros!”

A sandy-haired lad, with a guitar slung over his shoulder, shrugged in bemusement. “You planning on stoppin’ here permanent?” he asked dryly. “How many frocks can a body wear in one weekend?”

“These is just me basic essentials,” she replied, pulling up the handles and trawling the cases back to where her mother was waiting.

Another boy, in a pale blue Hackett polo shirt with the collar turned up,
stared after her, inclining his head to one side.

“Now that’s tasty,” he said appreciatively.

“I dinnae eat plastic,” the other lad commented.

“Afford to be fussy, can you? Even now? You’re wrong though, matey. That there would have been top trophy totty even before
DJ
ruined everything.”

“You reckon? Did you no hear her and her mother yakking on the coach all the way here? I can do without that earache.”

“Trick is not to listen to them, amigo. Just nod when they look at you and flirt a bit with their mums. Works a dream.”

“Dinnae call me amigo.”

“What then? I’m Marcus. Do you play that guitar?”

“Aye, you look like a Marcus. And no, I just carry this with me to use as a paddle in case I get washed overboard my luxury yacht.”

“No need for the attitude. We’re in this cack together.”

The Scottish boy considered him a moment. He had seen Marcus get on the bus at Manchester. He was about fifteen, the same as himself, but a type he would normally never associate with, in school or out. He was far too cocky, sporty and wore casual clothes that had never been chucked on the bedroom floor after use. He probably folded them before putting them in the laundry basket and ironed his socks and underwear. He certainly spent way too long in front of the mirror and too much money on self-grooming products, if his painstakingly arranged hair, moisturised skin, pungent shower gel and aftershave were anything to go by. Before that book had taken over and changed all the rules, he must have been a swaggering fish in his own little north-west pond. But, despite those unappealing traits, this Marcus was undoubtedly right. Aberrants such as themselves faced enough battles out there without picking quarrels among their own kind.

“Alasdair,” the Scottish boy muttered, extending his hand. “Just dinnae call me Al, Ally – and if I hear a Jock or a Jimmy, at any time over the next few days, I will have to kill you.”

Marcus grasped the hand and shook it, too heartily in Alasdair’s opinion. He was like a teenage estate agent or used car dealer.

“Nice to talk to another normal person for a bloody change!” Marcus said.

“Whatever normal is, aye.”

“Not being a raving Jax-head, that’s what I call normal.”

“I wouldnae know any more. It’s been so long.”

“It’s mental. I still don’t get it. Soon as that ruddy book came out, every girl I know… knew, cracking pieces they were, no rubbish, dumped me and chased after some scrawny loser just because he had a ten of clubs on his Primark anorak. I was like,
what
?”

Alasdair glanced at the branding on Marcus’s shirt and smiled to himself. In Scotland the word ‘hacket’ meant ugly.

“Aye, well,” he said. “If your own parents can kick you out as mine did, there’s no many surprises left.”

If he had expected Marcus to sympathise or ask him about it, he would have been disappointed. He wasn’t.

“So,” Marcus continued, reverting to his favourite topic, “if you don’t fancy that hotness, it’s a shame to let it go begging. I’ll have a crack at her. I am having one hell of a dry spell. Before they brainwash me this weekend and do my head in good and proper, I’m going to cop off with a fit bird one last time.”

Alasdair seriously began to wonder if this boy’s brain actually was located in his underwear.

“Did you check out that other coach?” Marcus continued. “No talent at all in that. Just more kids and a definite ‘Avoid’ in a manky green cardy. The blonde bit is the only thing worth chasing.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Alasdair told him. “Yon plastic dolly’ll no be interested in you. Fancies herself way too much that one.”

Marcus pushed the short sleeves a little higher up his biceps and picked up his case.

“No skirt in its right mind can resist the Marcus magnetism,” he
boasted as he sauntered after Charm. “When I shift into fifth gear pulling mode, I’m the Stig’s knackers.”

Behind him, Alasdair winced.

“Total tool,” he muttered.

Jangler was irritated and his feet were throbbing. No one was taking the least bit of notice of him. He cleared his throat and clapped his hands. Eventually he called one of the minstrels over and banged crossly on his drum.

The children’s heads turned his way. The teenagers dug their hands deep into their pockets or folded their arms. Charm stood to attention and waited politely, posing her head this way and that, as cute and as coy as she knew how, all the while wondering where the cameras had disappeared to. Marcus positioned himself behind her and admired the view. Jody sunk her chin into her chest and huddled into her cardigan. Alasdair looked at the pompous little man, staring over his spectacles at them, and hummed the theme to
Dad’s Army
to himself. For all his medieval costume, the Lockpick reminded him of Captain Mainwaring and in spite of everything, the Scottish lad couldn’t stop smiling. At the back, Nike boy hissed through his teeth and kept his earphones in.

“As there are thirty-one of you,” Jangler addressed them, “eighteen girls and thirteen boys, I’m going to call out your names in groups and assign each group a cabin. Make your way to it, unpack and freshen up, and we will foregather here again in one and one half hours to commence the weekend’s revels – won’t that be nice? Now females first…”

He began to read from his clipboard. The younger children looked confused. Their parents had trailed after the Ismus, but help was at hand in the form of women, dressed as serving maids, who found their bags and cases and ushered them to the right cabins.

The camp had only been open a couple of years so these dormitories were modern, comfortable and pretty spacious inside, considering. Usually they slept five, but extra frames and mattresses had been fitted into them for this special weekend. The girls were allocated three cabins.
The boys were crammed into two.

Shaking her wet hands, Jody Barnes emerged from the toilet and returned to the bed where she had dumped her holdall. She looked around her. The place was clean, if spartan. She assumed the prints of painted Mooncaster landscapes had been hung on the walls for their benefit, but there was also a TV and a games console.

Each cabin was laid out the same. This ground floor housed four beds and there were two more on the small, partly enclosed mezzanine area up the stairs. Jody should have raced straight up there and bagged one of those bunks for herself, but her bladder had decreed otherwise. Two of the younger girls from the other coach had claimed them instead. Still, she didn’t mind; this wasn’t so bad. After so many months being the only person in Bristol shut out from the world of
Dancing Jax
, it was going to be a breeze sharing this place with other rejects, even if they were mainly kids.

The only downer was that Charm creature. She’d been put in here as well. Her mother was still fussing around her and Jody felt a pang of jealousy. Her own parents were outside with the Ismus somewhere. They only came today so they could meet him. They took no interest in her any more. They were bored of having to be her mum and dad in this world. Five months on, the pain of that rejection was still there and induced tears if she picked at it, so she never did. Jody turned away and her attention rested on the child sitting uneasily on the corner of the bed next to her own.

It was little Christina Carter. Her dress was still covered in cold sick.

“Where did the nice TV lady go?” the seven-year-old asked when she saw Jody looking at her.

“As far away as she can if she’s got any sense, which isn’t very likely,” Jody replied.

“She said she was going to take us with her,” the little girl said, staring down at her feet. “I don’t like it here.”

Jody pitied her. This new life must be so much worse for the very young
ones. If she couldn’t understand what was going on, how could they?

“Open your bag,” she said. “Let’s get you some fresh togs out. Then come with me to the bathroom and we’ll clean you up. How does that sound?”

Christina’s answering grin was the widest she’d ever seen and they made a game of searching through the little girl’s bag to see what had been packed for her.

“We should have them two beds upstairs,” Charm interrupted them, addressing Jody, hands on hips. “We’re like the oldest in here, innit? I’m gonna kick them kids out. What do you say?”

“You’re orange,” Christina told her.

Jody’s nostrils widened as she suppressed a laugh. “I’m fine where I am,” she replied. “It’s only for two nights. Let those girls enjoy themselves for a change. They must have a miserable time of it back home.”

“I want to sleep up there,” Charm insisted. “And I’m gonna. Them kids’ve gotta shift. If you won’t help then I’ll do it on me own, makes no difference. But don’t expect to kip up there when I’ve sorted it.”

Jody squared up to her. Although she was a year younger than this painted gargoyle, she knew she was stronger and wasn’t afraid to smack the lipgloss clear off her face.

“You leave them alone,” she said forcefully. “They got there first, so the penthouse is theirs. If you try to evict them, I’ll drag you down the stairs by your extensions so fast, you’ll slide out of your tan like a snake sloughing its skin. You got that?”

Charm glowered at her. Jody half expected her to throw a tantrum.

“Come away, child,” Mrs Benedict interjected, shooting Jody a scolding glance and drawing her daughter back to where the pink suitcases were waiting. “Don’t you mingle with the likes of that common sort. Naught but a lowly two at the most, I’ll wager, if she ever makes it to the castle, which I doubt. What a surly face. I’ve seen prettier sights round the backs of cows and what comes out of them. We don’t want her kind in Mooncaster. A proper dirty aberrant and no mistake.”

Jody snorted. That was the most fun she’d had in months and she
promised herself a weekend of Barbie baiting.

“I know what her flavour is,” Charm told her mother in a deliberately loud voice. “Old cabbage and sprouts!”

Christina stuck her tongue out at her. Then the seven-year-old’s attention was arrested by a strange circular object, fixed high on the wall. She pointed to it and asked Jody, “What’s that?”

In the boys’ cabin that had been fitted with seven beds, Marcus was looking at an identical device and wondering the very same thing. It resembled an old-fashioned radio from the 1930s, being made of brown Bakelite, with a central dial and a brass grill. But it was too large and didn’t match the rest of the interior decor. He dragged a chair over from the TV corner and stood on it for a closer inspection.

“It’s bust,” he announced to anyone listening. “These knobs down the side don’t do anything and the needle doesn’t go round the dial. It’s just for show. It’s junk.”

A slightly younger boy gazed up at it. “Maybe it’s just a speaker?” he suggested. “To wake us up in the morning and tell us when to go for breakfast and make announcements.”

Marcus looked down at him. The boy wore what he could only describe as “geek goggles” and was going through the first flush of puberty, if his crop of zits was anything to go by.

Back in the pre-
Jax
days, Marcus wouldn’t have even noticed the likes of him. His posse consisted only of the cool kids, at the top of the school food chain. It was a pity that Alasdair dude hadn’t been put in this cabin as well. He didn’t seem so bad. If he was here, they both could have avoided talking to dweebs like this.

“There’s no wires connecting it to anything,” he said, jumping off the chair. “And why the phoney dial?”

“Was only an idea.”

“So who’re you, know-all?”

The boy hesitated. He’d got out of the habit of speaking to people who weren’t possessed by the book and was now always on his guard.

“Er… Spencer,” he said with some awkwardness.

“Herr Spencer?” Marcus scoffed. “You German?”

“No, just Spencer.”

Marcus punched him playfully on the shoulder.

“OK, Herr Spenzer,” he laughed. “You zee any pretty Fräuleins, you zend them to Marcus, ja?”

“I’m not German,” Spencer reiterated, rubbing his shoulder. “I’m from Southport.”

“Just teasing ya!” he said, flicking the boy’s spectacles so they sat at an angle on his face. “Take a joke.”

Spencer backed away, adjusting his glasses, and returned to his bed. He sat there protecting his bag, in case Marcus thought it would be funny to run off with it.