Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax (35 page)

Lyndsay could hardly believe her astounding luck. She was the only television reporter there. What a scoop! Oh, she could already see the awards lining up on her mantelpiece. She could even see Tara’s bright green face. All she had to do was get an exclusive with this insane girl before the police waded in to arrest her.

“You on me?” she barked at Gavin as she ducked in front of the lens. “Yes? Great. Hang on – my lips are like sandpaper. Wait a second.”

She reached into her pocket. One of the youngsters she had spoken to earlier had generously given her a pot of lip balm. She unscrewed the lid hastily and dipped a finger in.

“Here, give me some of that,” Gavin said, moistening his own lips.

Chapter 30

A
nd though the moon may sink behind those green, girdling hills, Mooncaster will ever stand proud and defiant. None shall shake its foundations – they are stronger than any mind can guess.

A
S THE STRANGE
scenes unfolded outside the church, down by the seafront a very different event was taking place.

In the shadow of the Martello tower, where the boot fair was normally held every Sunday, that morning there was only one vehicle. No others were parked there, selling the usual bric-a-brac and bits of junk. Instead the waste ground seethed with a mass of clamouring people.

The vehicle was a new and gleaming black transit van with tinted windows. It was tucked into one corner of that empty lot and the trestle table in front of its open rear doors was stacked with copies of Dancing Jacks and jars of minchet.

Labella the High Priestess was there, supervising the distribution of the sacred text. She was flanked by the Harlequin Priests. Eager, anxious customers, desperate to obtain their own copies, were handing over huge sums of money to the Lockpick who deposited it in a big, metal strongbox. Even the Ismus had underestimated how successful the Dancing Jacks would be. Thousands of books were now in circulation in Felixstowe. Within a week, they had managed to empty four of the six large crates they had found in the cellar of Austerly Fellows’ house. After only twenty minutes of setting up the stall that morning, they were already reaching the bottom of the fifth. There would not be nearly enough for everyone there.

The Lady Labella smiled to herself when she saw a woman in yellow flip-flops elbow her way to the front. She recognised her from last Sunday.

“I need a book!” the woman pleaded, brandishing a wad of twenties and fifties.

“Have you changed your mind?” Labella asked archly. “Isn’t your god-daughter as particular as you thought?”

“It’s not for her!” the woman spat fiercely. “It’s for me! I have to have it! I can’t live without it! I’ll give you anything – anything! I’ve got 700 quid here in cash, but I can get more tomorrow when the bank opens.”

The High Priestess’s smile widened, knowing what the Ismus would have done. Beside her the Harlequins pointed to a dark colour on their patchwork robes with the pokers in their hands. Labella nodded in agreement.

“Maybe next Sunday,” she said.

The woman let out a shriek and tried to push the money on her. She made a grab for the books, but the people behind dragged her away roughly. The banknotes fell out of her grasp and went blowing over the low sea wall and down over the beach. She was thrust back into the crowd. Her outraged wails went unheeded.

Jangler chuckled to himself. His strongbox was already overflowing. He had to start shoving the money into his pockets and then, when they were stuffed to bursting, into the empty crates.

Countless hands reached out to buy and beg a book or a jar of minchet. If there had been a lorry containing 10,000 books, they would have sold them all that morning.

Martin Baxter hurried on to the waste ground and viewed the scene in disbelief.

He had spent an anxious night at Gerald’s. Carol had been subdued and quiet. The stress of the past days was taking its toll. She had been relieved to learn that her son was ‘safe’. Although Martin explained that really was not the right word, she still slept more soundly than she had for a while. Just hearing news of Paul was some comfort.

After everything he had seen, Martin was almost afraid to sleep, but eventually he nodded off in an armchair and was spared any ugly dreams.

At first light Gerald woke him. The kindly old gent was his usual self once more and Martin noticed that Evelyn’s little domestic touches had been discreetly removed from the living room. He wondered if and when she would make another appearance. The doubts and suspicions of the previous night were still troubling him however. He simply couldn’t trust Gerald and refused to tell him what his plan was. If the old man was hurt by this, he hid it admirably.

Martin’s one hope, which he told to no one, not even Carol, now lay in finding Shiela Doyle, his ex-student. She had been so concerned about Paul’s welfare last week. Surely, if the Ismus had the boy hidden away, she would know where and would help. That was why he borrowed Gerald’s car and drove down to the Martello tower as early as possible. He had gone alone, leaving Carol to fetch her mother. As soon as they found Paul, they were going to drive out of Felixstowe and try to alert the authorities. They had debated whether to ring the police in Ipswich last night, but what on earth could they say over the phone? It was going to be difficult enough face to face.

Stepping on to the waste ground, Martin grunted with irritation and amazement. He had not expected to see such a vast sea of people already gathered there. There had to be several thousand – each hungry for a copy of Dancing Jacks. Then he told himself he should have expected it. So many were under the spell of Austerly Fellows’ words, but not all of them had their own copy to pore over whenever they needed their Mooncaster fix. They were reliant on family members or neighbours or friends. No one would be satisfied until they each possessed their own book.

Climbing on to a wall, Martin stared over the mass of heads and saw Shiela over by the new black van. He would have to push his way to the front. This wasn’t going to be easy.

He jumped down and began jostling and negotiating his way through the crowd. All of the people there had enlarged pupils and most had stained lips. Martin felt horribly aware that he wasn’t wearing a playing card like the rest of them. He should have thought about that. What would he do if challenged? Progress was slow. Each forward step was an effort and a struggle. His impatience mounted. He felt like punching somebody – anybody. Many people objected to him squeezing by. Trudy Bishop, the estate agent, huffed in indignation and swore at him. Doctor Ian Meadows, his face smeared and dripping, peered at him irritably, but was too busy chewing on a mouthful of fibrous minchet fruit to do much more. Martin went a good way before anyone physically tried to prevent him. Then a strong hand gripped his arm and yanked him back.

“Wait your turn,” a familiar voice growled in his ear.

Martin looked up at the man who had stopped him and was astonished to see the tanned, orange face of the games teacher, Mr Wynn.

“Douggy!” he said. “Let go, it’s me, Martin Baxter.”

A faint spark of recognition glimmered in the man’s glassy eyes. Then he turned away and said, “There is no Douggy. I am Sir Darksilver – knight of the Royal House of Clubs.”

“You would be,” Martin muttered, eyeing the ten of clubs pinned to his tracksuit.

“I must own the holy text,” Douggy said, but he was really only speaking to himself. “I must return to Mooncaster this very day and continue my real life there. I am to ride with my Lord Jack and the other knights this afternoon, to cleanse the caves beneath the ninth hill of the Marshwyrm that has crept in and made its abode there. My Lord Jack will need my sword.”

Martin rolled his eyes, but there was no way Douggy would let him pass. Then he had an idea.

“Stand aside, Sir Knight!” he ordered, inwardly thanking all the fantasy films he had ever watched. “I am on an errand for the Lord Ismus. How dare you hinder me? This is treason – you flout the authority of the Holy Enchanter himself!”

Confusion clouded the games teacher’s face. His eyes searched Martin’s clothes for a playing card to tell him what rank this man held in the White Castle.

Martin thought quickly. He could try to bluff it out and explain that the card was on his other jacket, or that it had merely fallen off. But it would be far better if there was a character who no one would think of questioning; someone who they were even afraid of. They already knew who the Ismus was so who…? Then he had it!

“Haw haw haw!” he laughed. “Out of my way!”

Douggy inhaled sharply and gave a nervous bow. Hastily he made room for Martin to get past. The people around them who had heard Martin impersonate the Jockey’s mocking laughter drew back and cleared a path straight to the front.

Martin tried to remember the strange skipping steps he saw the figure in the caramel leather outfit do last night and did his best to copy them as he made his way forward. The stifled gasps of apprehension he heard on the way made him realise just how alarming that character was for everyone.

When he reached the front, he saw the two Harlequin Priests staring at him with sombre expressions on their diamond-tattooed faces. Martin knew it would be dangerous to try and fool that pair. They were dressed in full medieval motley and were far above having to wear playing cards. He averted his face from their intense scrutiny and looked at Shiela Doyle.

The young woman was totally different from when she had come to see him at school last Monday. Gone was the slightly grubby, unkempt appearance with lank hair sporting faded, bleached ends. Now she was elegant and striking, with immaculate, ornate eye make-up, blackcurrant-painted lips and hair that had been dyed raven black. A gown of purple silk hung from her shoulders with silver clasps and an amethyst-studded belt sat loosely around her hips. Martin’s hopes and confidence began to waver.

“Shiela?” he said. “Shiela? It’s me, Martin Baxter.”

The High Priestess Labella turned a curious face to him. “You wish to buy the Hallowed Word of the Holy Enchanter?” she asked.

Martin sidled along the trestle until he was directly in front of her and leaned forward. “It’s me,” he hissed urgently. “Your old maths teacher – remember? You came to see me – about Paul. My partner’s lad?”

Labella’s large, dark eyes gave him nothing.

“Some minchet then?” she suggested in a leaden voice.

Martin could feel he was still under the scrutiny of the Harlequins. He knew he didn’t have much time and tried not to panic.

“Shiela!” he said.

“Labella,” she corrected. “I am the High Priestess, consort of the Ismus. I know you not. I cannot place your face at Court. If you are not here to buy, you should leave.”

Martin wanted to shake her, but that would do no good.

“Please,” he implored. “You’re my only hope, my last chance. Please listen to me, please remember – I’m Mr Baxter…”

The woman’s empty eyes stared right through him. “Aberrants will not be tolerated,” she stated coldly. “They will be rounded up and compelled to enter the Kingdom of the Dawn Prince, one way or another.”

Martin drew back. He was beaten. Without Shiela’s help, there was no way they could get Paul away from the Ismus. He and Carol would have to leave Felixstowe without him. How was he going to manage that? Carol would never agree to it. The anxious crowd swarmed past and the books continued to be sold. Martin raked his fingers over his scalp. If only there had been a way to break through that evil book’s hold on Shiela. If only he had been able to reach her true self.

The maths teacher uttered a cry and smacked a fist into his palm. It was a stupid, mad idea, but he had to try it. Feverishly he scrabbled in his pockets, searching for a pen and paper. The people nudged against him as they pushed by, but he ignored them and concentrated on the problem he had set himself. It was something he had done many times when Shiela had been one of his best students. It was a game they had both enjoyed.

With shaking fingers, he wrote on the scrap of paper he had found, as clearly as his nerves allowed. Then, turning back, he barged through to the front once more.

“Here!” he yelled, thrusting the paper forward and putting it in Labella’s hand. “Read it! Read it!”

The High Priestess hardly glanced at him, but continued serving the crowd. Martin saw the Harlequin Priests bristle and move in his direction. He cried out to Labella to just look at the scrap of paper. Then he withdrew. It was no use. Shuddering with emotion, he stumbled back, heading out of that agitated gathering by the shortest route possible. Wiping his eyes, he blundered through to the edge and found himself by the low sea wall. He lurched on for a few more steps then sat down and buried his head in his hands. The sound of the sea lapped gently over him.

Back at the van, Labella handed over a copy of Dancing Jacks to a feverish woman in uniform. It was the judgemental police officer who had been so scornful of Barry Milligan the Headteacher. She paid out a fistful of money and snatched the book savagely.

“I am the Mistress of the Inn,” she told herself. “I am the Mistress of the Inn. I am the Mistress of the Inn…”

Labella passed the cash to Jangler and he threw it merrily into the large crate. The High Priestess looked down at her hand. She was still holding the scrap of paper that the aberrant had given to her. With a distracted air, she smoothed it out on her palm and stared at what was written there.

Labella’s forehead crinkled. There was a kindling of dim remembrance. She faintly recalled there had been a love of numbers. In this greyness the woman Shiela had found genuine pleasure in solving equations like this. She tilted her head in fascination. The recollection sputtered like a pilot light in her mind. Standing back from the trestle, she wandered to the side of the van – away from the calls of the crowd – and gave the problem her attention. The numbers seemed to pop and ignite her thoughts. The veil began to lift and beams of colour filtered into this world once more. A delicate smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she began to solve the puzzle in her head, multiplying, subtracting and adding and moving the numbers around on her dark internal canvas. It was good to do this. It was real. It stimulated her brain and excited her – more than being in Mooncaster.